Bra Shopping with Father

Some claim that I, a straight American male, am biologically hard-wired to notice the female breast. I won't argue with science.

Unless the breast in question belongs to my tweenage daughter.

Just the other day there she was: a sweet little thing in a princess gown, buckled snugly at 5-points in her car seat, singing about the yumminess of fruit salad. Then I blinked, and ... OMIGOD! WHERE DID THOSE COME FROM??!!

After I recovered from hysterical blindness, my little angel announced that I needed to take her shopping.

For a bra.

"I need it for my dance recital Sunday," she said. "My costume has really thin straps so the teacher said I should get a strapless bra."

I know bra shopping is one thing she has done before (and would rather do) with the adult women in her life. So why me, Lord? Why now?

Process of elimination. My wife was on a business trip; my sister, on vacation. Ladies and gentlemen, I am literally … the booby prize.

"Uhhh," I said wittily, "To Target."

+ + +

I'm surprised by just how big the lingerie department here is. By big, I mean, their key demographic must be body doubles for Sofia Vergara. It's also dazzlingly colorful like one of those candy stores where the walls are lined with tube after tube of exotically flavored jelly beans. 

After wandering around, we find the juniors section. 

Seamless bandeau, structured bandeau, Spandau Ballet. 

Scoop, demi, Ashton.

I have not been this overwhelmed by selection since I shopped Home Depot for sheet metal screws.

"Will this work?" I say. "The tag says it's a convertible bra."

"No. It has straps."

"Doesn't convertible mean the top comes off?"

"I don't know," she says.

And I think to myself, I hope you never will until you're married.

It's then that I spot her: A woman by the sports bras with a cart. It's overflowing with a mish-mash of clothing, sporting goods and toys. More importantly, she wears a bright red jacket and a bull's eye name tag.

"Let me go ask that clerk ..."

"Daddy, nooooooooooooooooooo!"

"All right," I say. "Just remember that answer when you're on stage and the girls make an unexpected curtain call."

Finally, we find some strapless bras. They are in hot pink. In “passion purple.” Day Glo green. Vegas showgirls wear less flashy outfits.

Finally we locate a couple that would not be noticeable from a nautical mile in London fog. They also happen to be in her size.

Not that my daughter knows her bra size. That would have been too easy. I've been down this road before. Not with bras, but nearly every other piece of clothing my children own because in own house – this dad does the shopping from groceries to garage doors. So before we left the house, I went to my daughter’s room, found one of her bras and checked the tag. Now, the next time some marketing genius tells you women make the vast majority of family purchasing decisions in the United States, you have the permission of this member of the minority to kick that person squarely in the statisticals.

She heads to the fitting rooms, and I am alone. Suddenly, I forget what to do with my arms. Fold them? No. Hands in pockets? No -- NO!

This keeps me perplexed while I wait. And I wait. And I wait ...

Suddenly, I am a child again. Waist high to a headless mannequin in a tube top and bell bottoms in some long-demolished women's department store. I'm confused. Lost. My mom has dragged me shopping with her again. The hopelessness. The suffering. The boredom. … The boredom. Things start pulling away and I'm falling down a hole walled with endless racks of frilly rack holders. I'm weightless, I'm floating! Below, I can almost see my boyish self ...

Wait a sec.

I really can see my boyish self.

It's my 9-year-old son. I forgot we took him along on this expedition.

"Son," I say, extending my right arm and index finger. "Pet supplies, office supplies, greeting cards. Choose your pleasure."

After a contemplative look, he picks greeting cards. I tell him we'll be there in a few minutes.

+ + +

The next morning, the sun still rose in the east.

And this Sunday, when my daughter bounds across the stage for her final curtsy, I will be there applauding and standing proud and tall.

Just. Like. Her bosom.

It’s in His Jeans

My son, Excitable, may be a hit with the ladies for his dance moves, but eventually his allergy to showering will overpower their love of his inner Deney Terrio.

Then there’s his clothes.

I love the boy because, among a myriad of other reasons, unlike his sister he is not constantly begging me to take him shopping. He tends to wear clothes until they are tattered and holey. Then he continues to wear them tattered and holey.

I keep expecting calls from his school like this:

Hair Today …

My Love made the appointment for last Tuesday. Not being one for history, she didn’t realize the significance of selecting December 7 as the day for her and Thing 1 to finally make good on someone’s promise to chop off her tresses for a good cause.

“Pearl Harbor Day,” I told her. “When the Japanese bombed us into World War II. ‘A date which will live in infamy.’”

“Oh.”

