Jay Clark's Blog

Does anyone else’s child refuse to listen to anything but Maroon 5 in the car? What about only one song from Maroon 5? The one featuring SZA? Thank god I’m not alone!

My guess is there are only 2 or 3 of us listening to What Lovers Do on repeat on our way to daycare (and back), but that doesn’t make it any less of a serious problem of our own creation.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the song What Lovers Do the first 5,634 times I listened to it. That’s why I asked Alexa to play it for my baby girl, every night, for our dorky family dance party. (Am I still allowed to call her my baby if she’s ruling my life? Make that my 19-month-old.) Anyway, my daughter fell in love, too. And apparently when she falls for a song, she falls HARD. And she NEVER LETS GO.

I know what some of you are thinking. YOU’RE the adult, Jay. You’re supposed to assert YOUR will. Are you scared to let your itty-bitty 20-pound radio ruler know who's boss? Hey, I hear you. But you haven’t heard my daughter. She’s really loud. And committed. And, yes, scary. Scary is a good word for her.

She does this thing where she’ll slam her head back into whatever’s behind her regardless of how dangerous and then NEVER learn her lesson even when she hurts herself. As a parent, that’s a real head scratcher/pounder. How do I prevent that? Without looking like a monster or a psych ward restrainer? And if I ever don’t prevent it, heaven forbid, wish me luck explaining it in a responsible-sounding way to the doctor.

So I play the song on repeat.

The only acceptable substitute to my girl is complete silence and a bag of Froot Loops. Then, and only then, she’s content. Otherwise, it’s SERIOUSLY, DADDY, PLAY THE SONG, OR ELSE. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, now, baby!”

I haven’t given up hope. I continue to try different songs. Each time they’re met with an indignant WAHHHHYOUCANNOTBESERIOUSPLAYTHESONG!

But mark my lyrics. Some day, approximately 18 years from now, I will be free to listen to something else!

Studies have shown that newborns pretty much just poop/pee, sleep, cry, or eat. Sometimes simultaneously. Oh, I almost forgot spit-up/vomit. These are my studies, BTW. Based on a statistically insignificant sample size of one significantly adorable infant subject (Georgie Clark), yet still no less revolutionary.

Before I share my other initial findings, could you hand me that burp cloth that’s always on the opposite side of the room from wherever I'm sitting? Thanks, you’re a shirt-saver!

Anyway, where was I? That’s right, my studies. They’re also showing that my particular newborn is capable of one extra thing: tricking Daddy. Yes, you have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool me. So that’s what she does every day, usually around 4am. But I’m onto her.

Here are the 5 Daddy-proof tricks that have worked every time thus far:

1. The “Are you crazy, Daddy? Of course I don’t want my binkie!” trick

The setup: Baby rejects binkie multiple times to make Daddy think, ‘Ah-ha! I have no idea what she wants again.’ Daddy offers her the ba-ba, just in case she’s still hungry. The ba-ba is the last thing on earth she wants right now, stop it, Daddy!! Daddy tries binkie again even though he’s 99% sure she’ll spit it out.

The punchline: Baby accepts binkie and naps for 3 hours. Ha!

2. The “I pooped – time to change me right now, Daddy, I’m not getting any younger!” trick

The setup: Baby makes a definitive tooting/pooping sound so loud that Daddy surmises, ‘Holy ****. There couldn’t possibly be anything left in her system.’ Baby begins fussing like diaper is 100% full and she’d do anything to be clean again. Daddy takes baby to changing table, removes diaper, and sees only a small streak of poo-poo. Uh-oh.

The punchline: Daddy gets pooped on. A lot. So much for that changing pad cover, too. Ha!

3. The “I hate my swaddle, give me my arms back!!!” trick

The setup: It’s bedtime. Baby acts tired enough that Daddy thinks, ‘Aww, she looks so sweet and incapable of having a meltdown when she’s in an irreversible milk coma – must be swaddle time.’ Once gently placed in swaddle, baby becomes more wide-eyed and alert than she’s been the entire day and proceeds to struggle as if being tortured.

The punchline: Daddy feels guilty about not letting his own child move freely. Who does he think he is, God? Just when he’s about to report himself to Child Services … baby peacefully falls asleep.

