Needless to say there are times when I have thought I had been petting Einstein for the previous 15 minutes but actually had been stroking a huge clump of fur he had left behind a few days earlier. It was time to take him in for a bath, nail clipping and a trim at the local Petco. I should have known things would not go entirely smoothly when one of the first things I had to say to the groomer was "I hope it's not difficult to get banana out of his fur. (Elliott loves it when Einstein comes over to clean up after him during a meal so much that he routinely makes it rain with an assortment of fruit, vegetables and yogurt.)

The groomer ran one hand through Einstein's coat and immediately called in the head groomer. He informed me that Einstein's undercoat was so badly matted that he would need to be shaved. I have to admit that we have been less that stellar dog owners in the past year and a half as the dog has seen the attention he gets slashed by about 300%. I instantly felt guilty. We shave Einstein every spring, usually in April or May, but never before have I had to sign a waiver giving Petco permission to administer emergency care if something went wrong. Really? For a shave? Did his hair start growing internally? Was there so much of it that it was crushing him?

I returned four hours later to pick up our new dog. I mean that in more than one way. First, Einstein looks nothing like himself after he's been shaved. His legs are disproportionately long, his mane is trimmed, his tail is poofy. He looks like an arctic fox mated with an enormous albino sewer rat. It's cuter than it sounds. Secondly, Einstein acts differently when he is shaved. He hangs out in his corner, he sighs much more frequently and he hates going outside. I think this is party because he gets cold but actually has more to do with him being mortified to be seen this way by the boxers next door who hate him and already have more than enough ammunition to make fun of him. 

I pulled into our driveway and Einstein was clawing to get out so that he could tell Shelbi about how I let him be tortured at Petco and also so that he could get inside as quickly as possible without anyone else seeing him. He ran through the door enthusiastically. Shelbi put Elliott down to greet him... and Elliott shrieked and cowered. He started shaking with fear and clamored for Shelbi to pick him up. Now, Elliott is a bit of a scaredy cat. He cowers when confronted with most living animals, he shies away from realistic looking stuffed animals, he is petrified of being carried down stairs and he is scared of tree branches that are above his head. However, Elliott LOVES Einstein. He loves hugging Einstein, he loves chasing him, he loves feeding him, he loves pulling his hair, he loves getting kisses and he even loves getting snapped at by Einstein. It's his favorite toy in the world.

But Elliott was petrified of whatever this was that we had brought into the house. We kept saying over and over "Elliott! it's your Einstein! It's Einstein!" And that only freaked him out more. And who can blame him? At this stage, Elliott trusts what he can see above anything else. We were telling him this was Einstein and it clearly wasn't. This was a fast moving, barking, jumping worst nightmare. So, in Elliott's mind, one of two things had occurred. Either Einstein had been killed in some sort of factory accident and his disfigured form had returned from Hell to haunt us, or we had swapped Einstein out for this abomination that we were now trying to pass off as his best friend. Sorry Mom and Dad. No sale.

Shelbi and I were at a loss. Our son and dog could not coexist with Elliott literally shaking with fear at the mere sound of Einstein's paws tapping on the floor from down the hall. With Einstein at her feet, Shelbi put Elliott in her lap and brought up pictures on our computer of last spring. She showed him pictures of a shaved Einstein sitting next to baby Elliott. Amazingly, it seemed to work. After a minute, Elliott would look at the picture and then look down at Einstein. We asked him where Einstein was and he finally started to point to him. But it still took him another 24 hours before Elliott would approach the dog without trepidation.

Crisis averted but I have to admit that I am about a month overdue for a haircut myself and I'm not looking forward to the potential repercussions. 

I have been pushing for Elliott to get a haircut for the past three months. He's 14 months and he still doesn't really even have enough to comb but he has been steadily working on a baby mullet for a while now. But every time I broached the subject I was met with "Oh, but I love his curls! He has curls! Don't you love his curls?" Today however, Shelbi somewhat spontaneously relented. For a while I've joked about her coming home to Elliott with a faux-hawk or his initials carved into the back of his head. I guess she thought there was a strong enough possibility of this actually happening that she took matters into her own hands.

She came out with the clippers first just to trim around his ears. I held him, Shelbi made her move, Elliott jerked. Sure enough, he had a nice little racing stripe above his right ear. Shelbi was mortified, especially since she is taking him to a baby shower tomorrow. But she was determined. She grabbed the scissors while I sang Eye of the Tiger to her. A few minutes later I was in the other room and I heard her shriek. 