“It’s OK. I’d still love you bald. Or looking like that crazy doll head with the erector-set legs in the first Toy Story movie. I mean, you did put up with my mustache for a month.”

  

Combined, the two of them donated seven locks, each at least 10 inches long.

And hardly a tear was shed.

And yes, Thing 1 still wanted to know if she could get paid.

She settled for a plate of sliders and wings at a restaurant down the street.

+ + +

For more information on donating to Locks of Love, visit its website and FAQ page.

Technorati Tags: charity,Locks of Love,hairstyles

Hello, Keith Hernandez; Goodbye, Mustache Movember

I know I’m two days late for my final mustache showing of Movember but both cords we have for downloading our digital cameras mysteriously disappeared.

So I bought a new camera.

I had to. Mine was tragically smacked out my hand by an 8-year-old (not named Thing 2) at a birthday party in May, and it had been shooting with a wonky focus ever since. That’s why I’ve been looking so Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting-ish of late. 

So without further ado, here is my Day 30 ‘stache, in which I channel my inner Keith Hernandez.

Why Keith?

Because Keith is a one-time Most Valuable Player and 11-time Gold Glove winning first baseman.

Because Keith, in 2007, won the American Mustache Institute’s Top Sports Mustache of All Time award and had his own mustache tribute day at Shea Stadium:

Because Keith played a central role in one of the best episodes of Seinfeld ever.

Because Keith is a spokesman for Just for Men Mustache and Beard dye gel which, I admit, I had to use not so much to hide the gray but to darken the blonde so people could tell I was growing something under my nose.

Because Keith, while broadcasting a Mets game this year, reflected the feelings of all the team’s fans by falling asleep during the “action”:

God save you and your mustache, Keith.

And God save those of you who contributed to me and Team DadCentric, to help us raise more than $1,300 to fight prostate and testicular cancer.

As for those of you who didn’t donate this time out, I’m sure you were saving up to make a HUGE contribution this spring when I ask for you to support Cure JM in the Seattle Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon/Half Marathon in June.

Now back to our regularly scheduled, unfuzzy and Uncool face:

Give Cash for My ‘Stache This Movember

Cancer sucks no matter who gets it, but the facts are particularly scary for us guys.

For example, 1 in 2 men are likely to be diagnosed with some form of cancer in their life compared with 1 in 3 women.

And while enormous amounts of pink are spilled annually publicizing breast cancer awareness for women, did you realize a man is 35% more likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer than a woman is to be diagnosed with breast cancer?

Dang it, dudes – we need to level the playing field!

E-qual-ity! E-qual-ity!

While anyone can pin a ribbon on his or her chest to show support for a cause, only a man (and maybe certain Eastern European female bodybuilders) can proudly wear said ribbon under his nose – in the form of a moustache.

That is why some of the more facial-hair adept members of DadCentric and I will be sprouting ‘staches this month in support of “Movember” – an international movement to raise funds and awareness for men's health, specifically cancer affecting men.

(Allegedly “Mo” is slang for moustache. That’s news to me, but this whole thing was started by Australians and, as you know from those Foster’s beer commercials, the Aussies have a different way of saying everything.)

Here’s what you can do help this worthy cause:

DONATE: Give a few bucks to support the growth between my nose and upper lip. Just visit my Always Home and Uncool Mo Page, and click the big ol’ “Donate to Me” button.

Funds raised benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LIVESTRONG - the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

GROW YOUR OWN: If you are facial hair proficient, join the DadCentric team! Sign up as a Mo Bro, then shave your face clean and get raising some whiskers and money for the cause.

BE A MO SISTA: If you are of the female persuasion but not an Eastern European female bodybuilder, then you can’t grow a mustache. However, you can still support Team DadCentric by raising funds and spreading the word about men’s health issues by signing up as a Mo Sista.

Watch for semi-regular updates on my blog and on my Always Home and Uncool Mo Page. Meanwhile, tell me this:

What type of moustache should I aim for?

The Derek Smalls?

The Earl Hickey?

The Pointy Poirot?

The Magnum P.I.?

Perhaps, the Anna Lefler?

Technorati Tags: Movember,moustaches,men's health,cancer,prostate cancer,breast cancer

Too Well-Suited to be Uncool?

I last bought a suit when The Sopranos debuted.

It last fit me around the time Tony and family were chomping on onion rings to the wailings of Steve Perry.

Glorious golden onion rings! How you’ve wronged my waistline, my little fried O’s of palatable pleasure.

Luckily, Men’s Warehouse came a-callin’.

