I did the coolest thing ever today.
As my days of unemployment have evolved, I've figured out a way to still inject them with a sense of accomplishment. The secret is to plan something--anything--in the first half of the day (pre-nap) so that it carries over to the second, inevitably slow half (post nap). So I googled a bunch of free activities for kids located here in LA and started hitting them. One morning I took the kids to a place called "Travel Town" up in Griffith Park. Travel Town serves as a sort of homage to railroading. There were lots of old train cars and locomotives for the kids to climb and and inevitably impale themselves with. Not to mention they infested with huge spiders that could suck my two-year-old dry in seconds. Loads of fun. But free.
Today, though, was a stroke of genius. A few months ago I rented "E.T" for my daughter to watch for the very first time. She loved it. By the end of the movie she was bawling and couldn't stop talking about it for days. We were living in Orlando at the time, but I promised myself I'd take her to the actual house Elliot lived in if we ever came back to LA. Well, lo and behold, we're back in LA. And even better, Daddy has all the time in the world to go for the 41 mile drive (per Mapquest).
Of course 41 miles in Los Angeles translates into an hour and a half drive-time, which we spent listening to Radio Disney (you know, if it had traffic updates, I'd never switch off--that's how much I love High School Musical!) and discussing our favorite moments from "E.T." Finally, after some winding streets through shady areas, there it was: the "E.T." house.
As if the whole idea wasn't brilliant enough, I reminded my daughter to bring her E.T. picture book so that we could see how different the house looked now. Of course the second we got out of the car the homeowners start pulling down the driveway (remember, the long driveway--covered by the plastic tube in the movie?). So I start acting like we're just a family out for a walk and kneel down to tie my 2-year-old's shoe. Thank you, acting class.
Once the homeowners drive away, I plant the kids in the middle of the street and start snapping photos, praying to Christ they don't get mowed down by a minivan. My heart was racing the entire time--after all, this wasn't some silly morning trip, this was a pilgrimage.
Sure, neighbors probably thought we were idiots. But once we were done, I got chills--after all, we were standing at a site where modern American cinematic history was made...just me and my two children. After loading the kids up, I took a deep breath and one last look around to savor the moment then drove off.
Nothing else happened the rest of the day. Didn't matter. I'd already accomplished something.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
A Changed Man Already
Wow. What's this--my second entry? And already I'm a changed man. I kicked off this blog thinking I'd update it daily. My two kids had other plans. Full-time parenthood's a ballbuster. For the first time in my 12-year marriage, I finally understand why I found my wife a withered, defeated soul when I'd pull in from work: our children are incorrigible mini-demons who thrive on imploding their parents "to do" lists while shrieking, "ME! ME! ME! YOU MUST FOCUS ON ME!!!" How exhausting are my kids? I've had a thick black hair sticking out of my left ear for three days...and still haven't done a damn thing about it. That's right--I'd rather have Mick Fleetwood's pony tail sprouting from the side of my head than expend the energy it takes to dig up some tweezers. And I thought I was going to blog daily? Stupid, naive boy.
It's all my fault, of course. It's not like either of them was a surprise--we used more charts and graphs to get pregnant than Columbus to find the New World. Funny--all this meticulous planning for something that wound up making our lives such a mess...
But hey, lookee here... The kids are asleep, my wife's in the other room watching "Big Brother," and I have a rare moment to relaunch my "daily" blog. Let's get started...
Today: get up with the kids so my wife can sleep in (I've put the woman's through two cross-country moves in the past nine months, the least I can do is give her an extra half hour of shuteye on a Wednesday).
My kids, much like me, are very schedule-oriented. One hiccup in their routine and all hell breaks loose. Sure enough, since I pour their Cheerios at 7:45 a.m instead of the 7:30 a.m. pour-time they'd grown accustomed to, they instantly become disrespectful little toads. The five-year-old refused to touch her bowl, claiming they looked "burnt" (utter crap, by the way...I found the O's to all be evenly crisped) and the two-year-old squealed repeatedly until I unbuckled his high chair and stuck him in front of cartoons. At this point it should've dawned on me this was NOT the day to hit the grocery store. But it didn't.
I like to do things in one fell swoop. Hence my once-a-week, all-encompassing trips to the local Ralphs. It's a game to me: can I--a mere mortal with no clairvoyant ability--really forecast, transcribe, then go to the grocery store and compile ALL the dietary demands my family will make in the next seven days? What about curveballs? What if one of the kids backs off their chicken strogonoff request and suddenly wants turkey tacos? Would I have tortillas and refried beans ready as back-up? See what I mean? It's a game of cat and mouse between me and the rest of the family...a game that, if I say so myself, I rarely lose.
