Proper new post coming soon, I promise, but in the meantime: if I may bring out an old cliche, it's funny how quickly life changes, isn't it? Two years ago right now Ann and I were outside a bar in Washington D.C., trying to hail a cab after going out with one of Ann's college friends and her new boyfriend (now fiancee), on our last "young couple" vacation before trying to get pregnant. Tonight? I gave my 14-month-old daughter a bath, put her in her crib, watched "Julie & Julia" with Ann (don't revoke my man card), and sat quietly on the couch in front of my TV watching Dick Clark count down to the New Year. (And wincing when he missed a number. Poor guy.) That is... quite a change, but not one I regret in the slightest.
It's been a long, tough year, folks, but thanks for sticking with me. Here's to a brighter 2010!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Remember
Let me first apologize in advance for going back on what I said last time; this won't be a funny post either, but I promise the next one will be appropriately immature. Before that, I just wanted to add a short addendum to my last entry. First, many many thank yous to everyone who offered their condolences to Ann and myself on Facebook. It was an extremely tough experience- I said on Facebook that we lost a good friend, but that undervalues Gizmo's status... for the last six years she was a member of our family, before Ann and I even knew we were going to end up a family. Despite myriad other things contributing to make this a bad week, chief among them painful ear infections for Molly and Ann, we are doing somewhat better now, thank you. I think what's surprised me most about the aftermath is how many little things remind me of Gizmo, even when I'm not consciously thinking of her. It's hard to walk into my den or in that general vicinity of the house, because while I rarely thought of it before, my ears subconsciously tune in, expecting to hear the clanging of metal as Giz scampers to the front of her cage to see if I'm coming to feed her. Now, the silence speaks volumes. The other day I noticed that I hadn't opened the front window shades on my way out in the morning, then realized with a pang that I didn't need to... there's no one to let natural light in for during the day. At class on Tuesday, I saw a stack of the student newspaper and resisted grabbing a handful, because there's no litter tray to line anymore. And that first night, Monday night, was the first time in the years we've lived in this house when I've been home but haven't fed her a handful of hay as my final action before going to bed. So many unexpected reminders. But in a way, I'm glad. Not for the pain... that I could live without. But for the memories. I mentioned last time that I wouldn't think of trading away all the joy Gizmo brought us if it meant we'd be spared the sorrow of the last few days. That remains the case, and the last thing I want to do is forget our bunny. True, the memories are still raw and difficult, and they may stay that way for a while. But I know that in the long term, what we'll remember will be the good times with her, and that's worth a little momentary sadness any day.
Monday, December 7, 2009
In Memory of Gizmo
Hi, everyone. I apologize for the length of time since my last post, and I'll warn you right now that this is not going to be a light, cheery entry. If you'd like, feel free to skip it and wait until next time, when we'll go back to talking about bathrooms or whatever. I won't be offended, I promise. If you're still here, please bear with me, as it's been a very rough day and you'll have to forgive me if I'm not up to my usual standards. The thing is that we had to put our bunny Gizmo to sleep today.
Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.
Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.
From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.
And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)
And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.
So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.
But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.
I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.
Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.
Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.
Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.
From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.
And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)
And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.
So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.
But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.
I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.
Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Roads Not Taken
Every so often I'm reminded of why I could never have ended up with any woman but my wife. And before I get any sidelong glances or angry emails, allow me to clarify: I never, ever forget how much I love my wife, or why she's the perfect woman for me. I can say with absolute honesty that I always remember why I married her. But occasionally it goes a step further, and I'm given a reminder of why it wouldn't have worked with any other woman I've ever known or dated. Of the latter category, some I'm ambivalent toward, but the majority I still like as friends and wish nothing but the best; but boy, would we not have had a future together. Whether they weren't bright enough (I'm not the smartest man alive, but if I have to continually dumb down the conversation, that's a problem), or we were just killing time till graduation, or the only reason they went out with me is because they were amused by my story about accidentally walking in on two Princeton alumni having sex in an empty office during Reunions... well, there's always a reason. I guess it's probably that way for everyone.
I'll give an example of what I mean. There's this woman at work, probably in her late 20's or so. I obviously have eyes for no one but my wife, but I have it on good authority from other men in the office that she could perhaps be described as quite attractive. I don't see it myself, but I suppose if tall, thin blondes with exotic accents, exceedingly... prominent attributes, and who teach aerobics classes at local gyms and colleges are your type, well, you just might be interested. (No lie, this is 100% true- I once happened to be in the break room with another male coworker when she walked through. Once she'd passed, he turned to me and said, "God, she's got an ass that won't quit." I think I gave an eyebrow raise and mumbled something noncommittal, then retreated to my desk trying to remember where I'd parked the DeLorean so I could return home from 1959. You may be pleased to hear that he no longer works at the company.) She's in sales, which is the exact right job for her, because all she has to do is walk into a heterosexual male's office and he'll pull out his checkbook and ask what she happens to be selling and what's the maximum number he can buy. And yet, I can't STAND working on accounts with her. It's entirely possible that she's a very smart person who's simply hamstrung by the fact that English is clearly not her first language, but she comes across as not particularly bright. She never enters any information about new clients in our computer system, forcing you to research them on your own or hope that she's at her desk when you call so you can find something out about this company you're supposed to be calling. She either doesn't know or doesn't explain the products we sell well at all, so invariably new customers don't know exactly what they signed up for or should be receiving. And I just think to myself, she's perfectly friendly and I like her fine as a colleague, but if I get this frustrated working on things she's tangentially touched for only a few hours a week, what would it be like living with her? I'm sure there are those who can make a relationship work based on nothing but looks, but for my part I need the whole package: looks, brains, humor, and compatibility.
Another example: in high school, I had a massive crush on one of my fellow students. I'm quite positive she had no idea and I never did anything about it, but if you'd asked my hopelessly naive 16-year-old self, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (Needless to say that was before I ever laid eyes on my wife. Or Elisha Cuthbert.) A little over a year ago they started organizing our 10-year reunion, primarily through Facebook, with the end result being that I ended up friending or being friended by a lot of my old classmates, including her. She still looks good, although I'm glad to be able to truthfully say that there is no comparison between her and my wife. But like all my other classmates, I see her status updates from time to time, and I was both surprised and gladdened recently to note that she's apparently super into the whole Twilight phenomenon, particularly the movie sequel that just came out. Surprised because, well, we're late 20/early 30-year-olds rather than preteen schoolgirls, and gladdened because it confirms to me that, even if I'd gotten up the balls to actually ask her out back in high school, it still wouldn't have worked out. To be fair, I haven't read any of the Twilight books or seen the movies, so I can't fairly critique them; I can offer that they don't sound like anything I'd be interested in and I haven't heard good things from people whose opinions I trust, but who knows, they might be great. Nevertheless, I still can't see myself feigning much interest in them, so I think it's best that I ended up with the woman who rolls her eyes at my own Harry Potter nerdery, rather than one who would drag me along to watch vampires sparkle and write poetry rather than attacking people.
So yeah- while I never forget why I married my wife, I'm also sometimes reminded of exactly why I didn't marry anyone else. Still, whether it be the ones I still like as friends, the ones I don't care for, or the ones who never knew I existed, all of them help me to realize exactly how lucky I am in who I eventually ended up with. For that, ladies, I thank you one and all. Cheers.
I'll give an example of what I mean. There's this woman at work, probably in her late 20's or so. I obviously have eyes for no one but my wife, but I have it on good authority from other men in the office that she could perhaps be described as quite attractive. I don't see it myself, but I suppose if tall, thin blondes with exotic accents, exceedingly... prominent attributes, and who teach aerobics classes at local gyms and colleges are your type, well, you just might be interested. (No lie, this is 100% true- I once happened to be in the break room with another male coworker when she walked through. Once she'd passed, he turned to me and said, "God, she's got an ass that won't quit." I think I gave an eyebrow raise and mumbled something noncommittal, then retreated to my desk trying to remember where I'd parked the DeLorean so I could return home from 1959. You may be pleased to hear that he no longer works at the company.) She's in sales, which is the exact right job for her, because all she has to do is walk into a heterosexual male's office and he'll pull out his checkbook and ask what she happens to be selling and what's the maximum number he can buy. And yet, I can't STAND working on accounts with her. It's entirely possible that she's a very smart person who's simply hamstrung by the fact that English is clearly not her first language, but she comes across as not particularly bright. She never enters any information about new clients in our computer system, forcing you to research them on your own or hope that she's at her desk when you call so you can find something out about this company you're supposed to be calling. She either doesn't know or doesn't explain the products we sell well at all, so invariably new customers don't know exactly what they signed up for or should be receiving. And I just think to myself, she's perfectly friendly and I like her fine as a colleague, but if I get this frustrated working on things she's tangentially touched for only a few hours a week, what would it be like living with her? I'm sure there are those who can make a relationship work based on nothing but looks, but for my part I need the whole package: looks, brains, humor, and compatibility.
Another example: in high school, I had a massive crush on one of my fellow students. I'm quite positive she had no idea and I never did anything about it, but if you'd asked my hopelessly naive 16-year-old self, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (Needless to say that was before I ever laid eyes on my wife. Or Elisha Cuthbert.) A little over a year ago they started organizing our 10-year reunion, primarily through Facebook, with the end result being that I ended up friending or being friended by a lot of my old classmates, including her. She still looks good, although I'm glad to be able to truthfully say that there is no comparison between her and my wife. But like all my other classmates, I see her status updates from time to time, and I was both surprised and gladdened recently to note that she's apparently super into the whole Twilight phenomenon, particularly the movie sequel that just came out. Surprised because, well, we're late 20/early 30-year-olds rather than preteen schoolgirls, and gladdened because it confirms to me that, even if I'd gotten up the balls to actually ask her out back in high school, it still wouldn't have worked out. To be fair, I haven't read any of the Twilight books or seen the movies, so I can't fairly critique them; I can offer that they don't sound like anything I'd be interested in and I haven't heard good things from people whose opinions I trust, but who knows, they might be great. Nevertheless, I still can't see myself feigning much interest in them, so I think it's best that I ended up with the woman who rolls her eyes at my own Harry Potter nerdery, rather than one who would drag me along to watch vampires sparkle and write poetry rather than attacking people.