4. The “I don’t have to burp!!” trick

How the trick works: Baby does not see the point in being burped because, helloooo, she doesn’t have a burp in her system, Daddy. Meanwhile, baby is still hungry so she starts to CRYRYRYRYRYRYWAAAAAAAHHHHHH—

The payoff: —WAAAAAAHHHBLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEURRRRRP. Baby had to burp, after all. Ha!

5. The “Woohoo, I love me some tummy time” trick

The setup: Baby thoroughly enjoys her first 30 seconds of tummy time. Might even be her new favorite post-womb experience. She’s practically showing off – look how strong her neck is! ‘She’s gotta be in the 99th percentile for Neck Strength,’ Daddy deduces proudly. Baby really seems to like the Mozart music Daddy’s playing, too. Baby is grateful that Daddy put her in this position.

The payoff: Baby suddenly finds this horrible position that Daddy put her in COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE, WHAT IS HAPPENING, WHYYY IS DADDY SO MEAN, WAAAAAAAAAH. Okay, phew, it’s over, Daddy picked her up, never mind, false alarm. Ha!

Any more cute-but-evil baby tricks I should be aware of? Post them in the comments before it’s too late!

And could you hand me that burp cloth on top of the ceiling fan? Sorry, I have no idea how it got there.

Call me crazy, but I'm not one to take advantage of celebrity perks. I’m one to declare myself a celebrity-by-association and watch the perks fall into my lap. There's a difference. And also a sameness.

Who do I think I am, exactly? I’m John Green’s Alleged Long-Lost Cousin (JGALLC), to be exact. And ever since I kicked off this (awesomely bad) publicity stunt a month or so ago for the second or third time, people have been treating me the way I deserve to be treated: like Alleged Cousin Royalty.

Here are a few examples of my recent red carpet treatments courtesy of John Green's coattails:

- Just this morning I was trying to merge onto a freakishly busy highway when a star-struck guy in an SUV impatiently honked on his horn and slammed on his brakes to let me through. If not for my status as JGALLC, I’d probably be (a celebrity) at the bottom of a cliff right now.

- Also this morning: an Amazon distributor offered me a free pair of underwear in exchange for an honest review that's positive enough to net me more free stuff. Which reminds me that I need to change my Amazon username to John_Green’s_Alleged_Long-Lost_Cousin. If that one's not available, I’ll go with TheRealJohnGreensAllegedCousin. Regardless, I'm looking forward to completing this low-priority task while wearing a complimentary pair of gray boxer-briefs.

- This past Tuesday the lady in front of me at Starbucks paid for my drink — coincidence, or did she recognize the John Greenish gleam of nerdy awesomeness I was forcing into my eye? Who knows, but my free trente cold brew was delicious.

- A cop pulled me over for (alleged!) speeding a few weeks ago, but thank G John Green's my alleged cousin, because I was able to allege my way out of it like a true faux-celebrity. I also blamed the ravenous appetite of my then-pregnant wife for the temporary uptick in MPH and the cop’s wife happened to be pregnant, too … but still, my Green-given fame was palpable throughout.

- I was getting a library card the other day and — I swear I’m not just saying this — the librarian was being a weeeeee bit more helpful to me than everyone else in line. There was no one else in line at the time — I’ll give you that — but I suspect that made the alleged John Green pheromones on my skin all the more publicly intoxicating.

- During my daily run it seems like every time I jog past someone — usually a Golden Retriever — they turn their head as if they recognize me from (a best-selling book jacket) somewhere. Am I famous, or woof?

My wife and I are going to have our baby ANY DAY NOW. Well, she is. I’m going to hunch over her bedside and whisper supportive-nothings into her ear. Things like, “Sorry, honey, wow, oh jeeeezy, did that one hurt?” and “What’s that? You hate everything about me right now? I get it, but I love you.” and “Aw, $**#, what was that? I’ll buy you a David Yurman bracelet to make up for it!”

And that's not all. I'll also be politely declining to cut the cord. Sounds like I’ll have my hands full, too.

