Yet another Sunday morning stuck between a dog waking me up before 7 AM and a child who needs sleep! Now, there is also a guest dog staying for a week to add another level to the challenge.. So there I was at 6:53 AM trying to feed two animals while trying to be silent and not wake up the child thus creating a monster!
If the dogs aren't used to each other's normal routine, feeding two dogs can really be an amazingly complicated process. Of course, as with any dog, you have the constant excitement of "OH BOY.... dog food AGAIN!!!" which is very sincere coming from them. I would be much more sarcastic if I were fed the exact same meal twice a day every day of my life. "Oh boy... People food.... again?" imagine that was VERY sarcastic sounding.
Both dogs have different dog food and as excited as they are just to have food, there is now an increased level of excitement for both of them because they might have the opportunity to try something different. However, knowing that if they get a hold of different food I'll have to deal with doggie gas all day, it became my ultimate goal to prevent this from happening.
Doggie gas is a horrible thing. Not only is it just nasty but it comes at very inopportune times. You might be entertaining a lovely lady when all of the sudden, POOF! Without a sound, that smell wafts between you and the lovely lady and you start to think to yourself,
"Oh. Oh my. That... that is simply awful. Oh God I hope that was the dog and not her. She seems so nice. I couldn't stand it if that was her. She'll totally have to go if it was her. Oh Man... I hope she doesn't think it was me!!" And then, almost out of necessity, you break the barrier and state "That wasn't me... I'm hoping the dog fluffed!"
This is bad on two levels. First off, it is never a good idea to let women know that we men know that they sometimes have gas by implying that it might have been them. Also, this is bad because of how the word "fluff" is being used to make something so horrible sound cute thus ruining the word fluff for ever after.
Seriously, we grew up using that word for doggie gas. Then the first time I ever took my clothes to a laundromat to have them wash my clothes for me because I was so overwhelmed studying for exams I saw the sign that said "fluff and fold" and simply turned around with laundry in tow in complete disgust. I could wear these a few mores days.
So, yeah, I didn't want the dogs to share food which leads to an experience that only the childhood game of Twister could prepare me for. I filled both bowls at the same time and then had to magically put them down at the same time five to six feet apart. I cannot reach that far.. so my attempts were pointless.
Of course both dogs always seem to gravitate to one bowl so I was stuck trying to shoo one away in a herding method by tapping it with my foot saying it's name followed by "no, that's not yours" you know, like the dog understands. And all the while, I can only whisper because the child is still asleep. Whispering just seems to excite dogs all the more, as if they're thinking "I can't quite make out what you're saying to me, so you must being saying that there's a steak in that bowl" which escalates the complexity of any feeding.
With a bowl in one hand and a bowl in the other and one foot off the ground trying to gently push one dog away, I was left to act out the summer Olympic gymnastics individual something or other in my kitchen. My left hand put the bowl on the ground, while my right foot was pushing a dog away and my right hand is keeping the other bowl level all while I whispered. As the left bowl was finally down, both dogs went for the bowl in my right hand because you know, there's no steak in the left bowl, so perhaps it is in the right bowl now, I guess?
In a teeter totter motion, I alternated from my standing on my left foot and pushing a dog away with my right to standing on my right foot and pushing the other dog away with my left. It was a thing of beauty. I wished you had seen it. I imaged that there were judges behind me giving me 9s and 9.5 for my effort, except for that judge from Naughty Korea; always handing me 8s or below because of politics.
After I got the right bowl down, I foolishly assumed that all would be right with the world. It was not. Now I had to keep the dogs from eating each other's food. I was lucky this morning. It only took about three minutes of me directing them to their own bowls before they finally got it.
So the dogs are now back to sleep. The child is still asleep. And I am exhausted and on my second cup of coffee. As much as I am trying to relax, I still have Khachaturains "Sabre Dance" stuck in my head for that is a good song to have in your head for a dual dog feeding.
Sorry I got sidetracked on the gas.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Variation on a Theme: The Saturdayman's Creed
- This is my Saturday. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
- My Saturday is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
- My Saturday, without me, is useless. Without my Saturday, I am useless. I must fire my Saturday true. I must shoot straighter than my work week who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will...
- My Saturday and myself know that what counts in this life is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, or the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit...
- My Saturday is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my Saturday clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will...
- Before God, I swear this creed. My Saturday and myself are the defenders of my sanity. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.
- So be it, until retirement is Mine and there is no enemy, but peace!
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Legend of Shiga Dembo!
At my first job in live television I had a co-worker whom I saw as an authority figure and a friend. I'm not certain he ever liked me, but I really did look up to him. He was not my supervisor and really played no role in my career growth, but his personality deserved respect.
He was a southern gentleman, much older than me, and was always there for you with a good laugh and a story about his life growing up in a sleepy southern town. The antics he and his friends shared were wonderful. I would sit at the office for hours with nothing to do other than listen to him tell his tales. I was mesmerized and I laughed heartily. He was a very entertaining soul.
But when there was work to be done, he was the first to motivate us all. When you made a mistake on the job and needed to be corrected and learn from your error, he was there to guide you. Often he would lead by example but he always led by inspiring! He would often, passionately shout out a name. It was a foreign name, but it was a name that through his mouth and with his voice would command you; it would control your will; it would motivate you to go beyond and above!
"SHIGA DEMBO!" He would decree.
"Shiga Dembo... We need to clean the studio, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... That set needs to be re-lit, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... This is how you focus a camera, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... You don't know where that finger's been, Son!!!"
Sentences often ended in "Son." It was comforting, as if, we were all the children of the great leader, Shiga Dembo.
I never knew anything about Shiga Dembo. My co-worker would never discuss the great leader. I saw this as a way to inspire me to learn of his greatness on my own.
Shiga Dembo must've embraced all cultures although I cannot identify his race solely by his name. I assume he was either comparable to a Zulu Commander or perhaps a Japanese Shogun. Maybe, he even crossed all borders and was a Zulu Shogun (hey, if Richard Chamberlain, Tom Cruise and Keanu Reaves can do it...).
I could only assume that Shiga Dembo was a great commander of armies and inspired them to push themselves to the limits to protect the goodness of their families and their spiritual way of life. He would protect his nation from foreign raiders who wished to corrupt the purity of the Utopian society he alone had been able to provide. When all hope was lost on the battle field, it was Shiga Dembo who would grab a symbol of his people and charge into his enemy motivating his people to raise up and survive!
There are no books about Shiga Dembo. No monuments are dedicated in his honor. Google cannot find him. But I knew he existed.
One man, a man who grew up in a much more prejudicial world where other cultures were not equal let alone accepted even for their astounding contributions to modern society, was able to see through the ignorance and was willing to use the lessons of Shiga Dembo to inspire future generations.
When this particular co-worker left our station and moved on to a larger market, I refused to let the legend of Shiga Dembo die. So, when I had a crew of my own to supervise and interns to educate, I would use the name to inspire them! "SHIGA DEMBO!" I would announce as I walked up to my crew lounging about with nothing to do..."get to work!"
Then one day, an intern asked "Why do you say Shiga Dembo?" I had made a breakthrough. And so I shared the assumed stories in the hopes that they might one day bring peace to future generations. And that's when it happened.
Another older southerner from a different department, heard me talking to the intern. He too was witness to many of the inspiring statements that had been made by our former co-worker inciting the spirit of Shiga Dembo.
Out of respect, he waited for the intern to leave before taking me aside and saying:
"He was sayin' 'SH#T GOD D%MN BO' ya dang'd ignerent yankee!"
As it turns out, I don't always understand a southern accent too clearly.
He was a southern gentleman, much older than me, and was always there for you with a good laugh and a story about his life growing up in a sleepy southern town. The antics he and his friends shared were wonderful. I would sit at the office for hours with nothing to do other than listen to him tell his tales. I was mesmerized and I laughed heartily. He was a very entertaining soul.
But when there was work to be done, he was the first to motivate us all. When you made a mistake on the job and needed to be corrected and learn from your error, he was there to guide you. Often he would lead by example but he always led by inspiring! He would often, passionately shout out a name. It was a foreign name, but it was a name that through his mouth and with his voice would command you; it would control your will; it would motivate you to go beyond and above!
"SHIGA DEMBO!" He would decree.
"Shiga Dembo... We need to clean the studio, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... That set needs to be re-lit, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... This is how you focus a camera, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... You don't know where that finger's been, Son!!!"
Sentences often ended in "Son." It was comforting, as if, we were all the children of the great leader, Shiga Dembo.
I never knew anything about Shiga Dembo. My co-worker would never discuss the great leader. I saw this as a way to inspire me to learn of his greatness on my own.
Shiga Dembo must've embraced all cultures although I cannot identify his race solely by his name. I assume he was either comparable to a Zulu Commander or perhaps a Japanese Shogun. Maybe, he even crossed all borders and was a Zulu Shogun (hey, if Richard Chamberlain, Tom Cruise and Keanu Reaves can do it...).