So yeah- while I never forget why I married my wife, I'm also sometimes reminded of exactly why I didn't marry anyone else. Still, whether it be the ones I still like as friends, the ones I don't care for, or the ones who never knew I existed, all of them help me to realize exactly how lucky I am in who I eventually ended up with. For that, ladies, I thank you one and all. Cheers.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Still Alive
Hey, all. Apologies for my complete absence lately. It's been a busy month or so... Ann, Molly and I are all fine, but it feels like we've been playing catch-up for a while. I won't bore anyone with details, but the most recent time-suck came in the form of acute bronchitis on my part. I don't recommend it -- it wasn't so bad the first day or so when I was just coughing and breathing a little heavier, but when it got to the point where I couldn't climb a flight of stairs without getting winded and sleeping became nearly impossible because I just couldn't draw enough air into my lungs lying down, I probably should've taken a hint and hauled ass to the hospital. Thankfully, CVS' minute clinic took one look at me and sent me there anyway, so now I'm back on the mend and once again able to oxygenate my red blood cells. The only really interesting part of it that's worth talking about came when I was examined in triage at the ER. The examining nurse or doctor asked if I'd been running a fever, and when I replied that I didn't know, he -- and this is key -- grabbed what looked like an electronic wand and ran it over my forehead. Just one swipe, it beeped, he looked at it and said, "99 degrees" and went about his checkup.
Now, possibly I'm just a poor ignorant bumpkin unaccustomed to you all's fancy sci-ehn-tific ways, but holy balls, why didn't someone tell me we were officially living in the future? Seriously, what kind of crazy Star Trek crap is that? The man read my forehead like it was a bar code and he was checking the price of a can of tuna. It was simultaneously awesome and frustrating, because if we have that technology, why the hell am I still sticking a thermometer under my tongue at home like a pathetic savage? To say nothing of, not to get too graphic, the fact that you can't take an infant's temperature orally, necessitating a different type of thermometer that strikes me as unbelievably inferior to this apparent receptacle of black magic. If I'd known I could have treated my baby's head like a Scantron to find out if she was feverish, well, let's just say that's the kind of thing I'd be willing to shell out an extra few bucks for.
So there you have it: the future is now, acute bronchitis sucks, and I promise not to let a month and a half lapse between posts again. Because really, even if I told you classes were just kicking my butt and I was doing homework every night, you'd know I was lying. The umpteenth unnecessary Crow sequel isn't going to review itself, y'know.
Now, possibly I'm just a poor ignorant bumpkin unaccustomed to you all's fancy sci-ehn-tific ways, but holy balls, why didn't someone tell me we were officially living in the future? Seriously, what kind of crazy Star Trek crap is that? The man read my forehead like it was a bar code and he was checking the price of a can of tuna. It was simultaneously awesome and frustrating, because if we have that technology, why the hell am I still sticking a thermometer under my tongue at home like a pathetic savage? To say nothing of, not to get too graphic, the fact that you can't take an infant's temperature orally, necessitating a different type of thermometer that strikes me as unbelievably inferior to this apparent receptacle of black magic. If I'd known I could have treated my baby's head like a Scantron to find out if she was feverish, well, let's just say that's the kind of thing I'd be willing to shell out an extra few bucks for.
So there you have it: the future is now, acute bronchitis sucks, and I promise not to let a month and a half lapse between posts again. Because really, even if I told you classes were just kicking my butt and I was doing homework every night, you'd know I was lying. The umpteenth unnecessary Crow sequel isn't going to review itself, y'know.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
No heroes today
Today marked a momentous occasion that I think all should be made aware of. You ready for this? Here goes: I did not buy a single comic book today.
"That's nice," I hear you saying, "But most days I don't buy comics either." Ah, so it is with me as well, grasshopper, but Wednesday is new comics day. Ergo, every Wednesday I head over to my local comic shop at lunchtime and pick up the week's books. For the longest time every week's haul was a substantial pile. In recent months that's dwindled, as I've lost interest in some books and just figured I should save my money, especially with the price of comics going up again. (Remember when they were 75 cents? And how it was a huge deal when they made the jump to a buck? God, how cheap that sounds now. And how old I sound.) So over the last year I've had a few trips where I only picked up two comics on a Wednesday, and once or twice only one. But today... oh, today, my friends. Not. A. Single. One. Walked in, browsed the shelves, walked back out. It felt a little strange -- like a junkie who walks up to his neighborhood dealer, inspects the crack carefully, and then puts it back -- but it was a good feeling. And even if next week brings a stack of 10 must-buy comics to make up for it, I'll still have that one week.
"That's nice," I hear you saying, "But most days I don't buy comics either." Ah, so it is with me as well, grasshopper, but Wednesday is new comics day. Ergo, every Wednesday I head over to my local comic shop at lunchtime and pick up the week's books. For the longest time every week's haul was a substantial pile. In recent months that's dwindled, as I've lost interest in some books and just figured I should save my money, especially with the price of comics going up again. (Remember when they were 75 cents? And how it was a huge deal when they made the jump to a buck? God, how cheap that sounds now. And how old I sound.) So over the last year I've had a few trips where I only picked up two comics on a Wednesday, and once or twice only one. But today... oh, today, my friends. Not. A. Single. One. Walked in, browsed the shelves, walked back out. It felt a little strange -- like a junkie who walks up to his neighborhood dealer, inspects the crack carefully, and then puts it back -- but it was a good feeling. And even if next week brings a stack of 10 must-buy comics to make up for it, I'll still have that one week.
Monday, August 10, 2009
He's a cold-hearted snake
So this was fun. The other night I go out to drop some clothes off at a Salvation Army deposit dumpster. This I fail spectacularly to do, as it used to be located behind our vet's office but they recently moved, and searches of both the old and new buildings reveal: no dumpster. (Well, they had a regular dumpster, but I thought that would sort of defeat the purpose.) Undaunted, I decide to stop at Rita's italian Ice on my way home to pick up a treat for my adoring wife.
So I get there, jockey for a parking space with the infinite restaurant goers, and eventually make my way to the counter, where I place my order. I know, dullest blog entry ever. Hold on, we're getting there. As I'm making my order I see a middle-aged woman approach the window next to mine and start talking to the teenager located therein. I finish my order and glance idly over, not particularly interested. However, out of the corner of my eye I notice that she's got something in her hands with kind of a mottled brown and black pattern. Huh, I think to myself. Wonder if she's got a snakeskin wallet? Still only half paying attention, some deep recess of my mind brings up the fact that the corner of my eye may be wrong, but is reporting that the object is rather too long and thin to be a wallet. Hmm, my conscious mind reassesses, becoming just a tad more engaged. Probably a beanie baby or some other stuffed animal. Is the carnival in town? It's at about this point that my brain becomes alert enough to tune in, just in time to hear the counter idiot ask, "How old is it?" As I've never before heard of someone asking the age of a stuffed animal, my just-getting-there mind crashes to a halt upon collision with one now irrefutable fact: it is a real snake.
Now, I'm a peaceful man. I bear no ill will toward my animal brethren, and even though I will gladly eat the tastier ones, I generally go out of my way to do no harm to animalkind beyond killing the occasional bug in our house. But I also feel the same way about snakes as Indiana Jones does, and that is not good when one is literally three feet away. My neck snaps back toward the counter window at approximately Mach 3, saved from debilitating injury solely by an unconscious slowdown to keep from seeming quite so obvious about being a wimp. I decide to collect napkins from the counter, because we'll certainly need those with our water ice, yes, and spoons besides. Other than vision, I'm unable to block out the blithering from next to me, which is how I find out that he's a bull python (because when I think of ideal snakes for pets, the word "python" is always the first one that comes to mind), he's only a foot and a half long now but he'll get up to at least five feet, and larger if she lets him, and that he eats mice that she buys at the pet store and keeps in her freezer. Oh yes, and his name is Murgatroid, because when I think of snakes, I think of effeminate pink cartoon cats. Doesn't everyone?
Still looking straight ahead, I bear witness to the poor girl who took my order bring it to us and putting it on the counter fearfully, shooting an apprehensive glance to the left, and then practically shooting back into the inner sanctum of the Rita's booth, never taking her eyes off the beast. I toss her a sympathetic look because hey, we're all in this together, me and teenage girls. None of this sinks in to Crazy Snake Lady, who continues blithering on about how you can't feed them mice from the garage because they might be carrying disease that could be spread to the snake, heaven forbid. Interestingly, I had her pegged as a slightly more goth version of Crazy Cat Lady, but she mentions how her daughter loves the creature too (I'll bet), so clearly she found someone willing to brave the viper's nest at least once. As quickly as possible without actually running, I scoot past her and make my way to my car, appetite thoroughly gone. And that was the end of my adventure, except now I know my town plays host to at least one person who is completely out of her damn mind, which is not a comforting thought. Still, I suppose there's always one.
I really shouldn't be surprised, I know. I mean, when you think of the best pets to bring along with you on family walks or drives, the list goes dog, cat, then snake. And it's a close third. But I'll admit I wasn't expecting to see my nemesis appear so suddenly, and it startled me. That won't happen again. And if the Rita's workers don't like it when I show up next time with a sword and a blowtorch, well, too damn bad.
So I get there, jockey for a parking space with the infinite restaurant goers, and eventually make my way to the counter, where I place my order. I know, dullest blog entry ever. Hold on, we're getting there. As I'm making my order I see a middle-aged woman approach the window next to mine and start talking to the teenager located therein. I finish my order and glance idly over, not particularly interested. However, out of the corner of my eye I notice that she's got something in her hands with kind of a mottled brown and black pattern. Huh, I think to myself. Wonder if she's got a snakeskin wallet? Still only half paying attention, some deep recess of my mind brings up the fact that the corner of my eye may be wrong, but is reporting that the object is rather too long and thin to be a wallet. Hmm, my conscious mind reassesses, becoming just a tad more engaged. Probably a beanie baby or some other stuffed animal. Is the carnival in town? It's at about this point that my brain becomes alert enough to tune in, just in time to hear the counter idiot ask, "How old is it?" As I've never before heard of someone asking the age of a stuffed animal, my just-getting-there mind crashes to a halt upon collision with one now irrefutable fact: it is a real snake.
Now, I'm a peaceful man. I bear no ill will toward my animal brethren, and even though I will gladly eat the tastier ones, I generally go out of my way to do no harm to animalkind beyond killing the occasional bug in our house. But I also feel the same way about snakes as Indiana Jones does, and that is not good when one is literally three feet away. My neck snaps back toward the counter window at approximately Mach 3, saved from debilitating injury solely by an unconscious slowdown to keep from seeming quite so obvious about being a wimp. I decide to collect napkins from the counter, because we'll certainly need those with our water ice, yes, and spoons besides. Other than vision, I'm unable to block out the blithering from next to me, which is how I find out that he's a bull python (because when I think of ideal snakes for pets, the word "python" is always the first one that comes to mind), he's only a foot and a half long now but he'll get up to at least five feet, and larger if she lets him, and that he eats mice that she buys at the pet store and keeps in her freezer. Oh yes, and his name is Murgatroid, because when I think of snakes, I think of effeminate pink cartoon cats. Doesn't everyone?
