They say kids eventually turn into their parents. Or is it that boys turn into their dads? I have had a sneak preview via a week long visit to Florida to see my parental units. I have great concern. Don’t get me wrong. I have great parents and I love them to death. They did well – I’m not too bad of a human specimen. True, I can never run for public office, but I’m okay with that.
The old man is eighty years old, has recovered from prostate cancer, has arthritis everywhere, has numb hands 90% of the time and is rehabbing from hip replacement surgery (if you call sitting around doing crossword puzzles rehabbing). I figure he has earned the right to be a dick when he wants to. He is really a charming, sweet man. But he can be cranky too. My mom casually said in passing, “your dad isn’t oriented to be friendly.” Nice job dad – you have a hall pass to be an ass because you supposedly aren’t oriented any other way. Genius.
I try to help out with more complicated and difficult tasks around the house when I visit. For example, my parents were grateful for my light bulb changing skills that require my 6’-2” height since they don’t own a ladder.
By the way, I’m six-three when I stand up straight and six-four in heels. I don’t really wear heels but I love it when women give their height in heels. I might start saying I’m six-six in roller skates and seven-ten when I stand on a chair. I don’t have any roller skates either, but I think they are more interesting than roller blades.
Anyway, another neat project I got to do was help spread ten bags of lava rock over some new landscaping in the backyard. Sixty five additional bags later and I think the job will be done with a mere five more bags. My mom ended up expanding the project and my dad sucks at estimating lava rock square footage.
My dad microwaves his ice cream.
One of the highlights of the trip was the cocktail party. My parents invited thirty neighbors and indicated the party would start at 5:30pm. At 5:30 sharp, thirty people paraded in the front door. It was like a runway show of bright non-matching colors, pants pulled over the belly button, combed over hair on the men, fuzzy high hair on the ladies, enough makeup to cover all the women in Pennsyltucky, lots of air kisses, and a slew of clammy frail crooked old people hands that I was afraid of crushing.
I found it ironic that the youngest of the guests was in his late fifties and was in the worst physical state. He was using a walker because he has Lou Gerhig’s Disease. The guy will likely be gone in the next couple years. Which is another example of why I have learned to not ask where anybody in particular is every year at these parties. If they aren’t there, it usually means they died.
On a brighter note, I didn’t find anything ironic about the guy in khaki shorts sitting on a folding chair totally spread eagle with his hands on his knees and his head bowed down in exhausted submission while his wife Bertie poured another glass of wine. His legs were spread so far apart it was comical. The lack of irony was that his name is Dick. Perfect.
Normally these parties end in two hours flat. But this time, the last few stragglers, including Dick and his frozen flashing of his package stuck around until 9:30pm!! I thought my parents were going to die of exhaustion. 9:30pm around here equates to staying out til 4am for the rest of us.
I was supposed to be on a flight home right now. But my wife got so sick that she can’t travel. The next flight we can get isn’t until Friday evening. Many people would be happy to be stuck in Florida for an extra two days. Those people haven’t spent a week already with their parents, have a sick zombie for a wife and have to deal with hyper little boys.
I told the little guys we are staying two extra days. They asked if we can stay forever. I asked them why they want their parents and grandparents to all go insane. They ignored me and jumped back into the pool. And then asked if we can go to the beach tomorrow.
It is 3:15pm here. Dinner is probably in about an hour. Which justifies the booze I’m about to consume. Hold me.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Walk of Shame
I could use a little levity attached to my humility. Today, I realized what the new Walk of Shame means to me. The old Walk of Shame is well defined by my good friend Wikipedia:
Although many contest the authenticity of the term, the Walk of Shame in much of the western world, usually refers to a phenomenon in which a person must walk past strangers or peers alone for an embarrassing reason before reaching a place of privacy. Most commonly, it occurs the morning after a night out at a bar, dance club, or party. People undertaking the Walk of Shame are understood to have spent the night at the house, apartment, or dorm of a sexual partner (or perceived sexual partner), particularly a one night stand. Due to this, he or she can be recognized by the fact that he or she is still wearing the clothes that he or she wore the night before, has disheveled "bed head" hair or "sex hair." He or she may also smell like cigarettes and/or alcohol, and may suffer from a hangover due to excessive alcohol or drug intake from the previous night. A woman might have smudged makeup on her face. Particularly embarrassing is the post-Halloween Walk of Shame where people head home still wearing their costumes from the night before.
I admit I have gone on a few Walks of Shame in my time. Years have passed since the last one. Until yesterday. I had a Walk of Shame, here at the office.
There are two bathrooms in our office. One is upstairs, toward the back, close to my desk. That bathroom, my desk and an IT closet are the only things back here on the second floor. The only way in and out of the back is down a long catwalk, past two other desks and down the stairs.
The other bathroom is on the first floor, in the back, past six other desks. Note the total number of desks one must pass if one were to walk from the upstairs bathroom to the downstairs bathroom – eight. Eight desks that are very often occupied by eight people.
I try to avoid dropping the kids off at the pool from the office. In other words, I don’t poop much at work. But every now and then, a man has gotta do what a man has gotta do.
So yesterday, I took a poop in the upstairs bathroom. It was phenomenal. I don’t know what I consumed the day before, but this was relief, let me tell ya. I did my deed and flushed the toilet. Unfortunately, the porcelain gods were unwilling to accept my sacrifice and the toilet bowl began to fill up with water. I wiggled the handle and frantically searched for the water cutoff while I prayed for it to stop before it overflowed. Luckily it stopped before flooding.