So I stuffed the kids into the minivan (wifey was still asleep, by the way) and off we went to tackle my extremely ambitious plan of restocking an entire household of food with two kids in tow. As it turned out, the mistake wasn't bringing my five-year-old. Or my two-year-old. It was bringing them both. See, the five-year-old wants to help. NEEDS to help. Will wither and DIE if she doesn't. "Please let me get the pancake mix for you, Daddy? Please, Daddy, PLEASE?!" Meanwhile the two-year-old just wants to drop glass shit on the ground. So I spend two-and-a-half-hours preventing one kid from shattering Prego while coaching the other kid to pull the right syrup brand (ever try to describing Aunt Jemima from ascross the aisle in a crowded LA grocery store? Awkward).
Came home to find my wife already gone (she's preparing her classroom for the upcoming school year--she's a first grade teacher) so, after a quick lunch, put BOTH kids to bed. I emphasize "both" because my 5-year-old's convinced she's way too old to be taking naps. But after a morning like this, even she knows not to argue with Daddy.
Cooked dinner in the evening. Now that I'm stuck at home, I've resolved to learn how to cook. Thank god the TV show had lots of cooking segments, so I built a library of cookbooks. The only one to really resonate with me has recipes for chicken nuggets and stuff. So I ain't exactly Emeril here. Halfway through the recipe I got bored and let my wife take over. She winds up burning the nuggets, which means my daughter refuses to eat them (see her earlier Cheerios complaint) and we all wind up eating Jack-in-the-Box.
The end of Day One.
It's all my fault, of course. It's not like either of them was a surprise--we used more charts and graphs to get pregnant than Columbus to find the New World. Funny--all this meticulous planning for something that wound up making our lives such a mess...
But hey, lookee here... The kids are asleep, my wife's in the other room watching "Big Brother," and I have a rare moment to relaunch my "daily" blog. Let's get started...
Today: get up with the kids so my wife can sleep in (I've put the woman's through two cross-country moves in the past nine months, the least I can do is give her an extra half hour of shuteye on a Wednesday).
My kids, much like me, are very schedule-oriented. One hiccup in their routine and all hell breaks loose. Sure enough, since I pour their Cheerios at 7:45 a.m instead of the 7:30 a.m. pour-time they'd grown accustomed to, they instantly become disrespectful little toads. The five-year-old refused to touch her bowl, claiming they looked "burnt" (utter crap, by the way...I found the O's to all be evenly crisped) and the two-year-old squealed repeatedly until I unbuckled his high chair and stuck him in front of cartoons. At this point it should've dawned on me this was NOT the day to hit the grocery store. But it didn't.
I like to do things in one fell swoop. Hence my once-a-week, all-encompassing trips to the local Ralphs. It's a game to me: can I--a mere mortal with no clairvoyant ability--really forecast, transcribe, then go to the grocery store and compile ALL the dietary demands my family will make in the next seven days? What about curveballs? What if one of the kids backs off their chicken strogonoff request and suddenly wants turkey tacos? Would I have tortillas and refried beans ready as back-up? See what I mean? It's a game of cat and mouse between me and the rest of the family...a game that, if I say so myself, I rarely lose.
So I stuffed the kids into the minivan (wifey was still asleep, by the way) and off we went to tackle my extremely ambitious plan of restocking an entire household of food with two kids in tow. As it turned out, the mistake wasn't bringing my five-year-old. Or my two-year-old. It was bringing them both. See, the five-year-old wants to help. NEEDS to help. Will wither and DIE if she doesn't. "Please let me get the pancake mix for you, Daddy? Please, Daddy, PLEASE?!" Meanwhile the two-year-old just wants to drop glass shit on the ground. So I spend two-and-a-half-hours preventing one kid from shattering Prego while coaching the other kid to pull the right syrup brand (ever try to describing Aunt Jemima from ascross the aisle in a crowded LA grocery store? Awkward).
Came home to find my wife already gone (she's preparing her classroom for the upcoming school year--she's a first grade teacher) so, after a quick lunch, put BOTH kids to bed. I emphasize "both" because my 5-year-old's convinced she's way too old to be taking naps. But after a morning like this, even she knows not to argue with Daddy.
Cooked dinner in the evening. Now that I'm stuck at home, I've resolved to learn how to cook. Thank god the TV show had lots of cooking segments, so I built a library of cookbooks. The only one to really resonate with me has recipes for chicken nuggets and stuff. So I ain't exactly Emeril here. Halfway through the recipe I got bored and let my wife take over. She winds up burning the nuggets, which means my daughter refuses to eat them (see her earlier Cheerios complaint) and we all wind up eating Jack-in-the-Box.
The end of Day One.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The Backstory
Hello, my name's Steve Taft. Not long ago, I was a host on a nationally televised daytime TV show. Now I'm an unemployed, stay-at-home father of two. The transition hasn't been easy.
