Official Notification

Richard Snead and Carlson Restaurants Worldwide Inc. can kiss my ass.

I told you I'd let you know if I successfully reproduced T.G.I. Friday's Jack Daniel's Dipping Sauce.

I did.

It's good.

Now my plan to exact revenge on T.G.I. Friday's for all the money they've taken from me without concern for my satisfaction can finally be put into motion.

It begins by providing you with the link to the recipe I used:

http://www.topsecretrecipes.com/recipes/jdgrill.htm

Roasting the garlic is a bit of a pain and your house will smell like an Olive Garden restaurant on a very busy night for a few hours. However, it's worth it.

Phase two of my plan involves completely side-stepping the restaurant. Even if I'm desperate and in an unfamiliar city I'll do my best to stay out of a Fridays.

Phase three?

Hell, I don't know. I've already invested too much energy into this as it is.

Just let me know when you're coming and I'll make some sauce and we'll have some wings or something. Maybe wash them down with some Jack and Coke. After all, the sauce only takes a tablespoon so I've got plenty of booze to go around.

Feral Toddler

I'm mixing over-the-counter cold remedies in search of relief. The Nyquil/Alka-Seltzer Cold combination seemed to work last night. This despite the fact that my nose was so clogged nothing short of a hammer drill would have cleared an airway.

Eventually my nose did clear and I got some over-the-counter assisted sleep. But it really wasn't the stuffed-up nose, coughing and general malaise that got to me. I had the hiccups. The only way I could get relief was to stand on my head and swallow some water. We tried other remedies. Allie fed me a spoon of peanut butter. Judy told me to balance a spoon on my nose while I drank water. Debbie recommended holding my breath while I took seven sips of water. Nothing worked other than placing my ass above my head while I swallowed some water.

The hiccups would return and I'd invert myself on the stairs or over the edge of my bed and they'd subside. The third time they came back, the upside down swallowing didn't work. Crud. I felt like crap and these tiny convulsions were pushing me over the edge. Plus I knew they would keep Deb awake if they persisted so I got serious. I sat on the bedroom floor and held my breath until I felt as if I was going to pass out. For some reason my diaphragm got the message that I was serious and left me alone.

So far. So good.

Yesterday we registered Allie for Kindergarten. We're not certain she'll go to the school at which she registered last night. But the Principal was kind enough to give us a tour of the Kindergarten classrooms. Allie didn't seem as impressed as I thought she would be. Overall, though, it was very apparent that she's excited about the prospect of going to school. I asked the Principal if they still did milk breaks. He told me they did and he believed it was a state law. When Deb and I were in school white milk was five cents and chocolate was seven. Milk will now cost Allie 20 cents each day.

Nothing profound to say about Allie's impending matriculation or the cost of milk. Just making notes for posterity.

Glenn and Judy are spending the week with us. They're taking care of the girls while our daycare provider gets to know her new baby. We're grateful they're here. This is particularly true when you consider how much Julia hates to go the temporary provider near my office. She would scream and try desperately to get her coat back on each morning I dropped her off. In the evenings she would cling to us as if someone was going to storm in and snatch her away at any moment. It was horrible.

I suppose things might have improved over time. Either that or she would have snapped and Julia would have gone feral on us. She'd lock herself in the bathroom and scream at us. She'd refuse to eat. She'd lash out and bite her sister.

Oh wait. . . She does do all those things.

Never mind.

Lessons Learned

Thanks, Grandpa Mike

We're back from a mini-vacation and we've got video. Unfortunately if you've got a dial-up connection it's going to take you a long time to watch it. 8.2 MB pretty much means you can get things started today and watch the footage tomorrow.

It's worth it just to see me half-naked.

Just go to password please, click Multimedia and choose Water Park.

We had a great time. Thanks to Grandpa Mike for really wonderful Christmas gift.

May I have the bitterness on the side, please?