So then I had a full clogged up toilet. Nothing a plunger wouldn't take care of with a couple pumps. Easy, right? Well, the effing plunger was in the downstairs bathroom.
It was mid-morning and other people use the back bathroom. Everybody was in the office. It seemed as if everybody had giant multi-gallon water bottles on their desk, sure to cause frequent pee stops.
I had no choice but to retrieve the plunger from the downstairs back bathroom. I strolled down there nonchalantly, trying not to make any eye contact or small talk. Unfortunately I never really use that bathroom. This made it a little curious as to why I’d go in there, particularly if anyone was remotely paying attention.
I got the plunger and started my Walk of Shame back upstairs. There is no possible way to hide a plunger. You can't put it under your shirt or down your pants. I tried to hold it parallel to my right leg, out of sight from the desks on the left. Newsflash - my leg is not shaped like a plunger, even if I were to wear bell bottoms. I got all the way to the third desk before I caught the look of curiosity, recognition, and sheer joy from the occupant of that desk. She started laughing, causing occupants of desks one through six to see what the commotion was about.
I thereby held the plunger proudly over my head and let out a big woot-woot as I picked up my pace and bounded upstairs. Where I passed two more desks with curious occupants that then burst out in laughter.
I completed my Walk of Shame with my dignity stashed somewhere in the sewers of Colorado.
And then I added a second plunger to the office supplies shopping list.
Although many contest the authenticity of the term, the Walk of Shame in much of the western world, usually refers to a phenomenon in which a person must walk past strangers or peers alone for an embarrassing reason before reaching a place of privacy. Most commonly, it occurs the morning after a night out at a bar, dance club, or party. People undertaking the Walk of Shame are understood to have spent the night at the house, apartment, or dorm of a sexual partner (or perceived sexual partner), particularly a one night stand. Due to this, he or she can be recognized by the fact that he or she is still wearing the clothes that he or she wore the night before, has disheveled "bed head" hair or "sex hair." He or she may also smell like cigarettes and/or alcohol, and may suffer from a hangover due to excessive alcohol or drug intake from the previous night. A woman might have smudged makeup on her face. Particularly embarrassing is the post-Halloween Walk of Shame where people head home still wearing their costumes from the night before.
I admit I have gone on a few Walks of Shame in my time. Years have passed since the last one. Until yesterday. I had a Walk of Shame, here at the office.
There are two bathrooms in our office. One is upstairs, toward the back, close to my desk. That bathroom, my desk and an IT closet are the only things back here on the second floor. The only way in and out of the back is down a long catwalk, past two other desks and down the stairs.
The other bathroom is on the first floor, in the back, past six other desks. Note the total number of desks one must pass if one were to walk from the upstairs bathroom to the downstairs bathroom – eight. Eight desks that are very often occupied by eight people.
I try to avoid dropping the kids off at the pool from the office. In other words, I don’t poop much at work. But every now and then, a man has gotta do what a man has gotta do.
So yesterday, I took a poop in the upstairs bathroom. It was phenomenal. I don’t know what I consumed the day before, but this was relief, let me tell ya. I did my deed and flushed the toilet. Unfortunately, the porcelain gods were unwilling to accept my sacrifice and the toilet bowl began to fill up with water. I wiggled the handle and frantically searched for the water cutoff while I prayed for it to stop before it overflowed. Luckily it stopped before flooding.
So then I had a full clogged up toilet. Nothing a plunger wouldn't take care of with a couple pumps. Easy, right? Well, the effing plunger was in the downstairs bathroom.
It was mid-morning and other people use the back bathroom. Everybody was in the office. It seemed as if everybody had giant multi-gallon water bottles on their desk, sure to cause frequent pee stops.
I had no choice but to retrieve the plunger from the downstairs back bathroom. I strolled down there nonchalantly, trying not to make any eye contact or small talk. Unfortunately I never really use that bathroom. This made it a little curious as to why I’d go in there, particularly if anyone was remotely paying attention.
I got the plunger and started my Walk of Shame back upstairs. There is no possible way to hide a plunger. You can't put it under your shirt or down your pants. I tried to hold it parallel to my right leg, out of sight from the desks on the left. Newsflash - my leg is not shaped like a plunger, even if I were to wear bell bottoms. I got all the way to the third desk before I caught the look of curiosity, recognition, and sheer joy from the occupant of that desk. She started laughing, causing occupants of desks one through six to see what the commotion was about.
I thereby held the plunger proudly over my head and let out a big woot-woot as I picked up my pace and bounded upstairs. Where I passed two more desks with curious occupants that then burst out in laughter.
I completed my Walk of Shame with my dignity stashed somewhere in the sewers of Colorado.
And then I added a second plunger to the office supplies shopping list.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
This Is For The Birds
Tuesday was a beautiful day, so I said ‘fuck it’ and left the office. I drove about a half hour away to Castlewood Canyon just southeast of Denver. It is a small state park area that has nice hiking trails both in the canyon next to the creek and high up above on the rim. I usually do a loop so I get the best of both trails. But on Tuesday I felt the urge to get some altitude so I could look down upon my world from afar. I took the rim rock trail and found a nice perch upon a rocky ledge hanging over the canyon.
I sat there, among the dusty rock and cacti, admiring the forested horizon and snowcapped mountains rising dimly in the background. I already felt more alive. The fresh air and smells of the outdoors made me smile in a trance.
Suddenly there was a loud whooshing sound, like a freight train barreling through the air. It startled me out of my haze and I leaned forward to look over the cliff edge for the source of the strange noise.
