The Fun Time is going to be a bit rudderless for the next three weeks. Our in-house Mommy (i.e. Lynn) has taken the girls for an extended East Coast visit of both sets of grandparents. I’ll be kicking it bachelor-style. How much trouble can I possibly get into. (Just in case, does anyone know a good bail bondsman?)

My first act of bachelordom: I left the toilet seat up. Because I can, that’s why!

(Yeah, it’s gonna be a looong three weeks.)

Today is my baby girl’s 9th birthday. Or, as I refer to it, Daddy/Daughter Fun Time, Day 1.

The maternity ward at Cedars-Sinai was so busy back in 2004, that Mommy had to wait in triage for several hours before a room opened up. Where, and I am totally serious, a nurse asked Lynn if she could keep the moaning down because she was “disturbing the other patients.” Daggers flew from her eyes.

Eventually, we made it to an actual room. And, there was finally medication. Mommy got some, too.

Here’s the actual view from the delivery room. Welcome to Hollywood, Julianna.

Now, if only the woman in the next room had opted for an epidural like any sane person, my tranquil setting would not have been disrupted by the miracle of childbirth.

So, after the whole song and dance, and the kissy-kissy, and the Mommy needs her rest so go home, I do what most guys do: I went to Jerry’s Deli and got me a beer and a French Dip Sandwich. (The sandwich, by the way was too big to eat in one sitting, so I had to take it back to the house, where I promptly finished it off. I thought that detail was important for me to tell.)

Yeah, it was brutal.

P.S. Mother and child were fine. Daddy on the other hand…

Hold on. Let me explain myself… I will not be grabbing either of your boobs. (Proboobly. God, I’m funny.)

My wife an I have just celebrated 21 years of Holy Matrimony. And several more unholy ones.

I have, on occasion, had access to a boob. Or two. Over the years. Access. Two!

Goes with the territory, I suppose. We do have a couple of kids. Yeah, there’s that.

But. Snuggling up with an actual boob at 2am. (Double-D, but, I’m not counting.) Is beyond wonderful. Truly.

It just feels like home. Home.

(And, no, I don’t have Mommy issues.)

Dear Mr. Skechers,

You have a branding problem with your new “Daddy’$ Money” shoes aimed at young and teen girls. Because, I will never pay for some product called “Daddy’$ Money.” This is a “Daddy” blog, after all. And, I don’t like to be taken advantage of. Though, my daughters can usually get away with it. You cannot.

Daddy’$ Money shoes, by Skechers. “Daddy” Daddy or “Sugar” Daddy, I’m not sure.

You see, I’m really trying to raise my girls to be self-sufficient young women who don’t rely on someone else to buy them stuff. Because, I spend too much money on my daughters to spend a dime for something as commercially crass as a product called “Daddy’$ Money.” And, your slogan: “Get spoiled with Daddy’s money”? Bullshit.

And, while I’m sure the lovely young ladies on your website are fine, upstanding teens… You’re not selling cut-off short-shorts and mini skirts. You’re selling shoes. You realize this, right?

Certainly they’re lovely young ladies. But, where are the shoes? That’s what you’re selling!

So, please, Mr. Skechers. Re-direct your marketing campaign to some product much less innocuous. Like, Mommy’s Boy Loafers.

Now, we’re going to get some ice cream.

If you are joining us “in progress” on my New York City posts, you might want to scroll down first and catch up. Briefly… We are in New York for Mommy’s fantastic Carnegie Hall debut. Yes… THAT Carnegie Hall. Scurry, scroll down, quick quick quick, then back to here…

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So, since Lynn (a.k.a. Mommy) is off to rehearsal, I find myself with two little girls. By myself. In New York. We grab breakfast at a diner a block away, then stumble upon a playground. Really? A playground? In New York? City?

Yes. But not just any playground:

Because, when you think of Hell and the Kitchen, you immediately think of Swings!

Even the demons need to relax.

The Girls: la la la la la. We’re in Hell!

Seriously, a former “bad” neighborhood has become tres chic.

Lynn’s very dear friend (and totally unrelated Big Sister) is married to Jimmy. Jimmy has an aunt who live in a swanky 6th Ave. apartment, just like Eva Gabor in Green Acres. (Not Zsa Zsa, mind you. It was Eva).

Aunt Grace is delighted to host a mini-soiree at her place for members of Lynn’s (aka Mommy’s) big Carnegie Hall performance. (Have I promoted that enough, yet?)

Oh. And, here’s the view. Only so-so.

Dahlin’ I love you, but give me Park Avenue. Da-dut Da-DUT-dut. Dut! Dut!

