The Hershey's Diet: Love, Support and 20 Extra Pounds

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I have always fervently supported my children in their extracurricular endeavors. My only rule is that my personal health and safety not be in danger.

With my eldest, now 15, this was never an issue. I felt perfectly safe sitting in the audience watching, listening and occasionally cringing as she labored through piano recitals. Ditto for her various sporting events although often I had to restrain myself from confronting over caffeinated Little League parents. The two years that she spent in competitive cheerleading were a test; several times I was convinced I had suffered permanent hearing loss after spending entire afternoons in gymnasiums pulsating with a combination of hip-hop music and shrieks from mothers whose little darlings had just executed a "round off flip-flop combination," whatever that means.

But my 10-year-old has discovered a new passion, one that I fear will take years off my life if I don't intervene immediately.

She loves to bake. Specifically, she loves to bake desserts.

It started innocently enough. A tin of blueberry muffins here, a batch of chocolate chip cookies there. She looked oh so cute in her little apron while greasing baking sheets. The results tasted delicious, for it's pretty difficult to screw up cookies made from pre-mixed dough. All you need is an adult who knows how to turn on an oven and a timer.

But a recent birthday party netted her a cookbook authored by the Hershey Company. Yes, THAT Hershey. It was actually three separate cookbooks bound into one and it became immediately clear that none of the recipes contained lettuce. Granted, there were a few main-course items sprinkled throughout, but nothing that trainers from "The Biggest Loser" would recommend. Spicy Cocoa Sloppy Joes anyone?

I failed to see the distinction between each book title. "Sweet Treats" was followed by "Decadent Delights," which gave way to "Timeless Treasures." Naturally every recipe contained at least one Hershey's ingredient, easily identified since all were written in capital letters.

Take, for instance, the SPECIAL DARK Truffle Brownie Cheesecake she recently whipped up. Say the name aloud and you can almost feel your belt straining. Even worse, she baked it on a Sunday, when my exercise ritual consists of a two-hour nap in my hammock. Not exactly the proper warm-up for consuming a delicacy that, if you add up the calories, resembles our country's national debt.

As my little girl worked the electric mixer, I glanced over her shoulder and silently read the ingredients: 6 tablespoons of melted butter, 1 1/2 cups sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 2 eggs and 1/2 cup of HERSHEY'S COCOA.

That was just the brownie layer. She hadn't even started on the truffle cheesecake part. Skipping ahead, I saw it contained 3 (!) packages of cream cheese, more sugar, more eggs and more vanilla extract. Add 1/4 cup heavy cream and 2 cups of HERSHEY'S SPECIAL DARK chocolate chips. Then toss in a 350-degree oven for 30 minutes and make sure a cardiologist is on speed dial.

I laughed at the last sentence: "Cover and refrigerate leftover cheesecake."

Leftover? Did Hershey really think something like this would go temporarily uneaten? Not when its creator is 10. I ate three pieces because, as I previously mentioned, I am a supportive parent. What choice did I have?

"Daddy, did you really like it?" she asked after I had weakly pushed myself away from the table.

"Like it? I LOVED it," I mumbled, as it's difficult to talk when a layer of cream cheese coats your tongue. "What else is in that book?"

It was like asking Mitt Romney what else he would change about the Obama presidency. Suddenly the floodgates opened as she showed me all the recipes she had marked for future meals. How soon before Thick and Fudgy Brownies with HERSHEY'S Mini KISSES Milk Chocolates graces our table? Or Rich Chocolate Chip Toffee Bars? If I live until Christmas, Holiday Double Peanut Butter Fudge Cookies await.

Realizing that I may have co-created a future five-star pastry chef, I have no choice but to increase my exercise regimen. Twenty minutes on the treadmill has become 30, the spin-class instructor knows me by name and I recently completed a personal-training session with a dude who looks like he's never even heard of the Hershey company.

"Drink lots of water, get plenty of rest and above all, watch your diet," he said.

I'm planning to invite him over for dinner very soon. I dare him to pass on the Fudge Bottomed Chocolate Layer Pie.

To my child, I bequeath the blade

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I am a nervous wreck as I write this column. Several hours ago, I heard the garage door open and the engine start. My teenage daughter rolled down the driveway piloting a piece of machinery that I warned could cause serious injury to herself or even innocent bystanders if she isn't careful.