I was greeted by this guy. He isn’t easy to see because my best friend Steve Jobs didn’t design the camera feature of the iPhone to do beautiful zoom in moving wildlife shots in fluctuating afternoon light.
I’m talking about the bird, soaring on the right. It is a turkey buzzard. There were four or five flying around the valley, but this guy was circling around me. I pulled a picture from the tri-dub so you can see how ugly these fuckers are. Check out that mug.
It is amazing how such an ugly headed creature can be beautiful soaring through the air looking for snakes and marmots to shred apart to their bloody innards for a tasty meal.
The ugly bird rose above the cliff edge and hovered in the wind staring at me. He looked like he had something to say, so I said, “What up bird?”
For some reason I wasn’t surprised when he replied, “Hey dude. Whatchya doing on my rocks?”
I figure if the Toucan from Froot Loops, Big Bird from Sesame Street, and my dead grandma’s old parrot can all talk, why can’t some turkey buzzard talk too?
I eye-balled him right back and said, “I didn’t know these are your rocks. Plus, I’ve been here before and never had any problems with any Turkey Bastards before.”
“You mean Turkey Buzzard, you loser.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, bird. I was just enjoying the beautiful outdoors and didn’t feel like being confronted by anyone. And why am I a loser? You are the one with the miniscule head and orangutan butt face.”
“I know, there isn’t a dermatologist around that can help. It’s this damn Colorado dry air. I fly through it all day long and it is brutal on my face. They won’t take me at the Broadmoor’s spa because I like to crap on their golf course greens and then there was that incident with a guest’s poodle, but hell, I was starving and everything out here just tastes like chicken.”
“Right, and why am I the loser?”
“As I was dive bombing on a field mouse, I saw you wearing your Cubs hat. Hasn’t it been 101 years since they last won a World Series?”
“Shut your beak, mister. It is good to have faith.”
Suddenly the giant feathered flying rat flapped off in the wind. He circled into a tighter spiral as he got close to the ground in the valley far below me. I peered over the cliff edge and saw him catch some kind of rodent. Somehow this reminded me how hungry I was. The turkey buzzard appeared to finish his snack and again took flight. He majestically soared through the air, circling closer to me on each pass. He finally returned, hovering in front of me again.
“Geez, you slob. You have chipmunk guts on your head. Are you saving those for later?”
“Actually yes, my friend with faith. See that beautiful soaring beast with half a snake dangling in her talons? She will eat this right off my sexy body. I purposely put those intestinal chunks right on my...”
“Whoa there! You really are a dirty bird. I don’t want to know what you do in your love nest. I dunno bird. You turkey buzzards are like seeing a supposedly hot gal from a block away. As you get closer, it becomes clear the situation was good from far, far from good.”
“Beauty is within. I admit, I’m not a good wingman, but I do alright with the ladies. If all else fails, I’ll lavish them in bloody rabbit or even pre-chewed rocky mountain trout. You should try it sometime.”
“Hmm, well I do know someone that loves farm animals, so I guess I could see how that might work out for you.”
“So, friend with faith, we understand each other then?”
“Yes, bird, we do. I knew the great outdoors would refresh me. And I knew it would remind me to always have faith, no matter what. Thank you for not pooping on me from the sky and for helping me remember to always believe. You are a good egg, my dirty bird friend.”
The turkey buzzard soared off toward his ho and I settled back into a nature trance. The clouds started moving in and the air got brisk. My stomach was rumbling and rodent guts didn’t seem appetizing. Speaking of buzzards, just then my cell phone buzzed. It was a good friend (speaking of hoes).
.
I normally would admonish anybody mixing nature with cell phones. But when hiking alone, it is particularly good to have a way to reach civilization; especially if you get attacked by a mountain lion, black bear, or rabbit (it’s just a flesh wound…). My afternoon with the turkey buzzard was awesome. And to finish it off, I hiked out alone laughing my ass off with a friend.
What a beautiful day. What a beautiful life.
I sat there, among the dusty rock and cacti, admiring the forested horizon and snowcapped mountains rising dimly in the background. I already felt more alive. The fresh air and smells of the outdoors made me smile in a trance.
Suddenly there was a loud whooshing sound, like a freight train barreling through the air. It startled me out of my haze and I leaned forward to look over the cliff edge for the source of the strange noise.
I was greeted by this guy. He isn’t easy to see because my best friend Steve Jobs didn’t design the camera feature of the iPhone to do beautiful zoom in moving wildlife shots in fluctuating afternoon light.
I’m talking about the bird, soaring on the right. It is a turkey buzzard. There were four or five flying around the valley, but this guy was circling around me. I pulled a picture from the tri-dub so you can see how ugly these fuckers are. Check out that mug.
It is amazing how such an ugly headed creature can be beautiful soaring through the air looking for snakes and marmots to shred apart to their bloody innards for a tasty meal.
The ugly bird rose above the cliff edge and hovered in the wind staring at me. He looked like he had something to say, so I said, “What up bird?”
For some reason I wasn’t surprised when he replied, “Hey dude. Whatchya doing on my rocks?”
I figure if the Toucan from Froot Loops, Big Bird from Sesame Street, and my dead grandma’s old parrot can all talk, why can’t some turkey buzzard talk too?
I eye-balled him right back and said, “I didn’t know these are your rocks. Plus, I’ve been here before and never had any problems with any Turkey Bastards before.”
“You mean Turkey Buzzard, you loser.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, bird. I was just enjoying the beautiful outdoors and didn’t feel like being confronted by anyone. And why am I a loser? You are the one with the miniscule head and orangutan butt face.”