I could only assume that Shiga Dembo was a great commander of armies and inspired them to push themselves to the limits to protect the goodness of their families and their spiritual way of life. He would protect his nation from foreign raiders who wished to corrupt the purity of the Utopian society he alone had been able to provide. When all hope was lost on the battle field, it was Shiga Dembo who would grab a symbol of his people and charge into his enemy motivating his people to raise up and survive!
There are no books about Shiga Dembo. No monuments are dedicated in his honor. Google cannot find him. But I knew he existed.
One man, a man who grew up in a much more prejudicial world where other cultures were not equal let alone accepted even for their astounding contributions to modern society, was able to see through the ignorance and was willing to use the lessons of Shiga Dembo to inspire future generations.
When this particular co-worker left our station and moved on to a larger market, I refused to let the legend of Shiga Dembo die. So, when I had a crew of my own to supervise and interns to educate, I would use the name to inspire them! "SHIGA DEMBO!" I would announce as I walked up to my crew lounging about with nothing to do..."get to work!"
Then one day, an intern asked "Why do you say Shiga Dembo?" I had made a breakthrough. And so I shared the assumed stories in the hopes that they might one day bring peace to future generations. And that's when it happened.
Another older southerner from a different department, heard me talking to the intern. He too was witness to many of the inspiring statements that had been made by our former co-worker inciting the spirit of Shiga Dembo.
Out of respect, he waited for the intern to leave before taking me aside and saying:
"He was sayin' 'SH#T GOD D%MN BO' ya dang'd ignerent yankee!"
As it turns out, I don't always understand a southern accent too clearly.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Just the "Regular Cards" huh?
Last night I opted to spend some quality time with my child playing a card game.
It's not always as fun as you might think. I mean, playing with my child is always a blessing and a great joy, but, one can only play Old Maid, Go Fish, Memory, Uno and Crazy 8's (remarkably similar to Uno) so many times before one goes a little crazy.
Kids, on the other hand, can play these games over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, as long as they win most of the time. If they lose the game too often, they lose interest. So as parents, unless you are just a militant parent, you will often throw the game because, "hey, the kid is cute and they're having fun. I don't need to prove anything. Let 'em win!" And that kind of thinking will ALWAYS backfire and get you into trouble; sort of.
Essentially, as they get older, the kids will start to get cocky and be pretty much convinced that they cannot lose! This makes playing against them a lot less fun. It starts to become demoralizing to you, the adult, that this kid thinks they are so much better than you because you, the adult, keep drawing bad cards from the "fish pond." So, you snap! With a vengeance, you make it your goal to clobber that kid at cards! And so you do it for two rounds and the kids starts to cry. "Okay, they're humbled" you think to yourself, and so you throw the next round.
AND THE KID IS COCKY AGAIN!!! So, you opt to clobber them a few more times and you do but then you lose once or twice even though you are not throwing the games anymore. This goes back and forth until both of you are on such an emotional roller coaster of joy and sadness, for the child, and victory and guilt combined with a little bit of failure for you, the adult parent. It's a vicious cycle.
You get to the point where you just can't even look at each other anymore. You simply slide the cards into the coffee table drawer and you leave them alone for a month or two. You don't speak about what happened to each other ever again.
Once a few months have passed, then it's the time to teach them grown up card games! This is the time for them to learn, BLACKJACK!
My Grandfather taught me how to play Blackjack and Poker when I was about 7 and I thought it was the coolest thing EVER! We did not gamble all you ney sayers out there. Go ahead, say "ney"... good.... work it out of your system. He had chips and a whole card set. I think you are assigned these things when you reach 70. I'm not exactly certain.
Me, my siblings, my uncle, my Dad and my Grandfather would all play until late into the night, like maybe 9, and at the end, I would count my chips! IT WAS AWESOME!!! I had blue ones and yellow ones and red ones and I don't remember caring about whether or not I had more than anyone else. I just needed enough to make a tower or even a castle out of my chips. In fact, we didn't necessarily have to play cards. I liked the chips.
Quite recently, I was reminded by a friends children who have recently started playing Blackjack that this is a fun game to share with a kid. So, last night, I decided to teach it to mine!
"Honey, do you want to play cards after dinner?" I asked sheepishly remembering old conflicts.
"Are you going to win?" Her greatest concern.
"You're not playing against me, you're just trying to beat the dealer!" I am so comforting at times.
"Well who's the dealer? It's just us." She's too smart for her own good.
"Well, I'm the dealer, but that's not important"
"Then I'm playing you? Right?" I was losing her.
"Yes, but.. you know what, here are the cards we're going to use..." I needed to move on.
"There's no pictures on them. Where are the animals? Why is that lady holding a stick on that card? Why is he wearing a crown? Ooooooh a Joker!" This went on for some time.
So, we sat back and I explained all the cards and their values. The Ace was a toughie.
"Yes honey, it's an 11 and a 1." I tried to explain.
"so.... it's twelve?" poor kid.
Then we counted out pennies from our "charity box." We put loose change in a box with the plan to fill the box and donate it to a charity one day. I'm pretty sure Oliver North saved something like $15,000 in loose change. Sadly, I don't appear to have that much in my cars cup holder. So right now the charity box is also the "play money" box.
Then we played.
On a serious note, this is an excellent game for teaching a child how to count. They count out their ante and they learn to do very quick math counting up to 21, or higher if you "bust." I was amazed at how involved and excited she was to do math and just play.
Overall she broke even, but she finally understood that she was playing the dealer and the "luck of the draw." It was a lot of fun. She got a little cocky but it quickly went away when the dealer beat her.
If she gets too cocky, I'll teach her another fun counting game... 52 Pick Up.
For those of you who don't know this game, it's when one person throws all of the cards from a deck in the air and waits for them to all fall on the ground. The key to the game is that the "dealer" convinces the other player(s) that the person who gets the most cards first wins the game! After about three or so rounds, kids just get tired and go do their own thing.
I remember this well. I beat my Grandfather at 52 Pick Up all the time. In fact, he was so slow, I was almost always able to get all 52 before he even got up from watching tv!!! I RULE!!!!
It's not always as fun as you might think. I mean, playing with my child is always a blessing and a great joy, but, one can only play Old Maid, Go Fish, Memory, Uno and Crazy 8's (remarkably similar to Uno) so many times before one goes a little crazy.
Kids, on the other hand, can play these games over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, as long as they win most of the time. If they lose the game too often, they lose interest. So as parents, unless you are just a militant parent, you will often throw the game because, "hey, the kid is cute and they're having fun. I don't need to prove anything. Let 'em win!" And that kind of thinking will ALWAYS backfire and get you into trouble; sort of.
Essentially, as they get older, the kids will start to get cocky and be pretty much convinced that they cannot lose! This makes playing against them a lot less fun. It starts to become demoralizing to you, the adult, that this kid thinks they are so much better than you because you, the adult, keep drawing bad cards from the "fish pond." So, you snap! With a vengeance, you make it your goal to clobber that kid at cards! And so you do it for two rounds and the kids starts to cry. "Okay, they're humbled" you think to yourself, and so you throw the next round.
AND THE KID IS COCKY AGAIN!!! So, you opt to clobber them a few more times and you do but then you lose once or twice even though you are not throwing the games anymore. This goes back and forth until both of you are on such an emotional roller coaster of joy and sadness, for the child, and victory and guilt combined with a little bit of failure for you, the adult parent. It's a vicious cycle.
You get to the point where you just can't even look at each other anymore. You simply slide the cards into the coffee table drawer and you leave them alone for a month or two. You don't speak about what happened to each other ever again.
Once a few months have passed, then it's the time to teach them grown up card games! This is the time for them to learn, BLACKJACK!
My Grandfather taught me how to play Blackjack and Poker when I was about 7 and I thought it was the coolest thing EVER! We did not gamble all you ney sayers out there. Go ahead, say "ney"... good.... work it out of your system. He had chips and a whole card set. I think you are assigned these things when you reach 70. I'm not exactly certain.
Me, my siblings, my uncle, my Dad and my Grandfather would all play until late into the night, like maybe 9, and at the end, I would count my chips! IT WAS AWESOME!!! I had blue ones and yellow ones and red ones and I don't remember caring about whether or not I had more than anyone else. I just needed enough to make a tower or even a castle out of my chips. In fact, we didn't necessarily have to play cards. I liked the chips.
Quite recently, I was reminded by a friends children who have recently started playing Blackjack that this is a fun game to share with a kid. So, last night, I decided to teach it to mine!
"Honey, do you want to play cards after dinner?" I asked sheepishly remembering old conflicts.
"Are you going to win?" Her greatest concern.
"You're not playing against me, you're just trying to beat the dealer!" I am so comforting at times.
"Well who's the dealer? It's just us." She's too smart for her own good.
"Well, I'm the dealer, but that's not important"
"Then I'm playing you? Right?" I was losing her.
"Yes, but.. you know what, here are the cards we're going to use..." I needed to move on.
"There's no pictures on them. Where are the animals? Why is that lady holding a stick on that card? Why is he wearing a crown? Ooooooh a Joker!" This went on for some time.
So, we sat back and I explained all the cards and their values. The Ace was a toughie.