We head over to Rockefeller Center. And here are a couple photos that prove we all went:

Daddy’s mother used to work there on the 46th floor in the ’60s. And, she’s scared of heights.

Dapper Daddy and Julianna

Snapped by a homeless man. Or, the choir’s Regina. Can’t remember whch.

But… And here’s the secret, REAL reason we went to New York. Screw Carnegie Hall.

PIZZA!

So, we head up to Greenwich Village, and make a bee line for Ben’s Pizzeria (As featured in Louis CK’s show “Louie.”) Most Famous Pizza in the World. Also, pretty damn good.

Ask for the Louis special. It’s Hilarious. No, seriously, it’s called “Hilarious.” You can catch it on HBO.

Oh, and visit Gretchen’s blog, Second Blooming:
http://secondblooming.typepad.com/

Mommy is excited. Because, tonight’s the night. Mozart’s Requiem. At Carnegie Friggin’ Hall. Yeah Baby!

Forever simply known as The Hall around the house.

You know, the Beatles walked through this entrance. Just sayin’.

And, there she is! Back row. Fourth from the right. Trust me.

A picture I totally stole from someone else who had already stolen it. Still, Mommy is in there somewhere. (Hint: Back row, fourth from the right.)

A lengthy standing ovation warmly greeted the performance. And as someone I know who knows about these things, they don’t just give out standing Os at Carnegie unless they are deserved. So, there ya go.

A few weeks ago, the wife and I began a discussion (in our patented Limited Verb® technique.)

It went (something) like this:

Me: Anniversary soon. 21st?

Lynn: Yes. 21st.

Me: Ideas?

Lynn: Maybe, New York.

Me: Interesting. But, can we kick it up a notch?

Lynn: Hmmm… Well, singing at Carnegie Hall.

Me: Carnegie? The Hall, right? Not, the Deli.

Lynn: The Hall. Yes. Not the deli. The actual Hall. Would that work?

Me: Yep… Notch officially kicked.

So, yes, the lovely and talented wife will be in a chorus performing Mozart’s Requiem this weekend for a couple thousand people. Which, ya gotta admit, is pretty cool. Even by jaded music-types, it’s pretty damn cool. Carnegie Hall!

The Fun Time hits the road.

Lynn (The Mommy at the Fun Time) has scoured the Internet looking for places to stay in New York City. And, she has come across Jose and Fabio’s apartment. Compared to local hotels, it’s a steal. It Is Perfect…. And, quite possibly, it’s illegal (something about renting a private residence that competes with the Hotel industry. To me, blah.) But this is New York, and that’s how they roll. If you don’t do something illegal, why bother going?

It’s a teeny, tiny NY closet. I mean “apartment.” Still, it is awesome.

We are three blocks from Times Square, 2 blocks from the subway, and immersed in New York City (real NY, not the tourist version).

Mommy rocks.

Oh, and here’s a picture. 10th Ave, between 43rd and 44th Streets. (If you’re looking for a place to stay, let me know. I’ll hook you up…)

I’m going to break one of the Cardinal Rules of Daddy/Daughter Fun Time: I’m turning it into a travelogue (which I usually have nothing but contempt for in the blogniverse. “First we did this, then we did that.”) But, the girls are in New York, and I haven’t been there in 15 years. Something funny has to happen.

Here they are, in 1938:

So, we take the subway to the bottom of Manhattan. But, here’s a heads up (and also, this is why you claim the Fun Time as a tax deduction): Elmer Fudd comes on the intercom and says something about Souf Fewwy Stop. Fuwst Vive Caws Only.

Here, let me translate this for you. If you want to get on the Staten Island Ferry, and you are on the Red subway line (from Times Square), the South Ferry stop is your place. But, the subway station is only big enough to accommodate the first five cars of the subway train. If you are in the sixth car… Sorry.

After parsing Elmer’s communiqúe, the tourists on board begin to panic. What car is this? Are we good? Should we move up one? Maybe two?

I read the faces of the regulars. They ignore the hullabaloo. They’re grizzled. These are Staten Island people. They offer no guidance, but everything you need to know is written on their faces: We’re in Car 4, assholes.

So, we get off Car 4 and take the ferry. It’s free, by the way. (A free boat-ride. In New York! Are ya kidding me?)

We head out on our trip. At first, the girls are Yay! Then, meh. Then, are we there yet?

Good God! There’s the Statue of Liberty!

Girls: Are we there yet?

Finally, we’re on Staten Island. Half way. (Honestly, it’s like 25 minutes. Please don’t bust my chops).

On the way back, Manhattan never looked so good…

(photo by me, by the way.)

We get back to our apartment, just as the sun sets. A Dunkin’ Donuts is across the street. Double chocolate. Ooooo. All in all… a good day.