“I know, there isn’t a dermatologist around that can help. It’s this damn Colorado dry air. I fly through it all day long and it is brutal on my face. They won’t take me at the Broadmoor’s spa because I like to crap on their golf course greens and then there was that incident with a guest’s poodle, but hell, I was starving and everything out here just tastes like chicken.”
“Right, and why am I the loser?”
“As I was dive bombing on a field mouse, I saw you wearing your Cubs hat. Hasn’t it been 101 years since they last won a World Series?”
“Shut your beak, mister. It is good to have faith.”
Suddenly the giant feathered flying rat flapped off in the wind. He circled into a tighter spiral as he got close to the ground in the valley far below me. I peered over the cliff edge and saw him catch some kind of rodent. Somehow this reminded me how hungry I was. The turkey buzzard appeared to finish his snack and again took flight. He majestically soared through the air, circling closer to me on each pass. He finally returned, hovering in front of me again.
“Geez, you slob. You have chipmunk guts on your head. Are you saving those for later?”
“Actually yes, my friend with faith. See that beautiful soaring beast with half a snake dangling in her talons? She will eat this right off my sexy body. I purposely put those intestinal chunks right on my...”
“Whoa there! You really are a dirty bird. I don’t want to know what you do in your love nest. I dunno bird. You turkey buzzards are like seeing a supposedly hot gal from a block away. As you get closer, it becomes clear the situation was good from far, far from good.”
“Beauty is within. I admit, I’m not a good wingman, but I do alright with the ladies. If all else fails, I’ll lavish them in bloody rabbit or even pre-chewed rocky mountain trout. You should try it sometime.”
“Hmm, well I do know someone that loves farm animals, so I guess I could see how that might work out for you.”
“So, friend with faith, we understand each other then?”
“Yes, bird, we do. I knew the great outdoors would refresh me. And I knew it would remind me to always have faith, no matter what. Thank you for not pooping on me from the sky and for helping me remember to always believe. You are a good egg, my dirty bird friend.”
The turkey buzzard soared off toward his ho and I settled back into a nature trance. The clouds started moving in and the air got brisk. My stomach was rumbling and rodent guts didn’t seem appetizing. Speaking of buzzards, just then my cell phone buzzed. It was a good friend (speaking of hoes).
.
I normally would admonish anybody mixing nature with cell phones. But when hiking alone, it is particularly good to have a way to reach civilization; especially if you get attacked by a mountain lion, black bear, or rabbit (it’s just a flesh wound…). My afternoon with the turkey buzzard was awesome. And to finish it off, I hiked out alone laughing my ass off with a friend.
What a beautiful day. What a beautiful life.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Cowboy Up
At some point, everybody has to do something they really don’t want to do. The feelings associated with knowing you have to do something you don’t want to do can vary from dread to anxiety. Often times the most common feeling associated with the dread and/or anxiety is fear.
Why are we afraid to jump in the cold water? What is the big deal about buying tampons for your wife or girlfriend (but not both, cuz that is rude)? Do you really need a loaf of bread, five magazines and that pack of gum to hide on top of the condoms at the checkout counter? Why would you be nervous to ask someone to please stop talking in the movie theater? Do you send back the bottle of wine or over cooked steak at the fancy restaurant?
What about that lingering project at work that doesn’t have a hard deadline? How are those TPS reports coming along? Do you ever call in sick to avoid a meeting?
Okay, let’s step it up a little bit. How long did you drag on that bad relationship? Have you ever had to lay somebody off? Did Fluffy really run away to a farm?
Have you told your mom or dad you love them? Do you ever sacrifice a perceived friendship with your children in favor of being the best parent you can be? Are you still having that spat with a relative that is becoming more distant every day? Now that you haven’t talked to your old buddy in so long, is it easier to just ignore them altogether?
We could go on and on here. It’s just that the toughest decision of the day can’t always be what to have for lunch. I mean, there is dinner to consider, beverage choices, and whether or not to blow off that workout again so you know if you are going to have dessert.
I just re-read all that above and despite a little condom humor, this is a depressing blog. I think maybe Joaquin Phoenix is on to something with his public check-out from society broadcasted on Letterman.
On the other hand, hiding behind a scruffy beard and sunglasses while planning on starting a hip hop band isn’t gonna bring home the tampons.
I don’t have all the answers. I can only learn from the actions I am afraid to take, after I take the fricking action.
So let me know if you need tampons. I’ve got you covered. Heh.
Why are we afraid to jump in the cold water? What is the big deal about buying tampons for your wife or girlfriend (but not both, cuz that is rude)? Do you really need a loaf of bread, five magazines and that pack of gum to hide on top of the condoms at the checkout counter? Why would you be nervous to ask someone to please stop talking in the movie theater? Do you send back the bottle of wine or over cooked steak at the fancy restaurant?
What about that lingering project at work that doesn’t have a hard deadline? How are those TPS reports coming along? Do you ever call in sick to avoid a meeting?
Okay, let’s step it up a little bit. How long did you drag on that bad relationship? Have you ever had to lay somebody off? Did Fluffy really run away to a farm?
Have you told your mom or dad you love them? Do you ever sacrifice a perceived friendship with your children in favor of being the best parent you can be? Are you still having that spat with a relative that is becoming more distant every day? Now that you haven’t talked to your old buddy in so long, is it easier to just ignore them altogether?