"Yes honey, it's an 11 and a 1." I tried to explain.
"so.... it's twelve?" poor kid.
Then we counted out pennies from our "charity box." We put loose change in a box with the plan to fill the box and donate it to a charity one day. I'm pretty sure Oliver North saved something like $15,000 in loose change. Sadly, I don't appear to have that much in my cars cup holder. So right now the charity box is also the "play money" box.
Then we played.
On a serious note, this is an excellent game for teaching a child how to count. They count out their ante and they learn to do very quick math counting up to 21, or higher if you "bust." I was amazed at how involved and excited she was to do math and just play.
Overall she broke even, but she finally understood that she was playing the dealer and the "luck of the draw." It was a lot of fun. She got a little cocky but it quickly went away when the dealer beat her.
If she gets too cocky, I'll teach her another fun counting game... 52 Pick Up.
For those of you who don't know this game, it's when one person throws all of the cards from a deck in the air and waits for them to all fall on the ground. The key to the game is that the "dealer" convinces the other player(s) that the person who gets the most cards first wins the game! After about three or so rounds, kids just get tired and go do their own thing.
I remember this well. I beat my Grandfather at 52 Pick Up all the time. In fact, he was so slow, I was almost always able to get all 52 before he even got up from watching tv!!! I RULE!!!!
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
And the worms ate into my brain....
Music is a wonderful thing.
It speaks to us.
It calls to us.
It can touch our souls.
I remember growing up listening to groups like The Cure or The Smiths or The Fixx and yes, there was even The The. I didn't listen to The The, but apparently they are still around. It just never dawned on me how many bands started with "The" until I started typing. Anyway, I also listened to The Beach Boys, The Beatles, The Bee Gees.... oh forget it.
Music is there to help us in expressing our emotions and comforting us when we feel no one else understands. Throughout my adolescence, when I was a hormonal wreck, I mostly listened to either depressing music or angry music. The Fixx always comforted me with their songs about how any day now we would all die in a nuclear war so why worry about anything else. The Smiths and The Cure, well, they were just mostly depressing but they helped me to feel better about wearing black on occasion.
If I was feeling more rambunctious I would listen to The Clash or The Motley Crue, The Quiet Riot or.... oh, sorry, "The" is just so easy. And then I would kick a wall and try to be all mayhem-ish, within limits so that I wouldn't get in trouble with my folks.
Often, on less teen angsty type days, I would listen to Cheap Trick, Van Halen, Led Zepplin and the previously mentioned "The B-" bands. Yes, even The B-52's but before that Love Shack crap.
There is one particular night that I will never forget where a song, that I had heard before but had never truly listened to, reached me. It reached me in a way that really made me a ball of nerves. It scared me, but not because of anything I was doing wrong in my life that the song felt was bad; you know like someone saying "I was coked out of my mind ready to jump off of a ledge and then Freebird came on and I said to myself 'well this really sucks. I think I'll get off this ledge, clean up my life and go visit Forest.' damn Freebird!"
This song was not looking into my soul and helping me purge any feelings, or comforting me on any level. No, this song was in fact looking AT ME. It was obviously watching me. If a song could become an entity, or a spirit on some level, this song had become a ghost and was in my room with me.
I had gotten home late one evening after a hard day working as a bag boy. It really is a tough job, what with having to pick stuff up, put them into bags, make small talk with people who just came in for milk and then remind them as they walk out to their car that they forgot to get milk, and then they get mad at you and end up going back in for the milk but they "accidentally" spill something on aisle 6 and you have to clean it up even though other shoppers trudge through the mess you are trying to clean up, tracking their footprints all throughout the store so you have to just keep cleaning up footprints for the rest of the day, all for minimum wage... So, to blow off steam we had a little party after work.
I got home, after partying for a little bit, to a house full of sleepy family, as this was high school, it was late and I was still living at home. I took a shower and then headed back to my room. I remember turning on my radio which was a radio-clock-phone combo thingy. It was simulated wood grain plastic with red digital numbers for the clock and an older dial up radio tuner. Yes, a classic!
I knew the song on the radio but as I mentioned earlier, I had never really paid attention to it. The singer droned out "Hey You... out there in the cold getting lonely getting old...."
"Whoa," I thought to myself as I dropped my towel to the ground preparing to put on my pj's. "I am cold!" It was winter and I now had nothing on.
"Hey You, standing in the aisles with itchy feet..."
"HOLY CRAP!" I was mesmerized. I had been on my feet all day and they were quite itchy. I dropped and sat on my bed having yet to put anything on. I stared at my radio-clock-phone waiting for this song to touch my soul.
"This is gonna be good... I won't give in without a fight... I promise!" I proudly said to myself as I sat there, staring, eagerly awaiting what ever giblet of wisdom came out from my radio next.... but then it got scary... it became freakish....
"Hey you, out there on your own sitting naked.. by.. the.. phone?"
Wait-What? How does the song know exactly what I'm doing? I mean seriously, we live in a decent society, people don't just sit alone naked by their phone very often. This is NOT a common occurrence. THE SONG IS WATCHING ME!!!!!!
I curled up into a tight little ball wrapping my arms around my knees and tried to lay down but instead I just ended up leaning my right shoulder and the right side of my head against the wall above the headboard of my bed.
"Hey you, with your ear against the wall...."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" I screamed in my head. My parents were asleep; even if there was an ax murderer in my room it was still best for me to NOT wake them up. So, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..."
I promptly stood up, turned off the radio-clock-phone, put on clothes, covered the radio-clock-phone with a pillow, walked a few circles in my bedroom trying to figure out what was going on, uncovered the radio-clock-phone and put it under my bed, made sure my blinds were really drawn tight because even though they looked drawn tight, maybe they weren't drawn tight, but they were, unplugged my radio-clock-phone and put it in the trash and then climbed in bed and hid under my covers that, even though I was 17, could still protect me from anything just like they did when I was 7.
Music touched my soul that night and scared the hell out of me. Granted, there is a slight chance, that something at that party had touched my soul as well.
The next day, I got up and loaded Cat Stevens Greatest Hits into my imitation Walkman cassette player and listened to that and that alone for probably the next week. Surely Cat would never touch my soul and scare me.
I guessed right. He did not. However, to this day I am paranoid that I am being followed by a moon shadow. A moon shadow. Moon Shadow.
It speaks to us.
It calls to us.
It can touch our souls.
I remember growing up listening to groups like The Cure or The Smiths or The Fixx and yes, there was even The The. I didn't listen to The The, but apparently they are still around. It just never dawned on me how many bands started with "The" until I started typing. Anyway, I also listened to The Beach Boys, The Beatles, The Bee Gees.... oh forget it.
Music is there to help us in expressing our emotions and comforting us when we feel no one else understands. Throughout my adolescence, when I was a hormonal wreck, I mostly listened to either depressing music or angry music. The Fixx always comforted me with their songs about how any day now we would all die in a nuclear war so why worry about anything else. The Smiths and The Cure, well, they were just mostly depressing but they helped me to feel better about wearing black on occasion.
If I was feeling more rambunctious I would listen to The Clash or The Motley Crue, The Quiet Riot or.... oh, sorry, "The" is just so easy. And then I would kick a wall and try to be all mayhem-ish, within limits so that I wouldn't get in trouble with my folks.
Often, on less teen angsty type days, I would listen to Cheap Trick, Van Halen, Led Zepplin and the previously mentioned "The B-" bands. Yes, even The B-52's but before that Love Shack crap.
There is one particular night that I will never forget where a song, that I had heard before but had never truly listened to, reached me. It reached me in a way that really made me a ball of nerves. It scared me, but not because of anything I was doing wrong in my life that the song felt was bad; you know like someone saying "I was coked out of my mind ready to jump off of a ledge and then Freebird came on and I said to myself 'well this really sucks. I think I'll get off this ledge, clean up my life and go visit Forest.' damn Freebird!"
This song was not looking into my soul and helping me purge any feelings, or comforting me on any level. No, this song was in fact looking AT ME. It was obviously watching me. If a song could become an entity, or a spirit on some level, this song had become a ghost and was in my room with me.
I had gotten home late one evening after a hard day working as a bag boy. It really is a tough job, what with having to pick stuff up, put them into bags, make small talk with people who just came in for milk and then remind them as they walk out to their car that they forgot to get milk, and then they get mad at you and end up going back in for the milk but they "accidentally" spill something on aisle 6 and you have to clean it up even though other shoppers trudge through the mess you are trying to clean up, tracking their footprints all throughout the store so you have to just keep cleaning up footprints for the rest of the day, all for minimum wage... So, to blow off steam we had a little party after work.
I got home, after partying for a little bit, to a house full of sleepy family, as this was high school, it was late and I was still living at home. I took a shower and then headed back to my room. I remember turning on my radio which was a radio-clock-phone combo thingy. It was simulated wood grain plastic with red digital numbers for the clock and an older dial up radio tuner. Yes, a classic!
I knew the song on the radio but as I mentioned earlier, I had never really paid attention to it. The singer droned out "Hey You... out there in the cold getting lonely getting old...."