In what would have been a perfect I Love Lucy sketch, Shelbi's attempts to rectify her first mistake turned even more disastrous as I came into the other room to find a chunk of hair missing from the left side of Elliott's head. She asked if I thought it looked bad and, for the record, saying he looked like Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade would not make any Right Things to Say list for that particular moment. And, surprisingly, asking if Elliott wanted 'french fried potaters' for lunch and suggesting to simply put a bowl on his head and shave everything beneath it were not good follow-ups to the situation.

But I thought it was hysterical and the story is worth the money we'll have to spend to have someone try and fix him tomorrow. Below are the results of Elliott's first hair cut.

Here is a brief Great Moment in Manipulation from my childhood to illustrate my point.

As 6th graders we had an assignment to create a huge ABC book based on a story we read. There had to be a cover, table of contents and one page for each letter. You also had to have entries that displayed literary techniques like alliteration, similes, metaphors, etc... Huge project. I think we had about a month to work on it. I started it the night before it was due and, after 15 minutes of working by myself at our table, promptly broke down into tears as it was entirely overwhelming. Cue mom. I received a warranted chastising for being a procrastinator but, after some begging and even more tears, got some help. Don't get me wrong, I was still the conceptual director of this assignment, coming up with the brilliant text and ideas for illustrations, but my mom did the heavy lifting, cutting out construction paper letters and providing the know-how to turn my complex visions for the artwork into reality. Long story short: 149/150. And, honestly, that missing point was a travesty. I'm pretty sure Ms. Hockman, in her first year teaching, couldn't bare to throw out the Nadia Comaneci perfect score right off the bat because, where do you go after that? For other Great Moments in Manipulation please see: "Covered Wagon I Forgot Was Due" and "Pioneer House Every Other Kid Was Getting Help With So Let's Show These Cheating Little Bastards How It's Done, Mom."

With that said, there is no doubt in my mind I'm going to have to check myself from becoming a terrible enabler of Elliott. I was made aware of this the other day while watching Elliott attempt to put his plastic rings on their holder. He is pretty adept at this and whenever he puts one on he has to run over to either myself or Shelbi and clap for himself. But, on this day, he was struggling with the smallest ring. He had the right idea but, three times in a row, it rolled off the top of the holder and agonizingly onto the floor. Instead of waiting for him to figure it out, I felt badly. He was doing it the right way, he just needed some help in the form of me moving the holder to the center of the ring for him so he couldn't possibly fail. I wanted him to be able to clap for himself.

I have also found myself getting legitimately angry at some of this toys. He has a handful of objects that talk or flash when he hits corresponding buttons and he certainly knows the cause and effect now. So when he squeezes his toy dog's hand and is not rewarded with the phrase: "Hand! Now let's play!" I stare at the dog with contempt. What the crap, Mattel? I want this dog to teach my son  colors, numbers and rudimentary anatomy . If I wanted something with a 60% success rate I would have bought Best Not to Get Your Hopes Up Bear. 

I sat down and watched the gold medal hockey game in its entirety yesterday. Very little about this year's Winter Olympics really grabbed me thanks in large part to NBC's abysmal coverage and every other media outlet doing all but setting up enormous loud speakers throughout the country and blaring the results even though some people might not want to know what happened until the evening.

Anyway, the gold medal game was phenomenal with the U.S. rallying from a 2-0 deficit, tying the game in the final 25 seconds before eventually losing in sudden death overtime. It was thrilling, well-played, emotional and reaffirmed my feeling that I could probably really get into hockey if Portland had an NHL team. 

However, what I couldn't understand were the constant comparisons to the 1980 Miracle on Ice team. The media and hockey enthusiasts insisted that, if the U.S. beat Canada for the gold medal it would be nearly as big of an upset and would go down as one of the United States' biggest sporting triumphs. Are... you.... freaking... kidding... me?! Instead of me blathering on about how people are stupid, let's just compare the two hockey situations.

1980: The United States was on its way out of a recession and entering its fourth decade of the Cold War in which even something like Yakov Smirnoff defecting to the U.S. could be enough to trigger a nuclear attack. The U.S. would boycott the 1980 Summer Olympics and Russia would boycott the 1984 summer Olympics out of spite for each other.

2010 team: The United States is in a recession but is still, unequivocally, the most powerful nation in the world and the Winter Olympics have never seemed more irrelevant. Half-pipe? Ski-cross? It should be called Highly Specialized Sporting Competitions That America Can Dominate Along With Some Cross Country Skiiing For The Scandinavian Countries.

1980: A bunch of banged up collegiate players who, in all likelihood, would spend the rest of their lives managing ice rinks and driving zambonis in Buffalo after getting creamed at the Lake Placid Olympics.

