One simple step toward changing your life forever (or not)

Nothing is more useful than a good list.

We can wake up on any given Saturday morning, stressing about a week's worth of chores that have accumulated like the oil strata on a teenager's scalp. It's time to take a deep breath, have four or five cups of strong coffee and simply put it all down on paper. See? Our blood pressure has already receded enough to leave that throbbing vein in our forehead a distant, harsh memory. Here's what we need to do today:

1) Mow the lawn.

2) Look closer to see if it's a potentially cancerous melanoma or merely a liver spot.

3) Check the attic to make sure no one is living there, since that's what one of the kids thought last night. If so, confiscate his branding iron and hockey mask.

4) Fold laundry.

5) Watch at least three infomercials, just to make sure I'm not missing out on something life-changing and awesome.

6) Avoid issue with children about why it's okay for me to eat pie for breakfast, but not for them.

7) Clean dryer lint trap, to wrap up chore list in a highly satisfying manner.

Checkity-check-check-check and the list is history. Once everything is crossed off, it goes into the garbage—not the recycle—the garbage, with all the other irrelevant nastiness. The weekend is now mine.

My younger daughter, our ten-year-old, seems to have inherited the family's penchant for list-making. Although hers is more of a life-goal schedule, it shows ambition, and I can only imagine the accomplishment she'll feel when this substantial docket, which I found taped to her door, is satisfied:

We may have to work on some sequencing.

Reflections of a shallow pond turns one!

He's a big boy now.

Tomorrow, my baby turns one. Like any other one-year-old's birthday, it's time to hear those phrases like "Why is his head so big? Is that normal?" and "He's got to get severely dehydrated from all of that drooling. Is it normal stick his foot in his mouth so much?"

Reflections of a shallow pond began innocently enough, on July 13, 2009, after my younger daughter called me at work, imploring me to talk to my wife about the embarrassing outfit in which she was about to leave the house. 162 posts later, this journal has become a form of therapy, a forum where I can examine the inner and outer workings of life, culture and fatherhood.

I don't want to beat anyone too severely with the Cane of Boredom, so here are just a few statistics. Since I attach labels to every post, the overwhelming tag leader is kids (92), with family (26) and dad (9) trailing in the distance. The most read posts are this one, this one, this one and this one.

I think the coolest aspect to writing this ongoing manifesto is the feedback from friends, family and total strangers. It's added a dimension to my middle-aged existence which was completely off my radar. Modern social networking is a powerful instrument.

Almost every time I post something, I think, "Okay, that's it. I've covered everything." And then, invariably, I'll be standing in the shower, lathering my filthy chest, and another topic will pop into my brain, like a unicorn zit on class picture day.

So thanks to everyone for taking the time to read and comment. And maybe by the time this baby turns two, he won't want to stick his face in the Safeway Sponge Bob cake while bouncing in his high chair.

Hey, Seattle! Hot enough for ya?

I've been dodging this subject long enough. In Seattle, it's the go-to conversation year-round, and when it's extreme, it's the only topic—the elevator, the bus, the men's room (Wait, not the men's room. Anonymity is sacred there.).

I'm speaking of the weather.

Currently, the Emerald City is experiencing ninety-degree temperatures, which are actually quite mild when compared with almost every other sector of our nation.

The real problem here isn't the weather; it's all of the complaining. Last month, constant whinings ensued about our "June-uary," continuing on into "Jul-vember." And of course, the day temperatures shot skyward, the media latched onto the public outcry for relief from the oppressive heat.

It never takes long for the people to rise up against the controller of all: the weather man. In Seattle, even the other talking heads at the news desk barely hide their contempt.

"So, Steve, what are you throwing at us today?" They glare at the meteorologist with a plastic grin, thinly veiling a fiery contempt. "My dog barely could get out of my purse and into her pool. How can you do this to her?"

The weather guy chuckles insincerely and launches into his choreographed spiel. "Well, I'll tell you, it's hot. Really hot. How hot is it? How long will it last? I'll tell you in seven minutes, plus you'll get a peak at the KOMO Crotch Meter®, which will tell you the real time temperature of the hottest place on your body, and when you should be concerned. Back to you, Dakota."