We could go on and on here. It’s just that the toughest decision of the day can’t always be what to have for lunch. I mean, there is dinner to consider, beverage choices, and whether or not to blow off that workout again so you know if you are going to have dessert.
I just re-read all that above and despite a little condom humor, this is a depressing blog. I think maybe Joaquin Phoenix is on to something with his public check-out from society broadcasted on Letterman.
On the other hand, hiding behind a scruffy beard and sunglasses while planning on starting a hip hop band isn’t gonna bring home the tampons.
I don’t have all the answers. I can only learn from the actions I am afraid to take, after I take the fricking action.
So let me know if you need tampons. I’ve got you covered. Heh.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Egg
Part of the reason I live in a household full of throw-uppers is because Drew is allergic to so many things. We often learn the hard way that some random snack has traces of egg, peanuts, or tomato in it. And here we are on Easter; the egg holiday that nobody really knows anything about (at least in my family).
My kids know the Easter Bunny comes in through the windows and hides plastic eggs filled with candy throughout our house along with a basket full of junky toys and yes, more candy. Why? Interestingly, neither kid has asked. And I’m glad that they haven’t or I might pull a Mandy and start talking about ball sacks. Or I might get into a discussion about what the chickens think about a rabbit stealing their schtick and getting credit for laying eggs all over the place.
Drew and Will painted eggs the other evening while I was at a work thing. I was bummed to miss the ‘art project’ but I did get a grand showing by the little Picassos. I found it slightly ironic that Drew was taking such great joy in decorating the very object that makes him blow chunks upon mouthial contact. They do say to keep your enemies close, right? Who are ‘they’ anyway?
Last night, Drew was eerily quiet and out of sight for a few minutes. I thought he was in the bathroom or something. I should have known trouble was brewing. The calm before the egg storm. Drew was standing on a step stool with the fridge wide open. He was reaching to a high shelf and pulling a flimsy cardboard tray holding a half dozen of his works of egg art. I heard it before I saw it.
Whoosh, whoa, splat splat splat splat splat splat. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!
Six splattered hard boiled eggs all over the floor. Humpty Dumpty had a really fantastic great fall. Drew was picking up and examining his broken eggs through alligator tears, which he rubbed away. And then I saw a welt form. Damn eggs were attacking his allergies now that the shells were broken.
I ran him to the bathroom to wash up with soap and water. And then I gave him a rice bar to get his mind off the egg disaster.
Five minutes later, Drew came bawling to me with his hand stretched out showing me his half eaten rice bar.
“Why are you crying Drew?”
Waaaaaaaaaaaah, “Because my rice bar got wet.”
I picked it up and it was drenched. His whole hand and forearm were soaked. “How did this happen buddy?”
“I dropped it in the bathroom.”
“Um, you mean in the sink? Was the sink full of water again and you dropped it in there?”
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, “No, I dropped it in the toilet while I was peeing. So I got it out. And now it’s all wet.”
I was holding his pee and toilet water soaked half eaten rice bar in my hand while watching his drenched arm drip more of the same onto the floor. “Uh, its okay Drew-boo, lets throw this one away and get washed up really really really really well. And then I’ll get you a new rice bar.”
As he was about to wipe away another tear with his pee and toilet water soaked hand, I intercepted the gesture and rushed him to the sink. We had a good talk about not bringing food into the bathroom much less what to do if he ever drops anything in the toilet. I had to ask if he took a bite after he retrieved the rice bar and luckily he said it was too wet.
After the egg and toilet episode, I decided we better just go do a bath. I grabbed Will and announced it was bath time. In the Easter spirit, somebody yelled, “Last one there is a rotten egg. And first one there has to eat it!” So the three of us did a slow motion sprint to the bathtub, all attempting to avoid coming in first or last.
It took us ten minutes to get there, miraculously in a three way tie for second.
My kids know the Easter Bunny comes in through the windows and hides plastic eggs filled with candy throughout our house along with a basket full of junky toys and yes, more candy. Why? Interestingly, neither kid has asked. And I’m glad that they haven’t or I might pull a Mandy and start talking about ball sacks. Or I might get into a discussion about what the chickens think about a rabbit stealing their schtick and getting credit for laying eggs all over the place.
Drew and Will painted eggs the other evening while I was at a work thing. I was bummed to miss the ‘art project’ but I did get a grand showing by the little Picassos. I found it slightly ironic that Drew was taking such great joy in decorating the very object that makes him blow chunks upon mouthial contact. They do say to keep your enemies close, right? Who are ‘they’ anyway?
Last night, Drew was eerily quiet and out of sight for a few minutes. I thought he was in the bathroom or something. I should have known trouble was brewing. The calm before the egg storm. Drew was standing on a step stool with the fridge wide open. He was reaching to a high shelf and pulling a flimsy cardboard tray holding a half dozen of his works of egg art. I heard it before I saw it.
Whoosh, whoa, splat splat splat splat splat splat. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!
Six splattered hard boiled eggs all over the floor. Humpty Dumpty had a really fantastic great fall. Drew was picking up and examining his broken eggs through alligator tears, which he rubbed away. And then I saw a welt form. Damn eggs were attacking his allergies now that the shells were broken.
I ran him to the bathroom to wash up with soap and water. And then I gave him a rice bar to get his mind off the egg disaster.
Five minutes later, Drew came bawling to me with his hand stretched out showing me his half eaten rice bar.
“Why are you crying Drew?”
Waaaaaaaaaaaah, “Because my rice bar got wet.”
I picked it up and it was drenched. His whole hand and forearm were soaked. “How did this happen buddy?”
