It's ALIVE! And ASLEEP!"

So, Kirsten and I, more Kirsten than I, have been wondering how best to keep the baby asleep when she was, you know, awake. We tried a lot of things - nursing, soothing, shushing, nursing, cooing, nursing, blankets, nursing - but nothing worked. All we've gotten so far is a baby who spits up a lot and a wife with sore boobs.

And, let me assure you, neither of those things has been to my benefit.

So today, in a low point, Kirsten broke down and agreed to something she'd been fighting strenuously for the past four weeks: a pacifier.

For Lorelei's benefit, we're calling it a binky - not, by the way, out of any respect towards Binky the Clown, but because that's apparently a fairly common term for the thing.

Anyway, IT WORKS. That's the most important thing - call that jabber what you will, but the baby sucks on it, and she doesn't cry. And, I assure you, nobody likes a crying baby.

On an unrelated note, why is it that a cup of coffee in reality is 8 ounces, but a cup of coffee in a coffeemaker is six ounces?

Well, Now it's a Threequel

My mother emailed me yesterday asking for martini recipes. Apparently, I make the only martini that my father has ever liked, and considering his track record, that's saying something.

So below are two martini recipes that I very much enjoy:

The classic vodka martini:

• Take dry vermouth (I use Martini & Rossi brand), pour a half a splash into a martini class. Slowly roll the glass so that the vermouth thinly coats the interior of the glass, then pour the remainder back into the vermouth bottle.


• Use Svedka brand vodka. Clear bottle, blue cap, great taste.


• Pour 1.5-2 oz of vodka into a shaker over 3-4 ice cubes.


• Shake vigorously until water starts to condense on the outside of the shaker (that's the trick to tell the bartender that the contents are cold).


• Strain vodka into the martini glass. If it's the right temperature, you'll see a few small ice chips swirling in the center of the glass.


• Gas out a small amount of vermouth over the martini, without actually pouring any liquid vermouth (mebbe one or two drops are OK). As a vapor, vermouth is heavier than air, and so will sit on the surface of the vodka (which, while chilled, will help keep it there) and add a bit of an odor to the martini that doesn't exist without this technique.


• Spear and add two olives, three if you think you're low on vegetables.

Background information:
Dry martinis have less vermouth; sweet martinis have more.
Neat martinis have no olive juice except what is on the olives; dirty martinis do, and are sins against the Lord.

For a sharper taste, you can use Ketel One vodka. I intensely dislike Grey Goose, although some people, who are idiots, swear by it. Belvedere is a good newer brand, very smooth, but more expensive than Svedka or Ketel One. Stay away from Smirnoff or Popov - the former is really only good for shots, the second is really only good for making your own coffee liquer.

The other martini I drink is called a Berlin Station Chief, and was invented at the Palmer House in Chicago:

• Take a thin strip of lemon peel, and wipe it on the inside of a martini glass, so a little oil smears the glass. Leave the peel in the glass.


• Place four ice cubes in a shaker.


• Pour just a splash of scotch, enough to wash the ice, into the shaker. Shake gently and strain into a tumbler and set aside (the bartender can drink it).


• Pour 1.5-2 oz of Bombay Sapphire Gin into the shaker. Shake gently or swirl, so as not to bruise the gin. You'll see condensation on the bottom part of the shaker (if you aren't too violent) when the gin is cold enough.


• Strain into the martini glass.

The scotch that washes the ice and the lemon peel's oils smooth out the taste of the gin, which is naturally very sharp and piney (owing to the juniper berries that are used to make gin). This martini has no need for vermouth or olives.

It's Something Like a Sequel

When Kirsten and I found out she was pregnant, she asked me to give up beer - she was becoming something of a coin-o'-sewer of the stuff, and I think she knew she'd be jealous of me if I were able to continue to drink at will, and she wasn't.

So I tried to give up the sweet sweet muscle juice, I really did - but, in the end, I failed at least once or twice. I knew Kirsten wasn't a big fan of liquor drinks, so I would have a martini every now and again, and neither of us really thought much of it - at least, I hope not. She never brought it up, anyway.