Still looking straight ahead, I bear witness to the poor girl who took my order bring it to us and putting it on the counter fearfully, shooting an apprehensive glance to the left, and then practically shooting back into the inner sanctum of the Rita's booth, never taking her eyes off the beast. I toss her a sympathetic look because hey, we're all in this together, me and teenage girls. None of this sinks in to Crazy Snake Lady, who continues blithering on about how you can't feed them mice from the garage because they might be carrying disease that could be spread to the snake, heaven forbid. Interestingly, I had her pegged as a slightly more goth version of Crazy Cat Lady, but she mentions how her daughter loves the creature too (I'll bet), so clearly she found someone willing to brave the viper's nest at least once. As quickly as possible without actually running, I scoot past her and make my way to my car, appetite thoroughly gone. And that was the end of my adventure, except now I know my town plays host to at least one person who is completely out of her damn mind, which is not a comforting thought. Still, I suppose there's always one.
I really shouldn't be surprised, I know. I mean, when you think of the best pets to bring along with you on family walks or drives, the list goes dog, cat, then snake. And it's a close third. But I'll admit I wasn't expecting to see my nemesis appear so suddenly, and it startled me. That won't happen again. And if the Rita's workers don't like it when I show up next time with a sword and a blowtorch, well, too damn bad.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
R.I.P. John Hughes
Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us- in the simplest terms, and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours,
The Breakfast Club
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us- in the simplest terms, and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours,
The Breakfast Club
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Hey hey hey!
The other night Ann and I happened to catch an episode of The Cosby Show. We see bits and pieces periodically, but I don't think I'd watched a full episode since it went off the air. It was quaintly nostalgic and quite funny, but what really struck me was how little actually happened in the episode. The entire plot was: Claire is feeling stressed by kids and work. Cliff makes reservations at a hotel owned by a patient, they put Denise in charge, they go to dinner, then hang out in their room and eventually, as Cliff puts it, "get it on." They come home the next day and are glad to see the kids. The end. Oh, and Theo takes a call from a patient looking for Cliff and refers her to the on-call doctor. That's literally all that happens in the episode. It wasn't bad -- far from it -- but I was taken by just how little plot was involved. On any other show in the world, particularly these days, Claire and Cliff's dinner would have been interrupted by a rude couple at the next table, or the food would have been undercooked, or a robbery would have broken out. Or they would have come home to find the house flooded and Rudy missing. Nope - stress, hotel for the night, home, done. There's your half hour. Even the intro felt simplistic... I think it must've been from the first season or so, because there was none of this smooth jazz while Bill does some soft-shoe skat or booming grandiose island rhythms. Just some grainy pictures of the cast having a picnic in the park while their pictures blur out of focus. Frankly, it looked like a Kodak cross-promotion or something. "Was your family picnic ruined by a camera that took nothing but blurry photographs? Y'see, you need to get yourself one of the Kodak cameras, see, with the zoom lenses and the fast shutter speed and the oooooh, and then you can have some Jello pudding pops."
The only other thing of note was the hilarious mid-'80s "what lengths will we go to to protect the children even though both on-screen characters are talking about 'getting it on'?" In this case, that would be "Cliff has changed out of his clothes into full-length pajamas, even though he's clearly intent on romancing his wife." If any of you have ever (successfully) staged a seduction wearing matching pajama pants and shirt, kindly let me know.
The only other thing of note was the hilarious mid-'80s "what lengths will we go to to protect the children even though both on-screen characters are talking about 'getting it on'?" In this case, that would be "Cliff has changed out of his clothes into full-length pajamas, even though he's clearly intent on romancing his wife." If any of you have ever (successfully) staged a seduction wearing matching pajama pants and shirt, kindly let me know.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Lawyer Jokes
This blog is usually a pretty one-sided affair -- I rant about the most recent thought to cross my primitive mind, you chuckle sadly and comment on how impressive it is that I can occasionally complete sentence together a string -- but today we're mixing things up a bit. I have a question and I want to hear from you, dear readers. The question is this: do you know of any professions where the practitioners are driven to talk about their work constantly, any time two or more of them are occupying the same general space?
Yes, there is something that prompted this query, thank you for asking. I'm going to preface it by saying that the two people I'm about to describe are among the best, most principled, all-around nicest people you could ever hope to meet in your life, so this stems purely from amusement, not any kind of genuine complaint. With that out of the way...
My father-in-law is an attorney, by all accounts a very well-respected and successful one. My brother-in-law just graduated law school a little over a year ago. (First in his class, I might add... he went to night classes, beat out the #1 day classes guy by like .01% in their GPAs; somehow that guy ended up the class valedictorian anyway. It's all politics.) Immediately afterward he was hired by a very well-regarded law firm and has apparently met with success so far, probably because my brother-in-law is maybe the hardest-working man on the eastern seaboard. He's great and always makes time for his family, but anytime he comes down to my wife's parents' house for a visit, it's with the laptop and cellphone, and he's guaranteed to spend at least half of Saturday or Sunday holed up in the basement working on a case. Totally understandable given his job, he's always cool about making time for the family afterward, so no biggie. But what cracks me up is that anytime -- anytime -- he and my father-in-law are together for longer than 5 minutes, they will discuss law. Guaranteed. They're both pretty good at turning it off when the rest of us are around and clearly bored, but anytime it's just the two of them or the rest of us are engaged in another conversation: law. This will go on for hours if you let it. It surprised me because you would think, back when he was working full time, attending classes at night with a newborn baby at home, and desperately cramming for finals while maintaining the highest GPA in his class (did I mention that?), my brother-in-law would want to get away from law for a weekend. Certainly now that he's working 60 hours a week and is guaranteed to at least be on call one day a weekend, bare minimum, you'd think he'd want to escape "shop talk" on those rare weekends when he can get away. I know I would in his shoes. Again, I say this all with affection; it doesn't bother me, I just find it fascinating. They literally cannot stop discussing law. I wondered if it was just them, but my mother-in-law, who has been around lawyers pretty much her entire adult life, told me that in her experience anytime you get two lawyers together, talk will invariably turn to law. Apparently this is a profession-wide thing, rather than being unique to my relatives.
So I'm just curious... does anyone else know of other professions where this is the case? I don't mean standard shop talk -- sure, whenever you hang out with people from your office it's likely you'll spend at least some time talking about work. That's a given. I mean whenever you get anyone from that profession together, they're guaranteed to start talking about it and keep talking about it for hours until their spouses force them to stop, usually for dinner. Don't leave me hanging, I want to hear your thoughts.
Yes, there is something that prompted this query, thank you for asking. I'm going to preface it by saying that the two people I'm about to describe are among the best, most principled, all-around nicest people you could ever hope to meet in your life, so this stems purely from amusement, not any kind of genuine complaint. With that out of the way...
My father-in-law is an attorney, by all accounts a very well-respected and successful one. My brother-in-law just graduated law school a little over a year ago. (First in his class, I might add... he went to night classes, beat out the #1 day classes guy by like .01% in their GPAs; somehow that guy ended up the class valedictorian anyway. It's all politics.) Immediately afterward he was hired by a very well-regarded law firm and has apparently met with success so far, probably because my brother-in-law is maybe the hardest-working man on the eastern seaboard. He's great and always makes time for his family, but anytime he comes down to my wife's parents' house for a visit, it's with the laptop and cellphone, and he's guaranteed to spend at least half of Saturday or Sunday holed up in the basement working on a case. Totally understandable given his job, he's always cool about making time for the family afterward, so no biggie. But what cracks me up is that anytime -- anytime -- he and my father-in-law are together for longer than 5 minutes, they will discuss law. Guaranteed. They're both pretty good at turning it off when the rest of us are around and clearly bored, but anytime it's just the two of them or the rest of us are engaged in another conversation: law. This will go on for hours if you let it. It surprised me because you would think, back when he was working full time, attending classes at night with a newborn baby at home, and desperately cramming for finals while maintaining the highest GPA in his class (did I mention that?), my brother-in-law would want to get away from law for a weekend. Certainly now that he's working 60 hours a week and is guaranteed to at least be on call one day a weekend, bare minimum, you'd think he'd want to escape "shop talk" on those rare weekends when he can get away. I know I would in his shoes. Again, I say this all with affection; it doesn't bother me, I just find it fascinating. They literally cannot stop discussing law. I wondered if it was just them, but my mother-in-law, who has been around lawyers pretty much her entire adult life, told me that in her experience anytime you get two lawyers together, talk will invariably turn to law. Apparently this is a profession-wide thing, rather than being unique to my relatives.
So I'm just curious... does anyone else know of other professions where this is the case? I don't mean standard shop talk -- sure, whenever you hang out with people from your office it's likely you'll spend at least some time talking about work. That's a given. I mean whenever you get anyone from that profession together, they're guaranteed to start talking about it and keep talking about it for hours until their spouses force them to stop, usually for dinner. Don't leave me hanging, I want to hear your thoughts.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Cabinet Opening FAIL
I usually don't post videos, but I'm making an exception this once because, hey- babies hurting themselves are always funny. Enjoy!
Don't worry... I'm 90% sure that if Molly were really injured, Ann wouldn't be laughing as hard.
Don't worry... I'm 90% sure that if Molly were really injured, Ann wouldn't be laughing as hard.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Edited for your approval
Just a quick one today- I'm sure we're all familiar with the practice of network and family-friendly cable channels editing content out of the movies they show. We've all seen TBS's cut of The Breakfast Club (since it's the only movie they show), where Vernon leaves the room and suddenly the music cranks up really loudly for about a second, followed by Bender saying "-you!" I wonder what that first word was? Some of you may even be familiar with some of the more esoteric dubs, like the infamous "I have had it with these monkey-fightin' snakes on this Monday-to-Friday plane!", or "Yippee-ki-yay, Mr. Falcon." Ergo, while watching National Lampoon's Vacation tonight, I was not at all surprised that they cut out the part where Chevy Chase flirts with Christie Brinkley by miming, er, oral ministrations on his baloney sandwich. Frankly, no one needs to see that, including Chevy's wife.
What I was NOT expecting was an edit that occurred soon after, in the scene where Ellen's luggage falls off the back of the car and gets lost. Oh, I suspected they might take out the part where Chevy says, "And those bags didn't have anything else important... except your diaphragm." Well, they didn't... not exactly. Imagine my surprise when I instead heard the line, "And those bags didn't have anything else important... except your birth control pills." Now, I understand that many younger viewers may not remember what a diaphragm was; but that is the craziest dub I've ever heard, hands down. I want to have been in that meeting where the TBS censors determined that sandwich mouth party = no go, but we can keep the joke about contraception... ah, but we'd better update it for the times. Wouldn't want anyone to get confused.