True, she's nearly 16, but she still seems so young to take on this much responsibility. Was she really listening when I explained, in the simplest terms possible, how the engine operates? When I showed her how to read an oil dipstick, she kept rolling her eyes and repeating, "I know, I know."

She had better not be texting while the apparatus is in motion. Listening to music is also forbidden until I am convinced she is a safe navigator. She knows the rules. Still . . .

Where is she? What if she ran out of gas? What if there were a far worse mechanical failure and she's stranded? She knows I'm just a phone call away. Wait, I just heard the garage door open again. There she is, safe and sound. But something's amiss. I can see it on her face.

"What's wrong?"

"I had an accident, Dad."

"What?"

"I ran over the stupid flowers."

"Noooooo!"

"I'm sorry, OK?"

"Sorry isn't going to bring the geraniums back to life, young lady. Perhaps you just aren't ready to mow the lawn."

Wait, did you think my anxieties had something to do with her motor vehicle skills? Puh-leeze! As soon as she gets her license, I'll let her borrow the family car at will for it's high time somebody besides my wife and I shuttled all her teammates to volleyball practice. But the mower? That's a different story. I am a suburban dad and, by law, cutting the grass is a sacred ritual. Most dads will eventually bestow the blade to our children, but it's not something we easily relinquish. I remember the day my father walked nervously behind me as I navigated row after row of our backyard for the first time. I was 12. Occasionally he yelled encouragement. Sort of.

"Keep it straight, KEEP IT STRAIGHT. You look like you're failing a sobriety test. Never mind. I'll do it!"

And he did. Until I was 13. A year later, I was known as "the neighborhood kid who mows lawns," a title I reluctantly surrendered when I graduated high school. After college, I lived in apartments and mowing duties were handled by various landlords. I was responsible only for maintaining my domicile's interior appearance, which meant I vacuumed once every other month .

But the minute I became a homeowner, I bought a shiny red Toro Recycler Walk Power mower and instantly all those fond lawn-care memories became reality once again. A sun-drenched day, fountains of sweat cascading down my back, and the knowledge that I was shedding a few pounds. Not only is lawn mowing great exercise, but any married guy will admit that it gives us a tremendous excuse to do nothing the rest of the weekend. Ever wonder why you hear so many mowers running early on Saturday mornings?

"Sorry honey, I can't watch the kids, shop for groceries or do anything else that constitutes physical labor this weekend. Why? I just MOWED THE LAWN. Now please keep it down and hand me the remote. Pro wrestling is about to start. Where's my pillow?"

There is also an immense feeling of pride that comes with walking barefoot through the finished product and thinking, "Wow, I did this." I long for my daughter to have similar feelings although I'm certain the only thought that will churn through her brain as she maneuvers the Toro back and forth will be, "At least I'm getting paid."

Yes, mowing the empty lot next to our house, which I recently purchased as a real estate investment, constitutes her initial foray into summer employment. It's a big property -- nearly half an acre- and she's cutting it with a (GASP) push mower as I refuse to purchase a riding model. I have no place to store it during the cold winter months and besides, the "I just mowed the lawn" excuse doesn't work on wives who glance outside and see their spouses doing nothing more than driving a small tractor in circles while drinking a cold beer. It's like saying you're exhausted from playing golf when a caddy sprinted ahead of you, raked the sand traps and picked your ball out of all 18 cups while you drove the cart.

I may never officially retire from lawn mowing. For now it is a shared duty; I mow the established lawn surrounding our home while my daughter mows the empty lot and learns what manual labor feels like. It's grueling yet satisfying.

Come to think of it, so is replanting geraniums.

The Do-It-Yourself Guide To Not Doing It At All

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

On Father's Day, all dads need to be keenly aware of a very ominous phrase:

Do It Yourself or "DIY" if you are texting.

I'm warning fathers everywhere because many of us, instead of choosing to spend the day playing golf or taking the easy road and WATCHING golf, may opt to tackle that home improvement project we have been putting off since 1987. Maybe it's something as simple as trimming the bushes or painting the porch railing.

Or maybe it is something a little more expansive, a project that will cement our status as the coolest guy on the block because we did it all by our lonesome, saving hundreds of dollars in the process. Neighborhood wives will look at our handiwork, glare at their husbands and say, "Why can't YOU do something like that?"