In the northwest, our homes aren't equipped for intense heat, which does make sleeping a bit challenging. But I have a method. Just to illustrate, I've sketched up a little rendering of my sleeping style, which seems to work quite well:

I call it the "snow angel method," and it works best with no blankets or sheets.

So come on, Seattle. Enjoy this weather. Summer lasts here about as long as it takes to say, "Hot enough for ya?"

Fatherhood: One massive miscalculation

The following are the top ten reasons why it's much more difficult being a parent than I had previously anticipated:

10) Back in the mid-nineties, I wasn't aware how often my ponytail would be grabbed and pulled.

9) Sure, you can always breathe through your mouth when changing a diaper, but you soon realize that what would otherwise have traveled through your nose, is now traveling through your mouth.

8) It's difficult not to look at the studly prince in every Disney movie, and not say to your innocent little girl, "Honey, he's so perfect that he's either gay or a jerk. Come on, look at those flawless eyebrows."

7) Going to any park play area can become a well-choreographed dance with other parents around the play equipment. I've occasionally awkwardly touched other fathers as we've supported our dangling four-year-olds.

6) The term, "That's not fair," is a slope almost as slippery as the word, "Why?"

5) Performing Homeland Security background checks on babysitters can be costly. Thank God that the Patriot Act allows unprecedented information access.

4) I hadn't previously expected to toil over the choice between Ariel and Cinderella underwear for five-year-old girls at Target. Not a task a dad should perform alone.

3) I never knew that nearly every night, I'd doze off with at least three stuffed animals wedged under my lower back, directly below a massive Miley Cyrus poster, her freakishly white demon grin piercing my subconscious thoughts.

2) I hadn't anticipated burning with such intense white hot rage at the sight of a 30-year-old dude checking out my fifteen-year-old daughter. I'm just glad it didn't happen at a gun show.

1) My older daughter (the ponytail puller) graduates from high school in three years. I'm not ready.

I'll never be ready.

Competitive eating—a labor of love

Why is it so fascinating? Why do we even care? I'll tell you why—because we're Americans, and this stuff is as American as it gets.

Even though the star is Japanese.

Competitive eating has evolved into an actual sport, one worthy of coverage on ESPN. Its figurehead is a slight (130 pounds), muscular man named Takeru Kobayashi, who has prevailed six times in the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest on Coney Island, held annually on July 4. His personal best is 53.5 hot dogs, with buns, shoved down his gullet in ten minutes.

At this year's event, Mr. K was denied entry and arrested when he attempted to storm the stage. Apparently, he wasn't willing to sign an exclusivity contract with Major League Eating, the governing body of the "sport," as he wanted to peddle his skills at non-MLE-sanctioned events.

Kobayashi utilizes what he refers to as "the Solomon Method," where the frankfurter is split in two and swallowed at once, followed by the bun, which is dipped into water, Sprite or 7-Up and crammed into his mouth. He then employs the "Kobayashi shake," his trademark body wiggle, forcing the food to settle more compactly in his stomach.

As I mentioned, this spectacle is tailor-made for the people of the stars and stripes. America loves to eat lots, quickly. My younger daughter and I ate lunch yesterday at the local mall food court. We gazed upon our fellow diners, as most of those seated around us scarfed their fare with laser focus. One guy chomped at a burger, his face mere inches from his plate. One bite, another bite, and a third, smaller bite cut the burger in half before his head bobbed up to reveal his stuffed chipmunk cheeks, churning in circular spasms.

When we Americans eat pizza, we fold it lengthwise for maximum density prior to consumption. Our chicken is served in mouth-sized nugget form. We've got egg rolls and pizza rolls, taquitos and tater tots, And come on, who can't easily pop at least one entire Oreo into his or her mouth?

I'm as guilty as the next guy. Those cup-shaped Tostitos were probably the best thing to happen in my food life, next to the Thirsty-Two Ouncer at 7-11 and the all-you-can-eat-French-Fry paradigm shift at Red Robin. I wept tears of rapture when the five-dollar footlong puts its card down to dance.