Before you read this post, you should know I'm not a very picky guy, especially when it comes to restaurants. I know that the food business is a tough one and that every joint is going to have an off-night now and again. Ask Debbie and you'll find out I'm downright obsequious to staff and wouldn't consider sending a dish back unless it tried to crawl off my plate and harm someone at the next table.

That said, I think our local T.G.I. Fridays sucks.

And not just our Fridays. I've been to a T.G.I. Fridays in California, Georgia, Illinois and Wisconsin. Each time I've visited the restaurant I'm usually disappointed. The host station is always manned by an indifferent 19-year-old who inexplicably looses the ability to recognize the letters L, E and E (when combined) thereby seating dozens of other patrons who arrive after I've already blown most of my evening waiting for the little pager to vibrate and flash. The wait staff is usually okay but more than once I've been saddled with a server who is obviously going through some sort of career and/or emotional crisis. The table and flatware are usually sticky and dirty. The drinks are almost always heavily watered down. The food is usually presented as if Cub Scout Pack Number 43 was allowed to throw on some aprons and try plating a few entrees during their field trip.

So. Greg. Why do you keep going to T.G.I. Fridays?

For the Jack Daniels Dipping Sauce, of course.

This stuff is great. It takes T.G.I. Friday's mediocre fried shrimp, semi-tough sirloins, rubbery chicken, meatless ribs and past-its-prime salmon and turns them all into dishes of note.

It's like magic. Magic I've only been able to find at T.G.I. Fridays.

Until now.

This evening I looked for a recipe for Jack Daniels Dipping Sauce on the Web and I found one that looks very promising. I haven't made it yet but when I'll do I'll report the results and give you the recipe.

Then, Greg, why swear off T.G.I. Fridays until you're certain you can replicate the sauce?

Because the last time Debbie and I took the girls to T.G.I. Fridays I swore to Debbie that we would never return. Now there's hope that I can make good on my vow and I'm very excited. It's time that I stopped letting T.G.I. Fridays take my money without regard for my satisfaction. I've been too nice and too quiet for too long. It's time to fight back.

I'm officially putting Richard Snead and Carlson Restaurants Worldwide Inc. on notice. If this sauce pans out, I'm leaving and I'm going to take others with me. . . to Red Lobster. Those little garlic, cheese, biscuit thingys they serve are really good.

Is this thing on?

Allie: Why did the chicken cross the road?
Deb: Why?
Allie: To get to his banana yellow car!
Deb: Good one. . .
Allie: Sorry. That's old. It's like from the 80's.

One Note Short

I burnt myself on an Easy-Bake Oven pan yesterday.

It's embarrassing. After all, these little light bulb boxes have every anti-burn device NASA, the Pentagon and Hasbro's R&D team have ever developed built into them. Aside from the mini Halon system, they even supply a thirty-foot push rod to keep little fingers from even being in the same room while manipulating their tiny pans of bulb baked joy.

Allie asked me to watch and make sure her pan didn't fall out the unit's cooling chamber as she moved it out of the baking chamber. She moved the pan with the push rod and as it came out of the oven I reached for the pan to make sure it stayed in the center of the cooling chamber.

"MOTHER FUCKER!"

Sorry. But that's what I said as I grabbed the tip of my left ring finger. That was the part of my body that barely touched the bottom of the pan that had obviously been heated to seventy thousand degrees Fahrenheit by the 100 watt bulb.

I think Deb laughed at me. I don't really remember because I was too busy waiting for the skin on my finger to bubble up and melt before my eyes (it didn't). I'm pretty sure I did hear her say, "Duh" after I said something like, "That thing's HOT!"

I didn't even look at Allie. The oven was a gift she got during her birthday party on Saturday. She turned five. I had pulled what I'm sure Allie would regard as something a toddler would do. So I knew I'd catch her looking at me as if I'd just started braying while I sprouted big jack-ass teeth and ears.

I just shuffled past her into the living room, sat on the couch and stared at my finger. Allie offered to kiss it and make it feel better. I declined. I didn't deserve treatment. I just wanted to sit quietly while the infection became systemic and slowly, painfully killed me.