“I dropped it in the bathroom.”
“Um, you mean in the sink? Was the sink full of water again and you dropped it in there?”
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, “No, I dropped it in the toilet while I was peeing. So I got it out. And now it’s all wet.”
I was holding his pee and toilet water soaked half eaten rice bar in my hand while watching his drenched arm drip more of the same onto the floor. “Uh, its okay Drew-boo, lets throw this one away and get washed up really really really really well. And then I’ll get you a new rice bar.”
As he was about to wipe away another tear with his pee and toilet water soaked hand, I intercepted the gesture and rushed him to the sink. We had a good talk about not bringing food into the bathroom much less what to do if he ever drops anything in the toilet. I had to ask if he took a bite after he retrieved the rice bar and luckily he said it was too wet.
After the egg and toilet episode, I decided we better just go do a bath. I grabbed Will and announced it was bath time. In the Easter spirit, somebody yelled, “Last one there is a rotten egg. And first one there has to eat it!” So the three of us did a slow motion sprint to the bathtub, all attempting to avoid coming in first or last.
It took us ten minutes to get there, miraculously in a three way tie for second.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I Don't Even Have a Webcam
I am 41 years old. Which is the new 31, by the way. I feel like I’m 21 and I behave like a twelve year old. Age is bullshit. Mind, body and spirit can’t be defined by days and years.
Having 41 years under my belt (along with a pair of boxers sporting polar bears – holy shit I am twelve) has given me lots of experiences worth remembering along with some I wish I could forget. Nowadays, not only can those experiences easily be recorded, but so many of our experiences come from a source that wasn’t even around when I was in college.
I find it amazing that in a society so concerned with privacy, we are all exhibitionists and voyeurs. It wasn’t that long ago (twenty years) that I first got a computer at work and another five years later I tried out this cool new thing called the World Wide Web (thanks Al Gore) via a technology dinosaur called AOL. Today; if our server goes down or we can’t get online and we don’t get email, life comes to a screeching halt!
OMG (can’t spell it out anymore after abbreviating so much in IM); I can’t get on Facebook to see who wrote on my wall. I can’t get on MySpace to get caught up on the latest drama. I can’t get on Blogger or Wordpress to read my favorite blogs. I can’t upload my own blog and engage in comments banter. I can’t share my photos in Flicker. I can’t Twitter my dismay of no internet access cuz my cell phone has no coverage. I can’t find out what people are talking about on Digg. I can’t figure out where to have lunch because I can’t get the reviews on Yelp.
Somebody used a big complicated multi syllable word that I need to look up on Dictionary.com. But if its slang, I need to look on Urban Dictionary. And if I want to learn more I gotta pop on Wikipedia. Damn it all, why can’t I just use The Google?
How will I connect with all my friends using different kinds of IM without being able to get on Meebo? Where is my daily newsletter conveniently summarizing the world news? What about the local news tidbits? Holy crap, how will I impress any clients without access to the dozens of industry newsletters and email blasts that keep me up to date on trends? No ESPN.com to get all the scores?
Do I have to go all the way outside to check the fucking weather? I’d meet you for a cocktail, but I can’t email you to confirm a time and place. I’d call you, but your number is in the Yahoo directory. My gmail is lacking tiers. How can I sell my worthless shit for a buck fiddy without watching the auction on eBay? All travel plans are on hold without Orbitz, Expedia or the like. Holy crap, how am I gonna catch up on my Family Guy without Hulu? No porn today on Youporn and Redtube. Speaking of tube, how am I going to waste an hour without Youtube? No skype means no catching up with any world travelers.
Technology has screwed me. I am nothing. I think I will go outside and maybe talk to people face to face. I have no idea what to say since I am clueless without that global web thingy. And if anyone makes any facial expressions or sudden body gestures, I hope I don’t recoil in shock from unfamiliarity.
Wait a minute!!! Thank the lord baby Jesus, Buddha, the bamboo on the corner of my desk, the voodoo doll and Ditka!!! Internet access is back up after a fifteen minute delay!! Woo-hoo. Shit! I wonder what I missed.
Gotta go!!
Having 41 years under my belt (along with a pair of boxers sporting polar bears – holy shit I am twelve) has given me lots of experiences worth remembering along with some I wish I could forget. Nowadays, not only can those experiences easily be recorded, but so many of our experiences come from a source that wasn’t even around when I was in college.
I find it amazing that in a society so concerned with privacy, we are all exhibitionists and voyeurs. It wasn’t that long ago (twenty years) that I first got a computer at work and another five years later I tried out this cool new thing called the World Wide Web (thanks Al Gore) via a technology dinosaur called AOL. Today; if our server goes down or we can’t get online and we don’t get email, life comes to a screeching halt!
OMG (can’t spell it out anymore after abbreviating so much in IM); I can’t get on Facebook to see who wrote on my wall. I can’t get on MySpace to get caught up on the latest drama. I can’t get on Blogger or Wordpress to read my favorite blogs. I can’t upload my own blog and engage in comments banter. I can’t share my photos in Flicker. I can’t Twitter my dismay of no internet access cuz my cell phone has no coverage. I can’t find out what people are talking about on Digg. I can’t figure out where to have lunch because I can’t get the reviews on Yelp.
Somebody used a big complicated multi syllable word that I need to look up on Dictionary.com. But if its slang, I need to look on Urban Dictionary. And if I want to learn more I gotta pop on Wikipedia. Damn it all, why can’t I just use The Google?
