Let's Take a Closer Look at My Package

The other day I bought half a dozen tube socks. Why? I needed to make a preemptive strike against the possibility of waking up Christmas morning to a bounty of sugar plums and Hanes His Way mid-calf, cotton-poly crew tubes. And I needed socks.
Because I wear my socks until they grow their own corns and calluses and because my mom is still my chief supplier of socks and underwear, I probably haven’t purchased my own socks in a little over a decade. So, imagine my surprise when my footwear of choice came conveniently packaged in a resealable “Zip-Pak” package.
Standing among the racks at Sears, my initial reaction was, “Wow, that’s great. I’ll be able to keep these socks fresher, longer.” But then I had the following epiphany: While my feet may sometimes smell like cheese, there is absolutely no reason for my socks to be Ziplocked like a package of shredded cheddar.
Once I open a plastic package of socks, they get rolled up in pairs and go straight into the drawer. They never return to the bag, and even if they did, they wouldn’t need to be sealed up again for freshness. I’ve had socks get stretched and I’ve had socks get holes, but I’ve never had socks go stale.
The whole ordeal at Sears upset me so much that I immediately went home to shave. I pulled out my package of 10 Gillette Twin-Blade Custom Plus Pivot disposable razors and discovered they too were packaged in a plastic pouch with a Zip-Pak resealable zipper. What the…?
Was it the Extra Lubricating Power Strip that needed preserving? Or maybe in the age of five-blade razors, the Gillette people think men who still buy the two-blade razors don’t have homes or drawers where they can comfortably store 10 razors.
Like most things in our capitalistic culture, I suppose money and corporate boredom is the real reason behind putting Zip-Pak packaging where it doesn’t belong. Some stuffy executive liked what the brash young salesman from Zip-Pak was selling and they decided they could all make a bunch of money if they put a yellow-and-blue-makes-green zipper on a bag of pantyhose.
The company ITW (Illinois Tool Works) owns Zip-Pak, and I’m sure they keep a lot of people employed at their four production facilities in Manteno and Ottawa, Ill., Atlanta, Ga., and Orangeburg, N.Y., by sealing things that don’t need to be sealed. I wish them all the best and a very merry Christmas, but why don’t they apply their technology to products it could actually improve? I think a Zip-Pak disposable diaper would be good. Maybe those produce bags at the grocery store? Or Rush Limbaugh’s mouth?
Here’s wishing you all good and fresh tidings this Christmas. Don’t buy diamonds and don’t forget the real reason for the season – a little baby in a manger who never needed a Zip-Pak bag for his fish and bread.

Not Accepting Traffic

My pregnant wife and I spent about half a week on the ground in the Middle Northeast last week on a quick trip to see my in-laws. Traveling, for me, is always a trip, literally and figuratively, and this last jaunt was no exception. I saw and experienced a lot during my five day/four night all expenses paid by me vacation to Connecticut. Here’s a recap:
Tuesday 5:40 p.m.: The captain of my private jet informs me that in fact he is not the captain of my private jet, we’re on a Continental Airlines commuter plane and we’ll be late getting off the ground because the shining oasis of Newark, N.J., “is not accepting traffic” because it’s too busy.
Tuesday 11 p.m.: After another delay in Newark that allowed us the chance to indulge in a mini meat lover’s pizza, we arrive in Hartford, Connecticut -- our baggage, including all of our underwear and grooming products, does not.
Friday 9:32 a.m.: Riding on the No. 6 subway to meet my friend Cory at Union Square, I realize how times have changed since I lived in New York City eight years ago. It used to be that when you heard someone talking to himself on the subway, it was a good idea to subtlety scooch away. Now, with the advent of those fancy hands-free cell phones, more and more people appear to be talking to themselves. They still look crazy, though.
Friday: 1:30 p.m.: Over lunch, Cory and I discuss our long-delayed plans to write a script for a “Three’s Company” movie. The passing of John Ritter and the recent death of the great Don Knotts severely limits the big cameo appearance audiences will demand. Joyce Dewitt just doesn’t have the star power to pull this off.
Friday: 2:45 p.m.: We start the initial brainstorming session on a Broadway musical version of the 1980s fish-out-of-water sitcom “Perfect Strangers.” You don’t remember Cousin Balki and Cousin Larry?
Friday: 3:40 p.m.: While walking in Greenwich Village, I spot Elizabeth Berkley, star of “Saved by the Bell” and “Showgirls,” sitting outside by herself eating a massive burrito/crepe-type thing.
Friday: 3:50 p.m.: I think, “I should have gotten a picture of Elizabeth Berkley eating that thing.”
Friday: 6:42 p.m.: After eating all of my favorite New York foods, I learn that my digestive system ain’t what it used to be.
Saturday 4:15: Behind the ticket counter at the Holiday Cinemas 10 in Wallingford, Conn., I spy what appears to be a life-size Elvis Presley mannequin dressed in the famous shiny gold suit. Although I’m a big Elvis fan, this thing is sort of creeping me out and I complain to the young ladies behind the counter. They inform me that the mannequin is made with real human hair and real human teeth.
Saturday 5:30 p.m.: Discover that none of the special effects in Mission Impossible 3 are as interesting as watching Tom Cruise jump on Oprah’s couch.
Saturday: 6:50 p.m.: Saw man in ice cream parlor carrying an infant in a pouch around his chest. Wondered how I will eat ice cream when I have a baby.
Saturday 10:45 p.m.: My 15-year-old sister-in-law Natalie and I come to the sudden realization that there is absolutely no cheese in Asian cuisine.
Saturday 10:46 p.m.: I get inexplicable craving for Kung Pao chicken with peanuts and provolone.
Sunday 1:20: The little guy checking boarding passes quickly accepts the beautiful Chinese/Peruvian Mrs. Van De Voorde’s pass but stops me for further inspection. “I’m sorry,” he says, “you have the same last name.”
“She’s not too thrilled about it either,” I said.
Sunday: 5:20 p.m.: We arrive at the Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport smarter and much more cultured than when we left.

