Mikey's a Double Uncle...

I won't post pictures (yet), because I haven't gotten approval from my brother, his family, and gotten the signed signature of a certain 7-pound bundle of gums, tears, and swaddling cloth. But I wanted to let y'all know that my niece, Allison Renee, was born this past Monday.

Babies are a funny thing. They terrify me. No because their eyes are glazed, they claw at nothing and are as loud as all get-out (whatever that means). But because I don't know what to do with them.

First off, I have no idea how to hold them. Their heads just flop around if you don't support them—at least that's what I've been told. So I make my arms into some sort of basket, have someone drop (gently) the infant into the cavity, then cock my shoulder up. That tilts the basket upwards, and sort of supports the child's head and neck. But, boy, does it give me a crick in mine.

Then, once I've got the baby, I have no idea what comes next. I can kind of bounce them by lifting my shoulder up and down. But that just makes me look like I'm doing the "What is love?" dance from SNL... "Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me... no more!" Plus, the movements are pretty jarring to the kid, who'll immediately start screaming.

While they're bawling, I try to distract them with delightful running commentary. For example, when I held Allie (my new niece) for the first time, I explained to her the wonders of Velcro, how it works with miniature hooks and loops, and that it's made in the great state of New Hampshire, which is also known as The Granite State. She just cried some more. Then, I explained she was wrapped up like a burrito and I regaled her with the wonders of meat, rice and beans tied up in a tortilla. She quieted up a bit then.

So I sat there, neck getting sore and florescent lights glowing off the tile floor, holding a baby that really did look and feel like a warm burrito. I was totally unsure of what to do, so I yammered on about nonsense. Until she opened her eyes.

Her lids flickered, sleepily (it's hard work being born). Then they opened halfway. The big, blue orbs looked up at me. Probably, she couldn't see anything. Maybe she saw a shadow. But I saw her; I really saw her. And I stopped yammering. She wasn't crying anymore. It didn't matter how I held her. Just the fact that I did.

Yeah, I can do this uncle thing. It's not so scary after all.

Ramblings from Japan...

ON THE FLIGHT OVER...

My “entertainment” selections for the 12-hour flight from Chicago to Tokyo: The Spiderwick Chronicles, Definitely Maybe, The Bucket List, Mad Money, Shine a Light and The Other Boleyn Girl. Let’s just say I read. A lot.

Boingo’s airport signal strength (both in Chicago and Tokyo) is equivalent to me trying to do bench press reps at the NFL combine.

What the heck did people do to kill time waiting to board before the iPhone? Currently going through email, SMS, Twitter, Facebook and Bejeweled withdrawl.

Did you know Cup o’ Noodles qualifies as a “meal” on United Airlines’ long-haul flights. Me neither.

ON FAMILY...

Upon seeing pictures of my fiancée, my second cousin Reiko remarked, “She has a nice bust!” Normally, I’d chalk that up to as a “lost in translation moment,” but she repeated it several times.

My great aunt Yoko (who’s hosting us while we’re in Tokyo) has a fat toy Chihuahua who’s terrified of me. It’s like a hairy, freaked-out football and I want to kick it.

Grandma, in addition to slipping right back into her native language and culture, also started slipping out of her clothes. Apparently, pants are optional if you’re 70-plus. Thank goodness she wears huge cotton briefs.

You haven’t been entertained until you’ve watched two technologically ignorant septuagenarians spend eight minutes yelling at each other and jabbing fingers at a ticket machine in confusion. All they had to do was push the “English” button in the corner, told me which station we needed to go to, and we’d have been off in 30 seconds. But, no…

ON TELEVISION...

They have Aflac commercials here and they use a duck, but not Gilbert Godfried’s voice. It’s kinda weird. And the duck has one feather sticking up on the top of its head, too. I thought you should know.

Also, Akinori Iwamura (the 2nd baseman for the Tampa Bay Rays) hit a home run today and it made it into the news block, not just sports. They love them some Japanese ballplayers over here, even if they’re playing in Tampa.

Japanese ping-pong players get endorsement deals from the Asian version of Gatorade. It’s like watching Forrest Gump, only lamer.

The Colonel is still the spokeslogo for KFC. Only he looks a little Japanese... that could just be the late-night sushi talking, though.