"Whoa," I thought to myself as I dropped my towel to the ground preparing to put on my pj's. "I am cold!" It was winter and I now had nothing on.
"Hey You, standing in the aisles with itchy feet..."
"HOLY CRAP!" I was mesmerized. I had been on my feet all day and they were quite itchy. I dropped and sat on my bed having yet to put anything on. I stared at my radio-clock-phone waiting for this song to touch my soul.
"This is gonna be good... I won't give in without a fight... I promise!" I proudly said to myself as I sat there, staring, eagerly awaiting what ever giblet of wisdom came out from my radio next.... but then it got scary... it became freakish....
"Hey you, out there on your own sitting naked.. by.. the.. phone?"
Wait-What? How does the song know exactly what I'm doing? I mean seriously, we live in a decent society, people don't just sit alone naked by their phone very often. This is NOT a common occurrence. THE SONG IS WATCHING ME!!!!!!
I curled up into a tight little ball wrapping my arms around my knees and tried to lay down but instead I just ended up leaning my right shoulder and the right side of my head against the wall above the headboard of my bed.
"Hey you, with your ear against the wall...."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" I screamed in my head. My parents were asleep; even if there was an ax murderer in my room it was still best for me to NOT wake them up. So, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..."
I promptly stood up, turned off the radio-clock-phone, put on clothes, covered the radio-clock-phone with a pillow, walked a few circles in my bedroom trying to figure out what was going on, uncovered the radio-clock-phone and put it under my bed, made sure my blinds were really drawn tight because even though they looked drawn tight, maybe they weren't drawn tight, but they were, unplugged my radio-clock-phone and put it in the trash and then climbed in bed and hid under my covers that, even though I was 17, could still protect me from anything just like they did when I was 7.
Music touched my soul that night and scared the hell out of me. Granted, there is a slight chance, that something at that party had touched my soul as well.
The next day, I got up and loaded Cat Stevens Greatest Hits into my imitation Walkman cassette player and listened to that and that alone for probably the next week. Surely Cat would never touch my soul and scare me.
I guessed right. He did not. However, to this day I am paranoid that I am being followed by a moon shadow. A moon shadow. Moon Shadow.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
How the English made me ignorant about, the English. A.K.A. Your accent makes me chuckle, but it's not my fault.
At the very moment I clicked "publish" on a recent blog of mine I felt a rumbling within myself and exclaimed a quick "DOH" in realization that I had forgotten one friend from my Chicago childhood.
His name was Stewart and he wasn't as much of a friend as he was an occasional acquaintance. The levels of friendship are pretty easy to quantify as a child. You have a "Best Friend" and then a "Next Best Friend" and so on and so on. Stewart did not qualify as any sort of "Best" at any level. It's not that he was a bad guy at all, it's just that he was only my friend because his older brother and my older brother were friends and when my brother would go over to Stewart's house to hang out with his brother my Mother would send me with him if she had happened to have had it with me "this much" that particular day. He was no part of the planned underground fort me and my "gang" wanted to build under the bushes. Still following?
Stewart, and more so his brother, had an impact on me that still haunts me to this very day. Going to his house on Sunday afternoons we would watch PBS. Please keep in mind that in the 70's there were FOUR NETWORKS and some independent UHF stations if you lived in a large enough city. I did, but their programming on the weekends was quite boring. So, on a Sunday afternoon you had ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS. If you watched one of the "BIG THREE" on a Sunday afternoon you had your choice of Wide World of Sports, which was awesome and then garbage mostly structured around the whole kung fu/ karate genre; also known as Jack Slap Theater!
If you weren't into any of these shows on Sunday afternoon, you watched PBS. Of course all of this is based on you being either too hot or too cold or simply too exhausted to play outside. There were no video games other than Pong and that could only go on for so long.
So, back to Stewart's place and PBS.
MONTY PYTHON! There, I said it.
At Stewart's house we were allowed to watch Monty Python. These guys were HILARIOUS what with their prancing about as soldiers and walking funny and slapping each other with fish and returning parrots... I wasn't entirely sure at first if I was supposed to laugh, but everything these guys did was funny and all the while their accent drove it home for me! It wasn't that the English accent was a funny accent, per se, it's just that it seems to lend itself quite well to comic timing. You just couldn't scream "I DON'T LIKE SPAM" like a woman with an American accent. It sounds too threatening.
As the years went on in my life, I found I'd become some sort of an "anglo-humor-phile." I'm sure there were others just like me but we stayed very quite much like a cheese fetishist trying to make the transition into mouse culture. I was ruined.
It wasn't just Monty Python though, it was also Dudley Moore and Rowan Atkinson and Marty Feldman and then spun off to the Kinks and Douglas Adams and even James Bond what with his sly wit. Anything British came across to me as funny! Even Peter Cook still makes me laugh to this very day. He's the guy who canned Dudley Moore from their comedy duo so that he could have a better solo career sans Dudley. Then Dudley Moore had a brilliant career and Peter Cook disappeared until he showed up on film and said, "Mawiage.... Twooo Wuvvvv!" BRILLIANT!
The English accent had created a Pavlovian effect within me. I laughed at almost everything I heard or could imagine being said in a British accent.
"I'm sorry, but I seem to have run over your dog..." said the Englishman.
"........BWAH HAH HA HAH HAHHHHH." said I.
This was not out of disrespect by any means. This was out of pure fascination and the comfort that this accent had provided me for so many years. Granted, I did not laugh at all the Brits on the Death Star. They were evil Brits and they were hardly funny. Although, that Gran Moff Tarkin could have taken his comedic Darth Vader one liners on the road for a second career, that is, if he hadn't been blown up so.
As the years went by, I pretty much only had movies and television to keep me informed as to what humorous things were being said in a British accent. Then, fate delivered a British person to my high school. For the sake of this blog, I will refer to him as "Will" for that is nothing like his real name. Yes, Will is an enigma!
Oh yeah, and on a side note, the movie U-571 was a complete farce. The British recovered the Germans Enigma code machine and not the Americans. The movie would have been much better had it been made with British actors, albeit a little funnier.
Anyway, Will actually was hilarious! He really is a funny guy and a complete joy to talk to. However, he did help my immature mind realize that there was much more to the Brits than just humor and history. They had real life issues just like any of us. Knowing this almost ruined entirely the entertainment value that I had come to find in the comedic qualities of the British accent. He was a real person and if he was trying to be funny he was milk squirting out of your nose funny, but if he was upset or even sad, he was much less funny. I'm sure I may have snickered or chuckled from time to time as he may have been telling me about something that made him sad, but I'm sure he would've punched me square in the face had I laughed out loud at his pain. But I don't really recall him ever being overly disappointed with anything.
So, spending some time getting to know him helped me mature and realize how I was type-casting an entire nationality and that was wrong. Then he moved back home to England.
I still managed to laugh whenever I heard the accent, but not to the foolish extent I had in my early youth. I think I became a little more responsible and a little more respectable of a beautiful culture with great historical impact on the world. Then, in the mid-90s, in the States, we got Absolutely Fabulous and The Young One's!
AWWWWW C'MON!!!!! Just when I was starting to realize I was rude for laughing at anything with an English Accent you sent me more comedy? AND MR. BEAN!!!!! The British were doing this to me on purpose. They wanted to tap into my Catholic guilt.
"Here boy... laugh at whatever I say with an English accent" The British dared say.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" I replied.
"YOU EVIL SOD!!!! We're people you know!" they'd catch me off guard.
"I'm so sorry... I'm weak." I would beg for forgiveness.
"HAH!!!! FOOLED YOU!!!" Damn cunning of you, British.
So, I will allow myself to laugh. You have confused me enough to the point where I will follow my primal instincts and I shall let out my guffaws of joy! You cannot stop me. I will laugh as Eddie Izzard brings me to hysterics whilst still teaching me something. I will laugh when Rowan Atkinson says nothing but mumbles and falls down. I will laugh when Phil Ligget calls the Tour de France and I WILL BE IN HYSTERICS WATCHING THE OLYMPICS!!!!
Ohhhhh and what Monty Python and Mr. Bean and Peter Cook have done to my soul, and any experience one could ever have in a church, may be my ultimate downfall. But I will still laugh!
As it turns out, we have an English Priest at one of the Churches in my town. I am simply amazed that I have not been struck by lightning right where I sit in my pew as I listen to him deliver the Mass.
HE... IS... HILARIOUS!
I made to Ireland a few years back. I know that that is not England by any means, but it's the closest I've ever gotten. The people there seemed to have a good time laughing at my accent.
Apparently, I talk funny?
I apologize if I've offended any of my followers in England. That was not my intent. Please feel free to smite me.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Growing Up... BLAH!
I think the two best periods in my life were from birth to turning 5 and the years I spent in college. But, I use "best" loosely as I think life is overall pretty good.
Of course, it's really easy to look back at these points of my life and refer to them as my "happiest" times, but I don't think I was necessarily happier than I am now. Well, maybe from birth to five I was the happiest. I was happy about everything except for when I was screaming about something, I'm sure.