Personally, I cannot wait until the day when all references to discontinued products in movies are replaced by their modern equivalents. If only because I would like to see the scene where Michael J. Fox goes into a 1955 diner and orders a Coke Zero, only to be told that if he wants a Coke, he'll have to pay a lot more than zero.
What I was NOT expecting was an edit that occurred soon after, in the scene where Ellen's luggage falls off the back of the car and gets lost. Oh, I suspected they might take out the part where Chevy says, "And those bags didn't have anything else important... except your diaphragm." Well, they didn't... not exactly. Imagine my surprise when I instead heard the line, "And those bags didn't have anything else important... except your birth control pills." Now, I understand that many younger viewers may not remember what a diaphragm was; but that is the craziest dub I've ever heard, hands down. I want to have been in that meeting where the TBS censors determined that sandwich mouth party = no go, but we can keep the joke about contraception... ah, but we'd better update it for the times. Wouldn't want anyone to get confused.
Personally, I cannot wait until the day when all references to discontinued products in movies are replaced by their modern equivalents. If only because I would like to see the scene where Michael J. Fox goes into a 1955 diner and orders a Coke Zero, only to be told that if he wants a Coke, he'll have to pay a lot more than zero.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Behind the curve
Sorry again for the dry spell, everyone. The good news is, I am officially re-employed!, ergo I should have more time to update the blog. In an odd-but-welcome turn of events, my old company called me literally three weeks to the day from the date I'd been laid off, informed me that another person from the department had resigned, and asked if I would come back. My negative feelings about being laid off in the first place wrestled with my pride at being the #1 person they wanted to bring back, but ultimately it came down to one simple truth: Molly and Ann need to eat, and I'm fond of it on occasion myself. I started exactly one week later, meaning my one week vacation essentially became a five week vacation (if you call sitting on the couch searching want ads a vacation, I suppose), and so far so good. Thanks to everyone for your good thoughts and prayers on my behalf!
The second item on our agenda is my growing suspicion about Ann. As I think I've mentioned before, we've had numerous... let's call them discussions, both long before and after Molly was born, on the subject of athletics. Ann grew up with parents who didn't push her toward organized sports, which is good because she hated them. (The sports, not her parents.) She doesn't dislike sports on principle, but would much prefer that Molly remain at the casual, intramural level if she does them, and would be fine if she chooses not to. I grew up with extremely athletic parents who raised my sister and I to be athletic as well. I did organized sports from the time I was 6 until I graduated college, spent literally thousands upon thousands of hours in the pool training, and sacrificed partying, drinking, and much of the usual college bacchanalia to commit to swimming. (I say that neither with regret nor self-aggrandizement, just as a matter of fact. It's not for everyone.) Because of this, Ann has voiced the opinion numerous times that I won't know what to do with Molly if she doesn't like sports, and her concern that I won't be able to accept it and will push Molly into athletics against her will. I won't (she'll do something to stay in shape, but it doesn't strictly have to be organized sports), but that's Ann's fear.
So you can imagine my amusement the other day when Ann called me to complain about another girl in Molly's day care class. This little girl is three days younger than Molly, but is already able to grab onto people and pull herself up to a standing position, as well as to cruise around by grabbing onto couches, chairs, etc. Oh, and she has two teeth already, to Molly's none. Ann was irate about this kid -- I believe the term "freak of nature" was used more than once -- and I came home that night to find Molly having just learned to grab Ann's arms and pull herself up to stand. God knows how long they'd been practicing... I checked Molly's back for switch marks and didn't find any, but it's entirely possible she didn't get any formula until she learned how to do it. (I kid, Ann would never deprive our child of necessary meals as a learning incentive. Dessert maybe, but not a main course.) Now, I happen to find the whole thing amusing -- mostly because Molly's not actually behind the curve, this other kid just happens to be extremely far ahead of it -- but you can't tell me you don't see the irony of stage mom over here warning me off of overathleticizing our child while simultaneously losing her cool over the fact that Molly can't quite keep up with superbaby just yet. I tell you, moms are funny creatures.
The second item on our agenda is my growing suspicion about Ann. As I think I've mentioned before, we've had numerous... let's call them discussions, both long before and after Molly was born, on the subject of athletics. Ann grew up with parents who didn't push her toward organized sports, which is good because she hated them. (The sports, not her parents.) She doesn't dislike sports on principle, but would much prefer that Molly remain at the casual, intramural level if she does them, and would be fine if she chooses not to. I grew up with extremely athletic parents who raised my sister and I to be athletic as well. I did organized sports from the time I was 6 until I graduated college, spent literally thousands upon thousands of hours in the pool training, and sacrificed partying, drinking, and much of the usual college bacchanalia to commit to swimming. (I say that neither with regret nor self-aggrandizement, just as a matter of fact. It's not for everyone.) Because of this, Ann has voiced the opinion numerous times that I won't know what to do with Molly if she doesn't like sports, and her concern that I won't be able to accept it and will push Molly into athletics against her will. I won't (she'll do something to stay in shape, but it doesn't strictly have to be organized sports), but that's Ann's fear.
So you can imagine my amusement the other day when Ann called me to complain about another girl in Molly's day care class. This little girl is three days younger than Molly, but is already able to grab onto people and pull herself up to a standing position, as well as to cruise around by grabbing onto couches, chairs, etc. Oh, and she has two teeth already, to Molly's none. Ann was irate about this kid -- I believe the term "freak of nature" was used more than once -- and I came home that night to find Molly having just learned to grab Ann's arms and pull herself up to stand. God knows how long they'd been practicing... I checked Molly's back for switch marks and didn't find any, but it's entirely possible she didn't get any formula until she learned how to do it. (I kid, Ann would never deprive our child of necessary meals as a learning incentive. Dessert maybe, but not a main course.) Now, I happen to find the whole thing amusing -- mostly because Molly's not actually behind the curve, this other kid just happens to be extremely far ahead of it -- but you can't tell me you don't see the irony of stage mom over here warning me off of overathleticizing our child while simultaneously losing her cool over the fact that Molly can't quite keep up with superbaby just yet. I tell you, moms are funny creatures.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Dad be not proud
Ann made mashed potatoes a couple nights ago, mostly for the two of us but also because they're one of the few "adult" foods that Molly can eat too. Ann's mashed potatoes happen to be really, really good, with garlic and butter mixed into the recipe and... mmmm. Good stuff. Anyway, last night she put a small amount of it in one of Molly's baby bowls and tried feeding it to her. The munchkin ate some of it, but she's being a bit finicky about foods lately (we think she's teething), so after she'd turned her nose up at the rest of it, Ann started feeding her finger foods instead. At that point, I took the bowl off the high chair tray, brought it into the kitchen, and -- this is not my finest moment -- stood there eating mashed potatoes out of a baby bowl. Yes, I used an adult fork, but still- baby bowl. My daughter's leftovers.
Hey, don't judge me until you've tried Ann's mashed potatoes.
Hey, don't judge me until you've tried Ann's mashed potatoes.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Will blog for food
Apologies for the lack of updates, everyone. I know I promised that once finals were over I'd be posting more often, but first Ann and I took a week's vacation -- went to Beantown for a wedding, where Molly made a great impression, and the rest of the time I was just busy relaxing -- and then when we got back, we learned on our last day of vacation that my position had been eliminated. Yep, I am currently not a contributing member of the workforce. Now, never fear... something will turn up, and if all else fails I've still got my sugar mama working to keep me in the lifestyle to which I'm accustomed. But for the last week my priority has been hitting the job search hard, and that probably won't change until I actually secure one. (So if you hear about anyone willing to pay big bucks for someone to blog about Spider-Man... I'm just sayin'.) Don't worry, though- once I'm back on my feet, regular updates will resume. I know I've said that before, but baby, I can change.
One humorous addendum to an otherwise fairly crappy situation: tonight Ann was folding our laundry and asked without thinking, "Where are all your work pants?" I think I just gawked at her speechless for a few seconds until she realized what she'd said, at which point she blanched and couldn't apologize fast enough. She didn't mean anything by it, obviously, and it's funny in retrospect, but man, it's a good thing I'm not thin skinned.
Oh, and a message to my daughter: sweetie, I love you. You make me happier than I've ever been, and I'm immensely flattered that for the last two weeks you haven't stopped saying "Da da da da da da da." That's why I'm telling you this now, for your own good... learn "Ma ma ma ma ma ma." The woman grew your cells, gave up alcohol for you, and carted you around for nine months, and then an extra week on top of that because you weren't in any rush to come out. If you don't give her her due props soon in the form of learning the "M" consonant, I can't be responsible for what she might do. Let's just say they do make lima bean baby food, and leave it at that.
One humorous addendum to an otherwise fairly crappy situation: tonight Ann was folding our laundry and asked without thinking, "Where are all your work pants?" I think I just gawked at her speechless for a few seconds until she realized what she'd said, at which point she blanched and couldn't apologize fast enough. She didn't mean anything by it, obviously, and it's funny in retrospect, but man, it's a good thing I'm not thin skinned.
Oh, and a message to my daughter: sweetie, I love you. You make me happier than I've ever been, and I'm immensely flattered that for the last two weeks you haven't stopped saying "Da da da da da da da." That's why I'm telling you this now, for your own good... learn "Ma ma ma ma ma ma." The woman grew your cells, gave up alcohol for you, and carted you around for nine months, and then an extra week on top of that because you weren't in any rush to come out. If you don't give her her due props soon in the form of learning the "M" consonant, I can't be responsible for what she might do. Let's just say they do make lima bean baby food, and leave it at that.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Worst Concert I Ever Attended
Ann and I don't get to concerts much anymore, what with the spawn and dear God the economy and just generally being old as dirt, but up until a couple of years ago we used to go to one every few months, often as birthday gifts to each other. For quite some time I'd been telling Ann that there were two bands I hadn't seen in concert that I'd really like to, Green Day and Counting Crows. (Shut it, you listened to August and Everything After just as much as the rest of us.) Anyway, one year Ann told me she'd gotten tickets for us to a Goo Goo Dolls/Counting Crows show. Man, I was stoked. I can take or leave the Dolls and I'm not a fan of CC's entire repetoire, but I really like their fast songs, "Einstein on a Beach" and "A Murder of One" and like that, and pretty much anything from August is money. Ergo, excitement.
