That One Night in NYC

A long, long time ago, (before "really" smart phones with GPS and maps, before Uber, Lyft, and AirBnb) at an airport in a city far, far away, (from Las Vegas) a young couple hailed a cab to the rental their friends had procured for three couples to share while they supported the galaxy's greatest collegiate a capella group, Vocal Point.

This couple was to arrive after the other two, so a key was left at the front desk of the apartment building (where the friends rented a 3-bedroom at a smoking deal) for them, so they could quietly enter once they arrived. Certainly a taxi was the best option at 1 am in New York City for finding the destination, right? They gave the address to the cabby - 243 W 63rd Street. "It's just near Lincoln Center," they confidently explained.

In retrospect, the driver didn't seem all that excited about his destination, but he drove the couple to Amsterdam and 63rd - the arrow on the picture below.

He found that he couldn't turn onto 63rd, for it was just a walking thoroughfare. Naively and foolishly, the couple told the driver he could just drop them off there and it would be okay. Oh, would it now?

The taxi sped off.

The couple's view (sans construction...and darkness, except the streetlight):

This was the entrance of the Amsterdam Housing Projects.

Home to Poncherello and Aunt Viv.

Erik Estrada

Daphne Maxwell Reid

Only, they weren't there on this night. They don't live there any more.



Behold the 4 journeys of Matt & Nicki:

First Journey- We were on 63rd, so it surely just had to be straight through here, right? Pulling our suitcases behind us, we started in. We turned around at the view of the playground (and really it was further than we should have gone, probably). This is NOT what the scene looked like to us:

No, no. This wasn't Philadelphia. This was way different. 

It's NYC. I could imagine what might happen. I was well versed in the crime scene of the Big Apple. I had watched NYPD Blues, Law & Order, Law & Order SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent, Law & Order: Trial by Jury, CSI: NY, The Equalizer, Cagney & Lacey, Night Court, Seinfeld and Friends.

We were...nervous. A little bit.

Okay, more than a little nervousness coursed through our bones, blood and skin.

The...um...youth on the playground in their hoodies and sagging pants seemed to perk up a little on our entering their neighborhood and were undoubtedly more than slightly curious about us.

Second Journey - Okay, so maybe if we walk toward 62nd, we can find the way there? This just doesn't look right, though. By this time, we both were redialing our friends - constantly. Did I mention it was 1 o'clock in the morning?

Third Journey - Let's just try 63rd again. Okay. Let's not. While Nicki continued to redial, I put 911 into my phone and held it to my ear as though I were talking to someone, with my finger ready to press dial, if needed.

Because, as everyone knows, if you are talking on the phone, then wrong-doers will not attack you. After all, the person on the other end might hear what's happening and call the police. This was a sure-fire defense method I learned in...my head right during that moment. It was the only thing I could think of.

Fourth Journey - We left with heading up to 64th to see if it goes through. Oh look!! It does!! (We might just not get killed.)

"Look straight ahead, not toward the playground on the left in the projects. Straight down 64th street," I keep thinking to myself.

Left on West End. West End is a two-way street. There is no reason the taxi couldn't have taken us down this road. What the crap?

Left on 63rd.

A couple of doors, both locked. No address markings. Ahead of us:

Finally, what looked like a front entrance:

We were buzzed in.

Alive. With all our belongings.

Hearts perhaps racing at 400 beats per minute.

When our friends awoke in the morning to about 6,000 missed calls, concerned, they peeked in the room they had left for us. They decided to let us sleep in, which was very kind of them.

The moral of the story: Don't get out of your cab until you are actually right in front of your destination.

Return of the Daddy

*Editor's Note: The original working title of this entry was "Revenge of the Daddy." Shortly before this entry's release, however, I didn't feel that "revenge" should be used, since it is not a true Daddy concept. A true Daddy wouldn't seek revenge on anyone, let alone his children.

It happened again.

"One of your children pooped in the bathtub?"

No. Actually, that is not what I am talking about. Besides, it wasn't IN the bathtub. It was on the side of the bathtub and on the floor next to it.

Every year, the week following graduation at Brigham Young University, the campus hosts billions of women for Women's Conference. For the past couple of years, I have been bamboozled into taking time off work for 3 days to stay home with the kids while Nicki goes up there for yet another respite from, well, us.

You may recall my experience from last year. And truthfully, that experience was more about survival than anything else. And I don't mean MY survival. We are lucky the children made it.

A lot has happened in the 12 months since. And this time I was able to enjoy it a little bit more. No, really. Get off the floor and stop laughing. The most difficult part, I think, has been adjusting my seats and mirrors back to where I had them in my car after she got home. Four days later and it still doesn't feel right.

Not that anything was different from last year. I took one step into the door from the garage and, "Dad, can I have a piece of candy?"

"No."

"Then, can I play the XBox?"

"No."

"Can I solve world hunger and cure cancer?"

"No."

"Is Mom going to be home soon?"

"Not as soon as either you or me would like."

I was able to help them remember that she would be home on Sunday morning. Through gentle, loving talk at high decibels.

The above-mentioned bathtub incident happened that first Wednesday night. What I don't understand is that they do not do this to Nicki. Human waste seems to only end up in (or around) the bathtub when I am on duty. And yes, I am fully aware that I just used the word duty.

I was nearly finished with washing them, when I went to the other side of the tub to find, well, you know. I don't know why I asked. Obviously, the guilty child was "Not Me." I didn't need the boys to tell me that.

Then Jonny dimed out Mikey. He seemed the perfect culprit to me. He's been waffling between being potty trained and wearing diapers.

He was scolded and sent to his room for it. Jonny was the last one to get out.

Something inside me told me that I made a mistake. "Jonny, why did you poop on the floor?" If you have ever had to ask a child that question, you might be laughing at the sight of it in writing. I am. Even if you haven't, I give you permission to. It's a ridiculous question!

"I didn't," came the reply in his "I'm Lying to You" face.

"Yes, you did. Why?"

Then the admission. Boy, did he get it. No, I didn't beat him senseless. I'm not saying I didn't think about it. After all, he knew what he had done was wrong. And I'm not talking about the fecal matter. Although that was certainly part of it.

So what was his consequence for dropping the, uh, droppings? As I got him dressed, I told him to get me a diaper. I should have recorded the response. Classic. Yes, I made him wear a diaper to bed.

Later that night, as I tucked him into bed, Jonny asked, "Is tomorrow Sunday?"

Funny, that's exactly what I was thinking.