The DIY label is dangerous because it lulls us into thinking we can actually accomplish something on our own. Usually it is something we have no business attempting. Over the years, I have gone to hardware stores and seen DIY slapped on brochures telling us how easy it is to build a backyard deck. I've seen it on satellite-dish installation kits. Several of my neighbors have dishes, allowing them to receive whatever sporting event is currently occurring on the planet, including senior citizen cricket matches. I thought installing my own dish would be relatively simple until I Googled the subject and realized I could not proceed until I first calculated my azimuth and elevation coordinates, both of which were necessary for aiming the dish toward a satellite floating somewhere in space.

Last September, a 6-ton satellite fell into the Pacific Ocean. At least that's where NASA thinks it fell. No evidence has actually been found. If the space industry's brightest minds can't locate a satellite, how am I supposed to find one? That's why I chose cable instead. The toughest thing to locate when you are a cable customer is the repairman.

When I purchased a swing set for my kids, the salesman said I could hire a three-person crew to install it or I could do it myself. Choosing the latter meant that a truck would dump a large load of lumber and some screws on my driveway and then speed away before I could ask, "Is this the top beam or the bottom?" I wisely employed the crew. Looking back it was probably the best 300 bucks I have ever spent. Defending myself in a lawsuit from an irate parent whose kid was unlucky enough to be on the slide when it collapsed due to my swing set installation ineptitude would have been significantly more expensive.

I found the ultimate DIY project last week while doing some online shopping. Dads, if you wake up on Father's Day and decide this would be a perfect day to become more eco-friendly, then fire up eBay and search, "Wind Turbine Installation Kit."

There, for just $649, a seller will provide you with everything you need to erect one of those oversize windmills in your backyard. According to the American Wind Energy Association, wind currently provides 2 percent of the United States' electricity. But that number could swell to 2.0000001 if a few of us dads put down our Budweisers and exercise a little initiative. Say goodbye to those skyrocketing electric bills, gentlemen; all we'll need keep our beer cold will be a nice steady breeze.


The kit included the following: reinforced fiberglass wind turbine blades, some quadruple layer neodymium magnets, 11-pound magnet wire, a heavy-duty bridge rectifier, some crimp-on ring terminals and a few splice connectors.

Any questions so far?

Oh, sure, we might encounter a few hiccups along the way. But that's what neighbors are for, right? Just walk across the street, find another dad and say, "Jim, can you spare a few minutes to help me align my wind tower?"

Don't count on it. I once asked my neighbor to help me install a ceiling fan and I could almost see the gears spinning in his brain as he struggled to concoct a reason to say no. He relented and helped but it took five hours and I still have yet to experience two of the speeds on my alleged three-speed ceiling fan. Suffice it to say that neither of us have decent wiring skills.

So, dads, before you embark on some technical mission that could result in, at best, a steady stream of profanity and, at worst, paramedics being summoned, remember that some things can be accomplished in solitude more easier than others.

Speaking from experience, I know it takes very little effort to lie in a hammock all day.

Your baby can now get the celebrity treatment!

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Last week, as I sat munching the remains of a soccer ball-shaped cake made in honor of my daughter's 10th birthday, I wondered if I had failed as a father.

When she entered the world a decade ago, her arrival and the events leading up to it were met with virtually zero fanfare. Unlike Bill and Giuliana Rancic, I did not let a camera crew film our obstetrician conducting the first ultrasound. Unlike Jessica Simpson, my wife did not pose nude for a magazine during her final trimester. Unlike Beyonce and Jay-Z, I did not announce our child's birth via a rap verse. And unlike Hillary Duff, I did not share exclusive details about our first "date night" after our child was born. For the record, Duff and her husband attended a Coldplay concert. I think my wife and I went to Taco Bell.

How could I have been so selfish?

I have no doubt that my little girl was every bit as cute, special, precious and amazing as Beyonce and Jay-Z's little girl. For a while, I actually felt sorry for their daughter because she didn't appear to have a last name. She was simply "Blue Ivy." Eventually I learned her surname was Carter but by that time I had taken to calling her Blue Ivy Z.

The fact is, babies born to noncelebrity parents like me get the shaft. Paparazzi yawn, Twitter doesn't crash and the only people on the Internet who will leave a comment or share the news are members of our immediate families. Yet, when Simpson gave birth to daughter Maxwell Drew Johnson on May 1, US Magazine called it BREAKING NEWS! More than 10,000 readers "liked" the article on their Facebook walls. Nearly 1,500 tweeted about it including Simpson herself, who also found time to post a birth announcement on her website. I do admire her stamina; when my kids were born, updating a website was the last thing on my wife's mind. First, she would have had to create a website and trust me, there wasn't enough room in the delivery room for my wife, myself, an obstetrics team and a web designer.

