Whatever Happened to Baby Double Dare?

Last night, as I was waiting for the hit show "Medium" to start, I stumbled upon a disturbing new game show called "My Dad is Better than Your Dad." This is sort of like the old Nickelodeon show Family Double Dare, but with way less whipped cream and way more disturbing.

Apparently in 2008, the ways to show you are the best dad and better than other dads is demonstrating an ability to tie sailing knots while being stung by scorpions and by getting all worked up (testosterone is truly disturbing) and yelling at your kid "We have to win! We have to win!" Call me old fashioned but, to me, these are not actually things that are indicative of good parenting.

Most telling of all, at the end of the show the "best" dad who had tied more sailing knots than any other dad had to answer questions about his son. For each question dad answered right, he would win $10,000.00. Dad won money answering questions about his son's video game habits, but was defeated by this: "What book is your son reading in school right now?" Dad was provided with 4 possible answers, and he still had no idea. This is pretty telling, and to me, means that the dad should be stripped of his newly one title of "better than your dad."

See, I don't know if my dad would win a competition in tying knots or other physical challenges since the Lund family is pretty much universally clumsy and lacks physcial prowess. But I guarantee you that he always knew what book I was reading in school. Thus, I can conclusively say that my dad is better than the dads on the creepy new gameshow portraying a dynamic between fathers and children that is unfortunately probably a microcosm of too many American households.

Also, some Lachey brother is the host of this show, automatically making it an unworthy piece of garbage. Where is Mark Sommers when you need him?

Alive and Kicking

Old gender stereotypes, that is.

Last week, there was a guy doing some construction at my office, building a new conference room because we are getting too big for our britches, as it were. Construction guy is a former client, a generally decent blue collar dude, although spends a lot of time hanging around chatting rather than finishing the conference room. Anyway, I was finishing a meeting with a client and the client left happily. Then the following ensues:

Construction Guy: That guy seems so happy with his paralegal.

Me: I am an attorney.

Construction Guy: REALLY?! You're a lawyer?

Me: (silent fuming) Yes.


Ok, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a paralegal, if you ARE a paralegal. I wasn't mad that he thought I was a paralegal, but because he assumed I must be a paralegal and was shocked that I could be a lawyer. I was wearing a suit so it wasn't a casual v. formal distinction. And it wasn't an age thing. 3/5 of the lawyers in this office are under 35. It was a girl thing. Construction guy would never have presumed that I was a paralegal if I was a guy.

I know what he thinks doesn't matter. But sometimes I forget that people like this actually exist. I am surrounded mainly by folks who have largely abandoned such antiquated gender roles and stereotypes. My friends are successful women, many of whom have or are getting professional and post-graduate degrees. My family has always encouraged me to be and do whatever I wanted; no one ever suggested thinking smaller. As I am strategizing a client meeting or a court appearance, I am not thinking about how the fact that I am a woman is going to affect the outcome.

I know that I have talked to death the Democratic primary season, but I have to say something about it again. Somehow, this experience made me even angrier that Hillary is most likely not going to be the nominee. I know that my friends who are supporting Obama are not doing so because they have rejected having a woman president. Unfortunately, I am not so confident in the rest of America. My boss pointed out that a lot of America who would reject a woman president would also reject a black president. I digress.

Conclusion is this: No matter how many years we go to school and how hard we work to build our careers, it seems there is always going to be some asshole who can't see beyond the tits and thinks we are somebody's assistant.

Mid-90s Flashback

On my dad's side of the family, we have started a new tradition of getting together one Sunday a month to have brunch and spend some of the day together. It's a good plan.

This last Sunday was the first brunch. After the egg dishes and Norwegian heart-shaped waffles were consumed, we retired to the sun room to watch some old home movies my dad had transferred to DVDs. Fun, right? In order to make sure my niece and nephew were featured in the home movies, we skipped over the 1980s and went straight to the 1990s videos.

Holy Christ was I a bitch. Sassy and sharp-tongued and bossing my brother around like you can't believe. Except if you knew me back then, which a lot of you who read this did. At one point, when my dad was taping us on a vacation in Florida, I spent 5 minutes whining about some video tape of Jamie and me dancing to American Pie on the front lawn and where was that damn movie and why do we tape everything but never watch anything.

Watching an old video of oneself is totally different than looking at old photos. In a snapshot, everyone is usually smiling; there is really no context. A video lays everything out: Christmas of 1995 when I was 14 was a shitty time for me- lots of teenage melodrama. Photos of Christmas '95 don't really tell that story but my snarly responses to my dad and the dejected tone of my voice in the home movies really take a girl back in time.

Now I'm not sure if I want to watch the ones from the 1980s. In retrospect, I consider my childhood a happy one. I was always clothed, fed, loved. But I had a lot of anger and sadness about my parents' divorce and so I wonder if I was as bitchy a child as I was a teen (no question that as a child I was as bossy as when I was a teen, if not more so). I'm definitely going to watch all of the old home movies, but I think it may be better done with a stiff drink in my hand and a willingness to just laugh at myself and remember that, despite my miserable attitude, things did turn out ok for me.