2010: An All-Star team of American-born millionaire professional hockey players taking a two-week break from the regular season to hit on celebrities and Norwegian figure skaters and occasionally play a few games. 

1980: The Russians. America's greatest adversary since the Revolutionary War and, quite frankly, the Brits never struck fear into the American populace like the Russians. This was a team that was bred to play hockey. If someone could design a virtually infallible hockey team the way a computer is programmed to play a near perfect game of chess, it would look like the 1980 Russian team. The Russians had crushed an NHL All-Star team 6-0 in an exhibition and buried this same U.S. team 10-3 just two weeks before the Olympics.

2010: Canada. Arguably the most nondescript country in the world. A team of NHL All-Stars who, on paper, were slightly better than the American NHL All-Stars although the U.S. would quickly dispel the myth that it was a significant underdog this year when it beat Canada in pool play. I know Canada's crazy about it's hockey but what was going to happen if it lost? If Russia in 1980 loses, it might start a war. If Canada in 2010 loses, it might choose to export less delicious maple syrup to our country.

Forgive me for not getting swept away in how momentous a United States victory would have been yesterday. Americans love quickly throwing the moniker of "Best Ever" on things that just occurred and have a tendency to overvalue things in the present. For example, ESPN had a poll a few days ago that asked readers if they would prefer for the U.S. to win a gold medal in hockey this year or win the upcoming World Cup. The results were about 50/50. My hands were shaking as I typed that. Really? You would rather win a title in a sport that only four countries are good at in a tournament that isn't even as significant as winning the Stanley Cup as opposed to winning the greatest sporting competition on the planet that features 50% of the world's best athletes and is a tournament that the U.S. has never won? But it's representative of American thinking. "The gold medal hockey game is in three days. I want us to win that because it's happening right now."

But, to me, the most obvious reason why, even if the U.S. had won yesterday, it wouldn't have even cracked the top 10 of American sporting achievements (heck maybe not even the top 50) came from my wife. She was rooting for Canada. She was upset when the U.S. tied the game partly because she wanted me to go to Costco with her but mainly because "It would be nice for Canada." I'm pretty sure there wasn't an American in 1980 who thought "The U.S. doesn't need another medal. I kind of hope the Russians get this one."

So, the other day, I gave it a try. Elliott let out an angry shriek and I popped my finger in his mouth. His face puckered and he looked at me curiously. Sure enough he stopped screaming, but now he was making his hand clapping sign for 'more'. He wanted another taste. He then proceeded to follow me in the kitchen, clapping intently while looking at the vinegar bottle and, when I wouldn't give him more, started to throw another tantrum. Perfect. Although I guess I shouldn't have been surprised coming from the one-year-old who likes pickles and lemons.

Then, this morning, Elliott found a scotch tape dispenser. By no means was it the most dangerous object he has deemed to be a new toy. But, with its cerated edge, I figured it'd be best to snatch it. I used my brilliant tactic of distracting him with a different toy that, in my mind, was of equal or greater value. I handed him a rattle and snatched the tape. No dice. A mini-tantrum ensued and I countered by putting on my stern face and giving an authoritative "No screaming!" He fussed for a few more seconds before composing himself and then I believe I literally saw a light bulb appear above his head briefly.

He reached down, grabbed the rattle he was disinterested in, looked up at me with an innocent smile and handed it to me while clapping for the tape dispenser I had placed on a shelf. He was offering the same trade to me that I had just tried to broker with him. Nice try chief, but in exchange for a mildly dangerous toy, my minimum price is bringing me a beer.

Has an odd tendency to place toys on the ground with the intent of kicking them around. 

Has good soccer genes assuming that talent skips a generation.

Already proven he can take a rubber ball to the face like a champ.

Has a tendency to intentionally step on the object he's kicking, purposefully tripping himself and then laughing about it.

Often will not so much 'kick' an object as he will 'awkwardly dance around it with his hands in the air.'

May try to kiss and/or bite teammates and opponents.

Believes there is nothing funnier in this world than placing an object on his head or a parent's head and watching it fall to the ground.

No concept of the difference between being laughed at and being laughed with.

Pretty low standards in terms of what he finds funny. ("Really? Peek-a-boo still gets you?")

The few times that Elliott is allowed to watch a YouTube clip or a small segment of something on TV, he has pretty good taste. He laughs at Sesame Street skits that are decidedly funny and seems to find Jon Stewart particularly amusing for some reason.

Often chuckles along with a laugh track without discernment. (Although perhaps his identifying with the masses might be a marketable quality.)