This baby has other ideas about the delivery day proceedings, though. Ideas like, “Sorry, guys, NOT GONNA HAPPEN.” Nope, it’s in absolutely no rush to abdicate its parasitic throne inside Mommy’s body, which is giving Daddy a lot more time to do what Daddy does best: Create a paranoia loop inside my head.

Here are a few of the what-if’s I’m mulling over:

- What if I ruin the baby?
- What if I can’t figure out the car seat and we never get to take the baby home — it just has to live in the hospital gift shop forever as a cautionary car seat mascot?
- What if I look away for one second and that’s all it takes for the baby to vanish into a Mary Higgins Clark novel?
- What if the baby takes one peek-a-boo at Daddy and says to himself/herself: “NEXT!!!”?
- What if the baby is a boy? Or a girl? Or, just as I’ve suspected all along, an alien?
- What if it’s a Golden Retriever? (Yay!)
- What if we choose the wrong name and the baby has to go through an awkward name change process at the tender age of 18 months?
- What if I quickly get the hang of the baby and start giving out smug parenting advice to innocent bystanders at Babies R Us (“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice you’re purchasing the wrong Boppy pillow.”)?
- What if I start posting pictures of the baby on Facebook and I get a big head about it being showered with what I eagerly describe to anyone who’ll listen as "international baby adoration"?
- What if the baby doesn’t get the baby modeling contract it deserves?
- What if I’m tired for the rest of my life?
- What if I can’t complain about being tired because Mommy always has me beat in that department?
- What if I love the baby so much that it feels like I’m going to die from love but at the same time I have to make myself invincible because the baby needs me?
- What if somebody drops the baby and then, after confirming the baby’s okay, I have to body slam them so they can see what it feels like and then do it again for emphasis while yelling, "NOT SO FUN IS IT, FUMBLE FINGERS?"
- What if I’m a tad too overprotective?
- What if I forget to put sunscreen on the baby and then the baby comes back from our walk looking like a sad, neglected baby lobster?
- What if my bod turns into a Dad bod and I start making self-deprecating Dad jokes about it (“Who wants to see Big Daddy’s 1-Pack?!”)?
- What if the baby questions the legitimacy of my being John Green’s long-lost cousin?
- What if this baby is the best thing that ever happens to us?

My parents announced they were splitting up when I was in fifth grade, and I handled it with a delusional awkwardness beyond my years. I started fixating on weird things. Things like convincing myself I was slowly turning into an X-Man and it wouldn’t be long till my special powers kicked in and I became a danger to myself and others.

And watching Beethoven’s 2nd a lot.

And playing indoor volleyball with the wall of our living room while watching Beethoven’s 2nd.

I also developed a very serious made-up medical problem with my nose. Suddenly, it was no longer an acceptable member of my face. There was nothing wrong with my nose, and yet my GUT was telling me differently. It was saying, “Something’s off about your nostrils, DO SOMETHING!” It also said there was a solution.

My gut's solution was this: FLARE YOUR NOSTRILS — IT LOOKS BETTER.

(Sometimes one’s gut subconsciously wants one’s nose to look like a St. Bernard’s, so don’t always trust that f'er!)

But I was vulnerable at the time — desperate for control over something, anything — so I took my gut’s word at face value. I decided that when I flared my nostrils, presto-change-o, my nose problem did indeed disappear. Like magic. Or like a poor man's X-Man superpower.

Now all I had to do was remember to flare my nostrils at all times until people came to the conclusion that, oh, yeah, of course this had been my real nose all along.

Did I forget all about it?

Nope, I vividly remembered!

If I was having a conversation with someone other than the volleyball wall, then that meant my nostrils did not leave their expanded position. I was really dedicated. What I can’t recall is whether anyone asked me the obvious: Why are you doing that with your nostrils please stop it??? If so, their feedback would’ve been barely received. There was no stopping me from keeping the ill-self-advised momentum going.

Right up until School Picture Day.

When it was my turn to grin and bear it, I marched up to the photographer’s booth, plopped down on the seat, grinned … and flared it. The flash flashed, the lens snapped, and the photographer gave me a thumbs-up like we’d captured ourselves a 5th-grade keeper. (This was back in ancient delayed-gratification times, before things went digital.)

When I got the pictures back, there it was: my enhanced nose, flaring across my face like a possessed Pterodactyl soaring toward its prey. And that was when I had an epiphany: I was one. Handsome. FUTURE X-MAN!!!