Why can't celebrities just quietly have their kids and then shut up about it? Why can't media outlets lump the arrival of a famous son or daughter in with all the other birth announcements? Imagine seeing Blue Ivy's name and photo with a quick blurb about her parents (he's a world-renowned music mogul, she's a world-renowned music mogul) right after the couple from Rockaway, N.J., (he's an insurance salesman, she's a bank teller) announcing the birth of their fourth child.

If the media aren't willing to tone down baby news, and if celebrity parents continue to grant interviews about colic, naps and poop, then I feel every baby should be given the star treatment. I have taken the liberty of creating a press release, normally reserved for famous mommies and daddies, and am making it available to all parents. Simply fill in the blanks and send it to every media outlet you can think of.

(Name of mother) and (name of father, boyfriend or sperm donor) proudly welcome (Name of baby. NOTE: Use back of form and be prepared to explain if baby has an uncommon name. Coldplay singer Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow needed two pages to state that yes, their daughter is really named "Apple"). (Baby name) entered the world on (date) after (explicit story about fertility treatments or where conception occurred), weighing in at (weight in pounds and ounces. NOTE: Large babies typically result in hurtful comments via the Internet. Proceed with caution).

(Name of baby) will reside in (Insert hometown. Insert two towns if parents have already split). For further information contact (name of nanny).

Incidentally, I just read that Snooki from "Jersey Shore" is expecting. While I have my fingers crossed that she will carry, deliver and raise her child in silence, that seems doubtful considering the headline that appeared in a recent New York newspaper:

"PREGO SNOOKI: NO BOOZE AND LESS TANNING FOR ME!"

Burying Barbie...and other depressing parental duties

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I am a firm believer in the "Death Comes in Threes" adage, not only for celebrities but also for children's toys. It happened again recently.

First to expire was the backyard plastic pool. Nobody could say it didn't have a long, happy life. From its birth in 1998 when my oldest child turned 1, until 2007 when my second daughter mastered freestyle just enough to swim at the park district pool, it was the highlight of summer. Fill it up with a hose and in minutes it provided refreshment for as many as four squealing kids. I sometimes used it to cool off after a particularly rigorous lawn-mowing session. Sure, my legs protruded over the edges, but who cared? It's hard to be uncomfortable when your children howl in delight as they dump buckets of water on your head.

For the past five years, the pool remained in our basement on life-support systems. My wife and I knew we were done having children, yet we couldn't bear to permanently drain it, so to speak. Maybe we could find a neighborhood toddler to invite over on a scorching afternoon. But where are those little tykes? All the kids in our neighborhood are now interested in cars, makeup and members of the opposite sex. This past week, I faced the inevitable and dragged the now-moldy aqua oval to the curb. I said a silent prayer, thanking it for all the happiness it had provided.

While I grieved, death struck again. This time the victim had a name and it was Barbie.

My youngest, during her annual room-cleaning ritual, announced she no longer played with her collection of dolls that ranged from the original, perfectly normal-looking Barbie to the punk-rock Barbie with multicolored hair and a rebellious sneer.

"But what will happen when your friends come over this summer? Don't you want to dress them up and have them talk to each other?" I asked. "What will you do instead?"

She briefly glanced up from her video game, giving me the answer in the process.

Now I had to once again huddle with my wife and make a decision. Gently place the Barbies alongside the pool and wait for the trash collector or hope for a miracle cure via a garage sale or eBay that could breathe new life into their worn-yet-loved plastic parts? It's a dilemma we have yet to solve.

Death paid its third visit last weekend, when I attempted to inflate the water slide purchased at Toys R Us just three years ago. Calling this thing a slide is sort of like calling the Spider-Man float in the Macy's parade a balloon. This was not a slide one could blow up using one's lungs. Instead, it came with an electric air pump and an installation DVD. Apparently the slide manufacturer thinks everybody's backyard has a DVD player nearby.

When fully inflated, the slide rose more than 15 feet into the air, sending water cascading over the sides and soaking the lawn in the process. It weighed nearly 100 pounds and caused my back to scream as I unfurled it in the yard - but once inflated, it provided hours of entertainment. Not once did I sense it would succumb to the "We're too old for this thing" fate.

This year, the ritual began anew. I lugged the slide up from the basement, hosed off the spider webs, secured it with eight (yes, eight) stakes and flipped the air pump's power switch. The slide began to rise.

