This is How We Do It In Duval.

After a long boring day at work I came home to an affectionate baby girl, which made the world okay again. I gave Mama a little bit of a break and played and danced to Mickey Mouse with LMJ. As we were bouncing around and exercising, she flew into some kind of soliloquy about the camera on the dresser and taking pictures with it. I was dumbfounded. Somewhere in the last week or so, maybe Mama knows more precisely, LMJ started talking, as opposed to just saying words. It seems like last week she would say, “Go…ina…kitchen” and that would be that until we were in the kitchen, but tonight she cut through all the BS and said, “Go ina kitchen get Grammy’s chocolate pudding”. She still sounds like she learned English from a Greek in China but it gets better every day, and she’s cute. She’s also started pretending to read books, finishing them with “The End”. This is a bittersweet time for me because the only baby thing she still does is wear diapers. Everything else is executive little girl. I also have mixed emotions because I have to be ever more careful about what I say. She’s stifling my wit. She’s taking to Ebonics more readily than Spanish, although her favorite Sesame Street segments right now are the ones with Big Bird interacting con los Latinos. Saturday I was taking her downstairs to go play in the backyard and said, “Mama, we findta go play in the backyard” and for the first time ever LMJ called her mama Mama. I was happy. “We findta go” will be part of her lexicon before she’s three, along with “y’all”. Her mother is already teaching her how to play dominos, and it’s also getting close to the time to introduce her to the wonder that is fried chicken wings. If I can get the question, “Where y’all put them chicken wings at?” out of her before she goes off to kindergarten I think it will be worth the beating I’ll take from her mother and her grandmothers. I don’t have to worry about Granddad. He’ll just take it as an honest question that he’d like the answer to as well.

A FINRA Kind of Day

Monday wasn't as much fun as the weekend. I spent the morning at the Sylvan learning center learning that I’m not supposed to help people launder money or trade on inside information. Once every three years – used to be every two – I have to watch bad actors on cheap sets run through ridiculous scenarios and chew scenery. The only high point was that I recognized one of the actors. I guess these videos are pretty old because Aiden Gillen, who played Mayor Tommy Carcetti on The Wire, was one of the leads in a group of the videos about ethics. His were the first group of videos so I spent the entire three hour session trying to figure out who he was. It didn’t hit me until about 4 o’clock this afternoon. Now I can’t remember what made it click, but that’s not important. I get frustrated at these continuing education things, but I guess they’re necessary – Martha Stewart. I just don’t like driving out to Mandarin. I don’t know anything about that side of town so I went the wrong way. I was almost to Switzerland – the unincorporated area of North Florida, not the glorified DMZ between France and Germany – before I called MJ to help me. It was a good thing I left as early as I did. After the fun filled morning, I got an email from work telling me that auditors wanted more details about some transactions in my bank statements. They’re f**king with me about a $2,500.00 deposit and a $63.90 deposit. These are the same people who ignored specific investor requests over the last ten years to pay more attention to Bernie Madoff and his transactions. I don’t know exactly how much money he stole, but I think it was a little bit more than $2563.90. These are the same people who paid absolutely no attention to the largest financial companies in the world completely ignoring their fiduciary responsibilities as they dove head first into the CMO debacle. But I have to come up with documentation about Lincoln’s bad bookkeeping and a check from my wife. It is so hard for me not to have a bad attitude about this. My compliance officer doesn’t like it when I make the joke that if we kill enough auditors then eventually they’ll stop coming around, everyone else I work with thinks it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