Babies laugh all the time. They laugh, play, eat, poop and sleep. Then they scream when either laughing, playing, eating or sleeping aren't happening and they scream loudest after poop has happened. Life was so much easier back then.
Maybe that's what it is, Easy = Happy? And that's what it I think it was about these two periods in my life. Life was just "easy" from birth to five and kind of easy through college. College wasn't easy in a no stress and zero difficulty way but it was more easy in a pretty much carefree kind of way.
Once you move away from home to go to college, you are "free" for the first time. That is the biggest thrill! You are on your own and you can do things your way. You have very little to tie you down and you have less to really lose. I think this period of your life is kind of an experiment for your parents to see if they raised you correctly. They watch from a distance to see how much you mess up. Theoretically, if you do mess up really bad, they'll let you come back and re-coup before you try again.
This is by no means ideal for anyone involved, but that is what family is there for, to be your safety net, unless they're not. Mine was and I am grateful that I never had to go back to them to start over, but Lord knows there have been times I've wanted to.
When you turn 5, life takes a vicious turn. People start expecting stuff from you. You have to do things and you have to do them correctly. If you don't do them correctly, you get in trouble with the authority figures around you. This sucks and it keeps sucking throughout elementary, middle and high school.
When I moved out, there was very little "authority" in my life. Sure, I had professors, a dorm monitor and the campus police to keep me in line, but, as long as you coasted within the guidelines that they may have referred to as rules (or laws) you were fine. Essentially, if you didn't mess with them they wouldn't mess with you. PERFECT! I was a coaster and it worked for me.
However, college was difficult in that I had to be my own authority, for the first time, which is really frustrating. This is the part that my parents were watching out for. Is he gonna fly out of the nest or is gonna fall? I opted to glide. It worked. I'm good.
So, comparatively, birth to five was much easier than college. But both were still pretty much carefree and therefore happier. There was always a safety net.
After college, stuff gets real. That's fun and happy in a challenging kind of way; you know, fun and happy things like work schedules, marriage, divorce, mortgages, interest rates, escrow and debt. Yup, a riotous good time is being had, RIGHT FREAKIN' NOW!!!
However, it is fun when you have a kid and get to relive your childhood vicariously through them. Of course, you can never admit that as your reason for becoming a parent but it is a perk! Seriously, you can play with legos, matchbox cars, Star Wars men, etc.... and you can play games like Go Fish, Chutes and Ladders, Trouble, etc.... You also get to build forts!!!
In fact, a difficult part for me about growing up has been that I can no longer make a fort in my front yard, unless my kid is around. It's like, if you make a fort in your front yard just for you, people just write you off as a weirdo. Then you have to say to them "nuh uh, you're the weirdo!" After that there's too many questions to answer and then you get locked away.
But for me, I think that the most difficult part of growing up has been that nobody can carry me anywhere anymore. I am jealous every time I pick my daughter up. I wish someone could hold me like that and make me feel safe and okay. I wish that when I fall asleep on the couch at night or am just too sleepy to wake up in the morning, that someone could simply lift me up and carry me to where I want to go.
Of course, I've been able to lift up most of the women I've dated, probably all of them, but most say "no" when you try. I think that's nuts. If someone can lift you and they're not so big that they are threatening, say "yes" if they want to carry you. Once you get to be my size, anyone who can pick you up is going to be big and most likely very scary.
Kids are so lucky.
So to sum up, life was not necessarily easier or happier during the two "best" time periods in my life, but 0-5 was great because of being carried and forts, and college was great because of the carefree-little-to-lose lifestyle.
Oh yeah, and as much as I miss it, I NEVER want to meet and be romantically involved with the woman who can carry me to bed!
Of course, it's really easy to look back at these points of my life and refer to them as my "happiest" times, but I don't think I was necessarily happier than I am now. Well, maybe from birth to five I was the happiest. I was happy about everything except for when I was screaming about something, I'm sure.
Babies laugh all the time. They laugh, play, eat, poop and sleep. Then they scream when either laughing, playing, eating or sleeping aren't happening and they scream loudest after poop has happened. Life was so much easier back then.
Maybe that's what it is, Easy = Happy? And that's what it I think it was about these two periods in my life. Life was just "easy" from birth to five and kind of easy through college. College wasn't easy in a no stress and zero difficulty way but it was more easy in a pretty much carefree kind of way.
Once you move away from home to go to college, you are "free" for the first time. That is the biggest thrill! You are on your own and you can do things your way. You have very little to tie you down and you have less to really lose. I think this period of your life is kind of an experiment for your parents to see if they raised you correctly. They watch from a distance to see how much you mess up. Theoretically, if you do mess up really bad, they'll let you come back and re-coup before you try again.
This is by no means ideal for anyone involved, but that is what family is there for, to be your safety net, unless they're not. Mine was and I am grateful that I never had to go back to them to start over, but Lord knows there have been times I've wanted to.
When you turn 5, life takes a vicious turn. People start expecting stuff from you. You have to do things and you have to do them correctly. If you don't do them correctly, you get in trouble with the authority figures around you. This sucks and it keeps sucking throughout elementary, middle and high school.
When I moved out, there was very little "authority" in my life. Sure, I had professors, a dorm monitor and the campus police to keep me in line, but, as long as you coasted within the guidelines that they may have referred to as rules (or laws) you were fine. Essentially, if you didn't mess with them they wouldn't mess with you. PERFECT! I was a coaster and it worked for me.
However, college was difficult in that I had to be my own authority, for the first time, which is really frustrating. This is the part that my parents were watching out for. Is he gonna fly out of the nest or is gonna fall? I opted to glide. It worked. I'm good.
So, comparatively, birth to five was much easier than college. But both were still pretty much carefree and therefore happier. There was always a safety net.
After college, stuff gets real. That's fun and happy in a challenging kind of way; you know, fun and happy things like work schedules, marriage, divorce, mortgages, interest rates, escrow and debt. Yup, a riotous good time is being had, RIGHT FREAKIN' NOW!!!
However, it is fun when you have a kid and get to relive your childhood vicariously through them. Of course, you can never admit that as your reason for becoming a parent but it is a perk! Seriously, you can play with legos, matchbox cars, Star Wars men, etc.... and you can play games like Go Fish, Chutes and Ladders, Trouble, etc.... You also get to build forts!!!
In fact, a difficult part for me about growing up has been that I can no longer make a fort in my front yard, unless my kid is around. It's like, if you make a fort in your front yard just for you, people just write you off as a weirdo. Then you have to say to them "nuh uh, you're the weirdo!" After that there's too many questions to answer and then you get locked away.
But for me, I think that the most difficult part of growing up has been that nobody can carry me anywhere anymore. I am jealous every time I pick my daughter up. I wish someone could hold me like that and make me feel safe and okay. I wish that when I fall asleep on the couch at night or am just too sleepy to wake up in the morning, that someone could simply lift me up and carry me to where I want to go.
Of course, I've been able to lift up most of the women I've dated, probably all of them, but most say "no" when you try. I think that's nuts. If someone can lift you and they're not so big that they are threatening, say "yes" if they want to carry you. Once you get to be my size, anyone who can pick you up is going to be big and most likely very scary.
Kids are so lucky.
So to sum up, life was not necessarily easier or happier during the two "best" time periods in my life, but 0-5 was great because of being carried and forts, and college was great because of the carefree-little-to-lose lifestyle.
Oh yeah, and as much as I miss it, I NEVER want to meet and be romantically involved with the woman who can carry me to bed!
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Next Position Please.
Imagine you are in bed.
You're lying flat on your back.
You have your iPad on your belly and you decide that this is a good time to type and entry for your blog.
As you begin to type you realize that you are having a hard time hitting the correct (virtual) keys because your screen is moving up and down with every breath you take. God forbid you yawn.
Also, at this very moment you are reminded of how much a complete pain in the ass presbyopia is. Sometimes you can see the screen clearly but if you look away for just a moment to see what's on your television or just to look at your dog, wondering why she has to be laying down next to you chewing on "herself," you have to refocus on the screen yet again. It is an experience in vertigo that can drive a lesser man insane.
You could try to move the iPad a little further down your body to lessen the effects of the presbyopia but then you can't reach the screen to type. It's not that you have stumpy arms or anything. It is simply a matter of reaching towards your lap while your laying flat. That's a workout.
You pause for a moment to review what you have typed and are really frustrated at how little you've typed in the past twenty minutes. Then it dawns on you how many typos you keep having to correct what with the screen moving up and down and the constant focus issues.
You decide that blogging in this position is too frustrating and you probably should just stop. Of course you could just sit up to type, but, no, lying down feels nice. You did try holding your breath so the screen would be more stable but after passing out and regaining consciousness you decided that that was a bad idea. So you decide your done blogging for the day.
I bet you feel silly now having gone through all of that just to type such a pointless blog.
God knows, I do!
You're lying flat on your back.
You have your iPad on your belly and you decide that this is a good time to type and entry for your blog.
As you begin to type you realize that you are having a hard time hitting the correct (virtual) keys because your screen is moving up and down with every breath you take. God forbid you yawn.