The more I looked at the picture, the more all the wrong light bulbs went off inside my head.

It took a Christmas tree bulb to get me back on track. We were making ornaments for our parents in class one day, and I kept staring at my picture against the shiny-red bulb, and … hmm. The embarrassment was starting to click into place, but not all the way because I still gave that freak ornament to my parents.

Nowadays, if you’re ever in a position to sneak around to the backside of my tree — GET OUT OF THERE!! — you’ll see the three of us (my nostrils and me) wishing you a Merry Christmas.


What about you? Yes, you! Any embarrassing school pic moments you want to overshare? By all means, out-embarrass me in the comments section!

Dear Goodreaders: I thought it might be fun to revisit the voice of none other than Jay Baker -- the awkward protagonist of my first novel, The Edumacation of Jay Baker. As an esteemed handful of you might remember, Jay B. started a blog at book’s end. Below is his latest entry.

Jay Baker here. Hey, stranger. It’s been an eon, sorry, I’ve been really busy still-sucking-at-tennis and having a real human girlfriend. Yep, a year later and Caroline Richardson is ALL MINE. When she isn’t at home with her dad, that is, haha, right, Mr. Richardson?

(Side note: Mr. Richardson reads this blog with a fine-tooth comb. I know this because yesterday he put his arm around me and said, “Jay Baker. I read your latest blog with my fine-tooth comb. Too many pop culture references. Who the hell is Anna Kendrick and why should I give a flying foosball?”)

Everyone’s a critic.

But not everyone would brush my hair with his actual fine-tooth comb afterward for emphasis and then challenge me to a game of foosball.

“That’s my dad for you,” is how Caroline explained it during our four allotted minutes of parentally unsupervised time together.

"Easy for you to say with your hair up in a bun,” I pointed out.

“True."

"Maybe I should start wearing my mange in a man-bun.”

Caroline shrugged and ran her fingers through my hair like, hmm, that could turn out to be a good decision…or a terrible one? I should let my best friend Cameo Appearance Parnell be the tiebreaker. Cam has really strong opinions about unimportant topics, and I mean that in that best possible shallow way.

“Do you care if I let Cameo be the tiebreaker?” I asked Caroline.

“I was just going to suggest that,” she said. And that, my friends, is one of the million reasons she’s too good for me.

So what else is new with Jay Baker? Still eating a lot of Pop-Tarts. Still doing the Dew on the reg. Still saying on the reg, I guess. Still rocking this sexy IBS-D medical condition. Oh, yeah, my dad bought me a Honda Civic today. Really nice of him. I’m grateful, I really am. No complaints. #Blessed. A car’s a car.

The only problem with this particular car that is now mine—I don’t think we can take it back???—is the color.

It’s teal.

Yes, I didn’t have to make a million Oreo Blizzards at Dairy Queen to buy it with my own money, that’s a fair point, but did I mention that IT’S A TEAL CAR THAT I WILL BE DRIVING TO A SCHOOL I ATTEND WITH MY JUDGMENTAL PEERS?

I have a hard enough time taking myself seriously—now I’m supposed to be serious in my tealmobile?

“Wait till you get a load of my new used teal car,” I texted Cameo.

“Did you say teal? TEXT ME A PICTURE,” she replied back immediately.

So I did, and Cameo said it reminded her of the Mediterranean Ocean.

“You know the Mediterranean’s a Sea, right?” I asked.

"I’m not a big fan of labels,” she said.

"Or geographical accuracy?"

"When in Rome … which I hear is near the
Mediterranean Ocean."

Cameo could go on this texting tangent forever, so I better change the subject back to what it was originally.

“What am I going to do about this teal car?”

"You’re … going to drive me to school tomorrow,” Cameo texted. "With sunglasses on so no one knows it’s you. I’ll sit in the back with my hand blocking my face, like I’m Ms. Daisy’s embarrassed granddaughter.”

“You’re a genius,” I replied. "By the way, should I start wearing my hair in a man-bun?

“Don’t you mean your Josh Groban curls?” Cameo said.

“What are you talking about, they’re not Josh Gro—I’ll raise them uuuuuuuup...”