That's when I noticed the impending signs of death.

The slide ascended to about 11 feet and then tried in vain to go higher. It gasped, attempting to hold more air, but it was no use. It stayed three-quarters high, unable to accommodate two girls already in their bathing suits and watching silently. Finally one spoke.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I think there may be a hole somewhere," I said.

Closer inspection revealed that there were actually many holes. A disease called "overuse by growing (and weightier) kids" had infected the slide's innards. Patches would do no good.

"I can go buy another one and be back in half an hour," I told my daughters.

They looked at each other, making a silent sisterly decision.

"That's OK. I think we've outgrown it," my oldest said.

And with that they went inside, changed out of their bathing suits and called friends. I was left sitting in the backyard on the swing set. It was 14 years old and starting to creak. It also represented the last reminder of childhoods that disappeared far too fast.

I gazed at the wooden structure and spoke.

"Stay a little longer. Please?"

The Wife: A True Musical Oddity

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I heard the lyrics as I prepared steaks on the grill one warm Saturday evening. They were coming from the Adult Alternative music channel that I'm forced to pay for each month as part of my cable package. For the record, I'm also paying for Metal, Contemporary Christian, and Toddler Tunes. All three are excellent choices when I'm tired and want guests to leave.

The band's name was Ween. While the singer sounded British, Ween is actually an experimental American rock band, according to Wikipedia. The song was entitled "Your Party."

We had the best time at your party

The wife and I thank you very much

Had the late Dick Clark ever featured this song on "American Bandstand," I would have panned it for obvious reasons: It didn't have a good beat and I couldn't dance to it. What did intrigue me was the singer mentioning his wife. It's not a word often heard in song lyrics. Kenny Rogers sang about his "Lady," John Lennon crooned over his "Woman" and artists from Michael Jackson to 'N Sync have immortalized their "Girlfriend" in song. But rare is the tune that contains the common word for female partner in a marital relationship. Rarer still is use of the word in a positive or even neutral context.

Want proof? Google "lyrics containing wife." The results are slim. When I searched the phrase, the first hit came from The Who's "My Wife." Here's a sample:

My life's in jeopardy

Murdered in cold blood is what I'm gonna be

I ain't been home since Friday night

And now my wife is coming after me

Not exactly the most glowing tribute to a spouse.

Next on the list was a ditty penned by singer/songwriter Jonathan Richman called "When I Say Wife."

When I say 'wife'

It's cause I can't find another word for the way we be

But 'wife' sounds like you're mortgaged

"Wife" sounds like laundry

I wonder how Richman explained to his wife that he equated her with a pile of dirty underwear.

Rapper Ne-Yo chose to use "wife" as a verb and what I think is an adverb in his song, "Wife Her."

Even when you get locked up, you can call her up

She's there for you. That's the kind of girl you need.

One that you can wifey.

Don't wait too late. You'll miss a good thing.

Go and get the ring. And tell her that you wife her.

Huh?

From there, the Google hit list deteriorated into song parodies containing "wife." With apologies to my wife, I found musical comedian Tim Hawkins' spoof of Green Day's "Time of Your Life" hilarious.

Hey honey, have you gained some weight in your rear end?

That dress you wear reminds me of my old girlfriend

And where'd you get those shoes? I think they're pretty lame

Would you stop talking 'cause I'm trying to watch the game

If you're a man who wants to live a long and happy life

These are the things you don't say to your wife



I did find a few sappy wife tributes but even those aroused suspicion. Frank Sinatra sang a sweet ode to his marital companion with "I Love My Wife."

If rosy lips invite me

Well, that's life

But just in case, you couldn't guess

I love my wife

I'd get all misty were it not for the fact that Ol' Blue Eyes recorded the song in 1976. By that time, he was on wife No. 4.

Finally, there was the Climax Blues Band's 1980 hit simply called "I Love You."

You came along and stole my heart when you entered my life

Ooh babe, you got what it takes so I made you my wife.

Nice, but the singer also mentioned that he'd been drinking lots of beer and the woman who would become his soul mate picked him up off the floor.

I am not a songwriter or a poet, but I know when a void needs filling. It's time for airwaves and iPods alike to include some positive songs about a man's spouse and label her accordingly. Some guys, myself included, are happily married. Now we need to relay those feelings in song. Here's what I have so far:

I was gazing at my WIFE one night while making dinner

That girl, my WIFE, she's a real winner

Just thinking 'bout my WIFE, I lose focus, get the shakes

That's why it's her fault that I burned the steaks

Nobody ever said good songwriting was easy.