Also, at this very moment you are reminded of how much a complete pain in the ass presbyopia is. Sometimes you can see the screen clearly but if you look away for just a moment to see what's on your television or just to look at your dog, wondering why she has to be laying down next to you chewing on "herself," you have to refocus on the screen yet again. It is an experience in vertigo that can drive a lesser man insane.
You could try to move the iPad a little further down your body to lessen the effects of the presbyopia but then you can't reach the screen to type. It's not that you have stumpy arms or anything. It is simply a matter of reaching towards your lap while your laying flat. That's a workout.
You pause for a moment to review what you have typed and are really frustrated at how little you've typed in the past twenty minutes. Then it dawns on you how many typos you keep having to correct what with the screen moving up and down and the constant focus issues.
You decide that blogging in this position is too frustrating and you probably should just stop. Of course you could just sit up to type, but, no, lying down feels nice. You did try holding your breath so the screen would be more stable but after passing out and regaining consciousness you decided that that was a bad idea. So you decide your done blogging for the day.
I bet you feel silly now having gone through all of that just to type such a pointless blog.
God knows, I do!
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Nope. I'm not gonna do it... Did it. Drat.
I got up this nice cool Saturday morning and decided to take my dog for a walk. It was very relaxing for me. She's panting like a freight train and pretty bitter about not having caught any squirrels.
While on my walk I decided that I would not blog today and I just wanted you to know. Of course, the irony of this is that for me to tell you that I'm not going to blog today, I actually have to blog.
I know I could've just not blogged and said nothing, but then I fear you would worry. "Where's todays blog? I hope he's okay. I wonder if his dog dragged him through the park chasing squirrels and now he is incapacitated lying in a field unconscious, surrounded by squirrel pelts."
You worry too much! I'm fine. But thank you for your concerns!
Have a nice day.
While on my walk I decided that I would not blog today and I just wanted you to know. Of course, the irony of this is that for me to tell you that I'm not going to blog today, I actually have to blog.
I know I could've just not blogged and said nothing, but then I fear you would worry. "Where's todays blog? I hope he's okay. I wonder if his dog dragged him through the park chasing squirrels and now he is incapacitated lying in a field unconscious, surrounded by squirrel pelts."
You worry too much! I'm fine. But thank you for your concerns!
Have a nice day.
Friday, July 27, 2012
A toast to what would never be!
I was caught off guard last night when I started thinking about some kids I hung out with in my childhood and how much they impacted my life.
I spent a significant portion of my early years living in the suburbs of a little town called Chicago. It was very diverse and it has always been the place I remember feeling the most "normal" in my life.
I had a little group of five kids that I hung out with. Our ultimate goal in life was to build a fort underneath the bushes in the field across the street from my house. It was gonna be cool. It would be three levels with two "rooms" on each level so that each of us had our own room. I hate that we never got around to building it.
I felt so close to these guys and sometimes wonder how we would have all been if we had grown up together. But it wasn't meant to be as most of us were military kids (a.k.a. Navy Brats) and our families moved often. These were the days of long distance phone call fees, no answering machines and absolutely no such thing as the internet. So, unless you were up for writing letters, once you moved away, even if it was just across town, your friendship was over.
There was Kenny W. He was a great guy and was probably my closest friend in the gang. He and I were inseparable until I moved away. Then we were quite separable. I missed him the most when I moved south. I think when I first moved away, I might have written him a letter or two, but, man, that was so hard. So we lost touch.
The coolest thing I learned from Kenny was how to jump my bike. This was the COOLEST EVER! We would put a piece of plywood on a cinder block to make a ramp and then ride our bikes over the ramp and totally get some air!!!! AWESOME!!! We even turned it up a notch and practiced jumping off of our bikes as we were going up the ramp. This would heighten the intensity a lot and also prepared us for any time in our lives where we may be riding a motorcycle that could explode at any second and we HAVE TO GET OFF! This, of course, hasn't happened for me yet, but I'm prepared. Totally.
Three or four years after I moved I was sitting in my classroom when our teacher introduced a new guy in class. It was Kenny! I was so excited, but he had changed. We tried to re-kindle our friendship, but it just wasn't there. We had both jumped ramps with too many other dudes....
Next door to me was a guy names Steven and I swear his last name was Pelican. I don't think that was it, but that's what I remember. Steven was this little blond haired blued eyed aryan-esque looking kid. He had a funny accent and pretty much called everything he didn't understand "reetahded." Of course that is considered a derogatory and hurtful term now, but back then, I had no idea what it meant.
Steven taught me that when girls wore tight jeans and walked swaying their hips, that they were, or course, "reetahded." I was shocked to learn this as a 6 year old but I was grateful he had informed me. Girls were already icky enough as it was. Of course, in the 80's when Jordache Jeans were on every girl I saw, I was amazed at the number of "reetahded" girls surrounding me at any given time. I was worried about our society!
Anyway, to this day, I really find Pelicans as a great comfort. His last name may have been "Smith" for all I know, but Pelican works for me.
Then there was Floyd. Floyd said he was Filipino and at this time in my life, I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Sure he had a darker skin tone than me, but so what. He wasn't "Filipino," he was a boy, just like me!
I remember his Grandfather would take us to baseball games and always get us hot dogs. One night, as I was headed to a game, my Mom said "Don't eat a hot dog at the game. We'll have dinner when you get home." Sure as clockwork, when we got to the game, Floyd's Grandfather gave me a hot dog. I thought it would be rude to say "no" so I, of course, ate it. IT WAS DELICIOUS!!! Baseball hot dogs always are.
I got in big trouble with Mom that night. I don't know how she knew.
"Eat your dinner."
"I can't, I'm full."
"Why? Did you eat a hot dog at the game?"
"No."
"Really? Then what did you eat at the game?"
"A hot dog."
She was always so cunning....
As it turned out, when I moved south, there was a quite a large Filipino population, much larger than in Chicago. I remember thinking to myself, "ohhhhhhhhhhh... thaaaat's what Floyd meant..."
Then there was John Paul Francis. The only thing I remember about John Paul Francis was that he really liked to be called John Paul Francis. I do not know what his last name was but man, if you just called him John, or John Paul, he would go NUTS!
"Hi John!"
"It's John Paul Francis"
"John Paul?"
"FRANCIS... John.. Paul.. Francis!"
"Can I call you JPF?"
"JOHN PAUL FRANCIS!!!!"
I swear we used to say his name incomplete just to mess with him. It was so much fun. I wish Stripes had been out already so we would have known to always say "Lighten up Francis!" Come to think of it, he kind of looked like Conrad Dunn, the guy who played Francis in Stripes.
I wish we could have grown up together just so I could have given him one of those Chicago style mob names. I would have totally pushed for him being called "Johnny-P-Franks" as if that was his name. Kind of like "Franky no neck." See how that flows?
Now, the friend who impacted me the most in my life was Sam. Of course, Kenny taught me survival techniques, Floyd encouraged my love for hot dogs, Steven helped me to identify the "reetahded" among us and John Paul Francis taught me about obsession with one self. Sam taught me that all of us are different from each other in some way and that we could still be friends, no matter what.
Actually, he didn't mean to teach me that and I really didn't figure that out for quite some time. My Mom actually helped me with that one, but she wasn't trying to teach me anything either. Well she was trying to teach me something, but I simply didn't understand.
Sam, like Floyd, had darker skin than me. He was black but that didn't matter one bit to me just like the fact that I am extremely white didn't matter to him. What did matter was that Sam, had an Afro. It was the 70's and it was the city! If you could grow an Afro, you did and if you could grow it BIG, you totally did! Sam was the epitome of second grade cool and confidence. He was so laid back and nothing ever phased him!
Sam could not catch air on his bicycle and I never understood why. As the years went by, I figured out that Sam's Afro probably slowed him down a bit. It was large. Not Fletch large, but large enough. But what Sam could do was hold a lot of pencils in his hair.
In elementary school, we used those fat pencils and you couldn't just stick them behind your ear and be cool. The older kids got to use thin "normal" pencils and sometimes they'd put one behind each ear and then freak me out saying "look at me, I've got devil horns. I'm the devil.. bluhhh bluhhhh." Jerks.
But Sam! Sam could totally hold three or four fat pencils in his hair and it was soooooo cool! "Sam, you got a pencil?" Then he would sink his hand into his hair and POOF he would pull out a pencil and just hand it to you! AWESOME!!!!
I went home and told my Mom,
"Mom, I want an Afro!"
But she coldly and heartlessly said
"You can't have an Afro."
So I tried to explain it to her in a way she would understand.
"No Mom. You don't have to worry. An Afro isn't something you buy, I can grow it. I want to growwwww an Afro."
"I get it. But you can't grow one."
She was just being difficult.
"MOM! Why are you being so mean?"
She looked at me and smiled and even chuckled. Oh the disrespect I was being handed was awful.
"No honey. I'm not saying you're not allowed to have an Afro, I'm saying that you are simply not able to have one."
Her cruel chuckle continued.
"You're so mean to me! The Welcome Back Kotter kids moms let them have Afros!"