Do Babies Have Butt Cheeks?

Four grainy little pictures changed my life instantly and dramatically last week.
I’ve known since February that my wife is pregnant, but it didn’t seem really real until Wednesday when radio waves bounced around her uterus to produce the first images of our first baby.
Prior to the ultrasound, the only confirmation I had that Carolina was pregnant was two home pregnancy tests, positive blood tests at the doctor’s office, her daily bout with morning, afternoon and evening sickness, and her slowly expanding waistline (note to self: this will be the only time I’ll ever be allowed to say these words in print). The mountain of evidence was enough to justify a trip to the pregnancy section at Barnes and Noble and a couple of casual walk-throughs at Babies ’R’ Us, but it was still a little hard to grasp that I was actually going to be a father.
Friends who’ve been procreating for years loaned us their pregnancy books, which we had been using to track the weekly progress of Van De Voorde 2.0. Referring to the series of pencil sketches depicting what’s happening in there, I’ve been able to see my child grow from a mass of cells to some kind of popcorn shrimp-looking thing to something that resembles a real human in an amazingly short period of time.
The books always compare the baby’s size to a fruit or vegetable and for some reason that started to get on my nerves. This week your baby is the size of a lima bean. Now your baby could fit comfortably in a walnut. In week 10 your baby is about the size of a large lemon.
I guess it’s more tasteful than saying, “your fetus is now the size of a pile of oily rags,” or “the child weighs about the same as a 30 gigabyte I-pod,” but I wanted something more tangible. I got that Wednesday.
Not being from a rodeo family, it was uncomfortable for me to see my wife in stirrups. Then the ultrasound technician came into the room, waving around the probe that would be used to take my baby’s picture.
I had seen ultrasounds on TV where the doctor comes in the room, spreads clear jelly all over some woman’s big old stomach, then rubs a device that looks like a computer mouse in the jelly. I wasn’t expecting a probe.
Oh, but that magical probe. I forgave it its trespasses almost immediately because of the amazing pictures it produced. I watched on the screen as it made its way through a sort of winding tunnel to a dark opening and there it was: my baby. It was just laying there in that curled up way, exactly like the pencil pictures in the book.
Then, whether it was the presence of the probe or the sugar of Carolina’s sweet tea kicking in, something fantastic happened. Our baby started moving and performing for us. At first its legs were crossed at the ankles, like a good little lady or gentleman. Then the baby’s hands started moving. I swore it looked like it was sucking its thumb. It twisted, it rolled and bent over and mooned us. I was amazed at its little butt cheeks.
Then the technician turned on the sound. I had seen the baby’s heart beating earlier, but hearing the fast swishing noise of its actual heartbeat created this instant connection between me and the fuzzy black and white image on the screen.
Unfortunately, the ultrasound technician wouldn’t let us sit in the room and watch our baby forever. I had heard Tom Cruise bought Katie Holmes an ultrasound machine for their house. I thought it was crazy before last week, but now I understand.
Eventually the probe was removed and the machine was turned off, but we did get four grainy little printouts of our baby in a variety of poses. I also have a 20 second video where I can hear the heartbeat swishing anytime I want. I watch it a lot.