So the day of the concert finally arrived and we settled into our seats, ready to rock like it's 1995. And I give them a lot of credit- like I said, I wasn't as excited for the Goo Goo Dolls, but they really put on a great show. Lots of energy, they genuinely seemed to want to be there and did a nice job of pumping up the audience, and they played a lot of their greatest hits. No complaints there. In fact, after they finished, I was even more excited for what was undoubtedly going to be a Counting Crows set that would blow my Generation Y mind.
And finally, finally the Crows walked out onto the stage. Adam Duritz picked up the microphone and promptly informed all us concertgoers that they were sorry for being late, but a very good friend of theirs died yesterday. Well. That sucks. I remember feeling sympathetic and wondering if they were going to cancel the show. No, in fact; what Adam went on to slur in a 110% stoned voice was that, in their friend's memory, they were going to have a night of beautiful, beautiful music, to honor him, man.
Well, damn. Now I know Counting Crows are kind of a hippie band; I know that songs like "December" and "Perfect Blue Buildings" could double as funeral dirges in some countries. I was kind of hoping we'd get more of the upbeat peppy songs than emo ones, or at least an even split, but okay, fine... I can deal with some of their slower songs. That could work.
Uh-uh. Nope. Believe me when I tell you that what followed was the most mournful, depressing, slit-your-wrists-at-the-snack-bar music you've ever heard in your life. If you can imagine the Smiths, stoned and in mourning for murdered kittens, you've just about got it. Every single song began low and got lower, and even the short ones were so long it felt like a Phish concert. How on earth do you turn "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" into a requiem? Somehow they managed it. After about 30 minutes (read: four songs), Ann looked at me and hesitantly asked, "Uh, do you... do you want to stay? I mean, we can if you want to, I know you were looking forward to this..." I remember answering back, just as uncertainly, "Well, let's... let's give it another couple of songs, maybe they'll pick up energy as they go and play some faster stuff." You will not necessarily be shocked when I tell you that this spectacularly failed to happen. We walked out of there when their set couldn't have been more than half over, and I've never regretted that decision for an instant. I'm sure there was someone sitting in that stadium who really dug it, who couldn't get enough of that music to cut yourself by, but brother, he wasn't me.
So that's the story of the worst concert I ever attended. I've been to concerts where I've had beer spilled on me, I've been to concerts where I've seen people thrown out by security, I've been to a concert where I couldn't stop sneezing because I'm allergic to horses and my girlfriend forgot she'd last worn her jacket while working in a stable. (Really.) Shit, I've even been to a Kelly Clarkson concert (not my idea), and at least there the opening act was a band I liked. But I tell you now, not one of them was as disappointing as that Counting Crows set. I'm sorry their friend died, I really am... but if you're not able to temporarily put your grief aside -- and I don't blame you if you aren't -- then you've gotta cancel the show and refund everyone's money. Don't subject people to... that. It's not like we killed him.
So the day of the concert finally arrived and we settled into our seats, ready to rock like it's 1995. And I give them a lot of credit- like I said, I wasn't as excited for the Goo Goo Dolls, but they really put on a great show. Lots of energy, they genuinely seemed to want to be there and did a nice job of pumping up the audience, and they played a lot of their greatest hits. No complaints there. In fact, after they finished, I was even more excited for what was undoubtedly going to be a Counting Crows set that would blow my Generation Y mind.
And finally, finally the Crows walked out onto the stage. Adam Duritz picked up the microphone and promptly informed all us concertgoers that they were sorry for being late, but a very good friend of theirs died yesterday. Well. That sucks. I remember feeling sympathetic and wondering if they were going to cancel the show. No, in fact; what Adam went on to slur in a 110% stoned voice was that, in their friend's memory, they were going to have a night of beautiful, beautiful music, to honor him, man.
Well, damn. Now I know Counting Crows are kind of a hippie band; I know that songs like "December" and "Perfect Blue Buildings" could double as funeral dirges in some countries. I was kind of hoping we'd get more of the upbeat peppy songs than emo ones, or at least an even split, but okay, fine... I can deal with some of their slower songs. That could work.
Uh-uh. Nope. Believe me when I tell you that what followed was the most mournful, depressing, slit-your-wrists-at-the-snack-bar music you've ever heard in your life. If you can imagine the Smiths, stoned and in mourning for murdered kittens, you've just about got it. Every single song began low and got lower, and even the short ones were so long it felt like a Phish concert. How on earth do you turn "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" into a requiem? Somehow they managed it. After about 30 minutes (read: four songs), Ann looked at me and hesitantly asked, "Uh, do you... do you want to stay? I mean, we can if you want to, I know you were looking forward to this..." I remember answering back, just as uncertainly, "Well, let's... let's give it another couple of songs, maybe they'll pick up energy as they go and play some faster stuff." You will not necessarily be shocked when I tell you that this spectacularly failed to happen. We walked out of there when their set couldn't have been more than half over, and I've never regretted that decision for an instant. I'm sure there was someone sitting in that stadium who really dug it, who couldn't get enough of that music to cut yourself by, but brother, he wasn't me.
So that's the story of the worst concert I ever attended. I've been to concerts where I've had beer spilled on me, I've been to concerts where I've seen people thrown out by security, I've been to a concert where I couldn't stop sneezing because I'm allergic to horses and my girlfriend forgot she'd last worn her jacket while working in a stable. (Really.) Shit, I've even been to a Kelly Clarkson concert (not my idea), and at least there the opening act was a band I liked. But I tell you now, not one of them was as disappointing as that Counting Crows set. I'm sorry their friend died, I really am... but if you're not able to temporarily put your grief aside -- and I don't blame you if you aren't -- then you've gotta cancel the show and refund everyone's money. Don't subject people to... that. It's not like we killed him.
Monday, May 11, 2009
It came out HOW long ago?
If you want to feel old (and who doesn't?), I have some advice for you: get satellite radio. Just recently, at about the same time they merged with Sirius, my XM radio's display screen changed so that it scrolls the song title across, same as it always did, but now with the year the song was released right after it. That's simultaneously very informative and extremely depressing, because if you think too hard about it, it reminds you of just how long ago the song was released. As an example: a few weeks ago Ann and I were driving home from work when a song came on the 90s station. I think it was "The Sign" by Ace of Base, but it's not important; what is important is that the year listed was 1993. And actually, even that didn't bother us because, you know, 1993 wasn't that long ago, right? Right, except... then one of us, I forget which, happened to mention that in fact it was sixteen years ago. And that was sobering.
Why's that, you ask? Well, because "The Sign" came out a while back, sure, but it wasn't TOO long ago. I remember listening to it on the radio when it first came out, for God's sake. Whereas if that lying bastard radio were to be believed, it would suggest that for our daughter Molly, "The Sign" and any other song from 1993 will be as much an oldie as songs released in 1964 were for me. Nineteen sixty-effing-four! The Beatles made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan in 1964! (Yes, I had to look that up.) The Rolling Stones released their very first album in 1964! Sixteen years is bleeping forever ago, whereas "The Sign" is, you know, just a shade on the dated side. I absolutely refuse to believe that the time between the Beatles' debut and my birth is the same as the amount of time between songs from 1993 and my daughter's birth. No way.
So that's why satellite radio is evil. And the next time someone tells you "Cherub Rock" came out sixteen years ago, remember that what they actually meant to say is that it came out in 1993, which really wasn't that long ago. Trust me, you'll feel a lot better.
Why's that, you ask? Well, because "The Sign" came out a while back, sure, but it wasn't TOO long ago. I remember listening to it on the radio when it first came out, for God's sake. Whereas if that lying bastard radio were to be believed, it would suggest that for our daughter Molly, "The Sign" and any other song from 1993 will be as much an oldie as songs released in 1964 were for me. Nineteen sixty-effing-four! The Beatles made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan in 1964! (Yes, I had to look that up.) The Rolling Stones released their very first album in 1964! Sixteen years is bleeping forever ago, whereas "The Sign" is, you know, just a shade on the dated side. I absolutely refuse to believe that the time between the Beatles' debut and my birth is the same as the amount of time between songs from 1993 and my daughter's birth. No way.
So that's why satellite radio is evil. And the next time someone tells you "Cherub Rock" came out sixteen years ago, remember that what they actually meant to say is that it came out in 1993, which really wasn't that long ago. Trust me, you'll feel a lot better.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Busyness school
Whew. Sorry for the lack of updates lately, everyone. All I'll say is, if someone ever corners you in a dark alley and tries to convince you to enroll in business school, Just Say No, understand? Anyone who doesn't respect your desire not to be simultaneously stressed out and bored to tears isn't really your friend. Luckily(?) finals are next week, so after that I should have a little more time for frivolities like blogging and eating. Till then, you stay classy, San Diego!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Boys and Girls - Action
In our relationship, Ann and I each endure periodic moments of despair over the other person's ignorance of 90s pop culture that we both lived through, and thus should theoretically know something about. For her they're nearly always music related because I spent the 90s listening to 80s music, and thus am liable at any given time to confuse a Pearl Jam song for one by Soundgarden. Shameful, I know. On the other side of the scale, she apparently only watched two channels and saw three movies through the whole of the decade, making a good 80% of my pop culture references fly completely over her head. If not for us both being so damn attractive, I just don't know what would keep us together.
Case in point: this morning we were putting our lunches in the work fridge and Ann mentioned she was surprised I hadn't been eating any of the nutella we have at home. I answered that I just hadn't thought of it, to which she replied, "Mmm, not me, I'm looking forward to having some for lunch. I wanna dip these bananas in it." As you'd expect, I snickered and said, "Hey, that reminds me, did I tell you The State is finally coming to DVD?" She gave me this funny look and asked what on earth made me suddenly think of that.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid she just Doesn't Get It.
Case in point: this morning we were putting our lunches in the work fridge and Ann mentioned she was surprised I hadn't been eating any of the nutella we have at home. I answered that I just hadn't thought of it, to which she replied, "Mmm, not me, I'm looking forward to having some for lunch. I wanna dip these bananas in it." As you'd expect, I snickered and said, "Hey, that reminds me, did I tell you The State is finally coming to DVD?" She gave me this funny look and asked what on earth made me suddenly think of that.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid she just Doesn't Get It.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
A Brief Digression
Hey, everyone. I had an entry planned out for today about an exchange Ann and I had earlier that redefined "backhanded compliment." In brief, I made a funny comment, she laughed and asked, "Where is that from?" When I explained that it wasn't from anywhere, I made it up myself, she looked surprised and remarked that she just assumed I got it from somewhere because it was really funny. Yes, she's a keeper, ladies and gentlemen.
That's what I had planned to write about. Instead, I came home from class tonight to have Ann ask me to watch a very sad but moving video by a woman whose blog Ann reads, about her daughter who was born prematurely at 29 weeks but who managed to hang on and even thrive in spite of everything. This little girl, Madeline, died suddenly last week after 17 months of life. Her parents are understandably devastated, but have managed to both create the video I mentioned above, and to establish a March of Dimes donation page in their daughter's name to help children born prematurely. The initial goal for the page to raise was $3000; as of this posting, the total amount raised is approaching $27,000.