The Robot Is In The Driveway

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


My hometown of Chicago is extremely quiet and boring in February with the exception of two events.

The first is a massive surprise snowstorm that will begin precisely at 7 a.m., just as thousands of commuters are headed to work. The blizzard will taper off around noon, but, like the eye of a hurricane, return with a vengeance several hours later. By this time everybody has reached their offices, only to discover they are closed for the day and there is nothing else to do except turn around and head home.

The second is the Chicago Auto Show, a spectacle that brings masses of car enthusiasts to McCormick Place, where they gawk at the latest and greatest automobiles, most of which are identical to last year's models except with higher sticker prices due to one upgraded feature, typically a sturdier cup holder.

I attend the Auto Show whenever I'm in the market for a new car. This is in sharp contrast to most Auto Show attendees, who go merely to get out of the cold. Once inside, they can also feast on $8 dollar hot dogs and have their pictures taken with bikini-clad women who make their living saying, "Things get hot and heavy, when I'm inside my Chevy" forty-eight times per day. This year, however, I will be attending for a different reason. Our society is getting ever so close to a new form of transportation and I want to make sure it's designed correctly.

I'm talking about the driverless car.

No, that's not a misprint. General Motors, Audi, Volkswagen and BMW are among the manufacturers that envision the day when cars will drive themselves, leaving occupants free to do what's really important in a vehicle: composing text messages and applying makeup. Also hoping to catch a piece of the autonomous car market is none other than Google, whose top geeks have apparently finished compiling information on everything in existence and are now seeking new challenges. Search "driverless car" on YouTube and marvel as Google fellow and former Stanford University professor Sebastian Thrun explains how a prototype car sans driver recently drove 140,000 miles while stopping at toll booths, parallel parking, avoiding deer and even navigating the crooked streets of San Francisco. I've already shown the video to my 14-year-old daughter and said she will face similar tests when she takes driver's education. (Might as well scare her now, right?)



I was disappointed that the video did not show the vehicle in a car-pool situation. My wife and I spend half our waking hours idling in driveways waiting for some kid to emerge from a house carrying a sports bag large enough to hold an acre of AstroTurf. The computer that operates the driverless car needs to know what awaits it. At this year's Auto Show, I plan to seek out the engineers behind this technology and insist that autonomous cars are equipped with appropriate car-pooling features. Among my requests:

The car must be able to "sense" when one of the kids is darting through the house looking for cleats and notify everyone else, via text message, that the car pool is now running eight to ten minutes late. Might as well notify the opposing team, too.

The car must immediately emit a warning light when somebody in the rear seat drops a sandwich, thereby ensuring a cheese slice won't be discovered six months later.

The car must be immune to odors emitted when one occupant decides to remove a piece of equipment, a kneepad for instance, after practice. Until my kids started playing sports, I never realized knees could smell so bad.

The car must receive only one radio station: National Public Radio. With no driver in the front seat, who's going to keep the occupants from reaching forward and blasting the latest single from a foul-mouthed rapper?

Finally, the car must trust its on-board navigational system and not succumb to suggestions from the occupants such as, "Turn left, I mean right, NO LEFT," "I think that's my house" and "You just passed it."

Please notify me when these features are in place. I'll be at the Chevrolet booth, posing for a photo.

How To Annoy Your Parents In Any Language

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

We are driving. In a rental car. In San Juan. Without a GPS. We have exactly one hour to make it to some place called Campo Rico, whose website promises "a variety of adventure and tour options to fulfill everyone's desire, from an impressive zip-lining experience crossing a canyon with waterfalls to a nice and easy hike through a natural coastal dry forest."

We are hoping to experience zip lining for the first time. At this moment, however, there is nothing nice and easy about our excursion. At this moment, I fear our adventure will consist of merely trying to survive at least one night in a snake-infested Puerto Rican jungle after we make a wrong turn. We will be spotted only when some tourist who knew where he was going casually zip lines over a waterfall and says, "Is that a rental car down there?"

My wife has the steering wheel in a death grip while I desperately try to read the directions from our hotel concierge. I would feel more confident if those directions didn't include sentences such as "go through the Minillas Tunnel to Plaza Las Americas Mall" and "you're looking for an unmarked exit." Compounding our troubles is that all the road signs are in Spanish.