First off, the backstory: when I was offered the job on "Living Live" a year ago, I jumped right on it. After all, on paper it appeared to be the job of my dreams. Up until then, I'd made a living performing stand-up comedy in sparsely attended Los Angeles theme bars while writing comedy for low-rated basic cable shows. I wasn't starving. But I wasn't fulfilled either. Especially since it had been my dream since I started doing stand-up twelve years ago to become a talk show host. I'm the guy who caught EVERY episode of "Letterman" from eighth grade through college. After graduating, I swore I'd someday follow in his steps. Twelve years later, opportunity came knocking. Sorta.
"Living Live" was a simple production--five genial hosts discussing women's health and lifestyle issues (it was daytime TV, after all). Since I was the lone comic of the group, it was my job to add some lightheartedness to the festivities. Notice I didn't say "comedy." There's a difference. "Comedy" entails finger cymbals and "look-at-me!" buffoonery. "Lightheartedness" simply asks for a quip or two--palatable, well-intentioned, NEVER offensive. Since my official title on the show was "correspondent," I was sent into the field every day--in this case, Universal Orlando theme park--to conduct folksy man-on-the-street interviews with parkgoers. After all the belligerent audiences I'd survived as a stand-up, this sounded like a breeze. Plus a helluva demo reel for a future gig as a talk show host. My schoolteacher wife agreed, and, with our 5-year-old girl and 2-year-old boy in tow, we moved to Orlando, Florida.
"Living Live" premiered December 4th, and by December 5th we were in trouble. Panic quietly spread through the crew as our bosses began juggling hosts, rewriting segments, devising new camera angles, dismantling and quickly rebuilding sets, and overhauling wardrobes. Ultimately, it was all for nothing. Without expensive graphics packages or celebrity guests, we were D.O.A. "Oprah" ate us up. "Ellen" left us for dead. Hell, even "Martha" kicked us in the nets. "Living Large" was obliterated by the American viewing public, leaving me, Steve Taft, TV roadkill.
The move back to Los Angeles was a killer. Emotionally and financially. Meanwhile I'd completely abandoned the stand-up comedy career it had taken over a dozen years to build. My wife would be transitioning from stay-at-home mom (her lifelong dream) to fulltime schoolteacher (not so much her lifelong dream) since I couldn't line up a steady gig. And when you've got nothing lined up in a city like Hollywood, you best be ready to spend a lot of time at home. So here I am--an unemployed, stay-at-home father of two. Enjoy my misadventures. And remember, at one point, I was gonna be a star...
First off, the backstory: when I was offered the job on "Living Live" a year ago, I jumped right on it. After all, on paper it appeared to be the job of my dreams. Up until then, I'd made a living performing stand-up comedy in sparsely attended Los Angeles theme bars while writing comedy for low-rated basic cable shows. I wasn't starving. But I wasn't fulfilled either. Especially since it had been my dream since I started doing stand-up twelve years ago to become a talk show host. I'm the guy who caught EVERY episode of "Letterman" from eighth grade through college. After graduating, I swore I'd someday follow in his steps. Twelve years later, opportunity came knocking. Sorta.
"Living Live" was a simple production--five genial hosts discussing women's health and lifestyle issues (it was daytime TV, after all). Since I was the lone comic of the group, it was my job to add some lightheartedness to the festivities. Notice I didn't say "comedy." There's a difference. "Comedy" entails finger cymbals and "look-at-me!" buffoonery. "Lightheartedness" simply asks for a quip or two--palatable, well-intentioned, NEVER offensive. Since my official title on the show was "correspondent," I was sent into the field every day--in this case, Universal Orlando theme park--to conduct folksy man-on-the-street interviews with parkgoers. After all the belligerent audiences I'd survived as a stand-up, this sounded like a breeze. Plus a helluva demo reel for a future gig as a talk show host. My schoolteacher wife agreed, and, with our 5-year-old girl and 2-year-old boy in tow, we moved to Orlando, Florida.
"Living Live" premiered December 4th, and by December 5th we were in trouble. Panic quietly spread through the crew as our bosses began juggling hosts, rewriting segments, devising new camera angles, dismantling and quickly rebuilding sets, and overhauling wardrobes. Ultimately, it was all for nothing. Without expensive graphics packages or celebrity guests, we were D.O.A. "Oprah" ate us up. "Ellen" left us for dead. Hell, even "Martha" kicked us in the nets. "Living Large" was obliterated by the American viewing public, leaving me, Steve Taft, TV roadkill.
The move back to Los Angeles was a killer. Emotionally and financially. Meanwhile I'd completely abandoned the stand-up comedy career it had taken over a dozen years to build. My wife would be transitioning from stay-at-home mom (her lifelong dream) to fulltime schoolteacher (not so much her lifelong dream) since I couldn't line up a steady gig. And when you've got nothing lined up in a city like Hollywood, you best be ready to spend a lot of time at home. So here I am--an unemployed, stay-at-home father of two. Enjoy my misadventures. And remember, at one point, I was gonna be a star...
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