I Still Need $850,000

This was a bit of a backward Sunday. We woke up early – too early for Daddy. Daddy stayed up until about 1 a.m. to see the main event of UFC 100. Brock Lesnar beat Frank Mir for the heavyweight championship. I was rooting for Mir, but oh well. We had a blueberry pancake and scrambled eggs breakfast, which was delicious, and then we spent the morning cleaning. We’re still trying to get resettled from the destruction unleashed by the plumbers. My parents stopped by for their weekly visit on the way home from church and we discussed Harry Potter and how incredibly bad golf is on television, among other things. Then CG made some sandwiches to go along with the goldfish and we went to the beach. We were having a blast – as per usual – when some people who were clearly from out of town opened up a loaf of Autumn Grain and started feeding the seagulls. Who the hell does that? They’re sky rats. How is it possible that anyone doesn’t know this? They had kids with them ranging in age from about six to about thirteen, which means they must have seen Finding Nemo somewhere along the way. Don’t they remember the Seagulls obnoxiously screaming mine, mine, mine and chasing anything that slightly resembled food as a flock? Even if they haven’t seen it, which is a near impossibility, there are signs all over the beach saying don’t litter, and I’m pretty sure when the pieces of bread that the gulls didn’t grab out of midair hit the ground they, by definition, became litter. Where were the beach police? Would it have been bad form for me to call 911? I figure these people were probably very nice people, who just didn’t know any better, but ignorance of the beach law is no beach defense, and when I’m mayor of Atlantic Beach I’m going to make sure the penalty for feeding the seagulls is stiffer than it is right now. But I have to be a resident first, so I’m going to need a beach house.

I Need $850,000

I can’t decide if the beach is better in the morning or the evening. We got to the beach this afternoon at about 5pm and had a blast. The rising sun in the morning lets us know when it’s time to leave as it gets more and more intense, but the setting sun is a much lower risk for skin cancer. I think the early day is the time for the townies – people from the city – while the late afternoon is for the locals. Each time of day has its own feel and buzz. I like both of them. They both make me want to buy a beach house. The early morning beach makes me want a beach house because then I wouldn’t have to get out of bed quite so early. I could even wake up, watch the sunrise, and go back to bed. The late afternoon beach makes me want a beach house because of the excitement of the beach nightlife gearing up. As usual, the tide was out when we got there today – way to keep up with tides MJ – which makes me think it might not be the time of day but the time of tide that might be the deciding factor in how much fun we have. At low tide there’s more beach, more space for LMJ to play, and less worry about a baby girl drowning thanks to tidal pools. Tonight had a bit of an old school feel because I made sandwiches. We packed a picnic because dinner becomes a problem when we leave the beach after seven. It’s LMJ’s bedtime when we finally make it home, nobody wants to cook that late, and she certainly doesn’t want to wait for something to be cooked that late. Toddlers get cranky when they’re tired and hungry. That’s hard science. Plus, it’s almost a rite of passage for LMJ to stuff Doritos into her face on the beach. Watching her get shoulder deep into the bag is hilarious. I don’t know if it’s a fatherhood thing, but I’ve lived here for twenty-eight years and I love the beach more now than I ever have. I have to start working harder.

I Might Want to Mix In Some Veggies at Some Point

I was going to write about the political stuff from all over the place coalescing in my mind, but I decided against it. Instead I’m going to drone on about my day. Today was a pretty good Friday. I wasn’t real happy about going into work, but a guy from ING brought Quiznos, and free sandwiches that someone else made are one of life’s great pleasures. I’ll listen politely to just about anything if I get a free food. “Yeah, the Holocaust was just a lie the Democrats cooked up to get Obama elected. Sure, why not? Is there another bacon and smoked turkey in that pile?” I came home after the lunch, and the family went to the duck pond to feed the fowl. We timed it almost perfectly. There were about four families with siblings and possibly cousins leaving right as we showed up. We pretty much had the entire park to ourselves, and I saw something I had never seen before. The ducks were full. They weren’t really interested in our stale bread and graham crackers. I’ve been going to this duck pond since 1981 and I’ve never seen them ignore food. Normally, they act like 45 pound piranha chasing the bread people throw in. And yes, they weigh at least 45 pounds, hollow bones and all. These ducks are morbidly obese. The only way these ducks could get off the ground is if Grumman and McDonnell-Douglas both got involved. Feeding the ducks wasn’t as exciting for LMJ since they’d already eaten, but at least the turtles got a turn. Then we ran around the park to the jungle gyms, following LMJ as she screamed, “Come on, guys!!!” over and over. She was really excited to be free. After the park we came home and I cooked knockwursts and sauerkraut. Sauerkraut is not an indoor food. The little light on the stove telling me it’s hot wasn’t even on before the kraut had stunk up the entire house. It was so bad, MJ complained. I put some kraut on a sausage, ate it, dumped the rest of it into a garbage bag, and took it downstairs. I guess this is something that has to be done once every five years or so – see you in 2014 Herr Sauerkraut. Strangely enough, after a day full of nitrates, vinegar, and cabbage, I don’t feel so well. Maybe I can go lie down with the ducks on their island.