This is a little girl I'd never heard of until Ann mentioned her passing to me two days ago. I have no more connection to her than the natural empathy any human being would feel upon hearing of a child's death. But I don't mind telling you, I was emotional after watching the video. No doubt a lot of that is due to being a new father myself; I can't watch it without seeing Molly in a lot of the pictures. But I also can't imagine anyone watching this video and not being affected in some way, parent or otherwise. So in lieu of a funny (in theory) post by me today, I would simply ask that if you're so inclined, set aside 10 minutes or so and watch this movie. Don't do it if you've got a birthday party or a blind date to attend right afterward, obviously; but if you have a chance, give it a viewing and celebrate the life of this little girl who clearly brought so much joy to her family. And if you're of the spiritual bent, please offer a prayer of comfort and solace for the parents of Madeline and all other children who die unexpectedly or at an early age. May their brief but meaningful lives remind us to make the most of the time we have together.
The video can be viewed here. More information about Madeline may be found here.
I love you, Molly. Please don't ever leave us.
That's what I had planned to write about. Instead, I came home from class tonight to have Ann ask me to watch a very sad but moving video by a woman whose blog Ann reads, about her daughter who was born prematurely at 29 weeks but who managed to hang on and even thrive in spite of everything. This little girl, Madeline, died suddenly last week after 17 months of life. Her parents are understandably devastated, but have managed to both create the video I mentioned above, and to establish a March of Dimes donation page in their daughter's name to help children born prematurely. The initial goal for the page to raise was $3000; as of this posting, the total amount raised is approaching $27,000.
This is a little girl I'd never heard of until Ann mentioned her passing to me two days ago. I have no more connection to her than the natural empathy any human being would feel upon hearing of a child's death. But I don't mind telling you, I was emotional after watching the video. No doubt a lot of that is due to being a new father myself; I can't watch it without seeing Molly in a lot of the pictures. But I also can't imagine anyone watching this video and not being affected in some way, parent or otherwise. So in lieu of a funny (in theory) post by me today, I would simply ask that if you're so inclined, set aside 10 minutes or so and watch this movie. Don't do it if you've got a birthday party or a blind date to attend right afterward, obviously; but if you have a chance, give it a viewing and celebrate the life of this little girl who clearly brought so much joy to her family. And if you're of the spiritual bent, please offer a prayer of comfort and solace for the parents of Madeline and all other children who die unexpectedly or at an early age. May their brief but meaningful lives remind us to make the most of the time we have together.
The video can be viewed here. More information about Madeline may be found here.
I love you, Molly. Please don't ever leave us.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Let's All Go To The Movies...
As I've mentioned in the past, I have a real love/hate relationship with the cardio cinema room at the gym. Some days it is my good and loyal friend who makes twenty minutes on the elliptical fly by in no time; other days it maliciously casts me down into a sea of six-month-old economic and motherhood magazines. Just the other day I was privileged enough to watch the closing credits of Swing Kids, followed by eight minutes of the main menu screen for Swing Kids (magnificent in its juxtaposition of imagery), then five minutes of the scene selection screen for Swing Kids (overrated, not a satisfying ending), and finally three minutes of Swing Kids. So it's a real crapshoot. Today I ascended the stairs to find waiting for me... The Shaggy Dog, remade Tim Allen version. Ugh. I almost took a pass, but reasoned that in a couple of years Molly's going to be forcing this kind of movie on me anyway, so I may as well build up a tolerance. So in I went.
Fortunately the movie was just beginning, so I didn't have to worry about missing any of the subtle nuances that provide context to the rest of the film. The stars appear to be Tim "The Tool, Man" Allen, Rob Lowe slumming it in pre-Iron Man days, and as Tim's wife, I'm mostly but not 100% certain one of the chicks from Sex and the City. No, not her, the hot one. I won't embarrass myself by clumsily trying to explain all of the film's layers (some things you just have to experience for yourself), but in the final stages of my workout we came to the part of the movie where Tim Allen does, in fact, begin showing signs of becoming a dog. Thus I was treated to a quick montage of Tim waking up curled at his wife's feet; shaking his body to dry off after a shower; lapping up his cup of coffee; and finally sticking his face into his bowl of cereal to eat. At this point I had to leave because my uproarious laughter was disturbing the other patrons, but with some regret, because Tim had just started getting affectionate with his wife and I was wondering if they would actually show him sniffing her ass. My disappointment at missing out on learning about the finer points of human woman/man turning into a dog relations is tangible, though I imagine it as something in the vein of: "Oh honey, where is this coming from? Mmm, that's good, I love when you lick my neck. Oooh, yes, that feels... wait, what are you doing back- hey! HEY! It is NOT our anniversary, mister!" But such is life.
So in hindsight, not my best move. And also a bit inexplicable, because it's not like Wednesdays are Family Day at Golds Gym, right? I looked around in that darkened room and didn't see a single elementary schooler, so what was with the movie choice? I can understand if they don't want to show Basic Instinct (dark room + Sharon Stone's bajingo = too much temptation for some people), but I think we can eschew Hotel For Dogs and Hannah Montana: The Movie in the future, thanks. Although not Labyrinth, because that would be boss.
Fortunately the movie was just beginning, so I didn't have to worry about missing any of the subtle nuances that provide context to the rest of the film. The stars appear to be Tim "The Tool, Man" Allen, Rob Lowe slumming it in pre-Iron Man days, and as Tim's wife, I'm mostly but not 100% certain one of the chicks from Sex and the City. No, not her, the hot one. I won't embarrass myself by clumsily trying to explain all of the film's layers (some things you just have to experience for yourself), but in the final stages of my workout we came to the part of the movie where Tim Allen does, in fact, begin showing signs of becoming a dog. Thus I was treated to a quick montage of Tim waking up curled at his wife's feet; shaking his body to dry off after a shower; lapping up his cup of coffee; and finally sticking his face into his bowl of cereal to eat. At this point I had to leave because my uproarious laughter was disturbing the other patrons, but with some regret, because Tim had just started getting affectionate with his wife and I was wondering if they would actually show him sniffing her ass. My disappointment at missing out on learning about the finer points of human woman/man turning into a dog relations is tangible, though I imagine it as something in the vein of: "Oh honey, where is this coming from? Mmm, that's good, I love when you lick my neck. Oooh, yes, that feels... wait, what are you doing back- hey! HEY! It is NOT our anniversary, mister!" But such is life.
So in hindsight, not my best move. And also a bit inexplicable, because it's not like Wednesdays are Family Day at Golds Gym, right? I looked around in that darkened room and didn't see a single elementary schooler, so what was with the movie choice? I can understand if they don't want to show Basic Instinct (dark room + Sharon Stone's bajingo = too much temptation for some people), but I think we can eschew Hotel For Dogs and Hannah Montana: The Movie in the future, thanks. Although not Labyrinth, because that would be boss.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Why I'm not allowed to do chores anymore
It should come as no surprise to anyone that Ann's and my already busy lives became infinitely more harried upon the arrival of Molly. Not that either of us resents her because of it for an instant- Ann absolutely adores the little squirt, as do I. But she has made our lives quite a bit busier, and Ann, an anxious person at the best of times, has been feeling stressed out for months now. This is not entirely her fault -- I'm a much more low-key, mellow person who figures stuff will work itself out and am in my element when handling things on the fly. Translated, this means that I have no organizational skills... if I were in charge of our vacations I'd be trying to book our flight online a week ahead of time while yelling on the phone at some poor hotel clerk about why there aren't any rooms available. As a result, by default Ann ends up handling anything in our lives that needs to be scheduled in advance, like doctor's appointments, family get-togethers, ritual sacrifices, etc. (Just kidding, the cult we belong to is totally non-violent, blessed be the Leader.) One notable exception- I do pay the rent every month. And I'm pretty good about getting it out on time, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not occasionally lucky our landlord doesn't assess late fees for a couple of days over.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the poor girl is stressed out. So the other night she went out for drinks with a friend on a night when I didn't have class, leaving me to watch Molly. Which I did, but I thought it would be a nice way to ease Ann's burden a bit by also handling some chores that she usually does. She almost always cooks, but I made dinner based on the instructions she gave me to use the hamburger before it went bad; once I was done I washed all of the dishes; and I threw Molly's dirty clothes in the washing machine, then after they were finished threw in a load of Ann's and my clothes, and finally put them in the dryer and tossed in the last batch of clothes. Once that was all done I sat down on the couch, feeling moderately proud of myself. When Ann came home she was similarly pleased and thanked me several times before going to bed.
Cut to the next morning, where in the course of an hour Ann discovered three things:
-The hamburger she had wanted me to use, in the fridge, I had not used; instead I thought she said the freezer and used some hamburger we had frozen in there. The upshot of this is that we don't have the frozen hamburger for whatever we were going to use it for, and the fridge hamburger has now gone bad.
-Comparatively minor, but when washing the lid of the pan I used, I focused solely on the bottom of the lid, the part that actually touched the meat. You'd think that'd be enough, but apparently grease splattered on the top, which I didn't wash. Oops.
And most importantly...
-I forgot about the laundry after throwing in the last load. Which means in the morning we had a dryer full of wrinkled clothes that had to be re-dried, and a washing machine full of wet, possibly mildewy clothes.
And that's why I'm going to run away and join the circus.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the poor girl is stressed out. So the other night she went out for drinks with a friend on a night when I didn't have class, leaving me to watch Molly. Which I did, but I thought it would be a nice way to ease Ann's burden a bit by also handling some chores that she usually does. She almost always cooks, but I made dinner based on the instructions she gave me to use the hamburger before it went bad; once I was done I washed all of the dishes; and I threw Molly's dirty clothes in the washing machine, then after they were finished threw in a load of Ann's and my clothes, and finally put them in the dryer and tossed in the last batch of clothes. Once that was all done I sat down on the couch, feeling moderately proud of myself. When Ann came home she was similarly pleased and thanked me several times before going to bed.
Cut to the next morning, where in the course of an hour Ann discovered three things:
-The hamburger she had wanted me to use, in the fridge, I had not used; instead I thought she said the freezer and used some hamburger we had frozen in there. The upshot of this is that we don't have the frozen hamburger for whatever we were going to use it for, and the fridge hamburger has now gone bad.
-Comparatively minor, but when washing the lid of the pan I used, I focused solely on the bottom of the lid, the part that actually touched the meat. You'd think that'd be enough, but apparently grease splattered on the top, which I didn't wash. Oops.