To promote its annual National Suit Drive, in which outlets of the national clothing chain aim to collect 100,000 items of “gently used professional attire” this month for redistribution to local men and women struggling to find work, Men’s Warehouse offered me a shopping spree at its local store.

(DEAL FOR YOU: If you donate your old men’s or women’s suits, shirts, jackets, ties, belts and shoes to your local Men’s Warehouse before Oct. 1, the store will give you a 25 percent discount on your next purchase there as well as a receipt for your tax-deductible donation.) 

When I mentioned this opportunity to My Love, she basically offered to drive me there.

Right that instant.

Go, go, GO!

I told her to let me first find my keys. And my underwear.

I haven’t bought much professional attire since going full-time at-home dad, but when I used to, I did shop at Men’s Warehouse from time to time. Chances are I probably would have gone to them when it came time for a new suit. Now that’s a well-researched PR pitch. (That’s your hint, Mr. Jim Koch, founder of The Boston Beer Company. My e-mail’s in the right sidebar.)

I arrived at my local Men’s Warehouse in Stamford and Bokul, the assistant manager, looked at my wrinkled Lands’ End jeans and faded freebie corporate golf shirt and said, “You’re the blogger, right?”

Yes – yes, I am.

Bokul showed me around, explained everything from the store’s new line of tuxedo rentals down to their Pronto Uomo jeans (I think he was hinting at something there).

Then I suited up. While I tried on Kenneth Coles, Jones New Yorks and Calvin Kleins, Bokul passed on these tips (which I’ll embellish) that I should have known from Thing 1’s past obsession with What Not to Wear but I always got hypnotized by Stacy London’s skunk hair:

• If only need to wear a suit a few times a year (like me), go for simple, classic and timeless. Bold plaids and wide lapels didn’t work even when they were in. Except for Herb on WKRP in Cincinnati.

• Unless you need stains or odors removed, avoid dry cleaning a suit. Often a simple professional steaming and pressing will do and cause less wear and tear to the material.
• Match your belt to your shoes. Unless either is white. In that case, you ARE Herb from WKRP in Cincinnati. Or in a retirement home. Abandon all hope.
• Your socks are an extension of your pants – match them. So, you – country club dude – if you got no socks, you need to lose the pants. NO, NO! I’M KIDDING!

• When you stand, button the top button of your sports jacket, sport. Unless you’re coaching in the NBA or putting Don Draperesque moves on a skirt outside the Barbizon Hotel.
• Your shirt cuffs should extend a bit past your jacket arms when standing, arms at your sides. More than inch and you look like Pee-Wee Herman.
• If you gain or lose 30 pounds or more, forget about it. Don’t try to alter your suit, just get a new one. Yeah, I KNOOOOOOW. I got the hint already!

After I choose two suits I liked, style consultant Eric matched some shirts and ties for me to chose from. Being practical (or cheap, you decide), I picked ones that matched both suits and got be mixed with each other.

“It’s like Garanimals for grown ups,” commented My Love when she saw the interchangeable combos I brought home. She’s always killing my buzz.

Since I work from home, I thought I show off my new clothes to you while in my natural environment:

And here I am hard at work, researching my next blog post:

Disclosure: Men’s Warehouse treated me to the two new suits and shirts. Their clothes and deals were so good (I saved at least an additional $500 with all the store’s various sales), I bought the shoes, ties and belt myself. In return, I donated my old suit, a pair of shoes, a dress shirt and a pair of dress pants to their National Suit Drive.

Technorati Tags: fashion,employment,economy

Her Hair-Brained Scheme

CHICAGO – The parade of pink clothing stretches along the baseball field’s perimeter from the deepest reaches of centerfield down past third base.

Thing 1, halfway through the annihilation of her first box of chips drowning in industrial DayGlo orange cheese sauce, clears an airway,  “Who are those people?”

“I think they are people who had breast cancer. Since this is Mother’s Day, the White Sox are trying to raise awareness of a disease that tends to affect women and give people hope for a cure,” I say.

She digs back into her nuclear lunch and I return to filling out the lineups in my scorecard.

A few minutes and layers of glop later, Thing 1 has a new question.

“How long does your hair need to be to cut it off and give to kids?”

I set down my beer.

“You mean like Locks of Love? Where they make wigs for kids who lost their hair from cancer treatments?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Do you want to do that?”

She nods and the Midwestern spring sunlight shimmers off the drops of florescent goo on the corners of her mouth. “My teacher said she’s going to cut her hair for kids," she says.