But now that the baby is here, I'm able to re-start my alcoholism. So is Kirsten, come to think of it - she can have up to one beer, wine, or spirit per day.

I celebrated today by drinking an Irish coffee. But since it's made on a French press, I added some brandy to it. And since I'm using French brandy and a French press, I decided to call it a "Frirish coffee."

It'll sound better after three or four, I'm sure.

On an unrelated note, why is the Grinch's dog Max so happy? Shouldn't Max, having to deal with the Grinch all the time, be chronically depressed? Or shouldn't the Grinch want an angry dog to go with his own personality?

Maybe I Could Stuff 'em all in a Camry?

You know those cards you can buy for people that say, "In the year of your birth, the most common dog name was...the cost of a gallon of milk was....the top song on the radio was..."? I wanted to get something like that for my daughter. But I wanted to make it a little more real.

So I need to find a box big enough to place inside a few unused coins, a gallon of milk, a golden retriever (most popular dog) named Ethan (most popular boy's name according to BabyCenter.com), and Lady Gaga (top pop song the week my daughter was born).

Look out, World

I am now a father.

Why I Want to be a Good Father

People often say that pregnancy is the most beautiful time in a woman's life. This is a LIE. She is uncomfortable, she is in pain, she has digestive upset that would make a bad comedy writer blush, she gets arm hair. The headaches never stop. The back pain is cinematic in its aspirations.

Things swell, and change color, and generally look different. She gains this olfactory sense that rivals that of a drug dog, and every foul thing she smells she blames on the man in her life. Then there's this day-long process of pushing a pot roast through a space that is, by and large, the size of a grape.

I just hope this daughter of ours is worth it, for her sake.

I want to be a good father because I don't want to have the desire to have another kid in the future because this one ends up screwed up - I don't know if I can willingly put Kirsten through this again. At least, not until they find a better way to treat the pain sensitivity that is part and parcel of having depression.

Interesting factoid: an inability to cope normally with pain is a diagnostic symptom of major depression.

Anyway, I love my wife. Seeing how hard this whole reproduction process is on her makes me wonder why people tried having sex after they discovered what came of it.

I Wonder if I'll Ever Tell My Daughter About This

We're at the point in the pregnancy (or, rather, Kirsten is) where being kicked by the baby is no longer a cute adorable flutter, but is instead a wickedly-powerful roundhouse to the navel. Every now and again I'll hear my wife go "oof!" while our little female version of Chuck Norris (hopefully without the beard with the fist in it) gives her a wallop. These kicks are actually visibile - I can see Kirsten's stomach pop out when the little fetus lets her have it.

All this physical activity does bring to mind the fact that while today we have a fetus, we will have a real live human being in just four short weeks. Actually, I'm hoping five or six more weeks, just to give us time to prepare, whereas Kirsten is most likely wishing it would just be over now.

And that realization that soon we will have real, live, human being other than us living under our roof makes me wonder what my daughter will think of my internet footprint. Honestly, I've probably revealed as much about myself over the internet as I have in real life conversations over the past five or six years. And that worries me - what will my daughter think of all the things I've said? Will she agree or disagree with my posts on political boards? Will she wonder why I ever became a monitor of a message board for a kids game? Will she read my blog and wonder what it is that ever made her mother marry me?

This isn't something I've ever really thought I'd wonder about. I mean, what 20-something thinks about the consequences of his internet footprint other than for potential employers? If I should - and I hope this doesn't come up - pass away before I get the chance to know my daughter, the stories that Kirsten tells of me, the stories that my parents tell of me, and what she reads of my handiwork on the information superhighway are the three most likely ways she'll learn about me.

So now I have to wonder whether my textual history is what I really want her to know of me. I'll never delete anything that I've ever posted, because it's what I thought at the time - it's a snapshot of my mindset at that exact moment. I just hope that when the time comes to tell my daughter what my screennames have been around the world wide web, and when she takes the time to look at some of those spaghetti strands of thought that I've thrown against the wall, she'll decide that the pasta is cooked.