How will I connect with all my friends using different kinds of IM without being able to get on Meebo? Where is my daily newsletter conveniently summarizing the world news? What about the local news tidbits? Holy crap, how will I impress any clients without access to the dozens of industry newsletters and email blasts that keep me up to date on trends? No ESPN.com to get all the scores?
Do I have to go all the way outside to check the fucking weather? I’d meet you for a cocktail, but I can’t email you to confirm a time and place. I’d call you, but your number is in the Yahoo directory. My gmail is lacking tiers. How can I sell my worthless shit for a buck fiddy without watching the auction on eBay? All travel plans are on hold without Orbitz, Expedia or the like. Holy crap, how am I gonna catch up on my Family Guy without Hulu? No porn today on Youporn and Redtube. Speaking of tube, how am I going to waste an hour without Youtube? No skype means no catching up with any world travelers.
Technology has screwed me. I am nothing. I think I will go outside and maybe talk to people face to face. I have no idea what to say since I am clueless without that global web thingy. And if anyone makes any facial expressions or sudden body gestures, I hope I don’t recoil in shock from unfamiliarity.
Wait a minute!!! Thank the lord baby Jesus, Buddha, the bamboo on the corner of my desk, the voodoo doll and Ditka!!! Internet access is back up after a fifteen minute delay!! Woo-hoo. Shit! I wonder what I missed.
Gotta go!!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Rock
If you are happy and you know it, clap your hands!
Clap…um, clap?
Stupid kid’s song.
Seriously!
Oh sure, I have a healthy family and live in a nice house. I run a successful company. I have great friends. I give back. I exercise. I have fun. I do things that make me happy.
We all have our shit. Believe me, I have plenty. In fact, this stupid happy go lucky attitude of mine is often my downfall. I hide the pain well. I push away the bad and look for the good. I have to be the rock, so I am the rock.
Life chisels away at the rock. Will the rock end up being something even more beautiful through the constant chipping or will it crumble to a pile of rubble and dust?
I know I don’t have to sit around and see what happens. I can be any kind of rock I want.
That is the problem.
I don’t know crap about geology.
Clap…um, clap?
Stupid kid’s song.
Seriously!
Oh sure, I have a healthy family and live in a nice house. I run a successful company. I have great friends. I give back. I exercise. I have fun. I do things that make me happy.
We all have our shit. Believe me, I have plenty. In fact, this stupid happy go lucky attitude of mine is often my downfall. I hide the pain well. I push away the bad and look for the good. I have to be the rock, so I am the rock.
Life chisels away at the rock. Will the rock end up being something even more beautiful through the constant chipping or will it crumble to a pile of rubble and dust?
I know I don’t have to sit around and see what happens. I can be any kind of rock I want.
That is the problem.
I don’t know crap about geology.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
What Movie?
I barely ever go to the movie theater anymore. If I have two or three hours to kill, it is usually at a bar. I mean uh, reading a book, helping the homeless, or raising money for a local charity. Anyway, I allegedly saw a movie Friday night. Like any of the other movies I have seen at the theater in the last few years, the characters were not real actors, but rather some kind of animation. The movie theater has become a diversion for a couple hours with the kids.
We saw Monsters vs. Aliens. Well, I saw some of it. Approximately fifteen minutes in to the movie, my own little monster, the three year old, said he had to go poop. I took the little fellah’s hand and escorted him out of the kid distracter chamber. As I held the men’s room door open, my little monster puked up what looked like an alien blob right there in the doorway. That fish bowl meal with black beans and white rice sure makes for a nice mess the second time around.
I rushed Drew-boo to the toilet where he had a courtesy puke. I left him there for a second so I could grab a handful of paper towels to throw on the pile of used Drew lunch in the doorway. I wasn’t gonna try to clean it up, but I wanted to at least mark it so that a rushing unsuspecting movie-goer wouldn’t get a slip-n-slide ride into the john.
Next, I asked Drew-boo how he was doing while I washed vomit splatter off my shoes and the bottoms of my jeans. He said he was doing great. Great? Yes, great. I guess a good vomit brightens the day of a three year old. I asked him if he was sick and he said no, that he had too much lunch. I asked him if he still needed to poo and he said no. I asked him if we should go home and he said he wanted to go back to the movie.
Big mistake.
Ten minutes went by and Drew said he was scared. I told him to sit in my lap and he said no, he wanted to sit with mommy. She was in the next row up by Will (we were there with about ten people). I lifted him over the seat and plopped him down in her lap.
Ten minutes later, the wife turned around and somehow in the dark I could see her giving me the stink eye. As a scary giant furry monster was battling an iron alien on the Golden Gate Bridge, I heard the wife say, “He threw up all over me.”
Apparently the previous puke on the floor near and in the bathroom was simply a precursor to an all out volcanic eruption. Our friends kept an eye on the big kid while the three of us retreated to the family restroom. Drew’s pants were soaked and his shirt had become speckled. The wife actually wasn’t hit too hard. She took some shrapnel on the jeans with a little blottage on her puffy vest coat.
The majority of the barf (what an under appreciated word barf is) landed on her purse. Which was unzipped and wide open. Her purse was a bucket of barf. She took out the essentials and wiped them down as best as she could. I tried really really really hard to not laugh out loud, much less hide my smile. Her purse, some loose change and whatever else she deemed not important ended up in the garbage can.
The wife took Drew home and I went back to the theater to catch the last fifteen minutes. If anyone has seen the movie, let me know if it was any good.