I think Allie had a good fifth birthday weekend. Friday featured swimming at Grandma and Grandpa Leege's hotel. Saturday was party day complete with Hello Kitty cake. Sunday evening she went to a big McDonald's playland and crawled around in huge plastic tubes for 57 minutes (I timed her).

This evening Allie and I did thank you notes. We're one short. If you don't get a Hello Kitty thank you then you'll know you're the one with the special note.

She looked really grown up while she signed her notes. I won't get maudlin on you again but I'll miss four-year-old Allie. I'm sure I'll love five-year-old Allie even more (if that's possible) but I wouldn't object to a just a little more time with our four-year-old girl.

Ice Water Eliminates Fat

A corner of the basement is slowly being converted into a gym. I've moved the Nordic Track next to the treadmill. The old Everlast is once again hanging from a floor joist in the mechanical room. Three or four joists down you'll find a chin-up bar. There are various free weights lying around waiting for some action.

I've actually been using this stuff. Over that last couple of weeks I've oozed sweat all over the treadmill and Nordic Track eight or nine times. Allie spent one evening downstairs with me. During the commercial breaks in her cartoons she would act as my personal trainer. She counted push ups and barked words of encouragement. How you feeling, Dad? You're doing great! Let's get some exercise so you won't be fat.

I'm not in horrible shape. While I'm on the treadmill or the Nordic Track I'm working. There's no slacking because the little Polar monitor I strap on beeps at me every time my heart rate drops below whatever threshold it's decided I need to maintain in order to benefit from my workout.

I just edited that last sentence because I used the word fucking five times the first time I typed it. That how I genuinely feel but there's no need to bombard you with profanity to get my point across. But I really do hate that fucking monitor sometimes.

For two weeks I made myself healthy lunches and did a fair job of watching what I ate.

No results.

This week, I haven't done shit.

Deb tried to get me to go downstairs and workout last night. I've asked her to motivate me to get off my ass and usually she's effective. Last night I was having none of it.

So now I'm searching for motivation. There's the whole, teary eyed I want to be healthy so I can keep up with my kids and be around for my family later in life. That's not going to do it for me. I can keep up with my kids. In fact, I can wear their little asses out when necessary. And while the desire to be around for Deb and the girls later in life should work for me, long-term goals become wispy when confronted by a short-term double cheeseburger.

Fear. That's the key. The plan is Deb hires some goons to kick the crap out of me every time I miss a workout or eat ten BBQ ribs when four would do. Nothing extreme. No missing teeth or fractured orbitals. No kidnapping of relatives (read Stephen King's Quitter's, Inc.). I'd get thrown around a little, maybe the wind knocked out of me a couple of times along with a promise they'll be back if I'm spotted anywhere near a Krispy Kreme.

In fact, it wouldn't really even need to be taken to that extreme. All it would take would be a little ice water applied unexpectedly if Deb doesn't think I'm working hard enough. If I knew that having a week similar to this (no workout, no watching what I eat) could lead to being roused from bed in the middle of the night by a cup of ice water I might get to work.

Uh. Deb. Please let me know if you read this. I need to clarify a few things.

An Alarming Amount of Blood

Deb asked me if I was interested in seeing her wiggle Allie's tooth around in an effort to free it. I was in the bedroom watching Extreme Makeover Home Edition. I was torn. Should I see the makover family's new Kenmore appliances from Sears or witness a major milestone in my daughter's physical development?

I kept watching TV.

After a while I heard sounds of minor torture coming from the kids' bathroom so I had to check it out. I half expected to see Debbie hovering over Allie asking her, "Is it safe?" Instead I found them both just staring at Allie's loose tooth in the mirror.

Rather than just look at the thing I decided to see just how loose the tooth was. I wiggled it. I could feel it loosely squish around in her gum. I gave it a firm tug and felt a piece of whatever flesh was left tethering the tooth give way. I knew it would only take one or two more good wiggles. I moved the tooth back and forth then left to right. The left to right movement resulted in more significant tearing. In fact I felt the last bit of tissue give away with a silent snap and the tooth was out.