I texted her a pic of my bun in the raised position. She told me to put it back in the oven and set the temp to OMG HAHAHAHA.

Like I was saying, everyone’s a critic.


Click "Like" if you'd like to hear more from Jay Baker. Click "Nothing" if you want me to go back to being Jay Clark.

Getting people to care about stuff is hard. Getting them to care about your book? Haaaaaard, oh, MAN, it’s so hard. Not that I’m complaining. How could I when I’m so busy planning the below awesomely bad book publicity stunts for Finding Mr. Brightside?

In fact, if these ideas don’t cannonball the FMB paperback straight to the top of the NYT best-seller’s list, then that makes a lot of sense ... but it ain’t over till the guy dressed up in the foam book costume sings outside of Barnes & Noble (see idea 2).

1. Challenge readers to a game of “Strip Author,” whereby every time they buy a copy of Finding Mr. Brightside, I remove an article of clothing.
Pros:
-Shirtlessness sells—gawk no further than Channing Tatum!
-No such thing as bad publicity (?)
-I’ll still respect myself in the morning
Cons:
-Would need to layer up to prolong the inevitable, and I get hot easily
-Are my abs more Magic Dork than Mike?

2. Dress up in a foam book costume and flag down cars in front of bookstore. Dive or sing if necessary. Something like: “Come take a ride with Finding Mr. Brightside. Then let me teach you the electric slide.” This sounds more like a rap, but stay tuned.
Pros:
-Everyone loves a gimmick made of foam and paint chemicals
-Has Pitbull cameo written all over it
-Good karma from other books sold besides mine
Cons:
-Turning myself into possible hit-and-run victim
-Potential to be arrested and charged with Unnecessary Self-Embarrassment in a Public Forum

3. Lie down in grass, call someone important at my publishing house (e.g., the directory robot lady), and talk loudly about the importance of grassroots marketing.

Pros:
-Strong word of mouth
-It’s all about networking, baby
-Vitamin D if the sun’s out
Cons:
-Ants in pants
-Possible spider sightings
-Feels like it’s been done before but the author didn't utilize the grass/grassroots irony in a blog

4. Increase how fast I talk, wear glasses, and pretend I’m a cousin of John Green—the fact that we’re both authors is just a crazy coincidence, it’s like The Parent Trap all over again!

Pros:
-Who doesn’t love John Green’s mysterious cousin?
-Industry types will respect me for keeping this quiet and trying to make it on my own first

Cons:
-May eventually require John Green's cooperation
-Swirl of controversy and televised cousin-confirming blood test may overshadow the book itself

5. Create no-budget Vine videos with my mom to reach an untapped market of "readers" who just happen to be taking a break from books to watch videos over and over again, as if in a trance.

Pros:
-Proven mother/son track record that dates back to grade-school candy sales
-Four words: Mom’s Cousin Itt impersonation
-The kitchen sink doesn’t fall far from the tree, and Mom and I can take turns throwing it

Cons:
-Logistics: Mom lives an hour away and won’t travel in snowy weather, … as well as most other types of weather
-Already tried this with minimal interest on the part of Vine viewers

What about you, my friends? Got any awesomely bad publicity stunts for me to try? I'm all ears underneath this foam book costume.

Yours allegedly,

John Green's cousin, Jay

1. Write “Sorry I’m not John Green, haha!” in someone’s perfectly adequate Jay Clark book.

2. Get Starbucks on someone’s book and then pretend it’s on purpose because of all the Starbucks references in Finding Mr. Brightside.

3. Remember that Importance of Eye Contact article I read once on a terrible website — Forbes.com, maybe? — and then stare aggressively into the irises of an innocent customer.

4. Draw a smiley face that doesn’t look very happy and then overcompensate by giving it hair, ears, and an inappropriate tongue, all the while wishing I could delete it. :/

5. Mistake a browsing customer for a fan — “Hey, you, thanks for coming!!!” — and force them to take a selfie with me.

6. Secretly consume a Clif Bar like an up-to-no-good hyena between social interactions because I didn’t eat enough for lunch.

7. Get Clif Bar chocolate on my pants and try to dab it away using the watery sweat from my Starbucks cup.