And most importantly...
-I forgot about the laundry after throwing in the last load. Which means in the morning we had a dryer full of wrinkled clothes that had to be re-dried, and a washing machine full of wet, possibly mildewy clothes.
And that's why I'm going to run away and join the circus.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
No-Longer-Teenage Mutants
This will mean nothing to 99% of you, but whatever, I'm stoked so just roll with it- in May my favorite superhero team of all time, the New Mutants, is returning. (Young Justice is a close second, but Young Justice never had any shapeshifting techno-organic aliens on the team. Instant fail.) This group was the balls back in the day, and even though I only discovered them in college, I've been waiting eight long years for them to reunite. My excitement is hovering somewhere around 110%, partially on the strength of these two sweet-ass covers:
Not much has been revealed about the first storyline, save that it's supposed to involve the return of old friend/enemy Legion (for he is many), but one thing's for certain: it will be awesome. Oh yes, it will.
Not much has been revealed about the first storyline, save that it's supposed to involve the return of old friend/enemy Legion (for he is many), but one thing's for certain: it will be awesome. Oh yes, it will.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The definition of mixed emotions:
Being really psyched that you finally got off your lazy butt and got HR to give you a new keycard to the building... and then noticing the heavy wear on it and wondering which of your recently laid-off colleagues it used to belong to. That is what we call "bittersweet" right there.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Different strokes
More grad school travails- after scoring a 75.5 on my Operations Management midterm (higher than the class average, believe it or not), we got a take-home exam today in Finance 2 ("The Bloodening"). It's a case study with pages upon pages of a conversation between two business people about whether to invest in somesuch or another based on projected zzzzzzzzzzz. I called Ann at the class break to tell her we'd gotten it and that the professor had told us to take 20 minutes to look it over. She asked what my initial impressions were, to which I replied that the plot was weak, the characters one dimensional, and the dialogue needed some serious work. Then she had the nerve to ask if I'd spent the entire time since we received the exam thinking of that one, and I mean come on, give me a little credit, it was only like a minute or something. God. She still has a lot to learn about comedy, I'm afraid. However, I'm once again faced with the sad truth that in an English class (see: things I'm actually good at), my noticing of the fact that one of the characters starts three consecutive sentences (and then two more later on) with the phrase "No problem." would be grounds for my immediately passing the exam, or at least win me some points with the professor. Here, I have the sickening feeling it would earn me nothing more than a blank look and a query about whether I had a question.
Sigh. These people may know how to predict financial models when working with a very defined set of data you'd never actually be able to get in real life, but they could stand a few more lessons about creative expression and writing interesting scenarios. Not once have I seen one where the company's stock suddenly plummets because the founder and CEO has a massive coronary while in bed with his mistress, forcing his long-suffering and inexperienced wife to take the reins of the company. And that's just sad.
Sigh. These people may know how to predict financial models when working with a very defined set of data you'd never actually be able to get in real life, but they could stand a few more lessons about creative expression and writing interesting scenarios. Not once have I seen one where the company's stock suddenly plummets because the founder and CEO has a massive coronary while in bed with his mistress, forcing his long-suffering and inexperienced wife to take the reins of the company. And that's just sad.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Exhuming McCarthy
This week we had to fill out self-assessments at work, probably to justify the huge raises we'll no doubt be getting. It was an automated thing, broken up into various different categories. And I started to wonder: do you think the fact that, upon reaching the "Business Acumen" section I immediately thought not of anything work-related, but rather the following lyrics:
Sharpening stones, walking on coals
To improve your business acumen
Enemy sighted, enemy met
I'm addressing the realpolitik
Look who bought the myth
By jingo, buy American
...means I'm really not cut out for business?
Sharpening stones, walking on coals
To improve your business acumen
Enemy sighted, enemy met
I'm addressing the realpolitik
Look who bought the myth
By jingo, buy American
...means I'm really not cut out for business?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Creative nursery rhymes
Of all the new experiences I've encountered since Molly was born four months ago, by far the most amusing has been Ann's ignorance of -- and steadfast refusal to learn -- the correct words to "Hush Little Baby." She can handle the first three and a half verses just fine, but anything after that, forget it... she's totally off the reservation. Where the humor comes in is that instead of just stopping the song there, she'll actually make up lyrics on the fly, like some kind of freestyling rapper trying to lull his daughter to sleep before the crowd boos him off stage. The following is a completely unedited transcription of what I heard her singing to Molly tonight after the squirt woke up crying from a bad dream:
Ann: And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.
And if that looking glass should break,
Mama's gonna buy you a... garden rake.
And if that garden rake don't work,
Mama's gonna buy you a loin of pork.
Me: What the f-?!
Ann: And if that loin of pork's no good,
Mama's gonna bring you Little Red Riding Hood
And if Red Riding Hood runs away,
Mama will have to save it for another day.
Me: Okay, you need to stop now.
Give her credit, though- girl can improvise. I mean, "loin of pork"?
Ann: And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.
And if that looking glass should break,
Mama's gonna buy you a... garden rake.
And if that garden rake don't work,
Mama's gonna buy you a loin of pork.
Me: What the f-?!
Ann: And if that loin of pork's no good,
Mama's gonna bring you Little Red Riding Hood
And if Red Riding Hood runs away,
Mama will have to save it for another day.
Me: Okay, you need to stop now.
Give her credit, though- girl can improvise. I mean, "loin of pork"?
Monday, March 2, 2009
If you're gonna spew, spew into this
Lately I've found myself wearing a wife beater around the house at all hours. This has less to do with us becoming a white trash family (hell, just today I got mad when NASCAR ran late and caused The Simpsons to not record), and more to do with Molly's astounding proclivity to spit up at any and all available opportunities. The only real rule she abides by when determining when to let loose with a torrent of vomit is that it must always be when you have just gotten her into a new outfit literally ten seconds ago, and when you yourself are also fully dressed. I believe she also awards herself bonus points if she manages to get some on the carpet as well (double for the couch), and she has a special addendum to the rule that when visiting grandparents or other relations, she absolutely, positively cannot show up there wearing an outfit they have bought her, no matter how many clothes she has to spit up on within five minutes of when you need to leave to run through them all. I swear to you, this child is gifted, and that's not a compliment. As the son of a health teacher, I'm well aware of the dangers of bulimia, but I foolishly assumed that wasn't anything I'd need to be on the lookout for for at least another decade. Nope. If she could fly, it would be exactly like living in an aviary, and I think you know what I mean.
The worst part is that I can't even complain too much because everything else is great: she's incredibly cute (unbiased opinion, of course), generally good-tempered, loves to smile and laugh, has recently taken to sleeping through the night again, and is in general quite healthy. On the list of things that could go wrong it's small potatoes... but dammit, I really didn't want to get that steam cleaner back out again.
The worst part is that I can't even complain too much because everything else is great: she's incredibly cute (unbiased opinion, of course), generally good-tempered, loves to smile and laugh, has recently taken to sleeping through the night again, and is in general quite healthy. On the list of things that could go wrong it's small potatoes... but dammit, I really didn't want to get that steam cleaner back out again.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Who Am I?
I'm having a bit of an identity crisis over something that happened to me earlier today. As it stands, I'm just going to explain what went down and you all can judge for yourselves.
The Circuit City near work is going out of business. Well, all Circuit City's are going out of business, obviously, but the one on the way to work is the only one I notice on a day-to-day basis. Over the last couple of weeks I've watched as the numbers on the signs visible from the highway showing "up to XX% off!" have gradually risen. I was vaguely offended by 30 -- you're going out of business, and the best you can offer me is 30% off? Seriously? -- gained some interest when it changed to 50, and as I drove by today and saw it was now 60, decided to stop in just to see if there were any deals. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but as you're probably aware if you're reading this blog, I'm a man who likes his DVDs and video games, so why not take a look, right? So at lunchtime I headed over, anticipating that by now, most of the store would already have been picked over. And it was, but still, there were a few lonely video games, a pretty random smattering of CDs, and a whole bunch of DVDs left, including quite a few TV season sets, all of them at 50% off the normal price.
And here's where it gets weird, because as I browsed among the shelves, it gradually dawned on me that I didn't want anything. You have to understand, TV box sets have traditionally been my crack. I need them. When I get into a show, I have to watch ALL of that show, not whatever haphazard smattering of episodes the networks care to show in syndication that week. So you can imagine my surprise, almost bordering on horror, that I simply couldn't be bothered to bring any of them up to the register and shell out. Granted, the economy sucks, but I wasn't thinking (at least not consciously) of the unnecessary expense factor. Nor is it that there weren't any good ones... I like Seinfeld quite a bit, and they had both seasons 1+2 and 4. And I loved Ren & Stimpy as a kid, but even when confronted with the chance to own seasons 1 and 2 for $15, I just couldn't get worked up. This is a DVD that, four years ago, I had been absolutely positive I would need to own someday. Who could resist all that Powdered Toast Man goodness? And surely when Molly gets older, I'll want a visual aid to warn her against the dangers of whizzing on the electric fence. And yet, when confronted with a prime opportunity to own the set at half price, my mind just could not have been less interested. I know there are still some things that, if they'd had them, I would have snatched up... if there'd been any copies left of Guitar Hero World Tour for 40% off, that bad boy would be sitting in my family room right now. But honestly, at present I'm focused more on the things I know I should have wanted, but just... didn't.
So there's my story, gentle readers. I don't know if it was a subconscious acknowledgement of the shitty financial situation in this country that triggered my apathy, or just the gloomy weather reflected in my mood, but I'm still having a hard time believing I didn't buy a single thing. I mean, good on me, I guess, but it's so out of character. And before you hasten to reply with, "Well, Drew, perhaps you're just maturing"... no, that's not it. Remember, I'm the guy who couldn't help snickering recently when one of his clients' middle and last names were "Gaye Gay." Your witness.
The Circuit City near work is going out of business. Well, all Circuit City's are going out of business, obviously, but the one on the way to work is the only one I notice on a day-to-day basis. Over the last couple of weeks I've watched as the numbers on the signs visible from the highway showing "up to XX% off!" have gradually risen. I was vaguely offended by 30 -- you're going out of business, and the best you can offer me is 30% off? Seriously? -- gained some interest when it changed to 50, and as I drove by today and saw it was now 60, decided to stop in just to see if there were any deals. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but as you're probably aware if you're reading this blog, I'm a man who likes his DVDs and video games, so why not take a look, right? So at lunchtime I headed over, anticipating that by now, most of the store would already have been picked over. And it was, but still, there were a few lonely video games, a pretty random smattering of CDs, and a whole bunch of DVDs left, including quite a few TV season sets, all of them at 50% off the normal price.