I looked at the little red hole the tooth came out of and it began to pool with blood. A lot of blood. I think Allie saw the look on my face and started to panic a little. I stuffed the little, bloody hole with tissue. The blood kept coming. I'd take the tissue away and the hole would immediately gush red. By now, her mouth was awash in blood and Allie could see it in the mirror.

Not good.

Deb gave her a Dixie Cup full of water. Allie took a drink and noticed the water turned pink. Finally I told the hemorrhaging girl to close her mouth and swallow the blood. She did. That was the beginning of the end of the bleeding.

Deb and I made a big deal out of the event. Truth is, it was a big deal for all of us. As I listened to Allie call her Grandparents and tell them (in exhaustive detail) about her tooth shedding I got sad. That sadness carried over into the morning. At work I sat at my desk and thought about when I had to be careful of the ceiling when I tossed Allie into the air. Now I have to be careful I don't tear a tendon when I throw her around.

As I mentioned to Debbie earlier in the day; I know we're gaining something wonderful each time we leave one of Allie's youthful personas behind. That doesn't help much with the lump in my throat I get when thinking about this particular milestone.

In just 31 weeks, Allie starts Kindergarten.

If I think things are bad now, in 31 weeks the freakin' lump is probably going kill me.

So what's the going rate for a first tooth these days?

Deb looked around the house and came up with two Sacagawea golden dollar coins plus Allie got to keep her tooth. Turns out the first one is a special tooth or so says Deb, the Tooth Fairy's Official Spokesperson.

I'm pretty sure she's right.

Allie Art

Allie saw my recent drawing of Julia and wanted to post a little art of her own. Here it is (signed and everything):

She's not evil. She's four.

Allie tripped Julia last night. Julia was toddling along and Allie stuck her foot out at just the right time. Julia fell to the floor and cried a little. It probably would have been a very satisfying moment for Allie if her mother hadn't witnessed the incident.

"Did you do that on purpose?" Debbie asked.

Allie started crying and admitted to intentionally causing her sister to hit the Berber.

I'm always surprised at how readily Allie reveals she has succumbed to the little devil on her shoulder. It's hard not to be cynical, even of a pre-schooler. But so far Allie has been unfailingly forthright. This makes her, more than likely, the most trustworthy among the members of our family who can communicate without grunting or biting.

Notice my careful wording.

Allie's willingness to admit her sins could actually make her the most cunningly devious person in the house. She may have carefully constructed a ruse of minor confessions to bolster her credibility. It's the perfect way to throw her mother and me off the trail when we investigate more egregious crimes (such as the recent case of the missing MP3 player).

I don't have any reason to be so paranoid. After all, stern declarations of disappointment from us and no ice cream wasn't enough penance for Allie. Once she stopped sobbing, Allie fixed a pitiful look on her face and placed herself backwards on the couch. She stared at the cushions and quietly punished herself. Deb and I looked at each other and realized where those Greenpeace volunteers who throw themselves between a whale and a Japanese harpoon come from.

No, that's not right. Allie's not a trendy martyr in the making. I should have written something like, Deb and I looked at each other and realized where obsessive compulsive Lutherans with slight facial ticks come from.

Nope. That doesn't quite capture it either.

Walk. Walk. Squat.

Allie’s latest song goes something like this:

Love will make you stand on a chair.
Love will make you comb your hair.
Love will make you wash your toes.
Love will make you puke like a dog.

True.

Allie, Julia and I played out in the snow on Saturday. While Allie shoveled and played News (she was a reporter named, Jenny, broadcasting live from a blizzard) I followed Julia up and down the sidewalk and out into the street.

Julia could have given a shit about the snow. In fact, judging from the way she shrieked every time she touched the stuff, she hated the snow.