I ran to my room and cried.
I'm pretty sure as I ran off she said something condescending like
"fine, try to grow an Afro."
Well, I tried and over time, I figured out what she meant. I remain jealous of Sam to this day, wherever he may be.
Well played Mom. Well played indeed.
I spent a significant portion of my early years living in the suburbs of a little town called Chicago. It was very diverse and it has always been the place I remember feeling the most "normal" in my life.
I had a little group of five kids that I hung out with. Our ultimate goal in life was to build a fort underneath the bushes in the field across the street from my house. It was gonna be cool. It would be three levels with two "rooms" on each level so that each of us had our own room. I hate that we never got around to building it.
I felt so close to these guys and sometimes wonder how we would have all been if we had grown up together. But it wasn't meant to be as most of us were military kids (a.k.a. Navy Brats) and our families moved often. These were the days of long distance phone call fees, no answering machines and absolutely no such thing as the internet. So, unless you were up for writing letters, once you moved away, even if it was just across town, your friendship was over.
There was Kenny W. He was a great guy and was probably my closest friend in the gang. He and I were inseparable until I moved away. Then we were quite separable. I missed him the most when I moved south. I think when I first moved away, I might have written him a letter or two, but, man, that was so hard. So we lost touch.
The coolest thing I learned from Kenny was how to jump my bike. This was the COOLEST EVER! We would put a piece of plywood on a cinder block to make a ramp and then ride our bikes over the ramp and totally get some air!!!! AWESOME!!! We even turned it up a notch and practiced jumping off of our bikes as we were going up the ramp. This would heighten the intensity a lot and also prepared us for any time in our lives where we may be riding a motorcycle that could explode at any second and we HAVE TO GET OFF! This, of course, hasn't happened for me yet, but I'm prepared. Totally.
Three or four years after I moved I was sitting in my classroom when our teacher introduced a new guy in class. It was Kenny! I was so excited, but he had changed. We tried to re-kindle our friendship, but it just wasn't there. We had both jumped ramps with too many other dudes....
Next door to me was a guy names Steven and I swear his last name was Pelican. I don't think that was it, but that's what I remember. Steven was this little blond haired blued eyed aryan-esque looking kid. He had a funny accent and pretty much called everything he didn't understand "reetahded." Of course that is considered a derogatory and hurtful term now, but back then, I had no idea what it meant.
Steven taught me that when girls wore tight jeans and walked swaying their hips, that they were, or course, "reetahded." I was shocked to learn this as a 6 year old but I was grateful he had informed me. Girls were already icky enough as it was. Of course, in the 80's when Jordache Jeans were on every girl I saw, I was amazed at the number of "reetahded" girls surrounding me at any given time. I was worried about our society!
Anyway, to this day, I really find Pelicans as a great comfort. His last name may have been "Smith" for all I know, but Pelican works for me.
Then there was Floyd. Floyd said he was Filipino and at this time in my life, I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Sure he had a darker skin tone than me, but so what. He wasn't "Filipino," he was a boy, just like me!
I remember his Grandfather would take us to baseball games and always get us hot dogs. One night, as I was headed to a game, my Mom said "Don't eat a hot dog at the game. We'll have dinner when you get home." Sure as clockwork, when we got to the game, Floyd's Grandfather gave me a hot dog. I thought it would be rude to say "no" so I, of course, ate it. IT WAS DELICIOUS!!! Baseball hot dogs always are.
I got in big trouble with Mom that night. I don't know how she knew.
"Eat your dinner."
"I can't, I'm full."
"Why? Did you eat a hot dog at the game?"
"No."
"Really? Then what did you eat at the game?"
"A hot dog."
She was always so cunning....
As it turned out, when I moved south, there was a quite a large Filipino population, much larger than in Chicago. I remember thinking to myself, "ohhhhhhhhhhh... thaaaat's what Floyd meant..."
Then there was John Paul Francis. The only thing I remember about John Paul Francis was that he really liked to be called John Paul Francis. I do not know what his last name was but man, if you just called him John, or John Paul, he would go NUTS!
"Hi John!"
"It's John Paul Francis"
"John Paul?"
"FRANCIS... John.. Paul.. Francis!"
"Can I call you JPF?"
"JOHN PAUL FRANCIS!!!!"
I swear we used to say his name incomplete just to mess with him. It was so much fun. I wish Stripes had been out already so we would have known to always say "Lighten up Francis!" Come to think of it, he kind of looked like Conrad Dunn, the guy who played Francis in Stripes.
I wish we could have grown up together just so I could have given him one of those Chicago style mob names. I would have totally pushed for him being called "Johnny-P-Franks" as if that was his name. Kind of like "Franky no neck." See how that flows?
Now, the friend who impacted me the most in my life was Sam. Of course, Kenny taught me survival techniques, Floyd encouraged my love for hot dogs, Steven helped me to identify the "reetahded" among us and John Paul Francis taught me about obsession with one self. Sam taught me that all of us are different from each other in some way and that we could still be friends, no matter what.
Actually, he didn't mean to teach me that and I really didn't figure that out for quite some time. My Mom actually helped me with that one, but she wasn't trying to teach me anything either. Well she was trying to teach me something, but I simply didn't understand.
Sam, like Floyd, had darker skin than me. He was black but that didn't matter one bit to me just like the fact that I am extremely white didn't matter to him. What did matter was that Sam, had an Afro. It was the 70's and it was the city! If you could grow an Afro, you did and if you could grow it BIG, you totally did! Sam was the epitome of second grade cool and confidence. He was so laid back and nothing ever phased him!
Sam could not catch air on his bicycle and I never understood why. As the years went by, I figured out that Sam's Afro probably slowed him down a bit. It was large. Not Fletch large, but large enough. But what Sam could do was hold a lot of pencils in his hair.
In elementary school, we used those fat pencils and you couldn't just stick them behind your ear and be cool. The older kids got to use thin "normal" pencils and sometimes they'd put one behind each ear and then freak me out saying "look at me, I've got devil horns. I'm the devil.. bluhhh bluhhhh." Jerks.
But Sam! Sam could totally hold three or four fat pencils in his hair and it was soooooo cool! "Sam, you got a pencil?" Then he would sink his hand into his hair and POOF he would pull out a pencil and just hand it to you! AWESOME!!!!
I went home and told my Mom,
"Mom, I want an Afro!"
But she coldly and heartlessly said
"You can't have an Afro."
So I tried to explain it to her in a way she would understand.
"No Mom. You don't have to worry. An Afro isn't something you buy, I can grow it. I want to growwwww an Afro."
"I get it. But you can't grow one."
She was just being difficult.
"MOM! Why are you being so mean?"
She looked at me and smiled and even chuckled. Oh the disrespect I was being handed was awful.
"No honey. I'm not saying you're not allowed to have an Afro, I'm saying that you are simply not able to have one."
Her cruel chuckle continued.
"You're so mean to me! The Welcome Back Kotter kids moms let them have Afros!"
I ran to my room and cried.
I'm pretty sure as I ran off she said something condescending like
"fine, try to grow an Afro."
Well, I tried and over time, I figured out what she meant. I remain jealous of Sam to this day, wherever he may be.
Well played Mom. Well played indeed.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
My first parenting mistake!
The night before my daughters first birthday, her mother and I took her out for dinner at the restaurant we ate at the night before she was born. It was a nice memory.
By this time my little girl could already walk, although it was much more like stumbling in style in the correct direction. The restaurant was not very crowded that night, so she had free reign. All the wait staff were excited for her to walk up to them. Kids at this age are a lot like puppies in that regard. Everyone wants them to walk up excited, be pet and then go to someone else. She was great entertainment for the place.
At the end of the night, I went to pull out my credit card to pay. My little joy bomb decided to take my card along with the bill and kindly walk it over to the waitress rather than have her come over to us. This seemed like a ridiculously cute idea. Of course, along the way, she offered my credit card to anyone who would smile at her. I knew no one would really take the card, but I was still nervous.
She finally made it to the waitress.
"Oh you are so cute" the waitress said. "Now you just wait here and I'll give this back when I'm done" she continued.
"Mehhhh... WAH!" was my child's response. I said she could walk(ish) not talk!
The waitress turned to the register and with that they were both facing away from me. When she finished, the waitress turned back and handed the card and receipt back to my girl and said "there you go, it's all paid for!"
In a stunned silence, my lovely and precious angel (dressed in a "onesy") stood perfectly still simply turning her head to glance back at me over her right shoulder. The look on her face was the kind of awestruck look that goes perfectly with the realization that "wait, all I have to do is give someone this card and they will give me stuff back?!?!?"
I felt the panic well up from my wallet to my brain as if Mt. Vesuvius just screamed "SURPRISE" at Pompeii.
"MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!?!" I may have said out loud, I may have said it internally. I do not recall. My head hurt. At that very moment, I realized that I had just been "cuted" out of my financial security.
I'm sure I had already made other parenting mistakes, but those would have far less of an impact than this. I had just taught a toddler how to SPEND!
You can never go back from that one. Sure, you see references to this playing out in sitcoms, where the kid takes Dad's money and runs, but, you simply just don't understand until it happens.