I’ve seen maybe six other Caucasian people in a week here (discounting the tourists at the airport), yet 25% of Japanese advertisements feature blonde-and-blue-eyed Abercrombie-esque models. It’s strangely disconcerting.

ON JAPAN...

I am taller than every women I’ve seen and at least 2/3rds of the men. I’m 5’8” on an extremely good day with reduced gravity. This rocks.

I wear flip-flops, which confuses Yoko to no end. You see, to her (and every Japanese person over 50), flip-flops are indoor house shoes. It’s proper to cover your feet when you’re outdoors. We’ve compromised, though: she stops pestering me to wear sneakers and I just have to wipe my feet with a washcloth for five minutes before I come into her house.

The Japanese society is one that revolves around the clock and punctuality. Trains arrive the instant they’re supposed to (not a minute sooner), people meet you exactly when they say they will and a dinner reservation for 6 p.m. actually means dinner is set for six. But, when the Nagels arrive, they make history - for the first time ever, a bus was delayed. Why? Because our cousin had to stand in front of it for 10 minutes, while my grandma and great aunt teamed up to get us lost and make us late. Ever been glared at by two-dozen angry retirees while you’re trying to find a seat on the bus? It’s not fun.

Having a shaved head apparently makes you a Yakuza (Japanese mafia). So not only am I taller than everyone, but people are terrified of me. Although, I don’t know if it’s the hair or the flip-flops that’s setting them off…

Ask for mizu at restaurants and you get odd stares. Refill a water bottle at a bubbler and people point and laugh. Apparently, you’re not allowed to drink anything besides tea or Sapporo (which, incidentally, they serve at breakfast).

Bidets – surprisingly powerful and well-aimed.

I've done my packing, now it's Grandma's turn

I'm going to post a Japan itinerary (I leave in four days). But frankly that's about as exciting to read as a calendar, because, well... you are reading a calendar. So before I get to some mind-numbing list of dates and places, I thought I'd feed your Internet entertainment craving with a little peek into the mind of my grandmother.

For those of you that don't know, I'm traveling through Japan with my Grandmother (who is Japanese, was born there and moved to the States and became a citizen about 50 years ago), my mom (born on a military base in Japan) and my sister (like me, born in a hospital here - much less exciting). It's going to be a two-week jaunt through family history, meeting relatives, seeing the "homeland" and sharing rooms in ryokans.

Well, Grandma is quite the character. I love her to death, but she definitely has her quirks. One of them has to do with her luggage - or, rather, the items she wants to bring that can't fit into her suitcases. It's Japanese tradition to bring gifts when you visit. It's been a few years since Grandma's been back to her homeland, so she's loaded up on those... that seems sensible enough. The quirk she has about packing has to do with A) the type of gifts she's bringing and B) the seeming illogical assumption that famine has arrived in Japan and we will starve for two weeks. This has led to over-packing, which has led to me checking an extra bag just for her stuff.

Thank goodness I pack light.

Grandma's packing list:

1 faux Coach bag - She actually is bringing six of these. But she didn't want to have trouble with customs, so she gave me one. Apparently, she thinks that will make a difference.

1 set of Japanese flip-flops - because, you know, they're hard to find in Japan.

3 Red Sox t-shirts - this makes sense. Dice-K mania is huge; the relatives will love the shirts. I want a Seibu Lions jersey, myself.

3 Charles River Laboratories t-shirts - I don't think anyone's asking for the leftover swag from a company Grandma hasn't worked for in 5 years.

1 bottle, Centrum Silver - taking your vitamins is good. Taking 250 over a 16-day span is not.

2 family-sized packages, caesar croutons - we're visiting a friend Grandma has who likes salad. So we're bringing salad. Right.

24 tea packets - didn't they INVENT tea in Asia?

12 instant coffee packets - this makes sense. I can't live without coffee.

1 jar instant coffee - in light of above, not needed.

1 box, Pop Secret popcorn - not a clue as to her reasoning on this one.

1 box, SPANISH Pop Secret popcorn - Porque?!

2 packets, guacamole mix - "This way, if we find avacadoes, we can have chips at night."

6 pounds of Lindt chocolate - Either these are gifts, or G-ma has one heckuva sweet tooth.