I turn to my daughters in the back seat, both of whom are tormented by the idea that, if we do find our destination, they will be forced to relinquish their iPods for a few hours. For that reason, they have their earbuds firmly affixed to their temples, oblivious to our predicament.

"Natalie, you speak Spanish. Help us out here."

"What?"

"TURN OFF THAT STUPID IPOD!!"

"What's your prob, Dad?"

My "prob" was incorrectly assuming my high school freshman daughter could help guide us to Campo Wherever thanks to the recent 'A' she received in her introductory Spanish class. I didn't expect her to carry on lengthy conversations with locals, but she should have at least mastered directional words by now, right?

"The sign says 'oeste.' Is that east or west?"

"I have no idea."

That answers that question.

"What have you learned?" I asked incredulously.

"Cuidar el pez."

"And that means..."

"To take care of your fish."

I feel much better.

When my daughter chose Spanish as one of her school subjects, we were overjoyed. My wife took several years of Spanish in high school, yet, like most Americans, promptly forgot most of it before the ink on her diploma was dry. I opted for German, a language that is useful only if one gets transferred to Munich following college. We vowed not to let our daughter succumb to laziness. We would make sure she retained that second language and spoke it at will, just as seemingly every Latin American citizen can do with English

Now I realize that learning a second language is simply too taxing on an American teenager's brain. What we should have done is re-enrolled her in English, a dialect that is disappearing in U.S. public high schools, replaced by something unknown to me. I do know that high school English is much shorter. Just as my daughter abbreviates nearly every word in every sentence she taps out on her cell phone, so does she compress words when speaking to anyone within earshot. "Problem" becomes "prob," pizza is "peez" and, well, you get the idea. Occasionally I will give her a sentence and ask her to translate it.

"Natalie, say 'The President will be elected in November' in whatever language you speak."

"The prez will be elec in Nove."

Makes a big diff, doesn't it?

I'm hoping this is a phase and that eventually she will retreat to using words that can be found in a standard dictionary. Then she can direct her attention to learning Spanish phrases that don't involve the nurturing of marine life. Until then, I'm resigned to wearing the navigator hat on family excursions.

Suddenly I hear a voice from the back seat, a voice screaming to be heard over her own iPod.

"Te acabas de perder su salida!"

"What does that mean?"

"You just missed your exit."

Now I know why she got an 'A.'

A Super Dilemma only the President Can Solve

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


Dear Mr. President:

I hope this letter reaches you before Feb. 5; if not, simply stick it in the official White House shredder alongside all those memos and suggestions from John Boehner.

I don't need to remind you that Feb. 5 is Super Bowl Sunday. You usually host a viewing party, right? Does Joe Biden get an automatic invitation? Does the first lady only allow healthy snacks or do Hooters wings make a yearly appearance?

It's going to be a great game, sir. Think the commercials will feature talking animals? Football-playing Clydesdales? Sens. Mitch McConnell and Harry Reid standing arm in arm, shilling for Pepsi? Hey, you never know. Remember that Leno/Letterman/Oprah ad?

OK, now let me throw a hypothetical your way. I know your daughters play soccer. Suppose that, a few weeks before kickoff, you received an email stating that one of your kids had a soccer game DURING the Super Bowl? What would you do? And "nuke the coach" is not an answer.

I'm asking because that is the dilemma I'm facing. My 14-year-old daughter plays on a club volleyball team. I'm sure you know these private clubs are big business and require an extensive commitment - from kids and their parents. Her team practices three times a week and plays tournaments nearly every weekend during the winter. Note the nearly part. Some weekends she is free. But on weekends that she does play, her mother and I load her in the SUV and drive her somewhere within a 50-mile radius of our house. Then we pay to get in the door. Now I'm discovering that, on Feb. 5, I will not only pay an admission charge to watch my daughter play volleyball, but miss the year's biggest sporting event in the process.

Mr. President, I have been watching your falling poll numbers and feel you need to do something quick. You need to put health care, the economy, Afghanistan and your reelection campaign on the back burner for one weekend. You need to come out in favor of an issue that everybody - Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians and Michele Bachmann - will stand behind. In short, you need to declare a kids sports moratorium on Super Bowl Sunday!

It would be so easy. Just send a letter to all sports club directors, on official White House stationary, sternly reminding them that the Super Bowl ALWAYS occurs on the first Sunday in February. For emphasis, write "DUH" in the next sentence. Everyone should get the message.