As we talk, I’m internally dumbfounded. Thing 1 has been avoiding a true haircut for several years to the point that it’s approaching the middle of her back. This has led to endless demands for her to pull back her dirty blonde locks so they will stop falling into her food, which is followed by calls for her to wash it and comb it more often to extricate the collected bits of breakfast (maple syrup, you are thy enemy!), lunch and dinner from the tangled strands.

In addition to her teacher’s decision and the sight of all these cancer survivors and their families proudly treading around the White Sox’ warning track, I’m wondering how much just being here in Chicago is influencing this discussion. We have been trekking here every few months now for more than seven years for her to met with specialists who make her stretch and crawl, and draw dozens of rubber-topped vials of blood and study her muscles and bones with magical machines that see so many things we still do not understand. I think back to that first solo trip the two of us took, on a wet late winter day, and how right before the appointment Thing 1 fell limp and feverish in her stroller, a staph infection coursing through her steroid-swollen body.

“… so I think you only need to let it go a few more inches if you really want to do it,” I hear myself say.

Without even the pause of half a heartbeat, she asks, “And how much do they pay?”

“Pardon?”

“How much money do they give you for your hair?”

“It’s a donation, honey,” I say. “You give it to them for free so they can help a needy child.”

“Dang,” she says, looking at the nacho ruins in the cardboard holder on her lap. “I wanted to make some cash.”

+ + +

As I’m typing this, several hours later in a hotel room two blocks from the twinkling lights and retail holyland of The Magnificent Mile, I interrupt Thing 1’s viewing of a third episode of 19 Kids and Counting about the Duggars’ attempt to bring their premature baby, Josie, home.

“You still want to donate your hair?”

She nods.

“Even though you don’t get paid for it?”

“Yeah,” she says.

I don’t ask why. I stroke her long, grubby mane -- just once because my ring finger gets snagged in a knot of sunscreen, sweat and sugar -- then tell her to hit the showers.

Technorati Tags: mother's day,baseball,cancer,breast cancer,kids

Yes, I Know 'No' and Yes, That's Not 'No'

UNCOOL: Do you need anything from the store?

MY LOVE: No. I just need some new underwear.

UNCOOL: So, yes, you need something from the store.

MY LOVE: Yes.

UNCOOL: Then why did you say "no."

MY LOVE: I didn't. I just said I need new underwear.

UNCOOL: No, you said "no" then you said you needed something. The correct answer to my question was, "Yes, I need some new underwear."

MY LOVE: That's what I said.

UNCOOL: No, it wasn't.

MY LOVE: You know when I said "no" I meant "yes."

UNCOOL: So when I ask you for something-something later and you say "no," I should just interpret that as "yes."

MY LOVE: No.

UNCOOL: You mean "yes."

MY LOVE: No. I mean "no."

UNCOOL: C'mon. If I don't buy you underwear, you'll already be half way there.

MY LOVE: But you're going to buy me new underwear.

UNCOOL: Yes. I'm not.

MY LOVE: So, are you buying me underwear?

UNCOOL: Oh, yes, you know I'm not.

MY LOVE: We'll see.

UNCOOL: So, can I buy you something from the store?

MY LOVE: Yes. Buy me some underwear.

UNCOOL: Thank you.

MY LOVE: You won't tonight.

UNCOOL: I expect nothing less.

* * *

Seriously, you have yet to enter my drawing to win a year's supply of Hillshire Farm meat products? The contest ends Thursday night! All you have do is go to this post and leave a comment.

My Son, The Fashionista

It dangled limply out from under his plaid pajama bottoms.

"Thing 2, what's that?"

"It's my Sock Band^TM. I have three. See?"

"Those are just groddy socks that you have worn the bottoms out of and shoved up your leg."

"Yeah. Sock Bands^TM. I invented them."

"And what purpose do they serve?"

"I dunno."

"How long have you been wearing those ripe babies?"

"Two weeks."

"To sleep?"

"Yep."

"To school?"

"Yep."

"You showed your classmates your Sock Bands^TM?"

"Yep."

"Do they all wear them now?"

"Nope. They don't know how to make them."

"Maybe you need to incorporate and go into business selling them."

"Hmm. Maybe."

"It's tough being an fashion innovator, let alone the stud of the second grade, huh?"

"What's a 'stud'?"

"One lucky bast--, er, boy."

"Yeah. That's me."

"Rock on, son."

"OK, Pops."

+ + +

Have you entered to win a year's supply of Hillshire Farm meat products from "Always Home and Uncool" yet?  All you have do is go to this post and leave a comment.