1 bottle for salad dressing - Yes, we're bringing a mix-your-own dressing bottle. Just in case that awesome ginger salad dressing you get at sushi places has been sold out nationwide.

1 blue rubber bath mat - This is actually a gift for her sister. Hey, at least it's not socks.

8 granola bars - Great for flights. Except they'll be checked in the cargo hold.

2 pounds of whole grain spaghetti - This was actually a compromise. Grandma originally wanted to bring the pasta AND two jars of homemade sauce to Japan, but we talked her out of it. Although, it would've been easy to spot my suitcase at baggage claim - it would be the one leaking.

1 jar, brownish-orange, thick gel with pungent order - I don't know what it is. It's wrapped in a paper towel and then encased in bubble wrap. It smells, strong, of ginger. I think Grandma might have preserved some at home? At least, that's what I'll be telling the Homeland Security agents when they've dragged me off to a mirrored room after my stuff's been confisticated at check-in.

"Dre-ee-ee-ee-am, dream, dream, dream, dree-eam..."

I have dreams.

Maybe not on the level of the "I have a dream" speech from M.L.K., but they are dreams just the same.

I have a dream that I'll one day play a guitar in front of people and sing a song that I, myself composed, and they will cry tears of joy at the beauty of it.

I have a dream that my Buffalo Bills will win a Super Bowl, even if the team has to play half its games in Canada.

I have a dream that I will dupe someone into paying me thousands and thousands of dollars to write and have a title that includes the words "editor-at-large" and/or "best-selling."

I have a dream to one day drive this 100-mph up Route 93 to my ski lodge with three fireplaces and an outdoor hot tub.

My brother, apparently, has different dreams.

I woke up the other day to this email:

"Hey, I had a weird, random dream last night where you were killed by a gang of Chinese mafia members. So, if you're dealing in the black market a bit, you may want to chill out for a little while..."

This followed up an email he sent me a couple months back:

"So, weird dream last night... I don't remember all the details, but I was chasing you and Dylan (a friend of ours) with a knife. I think I killed both of you. If it makes you feel any better, I was crying while I did it - in my dream, not real life."

Well now... it looks like we have a perfect example of Middle-Child Syndrome taken a step too far.

Normal middle children "bemoan their fate as being ignored and often grow resentful of all the parental attention given to the oldest and the baby of the family, and feel short-shifted... They have to compete for family attention against the milestones set by the oldest, and growing up in their shadow. Middle children have to try a little harder to “be heard” or get noticed. The middle child usually has to fight harder for the attention of their parents and therefore crave the family spotlight."

However, nowhere in that article does it talk about younger brothers having dreams about their older, shockingly handsome, brothers dying horribly bloody deaths - at their own hands, no less. That sort of thing is just sick... paging Dr. Freud!

I have another dream. I have a dream of a world where older brothers and younger brothers can join hands and sing in the words of that oldie, but a goodie:

"Lean on me/when you're not strong. I'll be your friend/I won't kill you in your sleep."

Reason #4,239 I'm not ready to have kids...

I love my niece. She's the cutest thing I've ever seen, and I'm not saying that just because she's related to me (not that it hurts, ha).

She's my first niece, is the first grandkid on both sides of the family and is an only child. So, um, yeah, she's spoiled rotten. Not that she's bratty in the least - she just loves being the center of attention. Ashleigh is cute, smart and happy... just a terrific all-around baby.

Most of the time, that is.

We spent nine hours together in the car on two separate occasions last week on drives to and from Buffalo for Christmas. That's a long time for anyone to be confined in a small space, never mind a 1-year-old strapped into a car seat. On the way out there, she did great for 7-and-a-half hours. But for that last 90 minutes? As they say in Jersey, "fuhgeddaboudit."

She was not happy. And she was vocal about it. Her entire face was contorted into the most pitiful expression you'd ever seen. Her mouth, with every single one of her gappy, sparse baby teeth showing, was wide open. The pink tongue stuck partly out as scream after scream rolled over it. She screamed high, she gurgled low and gasped for breath and then she screamed again. And again. And again.

I have minimal experience with babies. But what I have learned from the few friends of mine that are parents is that sometimes, kids just need to cry it out. They get overtired and a good cry will help them fall asleep. I, in my blissful ignorance, assumed this would be the case.