She was just happy to be out of the house. She took off down the middle of the street as if she’d been released from a flaming kennel. She’d stop, every now and again, to do what I call the Toddler Squat. It’s the sudden deep knee bend she did to check out whatever anomaly there was in the snow. It had a rhythm to it. Walk. Walk. Squat (bottle cap). Walk. Walk. Squat (piece of foil). Walk. Walk. Squat (Uh, is that what I think that is? Oooo. Julia, get away. Don't touch, Julia).

She was slowing traffic. Not because she was in the middle of the road, but because people were slowing down to see what she was. Julia was pretty much all coat with feet at the bottom. She’s wearing Allie’s old coat and it’s much larger than she is. Here, I drew you a picture:

LISO

Dear Fourth Floor Janitorial Staff:

Today, as I approached the first urinal from the left in my usual restroom, I noticed four "adult hairs" perched on the lower lip of the receptacle. They seemed to spell out the word LISO.

This bothered me.

I tried to eliminate the word with the most convenient means possible. Unfortunately, some of my means dribbled on to the floor.

I'm sorry.

I thought there were only three wise men.

C & E. That's the stamp St. Paul's Lutheran would have/should have put on our foreheads when we walked through their doors on Christmas eve.

C & E stands for Christmas and Easter and those are the only times you'll find us in church (actually, just put us down for a C). Debbie has always insisted we go to church on Christmas eve. At first I resisted. The thought of usurping someone else's regular spot in the pews didn't appeal to me. But my concerns about going to a strange church are always proved unnecessary. It's nothing like the end of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers where parishioners are pointing at us, hissing like Donald Sutherland because we haven't been hatched from one of their Lutheran pods. In fact, I've always felt welcomed. I'm sure it's a combination of Christian goodwill, the fact that we always choose to sit in back or to one side and the collection gets a shot in the arm from "occasionals" like us.

I'm really not sure how spending 45 minutes watching someone else's kids sing O Little Town of Bethlehem injects us with Christmas spirit. But it does.

Allie is now a part of the tradition. This year, as we watched the kids of St. Paul's parade around dressed like sheep and wise men Allie leaned over and whispered something in my ear. "I wish I was up there," she said.

I felt guilty. She should be up there belting out Away in a Manger with all the other kids. The problem is I can't see how we'd make that work considering we're always traveling at Christmas. I wonder if we could just slip Allie up on a riser and let her wing it. These programs aren't too complicated and we could easily get Allie up to speed on most of the more commonly sung songs. In fact, the Sunday School Teacher probably wouldn't even notice an extra angel. And even if he or she did I don't think anyone would want to make a scene. I suppose in the unlikely event someone did want to yank Allie off the stage I'd intervene. Maybe I'd tell them our daughter's last wish is to be an angel in a Christmas play. Hey, I'm not saying she's dying, I'm just saying it's her last wish. The one right after she wished she could convert her bedroom door into a magic carpet. A sin of omission? Sure. But it would make Allie happy and who knows, we might even get a percentage from that evening's collection.

Allie wasn't too heartbroken about not participating. Presents are always a miracle prescription for any childhood woe and both girls got plenty of medicine this year.

One item I'm not too happy with this year are the Bratz dolls Allie received. I can get past the fact that you don't just change these dollies' shoes but you have to take off its entire foot. What bothers me are the weird, oversized eyes. They give me the willies. Beyond that, these dolls are dressed like hookers. Do I have a lot of experience with hookers? No. But I've seen my fair share of episodes of Cops. I'm sure the toy makers would claim the dolls have a more "urban" flair. If by "urban" they mean clothing appropriate for use in an episode of Cops featuring hookers then they're spot on. What's more, Bratz are manufactured with pronounced ass cracks because all the pants and skirts ride beneath the dolls' hips. I took a look at on of my sister's old Mrs. Beasley dolls. It has no ass crack. It doesn't even have an ass. It has a torso with legs sewn on to it. That's more what I have in mind for my four-year-old.

Greg's Holiday Tip #2: You can use a standard butter knife and joint compound (readily available at your local hardware store) to fill in the ass cracks of your daughter's Bratz dolls.