I'm Frickin' Senile

Wallet, keys, iPod, iPod case, earphones, water, and membership card are the accoutrements I need to go to the gym on a basic weekday morning. That’s not counting the breakfast, coffee, more water, and nutritional supplements I have to take care of just to be prepared to walk out the door. I’m not a morning person at all, so this gets f-d up nine out of ten mornings unless I prepare the preceding night before I get too tired or LMJ goes to sleep. This morning wasn’t basic. We don’t have any water because there are plumbers who are treating our bathroom like it was 1973 and they're in Led Zeppelin, and we’ve moved all of our valuables into the sun room. It’s a miracle I didn’t die trying to get out of the house. I couldn’t find my iPod case, so I didn’t even bother looking for some earphones. I decided I would shower at the Y after my workout so I had to bring a change of clothes, some shower shoes, and some soap with me. I got all the way to the gym before I realized I had forgotten the shirt I was going to wear to work. So I got to drive all the way back home to get it. I also forgot to eat breakfast. I struggled through my workout, but I did remember my weight belt so there were no injuries. I showered, got dressed, and headed right back home because I forgot my computer. I hate being disorganized, but the alternative is spending my entire life planning for tomorrow. I hate that nothing ever goes smoothly. The plumbers were supposed to be done yesterday, but the weather made that impossible. It’s not their fault and I’m not blaming them. They can’t control the weather, but it threw my schedule off into something uncomfortable so now I’m struggling to catch up and the day is almost gone. I’m not physically able to be a workaholic. I don’t care enough to be anal retentive. Maybe this has just been a rough week, and I’ll stop wanting to smash my fist through walls because I can’t remember my clothes when the bathroom is done and things are back to normal.

Sorry About the Football Gossip Post.

As a 38 year old Black guy and Jacksonville Jaguar fan, my first reaction to hearing that Steve McNair was found shot to death in downtown Nashville was disbelief. He was a juggernaut – ask Kevin Hardy and Bryce Paup. This was immediately followed by anger. Why is it so difficult for Black NFL players to avoid gangstas doing gangsta (spit)? Yes, I jumped to that conclusion. Fool me once shame on you; fool me once a week for two decades shame on me. But as the smoke cleared, as the gun was found under the dead mistress and gun residue was found on her hands, as details of McNair buying stuff and putting her name on it came out, as I learned that she bought the gun a few days before, I was relieved. The mistress shot the lecherous former athlete because he was cheating on her with a second mistress. I wonder how many Cadillac Escalades in Nashville are registered to the late Steve McNair. This wasn’t The Wire, it was Desperate Housewives. I needed to take a shower. And that’s just awful. This is where I am with professional sports. I’m relieved that a 36 year old guy who died a violent death and who orphaned four boys wasn’t a tap dead center stereotypical statistic. I’m glad that Tom Brady and Matt Leinart most likely had “there but for the grace of God” moments. Remember Tom Terrific found out Bridget Moynihan was pregnant with his baby, and he went with the old “It’s not you, it’s me” routine. He’s lucky she’s at least a little more level headed than McNair’s little thing on the side (a). Chad Ochocinco – yes he changed his name to the numbers on his jersey in bad Spanish -- and Terrell Owens. frustrate me to no end, but I’ll take their antics over McNair’s, Sean Taylor’s, and Darrent Williams’s autopsies every day.