I'll conclude this post with an image. It's yet another depiction of my older daughter, but this one is different. I've shown her in many a forum, but this portrayal shows the world that my steadfast fatherly food stewardship has paid dividends in her upbringing. This is my baby, directly following her victory in her high school Slurpee drinking contest.

I'm so proud.

A salute to us U.S. Americans

Tomorrow, we Americans will celebrate our bi-centennial plus thirty-four.

Before I continue, I thought I'd take this time to showcase the bright future of our country, through the eyes of Miss South Carolina:

Most of us, with the exception of those without maps, are aware that the United States gained its independence from Great Britain. However, did you know that the following countries also celebrate their independence from the dentally challenged empire as well:

Afghanistan-1919, Bahamas-1973, Barbados-1966, Belize-1981, Gambia-1965, Ghana-1957, Grenada-1974, Irish Republic-1916, Jamaica-1962, Kuwait-1961, Malaysia-1957, Myanmar-1948, Nigeria-1960, Sierra Leone-1960, Tanzania-1961, Zimbabwe-1960—and that's not the the complete list.

Those Brits were busy, eh? At least they didn't stay so long in most of the countries that their cuisine took hold. Otherwise, a meal at a Jamaican beach shack might consist of a rum and coke with a tasty side of haggis.

I suppose the British did leave a few things behind in the American lost and found—the ounces and cups and yards and feet, the brand spanking New Yorks and Jerseys and of course, Englands. The English also seem to have introduced the Americans to the "pre-function," the traditional ritual of self-lubrication prior to major sporting events.

We Americans did, however, splinter off in some key areas. I don't know many people who put milk in their tea or who pull a steaming chunk of kidney out of a pie. And David Beckham wouldn't fare too well on one of our football teams, especially if his botox hadn't completely settled.

So raise your glass, America. We might not have the most geographically-aware beauty queens, and our kids might own a few too many Uzis, but it's sure nice to be able to write what I want, to say what I want and to firmly force my size nine-and-a-half foot directly into my pie hole when I want...which is frequently.

Happy Fourth of July.

Jaws vs. Eclipse: That's a lot of teeth

It's been a momentous past week in the world of American cinema, for two big reasons.

First, as every female between fourteen and sixteen knows, the third installment of the piercing Twilight series, Eclipse, debuted Tuesday night. Maybe I'm just jealous of Jacob's ten-pack, or maybe Edward's immortality chaps my hide, but I just don't grasp the allure of these movies.

And don't kid yourself; they aren't just movies—they're a massive-multi-million-mixed-media-and-merchandise-mega-marketing....franchise (Sorry, I couldn't come up with another "m" word.).

As we older folks know, the Hollywood blockbuster isn't anything new, which brings me to the next reason that it's a big week in film industry lore: Thirty-five years ago this month, Jaws chawed its way into our collective zeitgeist.

From June of 1975 onward, sprinting into the ocean's welcome foaminess has lost just a skosh of its luster. If you really want to freak out your swimming partner, just act like one of your legs is being tugged on while treading water about forty yards out.

This film took America by storm. Who can forget the T-shirts:

The board game:

Or the highly disturbing action figure diorama:

But the true symbol that Jaws had hit the celluloid stratosphere was its Mad Magazine cover spoof:

Just to get a little context, Jaws earned the distinction as the number one top-grossing movie of 1975. Here are the remaining four of the top five earners from that year:

5) Shampoo—I never saw this one, but I sure wanted to, being a thirteen-year-old dude and all. I'm fairly certain that any movie in which Warren Beatty participated during this era had at least one naked woman.

4) Dog Day Afternoon—This is the story of a guy who robs a bank to pay for his partner's sex change operation. I'm surprised that such an unoriginal movie did so well. Lordy.

3) One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest—My all-time favorite movie. Seriously, this film was deeper than the menu at Cheesecake Factory.

2) The Rocky Horror Picture Show—Wow, three classics in one year. I'd almost forgotten why I started wearing garters.

So for all of you werewolf worshipers and vampire votarients, we'll see if your heartthrobs stand the test of time. And remember...don't go in the water with that open sore on your foot.