Think about it sir, who wouldn't approve of that? Congressional members seem like football fans, Nancy Pelosi notwithstanding. And most have kids, right? Even your worst political enemies could find themselves in a similar Super Bowl predicament. So could you if your children continue to pursue sports. That's why you need to step in. Sure, there would be some grumblings from out-of-control parents who are living in Dreamland and feel that missing a single tournament will prevent their son or daughter from getting that college scholarship or Olympic gold medal. That's why you need the moratorium. If you close all gymnasiums, private sports clubs, training facilities, aquatic centers and every other establishment that sucks money out of parents, then the playing field is level, correct? If the whole country takes a day off, nobody gets the upper hand.

This little experiment, if successful, might lead to an expansion of the law. Why not just make organized youth sports illegal on Sundays, period? Instead of mom pulling out at 7 a.m. with one kid and Dad leaving five minutes later with another, everybody just sleeps in. Maybe church becomes a bigger priority. Maybe family members could reintroduce themselves to one another while they eat dinner together. Is that so bad?

Please think about it, sir. Time is of the essence. Kickoff will be here before we know it and I just received another email from the volleyball club president.

She's looking for volunteers to set up and take down the nets. On Feb. 5.

The Rise of the Middle-Aged Protester

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC




'Tis the season to look back on the previous 12 months, identify regrets and vow to try something completely different in the coming year.

For me, that means protesting.

I feel I missed a huge opportunity by not once taking to the streets and voicing my frustrations at some injustice that I feel should be corrected. Protesters received all the ink in 2011; "The Protester" was even voted Time Magazine's Person of the Year. In Egypt, protesters toppled a government; at Penn State, they merely toppled a news van.

Still, these protesters caused the world to take notice. They were splashed across magazine covers, appeared on national news shows and became YouTube celebrities. Occasionally they knocked the Kardashians off the front pages, no small feat. Occupy Wall Street protester Tracy Postert even landed a job as a result of her rabble-rousing. True, it was for a financial investment firm, but sometimes protests come with a large dose of irony.

If protesting continues to be chic, I want to be part of it. I could always use the publicity and, if nothing else, it looks like protesting could toughen me up. In New York and Boston, protesters braved freezing temperatures to state their cases. I would have left briefly to purchase a space heater at a nearby Home Depot. If the price were too high, I would have camped out in the parking lot and protested the lack of sale items at this home-improvement retailer.

Here's my dilemma: What to protest? Unlike so many of this earth's inhabitants, 2011 was a fairly uneventful and angst-free year for me. I remained employed, had no major medical issues, invested a little money in the stock market and quickly realized burying it in the backyard would have netted more interest. Nothing made my blood boil enough to set up a tent in a public location and tweet incessantly.

Wait a minute, I take that back. I'm forgetting about my community pool, which closed at 7 every weeknight. 7 p.m.! It used to close at 8. Temperatures around Chicago in July often hover in the 90s at 7 p.m. It's still perfectly light at that time. Whoever made the decision to pull the pool's plug an hour earlier had better be prepared because Occupy Water Park is taking shape, beginning today.

I will contact all the disgruntled soccer moms I met last summer who bemoaned the earlier closing time. I'll also email every haggard dad who just wanted to cool off after a long day at the office, yet had to catch an earlier train to make that possible. On Memorial Day weekend 2012, when the pool officially opens, we will link arms and form an impenetrable fortress that extends the entire width of the shallow end. (The deep end is off limits because nobody wants to tread water while protesting.)

As shocked lifeguards and toddlers look on, we will chant, "WE'RE NOT JOKIN'. KEEP THE POOL OPEN!" When we tire of that, we will switch to "WE HAVE THE POWER TO EXTEND POOL HOURS!" We will tweet about our cause as soon as we find somebody who actually knows what Twitter is.

The Occupy Wall Street movement was criticized for not anointing a spokesman. We will not make that mistake. When the media converge, I will face the cameras and calmly list our demands: 9 o'clock closing and 10 on the weekends; more lounge chairs and at least one additional adult swim. Also, the senior citizen who lounges under the big umbrella every day can no longer wear a Speedo.

We will demand a full accountability of snack-bar monies. Two dollars for a snow cone? It's juice and ice for Pete's sake! We want a freeze on all snack prices until 2013.

Finally, I will announce that we are willing to stay as long as it takes until pool officials come to their senses. Even if we have to stay through Labor Day, we will prevail.

Our kids will just have to live on snow cones until then.