Sadly, it was not to be. Lil' Ashleigh is a stubborn baby girl. And, apparently, she had drank some Red Bull or something, because she was not about to just roll over and fall asleep. Nope; she was just going to keep on screaming.

Jen (my sister) and I were in the car together... I was driving and even though cruise control was on, I didn't feel like it would be safe for me to turn around and start making funny faces to my toddler backseat passenger, so Jen was in charge of quieting Ashleigh down with the help of my shouted suggestions. It sort of went like this:

M - "Give her something, anything!"
J - "Here's a book, Ashleigh, you love books."
A - "Wahhhh... AIEEEEEE... EEEEEEK!"
M - "Try the cups! Try the cups!"
J - "Here's your stackable cups, you love those things. Remember, you were playing with them for an hour while we drove through Albany."
A - "AH-AH-AH... WAAHEEEE!"
M - "Try milk!"
J - "Do you want your milk?"
A - (takes bottle and throws it on floor, continues one constant scream, uninterrupted by a single breath, for 270 seconds straight)
M - "Try water! Try singing! Try baby-talk! Try yoga pressure points! Try speaking in tongues!"

This went on for half an hour until we both gave up and sat in silence, listening to her varying pitches of screams. It was an operatic performance, indeed; she put on quite the Baby Einstein aria for us.

Finally, we caved. Jen called our parents, who were driving in a different car. We ended up pulling into the next rest stop and switched cars for the final 25 minutes to Buffalo, both of us with a splitting headache.

My parents reported that Ashleigh didn't peep once for the entire ride.

Gah!

Holiday Lovin'....

The holidays are upon us. I think they snuck up while we sleeping off the diabetic coma of Halloween or something. But they're here! The Christmas music arrived for our work sound system (not that I'll be playing it. Ever.) and Turkey Day has come and gone.

Prepare to overeat. Prepare to overspend. Prepare to overindulge. Holiday Season '07 only comes once every 100 years! No, really, it does... I did the math and everything.

This is a special year for me, personally. Since I was the number-one, card-carrying, woman-denying, hyphen-over-using commitment-phobe on the planet before being snatched up by a lovely (and forgiving) young lady, I have never celebrated a holiday with anyone else.

My relationship history prior to meeting Sonja went sort of like this:
Boy meets girl.
Boy kisses girl.
Boy keeps on kissing girl until she decides to have "the talk."
Boy freaks.
Boy meets another girl.
And so on...

There was never any reason to spend the holidays with someone else because there really hasn't been a "someone else" for years. And there's the fact that my family are isolationists of a Pat Buchanan-level (political joke there... primaries are in two months... I'll stop now).

Basically, spending the Thanksgiving meal at Sonja's house with 20 of her relatives was a big deal for me. I never really get nervous about anything, with the possible exception of my sort-of-annual physical, but it was kind of nerve-wracking.

I was a definite outsider. Everyone else there had either sprung from the loins of her dad (good mental picture there), married into the family or was pretty much in a common-law marriage type relationship. So, I stuck out there. All the guys (she has five brothers and one dad) are much bigger than I am, which always makes me feel a little uncomfortable. You'd think I'd be used to this, since I haven't grown since 8th grade, but I havne't yet. This is one reason, I think, that the few guys I consider to be good friends can be described as "bookish." The menfolk are also all hard-working, salt-of-the-earth types who ride Harleys and know stuff about machinery. I drive a Camry and the most manly thing I've done in the last week is get the lid off a jar of spaghetti sauce for my sister. Needless to say, I wound up spending more time in the kitchen slicing veggies and learning how cheesecloth can be used to marinate a turkey (fascinating stuff).

You know what, though? Our differences didn't matter. Once everyone sat down at the table, appetite, dinnertime conversation and a general spirit of thankfulness took over. We took turns complementing the half-dozen chefs that contributed, we talked about the different places we live, I even tried out a couple Grizzly Adams jokes on Sonja's brother Greg, who sports mane of hair and 4-inch goatee. He laughed and didn't give me a noogie, so that worked out all around.

The holidays are about family coming together. And now that I have "someone else" in my life, my definition of family is expanding. I wound up having a great first Thanksgiving at her house with her wonderful relatives. They made me feel welcome, accepted and overstuffed. And for that I am thankful.

Hope you all had a great Thanksgiving!