We saw Monsters vs. Aliens. Well, I saw some of it. Approximately fifteen minutes in to the movie, my own little monster, the three year old, said he had to go poop. I took the little fellah’s hand and escorted him out of the kid distracter chamber. As I held the men’s room door open, my little monster puked up what looked like an alien blob right there in the doorway. That fish bowl meal with black beans and white rice sure makes for a nice mess the second time around.
I rushed Drew-boo to the toilet where he had a courtesy puke. I left him there for a second so I could grab a handful of paper towels to throw on the pile of used Drew lunch in the doorway. I wasn’t gonna try to clean it up, but I wanted to at least mark it so that a rushing unsuspecting movie-goer wouldn’t get a slip-n-slide ride into the john.
Next, I asked Drew-boo how he was doing while I washed vomit splatter off my shoes and the bottoms of my jeans. He said he was doing great. Great? Yes, great. I guess a good vomit brightens the day of a three year old. I asked him if he was sick and he said no, that he had too much lunch. I asked him if he still needed to poo and he said no. I asked him if we should go home and he said he wanted to go back to the movie.
Big mistake.
Ten minutes went by and Drew said he was scared. I told him to sit in my lap and he said no, he wanted to sit with mommy. She was in the next row up by Will (we were there with about ten people). I lifted him over the seat and plopped him down in her lap.
Ten minutes later, the wife turned around and somehow in the dark I could see her giving me the stink eye. As a scary giant furry monster was battling an iron alien on the Golden Gate Bridge, I heard the wife say, “He threw up all over me.”
Apparently the previous puke on the floor near and in the bathroom was simply a precursor to an all out volcanic eruption. Our friends kept an eye on the big kid while the three of us retreated to the family restroom. Drew’s pants were soaked and his shirt had become speckled. The wife actually wasn’t hit too hard. She took some shrapnel on the jeans with a little blottage on her puffy vest coat.
The majority of the barf (what an under appreciated word barf is) landed on her purse. Which was unzipped and wide open. Her purse was a bucket of barf. She took out the essentials and wiped them down as best as she could. I tried really really really hard to not laugh out loud, much less hide my smile. Her purse, some loose change and whatever else she deemed not important ended up in the garbage can.
The wife took Drew home and I went back to the theater to catch the last fifteen minutes. If anyone has seen the movie, let me know if it was any good.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A Sweet Moment I Ruined In My Mind
I went to lunch at Chipotle today. I call it Chi-pottle. Tomato, ta-ma-to, let’s call the whole thing off. Anyway, this fine couple walked by me on the sidewalk.
For little old people, they took up a lot of space. I had to detour around the trees and step in the remnants of last week’s blizzard to get by. They were moving at a pace of somewhere between a snail and a sloth. The lady (red coat) was probably in her mid eighties. The man had to be in his mid nineties. He was wearing a bolero – one of those funky western ties of leather straps. I bet he uses those babies to smack the ass of the lady red coat after a romantic early bird dinner.
As I walked toward them, I heard the lady red coat say to the old bolero man, “Do you ever go downtown to places like the library?”
I told a friend about this little episode and she says that is code for ‘come on downtown and do me good baby.’ Or something like that. Her (my friend’s) native language is very difficult to understand.
Anyway, I thought it was a sweet moment and really should have circled back to get a picture from the front. But I was afraid they’d drop dead in fear thinking I’m paparazzi. So I snapped a pic of their backside.
If that was a young couple in their twenties, the conversation would have been something more along the lines of, “Do you ever get fucked up downtown at Rio Grande?” But as we get older, hitting the bars eventually gives way to lazy afternoons at the library. Although I’d be a little afraid to accidentally bump into red coat lady and old bolero man grinding in the stacks of history books on caveman reproduction. If I have to see that stuff, it may as well be the twenty somethings grinding on a dance floor.
So I went to Chi-pottle and had perverted thoughts about tacos and burritos. And then I remembered that my mom (76 years old) and dad (80 years old) go to the library a lot.
A cold shiver went down my spine and I shook my head wildly side to side while muttering, “Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts,” as corn salsa sprayed out of my mouth.
For little old people, they took up a lot of space. I had to detour around the trees and step in the remnants of last week’s blizzard to get by. They were moving at a pace of somewhere between a snail and a sloth. The lady (red coat) was probably in her mid eighties. The man had to be in his mid nineties. He was wearing a bolero – one of those funky western ties of leather straps. I bet he uses those babies to smack the ass of the lady red coat after a romantic early bird dinner.
As I walked toward them, I heard the lady red coat say to the old bolero man, “Do you ever go downtown to places like the library?”
I told a friend about this little episode and she says that is code for ‘come on downtown and do me good baby.’ Or something like that. Her (my friend’s) native language is very difficult to understand.
Anyway, I thought it was a sweet moment and really should have circled back to get a picture from the front. But I was afraid they’d drop dead in fear thinking I’m paparazzi. So I snapped a pic of their backside.
If that was a young couple in their twenties, the conversation would have been something more along the lines of, “Do you ever get fucked up downtown at Rio Grande?” But as we get older, hitting the bars eventually gives way to lazy afternoons at the library. Although I’d be a little afraid to accidentally bump into red coat lady and old bolero man grinding in the stacks of history books on caveman reproduction. If I have to see that stuff, it may as well be the twenty somethings grinding on a dance floor.
So I went to Chi-pottle and had perverted thoughts about tacos and burritos. And then I remembered that my mom (76 years old) and dad (80 years old) go to the library a lot.
A cold shiver went down my spine and I shook my head wildly side to side while muttering, “Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts,” as corn salsa sprayed out of my mouth.
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