And here's where it gets weird, because as I browsed among the shelves, it gradually dawned on me that I didn't want anything. You have to understand, TV box sets have traditionally been my crack. I need them. When I get into a show, I have to watch ALL of that show, not whatever haphazard smattering of episodes the networks care to show in syndication that week. So you can imagine my surprise, almost bordering on horror, that I simply couldn't be bothered to bring any of them up to the register and shell out. Granted, the economy sucks, but I wasn't thinking (at least not consciously) of the unnecessary expense factor. Nor is it that there weren't any good ones... I like Seinfeld quite a bit, and they had both seasons 1+2 and 4. And I loved Ren & Stimpy as a kid, but even when confronted with the chance to own seasons 1 and 2 for $15, I just couldn't get worked up. This is a DVD that, four years ago, I had been absolutely positive I would need to own someday. Who could resist all that Powdered Toast Man goodness? And surely when Molly gets older, I'll want a visual aid to warn her against the dangers of whizzing on the electric fence. And yet, when confronted with a prime opportunity to own the set at half price, my mind just could not have been less interested. I know there are still some things that, if they'd had them, I would have snatched up... if there'd been any copies left of Guitar Hero World Tour for 40% off, that bad boy would be sitting in my family room right now. But honestly, at present I'm focused more on the things I know I should have wanted, but just... didn't.
So there's my story, gentle readers. I don't know if it was a subconscious acknowledgement of the shitty financial situation in this country that triggered my apathy, or just the gloomy weather reflected in my mood, but I'm still having a hard time believing I didn't buy a single thing. I mean, good on me, I guess, but it's so out of character. And before you hasten to reply with, "Well, Drew, perhaps you're just maturing"... no, that's not it. Remember, I'm the guy who couldn't help snickering recently when one of his clients' middle and last names were "Gaye Gay." Your witness.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
"Leapfrog"
This one's a little different than the norm, but it's too weird not to share. Ann and I worked from home today, and she finished her work before I was done with mine, so she started watching TV. When I finally wrapped things up, I wandered into the living room and found the TV tuned to the ABC Family channel while Ann surfed the internet. I couldn't tell you what show it was, beyond that it had Amanda Bynes, but clearly a teen sitcom type of deal. Anyway, at the time I walked in there were two adult characters lamenting the fact that the woman had had to cancel their planned date from the night before, no doubt due to the shenanigans of those wacky kids. But she planned to make it up to the dude tonight, and had even created a little handmade invitation requesting his presence at a date tonight for just the two of them. At that point the guy looks at the invitation and says, "Is that drawing of us? Why are we playing leapfrog?" To which the woman replies, "Uh, that's not leapfrog."
As you might expect, my reaction was hilarity tempered with amazement. Don't get me wrong, it was pretty funny, and props to fictional dude for getting some, but that's the kind of joke I wouldn't have expected to air on regular ABC in primetime. This was ABC Family in the middle of the afternoon, for crying out loud. It doesn't bother me any, but I'll admit to being pretty damn surprised. Who knew family channels had it in 'em?
As you might expect, my reaction was hilarity tempered with amazement. Don't get me wrong, it was pretty funny, and props to fictional dude for getting some, but that's the kind of joke I wouldn't have expected to air on regular ABC in primetime. This was ABC Family in the middle of the afternoon, for crying out loud. It doesn't bother me any, but I'll admit to being pretty damn surprised. Who knew family channels had it in 'em?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Important lessons
While I certainly won't claim to be an expert, I do feel like I'm starting to get slightly more of a handle on being a parent. A lot of that comes down to trial-and-error, of course, making your mistakes and learning from them. For instance, if I could do it over again, I would refrain from buying the model of car seat with the invisible knives and razor wire that apparently pop out at the passenger every time the car slows down or comes to a complete stop. Damn inconvenient, that, and Molly's not shy about sharing her distaste for it either. I also would have invested in a nice gas mask for when she entered day care, as well as a flamethrower to incinerate her clothes at the end of every day. As is, we neglected to take these precautions and she picked up a lovely cold that she managed to pass on to her mother and me, making our trip to Boston last weekend a sniffly, coughing experience for all three of us. Personally, I blame those chubby twins in the infant room. It's always the fat kid's fault. It also helps explain why I haven't updated recently, so apologies for the delay. And finally, I've learned that with my new work schedule and still occasionally having to get up before the alarm rings to feed the little monster, I'm just not able to fight off sleep and stay awake late at night the way I utdssdafffasdfasdasklasdjfasodfkaljfdslslakjnsdafjja.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
New York, New York
Two friends and I took the train into New York today. We had lunch at Carnegie Deli (bacon & egg sandwich = mmmm!), got some drinks at the Ginger Man, and then took another train out to Long Island to see an Islanders/Devils game. I don't follow hockey at all, but as always I'll support New Jersey in any sport they care to field a team for, so naturally I was rooting for the Devils. That aside, I can say with complete neutrality that "Let's go, Is-lan-ders!" just doesn't sound right. Sorry, Long Islanders, but that'll never work no matter how much you want it to. Leave that cheer to the Devils and other teams with two syllables in their name and find a different one. They also had a squad of girls in miniskirts and belly shirts who would skate out onto the rink to mop the ice, give away t-shirts, and basically look hot during timeouts and between periods. I asked my friends, "Do you think these are the women who got turned down by Hooters?" They're apparently known as the Icebreakers, though I'd imagine their most-used actual icebreaker amounts to something along the lines of "No, sir, the fact that you are wearing an Islanders jersey does not mean that I will sleep with you."
I also saw some dude in a full Elmo costume on a street corner as our taxi drove by. Man, do I hate the fuzzy red bastard. (Elmo, not the guy.) Largely because he totally bogarted Grover's place on the Street. I read something recently that perfectly mirrors my own feelings on the subject, but phrased much better than I ever could. It referred to Elmo as "An extremely adorable and uncomplicated Sesame Street character who talks like a baby and is infinitely less interesting than old-school Sesame Streeters like manic Grover, filthy Oscar the Grouch, gay Bert and Ernie, or imaginary Mister Snuffleupagus." That about sums it up right there.
I also saw some dude in a full Elmo costume on a street corner as our taxi drove by. Man, do I hate the fuzzy red bastard. (Elmo, not the guy.) Largely because he totally bogarted Grover's place on the Street. I read something recently that perfectly mirrors my own feelings on the subject, but phrased much better than I ever could. It referred to Elmo as "An extremely adorable and uncomplicated Sesame Street character who talks like a baby and is infinitely less interesting than old-school Sesame Streeters like manic Grover, filthy Oscar the Grouch, gay Bert and Ernie, or imaginary Mister Snuffleupagus." That about sums it up right there.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
I don't want to get off on a rant here, but...
I was born and raised in New Jersey, and damn proud of it, but for the last 4 years I've made my home in Pennsylvania. In general I think PA is pretty groovy, even if nobody knows how to drive, but there's one thing I need to talk with my fellow residents about, because it's making them seem... well, a little dim. Sorry. It's these gas prices- what's the story? As in, why are they so much higher than in New Jersey? My friends, you are being taken. The basic message, as near as I can tell, is that you're willing to pay an extra 20-30 cents a gallon, minimum, for the privilege of getting out of your nice warm vehicle and pumping your own gas in the wind and the rain and the snow. If you're a postal worker in training, I guess I can understand that, but the rest of you? You know that scant miles to the east, literally just a drive down the road, lies a magical land where it's actually illegal to pump your own gas, right? There are people who do it for you (thus creating jobs, which let's face it, in this economy is a real boon), you aren't expected to tip them, and -- here's the part that'll blow your mind -- when it's all said and done you'll end up paying less money, not more. How, how have you not gotten on board with this? It boggles the mind. And I say this with great affection, because whether through Jersey osmosis or just being awesome in its own right, I truly believe that Pennsylvania is a great place to live... but man, you've gotta get on the ball. What, are we living in Russia? Don't let them turn you into chumps- demand cheaper gas and mandatory full service. It's what William Penn would have wanted.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Oh noes, r u kidding?!!!!!1!
Someone has taught my mother textspeak. I'm not sure who, though I suspect my sister. Whoever it was, I'm appropriately thrown off, as you might expect. A few weeks ago I got a text message reading "Hows ur lil angel 2 da y cant wait 2 c her again r u getting any sleep". Seriously, that's a direct transcription.
This is concerning for two reasons, the first being that my mother is a middle-aged woman of the Baby Boomer generation, and now a grandmother, not a leet haxx0r ready to show her mad FPS skillz in a game of Halo. I don't think Mom even knows what Halo is, and if she ever did play, I'm pretty sure she would immediately be pwned, as the kids say. And second, this woman was an English major, one who even taught English for a year after college before moving out here to marry my dad. This is the woman who taught me to write, for crying out loud, who proofread and edited all of my papers for middle school and high school, who helped me write my resume after graduation. And now she's asking how my lil angel is 2 da y. I mean, there's nothing technically wrong with it, it's just kind of weird, y'know? Like if your great-grandmother, who only ever watches Lawrence Welk on TV and plays euchre and gin rummy down at the rec room, suddenly asks if you read the most recent Harry Potter. It's like... yes, grandma, I did, but why did you?
So that's where we stand right now. My mother hasn't demonstrated any other anachronistic behavior lately that I'm aware of, so hopefully it's just limited to textspeak, but who knows? Maybe next time we talk she'll tell me about how those bitches down at the mall need to check theyselves, because who died and made them boss anyway? They ain't all that.
This is concerning for two reasons, the first being that my mother is a middle-aged woman of the Baby Boomer generation, and now a grandmother, not a leet haxx0r ready to show her mad FPS skillz in a game of Halo. I don't think Mom even knows what Halo is, and if she ever did play, I'm pretty sure she would immediately be pwned, as the kids say. And second, this woman was an English major, one who even taught English for a year after college before moving out here to marry my dad. This is the woman who taught me to write, for crying out loud, who proofread and edited all of my papers for middle school and high school, who helped me write my resume after graduation. And now she's asking how my lil angel is 2 da y. I mean, there's nothing technically wrong with it, it's just kind of weird, y'know? Like if your great-grandmother, who only ever watches Lawrence Welk on TV and plays euchre and gin rummy down at the rec room, suddenly asks if you read the most recent Harry Potter. It's like... yes, grandma, I did, but why did you?
So that's where we stand right now. My mother hasn't demonstrated any other anachronistic behavior lately that I'm aware of, so hopefully it's just limited to textspeak, but who knows? Maybe next time we talk she'll tell me about how those bitches down at the mall need to check theyselves, because who died and made them boss anyway? They ain't all that.
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