Quiet Saturday Evening Thoughts

It's quiet in my house tonight. Eduardo went to sleep really early and Johan has been sleeping for the 2 past hours. First I took a long hot bath. Now I am hanging around on YouTube for the first time ever. A few weeks ago I caught the last few seconds of a Pink video on VH1 for "Dear Mr. President." This song is actually from 2006 but apparently has received very little airplay and I have never bought a Pink CD so I hadn't heard it. It actually features the Indigo Girls in the studio version, so I'm sort of surprised I didn't even know about it until VH1. Now I am watching the video on YouTube and it's powerful. I'm no music genius and my auditory palate is not particularly sophisticated, but the part toward the end when she repeats "Let me tell you 'bout hard work" sends chills down my back.

I'm glad people are writing these songs. The impending election has got me thinking about the past 8 years. A lot of great things in my personal life, but a lot of terrible things in the world. A lot of them directly and indirectly caused by this president. What's next for this country? Change. Listening to this song makes me yearn for real change so badly. Not just a change in parties. Not just a new president. Change that, for all the hope in the world, isn't going to happen in the next 8 years. Change like no nuclear weapons. Change like no 2nd class citizens. Change like no death penalty. Change like no homelessness. Change like no child abuse.

A country can come a long way. My parents were born in 1951 and 1952. That was before Brown v. Board of Education. That was before the Voting Rights Act. That was before Roe v. Wade. That was only 30 years after the passage of the 18th Amendment. Only 6 years after the end of Nazi Germany. The changes that have happened, both good and bad, since my parents were born make me wonder what will happen in the next 50 years. What will the world look like when Johan is 50? Will any of the changes I yearn for have come to pass? Maybe, maybe not.

Real change, though, is going to happen starting this year. Health care, war, economy, cooperation with other countries...Not everything I want for this country will happen by 2012, but I see a lot of potential for good out on the horizon.

I'm voting for whoever Pink is voting for. Go to YouTube and check out the video.

Tooth Woes

Unlike most of my peers, my wisdom teeth never grew in. High school, College, and Grad School passed without nary a new tooth. Now, at age 26, I have my first- the upper left tooth. It started to come in around New Years and is still only about half-way grown in. Since late December, it has been hurting on and off, and this latest bout of tooth pain is really unbearable. I can't even open my mouth all the way. Here's the dilemma- I don't know if it just hurts because it's still growing in or if it's because it's growing in wrong or because my mouth doesn't have room for it. I have an appointment scheduled to have it removed the first week of March but I'm hoping the pain will go away before that, and I can cancel it.

My doctor says the timing of the "eruption" of my first wisdom tooth just weeks after Johan was born is a mere coincidence. (By the way, I am disgusted by the word eruption when associated with teeth.) But I don't buy it. With all the hormones and changes and calcium-related issues surrounding pregnancy and child-birth, I know that this wisdom tooth is somehow related to Johan's birth. I am totally going to sympathize when he starting cutting teeth. This hurts something fierce.

Wrist Warmers

My dad is just back from a trip to Norway and he brought me wrist warmers. Now, they're very smart looking, hand knit, and comfortable. At first blush, however, it's like, yeah, but why not just wear long sleeves and mittens? I never should have doubted -- Norwegians can always be counted on to know what sort of products are necessary to maintain body heat in the frigid northern winters.

These wrist warmers are amazing. I've had them for 12 hours and now can't imagine how I spent 26 years without them. I know I've heard something about putting an ice pack on the wrist when you are hot can keep one from overheating, but I never realized how important wrists are in the regulation of body temperature. This morning, I put on my wrist warmers and braved the -30 wind chill to get to my car. These little wrist warmers seemed to make my whole body stay warmer as I sat in the cold car waiting for the engine to warm up. Too bad engines don't have wrists.

I'm currently sitting at my computer continuing to wear these brilliant little things. My hands are as toasty as if I had them wrapped around a hot mug of coffee or in a pair of down mittens, yet my fingers and hands are fully usable. Folks, I'm telling you, wrist warmers may be the secret to everlasting happiness. God Bless those innovative Norwegians and their fabulous little secrets to surviving winter.

The Cali in Me

Yesterday, as I was signing some outgoing letters to clients, I noticed that my signature has morphed into "Kristina L___A___," or "Kristina L A." It's mostly because I'm lazy and cannot be bothered to write out Lund Alcantara every time I sign my name. And really, wouldn't that be sort of a waste of time? There's money to be made; people to be saved! Who has time to clearly pen each letter of such a long name? But, while this signature is primarily for convenience's sake, I've decided it's also radical. Kristina L.A. Sounds like I should be famous.

I miss L.A. sometimes. The heat, the smog, the tacos, the ocean, the palm trees, the smell of jizz trees on the quad, the spanish architecture, the hills, the never-ending city, the rain in february, and mostly, college and everything that goes all with that. I can't imagine ever moving back to L.A. and I doubt I ever will, but I will always have a soft spot for it in my heart. So, I guess it's only appropriate to sign my name Kristina L____A____, paying homage to that part of me that sat on the front porch in the winter wearing flip-flops and chain smoking in balmy 50 degree weather. Nevermore, nevermore.