Today rated a solid 8. I was wearing Ol' Reliable, a pair of lightweight khaki pants, perfect to wear at work in the winter or during the summer when, on a 98-degree day, my 80-pound co-worker gets to the office in the morning and turns the freaking heat on. So I was in the break room and sat down to read the paper for a minute. There was no stereotypical ripping sound, just a peculiar feeling. I reached back and realized my pants had been dealt a potential death blow.

I timed my exit from the break room, making sure no one was behind me and scrambled to my desk, knowing that, for the next three hours, I wasn't going to be able to stand up. And that was the plan. One by one my co-workers filed out until it was just me and my editor. At that point, I casually backed my way to my car where I had a pair of basketball shorts for a game later in the evening. I picked them up and made my way back into the bathroom.

Then I could assess the damage to my pants and it was like the scene in Apollo 13 when the crew finally sees the magnitude of the explosion. 

"Houston, I'm getting a look at my pants now. One whole side of the seat is missing!" Right at the fraying on the left side a whole buttock is blown out! Right down to the crotch!" Perhaps the biggest pantstastrophe of my life. But I guess you could call it a successful failure in that my work efficiency was severely hampered today but, at the same time, no one saw my butt. 

Ever since about the 7th grade perhaps my biggest goal in life has been to not draw attention to myself. I've never thought it would be fun to be the frontman of a rock band. Let me be Charlie Watts. You still get to play great music and travel and you don't have to make an ass out of yourself on stage. And why would anyone want to be a cast member on Saturday Night Live? Let me be a writer. Backstage. Less accountability. Count me in. But I digress. 

My goal for Elliott and as well as for any and all future children is to implement a basic concept of logic as quickly as possible. You don't want to finish your vegetables? Obviously, based on past results, throwing a fit isn't going to achieve your goal. Nor will it get you this delicious cupcake. So let's think about this. What actions could be taken here that would result in you consuming this cupcake? Parenting. It's as simple as that. And honestly, I'd say the bribery principle is also an integral part of a happy marriage as well. "I would like to play golf this weekend and if I do, I'll bring you a surprise on the way home." "Let me watch this football game and I'll clean the entire kitchen." Etc...

Well I'm happy to report that Elliott has responded beautifully to my first attempts at bribery. He has become far more independent recently and quickly becomes bored when being fed. He would much rather have something in front of him to eat which he can then share with the dog. So the other day we were only halfway through our small carton of green beans when Elliott gave me the international sign for "I'm done" which was violent, almost seizure-like head shaking coupled with a scrunched up face while pushing the spoon away. Of course this was immediately followed by him making the "more" sign meaning he was still hungry, just not for green beans.

I promptly got up and brought over a graham cracker. I gave him a piece which he devoured and instantly wanted more. I then held the graham cracker so he could see it and brought the green beans up to his mouth again. He ate a bite. I gave him a bit of cracker. And so on. Until the green beans were finished. And this has worked swimmingly ever since. I think one of my biggest hopes for Elliott was that he would be a child who could be reasoned with. At least most of the time. I'm not completely unrealistic. And I know that, once Elliott hits 13, probably even sooner, all bets are off. Logic and reason go out the door at that point. And graham crackers probably won't solve many problems at that point. Unless of course that problem is being stuck with a surplus of marshmallows and chocolate and having no convenient way to consume them simultaneously without getting your fingers sticky. 

Pro: The 7 Feathers Casino. Canyonville's claim to fame. As casinos go, it's tiny  with a small poker room, roughly a dozen table games, a bingo parlor and a bunch of slot machines. It's an odd but generally friendly clientele. As my soon-to-be sister-in-law said: "I just want an option to scroll over all of these people like on a computer and a description of who they are and why they're here would pop up." 

Pro: Winning money at a casino for the first time in my life. Our table worked our friendly, elderly dealer like a speed bag. It's a good night at the blackjack tables when: A. The dealer and you both have 20, she starts taking your money, is informed of her mistake and then awards you the hand for the confusion. B: The dealer runs out of chips. C: You hit three consecutive 10s while doubling on 11. D. All of the above.

Pro: Our highly adaptable son. We messed with our poor little guy's schedule so egregiously he was on Greenwich Mean Time by the end of the weekend. But, with limited naps and after spending a day with dozens of new faces, he slept like a rock in the bathroom of an unfamiliar hotel room.

Con: The drunken Canyonville local outside our room at 1 a.m. who loudly tried to convince her new friend that they should call an escort service and then berated him loudly when he locked her out of his room.

Con: Elliott realizing that riding in the car for long periods of time is no longer the blissful catalyst to Sleepytown like it used to be. 

In all, a very successful road trip on multiple fronts.