Then comes the birthday cards and gift cards or holiday cards... Your child tears into them like she's looking for a prize in the bottom of the cereal box much in the same way a pit bull tears into an auto parts thief in a junk lot. It's THAT severe!
"Great, it's a card... where's the money!!!!" They're like some sort of money junkie. Suddenly they feel power and they're ready to live on their own, as soon as you change their next diaper. IT'S AWFUL I TELL YOU!!!!
I am trying to help with her spending habits already. We're working on the "some goes to charity, some goes to savings and some you can spend" philosophy but she may still be too young to fully understand.
It doesn't seem to matter to her just yet.
"I have a quarter! I HAVE POWER!!!" or "I have a dime.... a nickle ... a penny .... a euro...." It's all money to her and it all gives her great satisfaction and a sense of power to possess. As much as I try to teach her, I have come to understand that if kids do not want to understand something, they will absolutely NOT understand it.
"Money doesn't grow on trees you know!"
"No Duhhhhh. It's made of plastic!"
It can be that simple.
I tell you time and time again that I fear making that one tiny teensy weensy inconspicuous parenting mistake and then BOOM! You're raising the heartless multi-national conglomerate CEO who has no passion for real life and suffers in a materialistic love free lonely world of their own (maybe with a nice yacht for their Dad).
I pray it doesn't get to that, but we're quite possibly on our way. Right now, one of her favorite games to play is "Let's Hide Daddy's Wallet!" This is not a fun game because by the time I find my wallet, it's out of cash.
I still like to carry paper money; it actually does grow on trees. Plastic doesn't grow on anything.
By this time my little girl could already walk, although it was much more like stumbling in style in the correct direction. The restaurant was not very crowded that night, so she had free reign. All the wait staff were excited for her to walk up to them. Kids at this age are a lot like puppies in that regard. Everyone wants them to walk up excited, be pet and then go to someone else. She was great entertainment for the place.
At the end of the night, I went to pull out my credit card to pay. My little joy bomb decided to take my card along with the bill and kindly walk it over to the waitress rather than have her come over to us. This seemed like a ridiculously cute idea. Of course, along the way, she offered my credit card to anyone who would smile at her. I knew no one would really take the card, but I was still nervous.
She finally made it to the waitress.
"Oh you are so cute" the waitress said. "Now you just wait here and I'll give this back when I'm done" she continued.
"Mehhhh... WAH!" was my child's response. I said she could walk(ish) not talk!
The waitress turned to the register and with that they were both facing away from me. When she finished, the waitress turned back and handed the card and receipt back to my girl and said "there you go, it's all paid for!"
In a stunned silence, my lovely and precious angel (dressed in a "onesy") stood perfectly still simply turning her head to glance back at me over her right shoulder. The look on her face was the kind of awestruck look that goes perfectly with the realization that "wait, all I have to do is give someone this card and they will give me stuff back?!?!?"
I felt the panic well up from my wallet to my brain as if Mt. Vesuvius just screamed "SURPRISE" at Pompeii.
"MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!?!" I may have said out loud, I may have said it internally. I do not recall. My head hurt. At that very moment, I realized that I had just been "cuted" out of my financial security.
I'm sure I had already made other parenting mistakes, but those would have far less of an impact than this. I had just taught a toddler how to SPEND!
You can never go back from that one. Sure, you see references to this playing out in sitcoms, where the kid takes Dad's money and runs, but, you simply just don't understand until it happens.
Then comes the birthday cards and gift cards or holiday cards... Your child tears into them like she's looking for a prize in the bottom of the cereal box much in the same way a pit bull tears into an auto parts thief in a junk lot. It's THAT severe!
"Great, it's a card... where's the money!!!!" They're like some sort of money junkie. Suddenly they feel power and they're ready to live on their own, as soon as you change their next diaper. IT'S AWFUL I TELL YOU!!!!
I am trying to help with her spending habits already. We're working on the "some goes to charity, some goes to savings and some you can spend" philosophy but she may still be too young to fully understand.
It doesn't seem to matter to her just yet.
"I have a quarter! I HAVE POWER!!!" or "I have a dime.... a nickle ... a penny .... a euro...." It's all money to her and it all gives her great satisfaction and a sense of power to possess. As much as I try to teach her, I have come to understand that if kids do not want to understand something, they will absolutely NOT understand it.
"Money doesn't grow on trees you know!"
"No Duhhhhh. It's made of plastic!"
It can be that simple.
I tell you time and time again that I fear making that one tiny teensy weensy inconspicuous parenting mistake and then BOOM! You're raising the heartless multi-national conglomerate CEO who has no passion for real life and suffers in a materialistic love free lonely world of their own (maybe with a nice yacht for their Dad).
I pray it doesn't get to that, but we're quite possibly on our way. Right now, one of her favorite games to play is "Let's Hide Daddy's Wallet!" This is not a fun game because by the time I find my wallet, it's out of cash.
I still like to carry paper money; it actually does grow on trees. Plastic doesn't grow on anything.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I am what I have?
My first plane flight without my parents happened when I was a junior in high school. I flew up to Detroit to visit a friend and to spend some time with my Dad who was up there for work.
As a teenager all alone for the first time, I was a little bit nervous, and somewhat scared about one particular thing. I'd never been in a plane alone. I had to talk to strangers and some people REALLY like to talk to strangers on plane flights (don't sit next to me if you don't want to talk). But that didn't scare me.
I was well aware that planes sometimes don't do so well flying, what with defying gravity and all, and occasionally gravity wins before the plane is actually ready to succumb to its grasp; A.K.A, they crash. But that didn't scare me.
I had never been on a plane that stopped at another airport en route to its final destination. Not sure what to do during the layover, I stayed on the plane. It turned out that I was the only person sitting on the plane at the airport other than the stewardess who sat in front of me and stared at me stating "you know, not all of us can leave the plane if you stay on for this one hour layover." So I got off the plane at Dulles and stood just outside the door by myself for an hour in the jet way. I wasn't even brave enough to walk into the terminal. That shook me up, but that didn't scare me.
No, what scared me was that I was flying Eastern Airlines. There wasn't any problem with that airline that I knew of. I thought they were a decent enough airline, right up until they went out of business. But, no, for me the problem was, that I was going against my family! As best as I could tell at that young age, we were a Delta Family!
I had been on one flight with my entire family before then (that I could remember) and we flew Delta. Ergo, in my youthful mindset, we were Delta people! I also knew that we were Aim Toothpaste, Kraft Cheese, Rayovac Battery, Dixie Cup, Ragu Sauce, Safeguard Soap and Oscar Mayer people! There were so many other items that identified my family and these are just a handful of what I grew up with.
And here I was on an Eastern Airlines flight. I was truly a rebel now.
I had no real self identity and was pretty much reliant on whatever Mom or Dad brought home. Dad got the batteries and car stuff. Mom did the rest. And as a child, I identified with what I had around me; that was all I knew.
But it seems that this is the way it is for kids. As they are building a sense of identity for themselves, they attach to and define themselves by what surrounds them. My child does this with me all the time: "Do we like this team... that color... this milk... that cheese... that air freshener... the French..." It goes on and on and on as kids are trying to accept what is around them.
I'll know she is going through a rebellious stage when she starts pulling for the team playing the Cubs. Well, I've got news for her, she can't stop me from pulling for my Cubbies! And, chances are, the other team is going to win anyway; I know this already.
So, when I moved away from home to go to college I had a horrible dilemma. Well I had several I'm sure but this one comes to mind as quite traumatic at the time. I was 18 years old and I ran out of toothpaste. It was awful!
We had stores on campus but they didn't carry too much, just the basics. Whereas they had toothpaste, they didn't have a large selection, so they didn't have Aim. This was rough on me. I think I went a few days without brushing because I couldn't find Aim toothpaste.
Lucky for me, this was right around the time Rain Man came out and I had a lot of dorm mates talking to me about "course three minutes to Wopner... Yeah" as they were mocking my obsession with getting the right toothpaste. And they were right. I was afraid to step out on my own and declare my independence... from AIM?
I think I found some at the 7 Eleven (or was a Circle K) across the street and I bought up all the tubes they had. These were the tiny tubes that get you through about 4 days but I didn't get 4 days out of the tubes. As I recall my roommate "donated" my tubes to a bunch of drunks who used these tubes to write on the walls of our hall. It turns out these tubes are perfect for using as gel ink crayons.... dammit. I hated that roommate. But his bad-roommate-ness actually helped me evolve as an individual. Well, that and the girl who wouldn't kiss me until I brushed my teeth at that party on my hall.
"Let's kiss," I was such a romantic.
"No. Your breath smells like ass." So was she.
"Be right back. Don't move!"
I grabbed my roommates toothpaste and my toothbrush. I ran down the hall to the bathroom (shared between 40 guys) and brushed my teeth with some salty tasting non-gel, and definitely not Aim, crap. I cupped my hand over my mouth and nose and huffed. Breath smelled clean. I ran back to my dorm room and....
She moved. I never saw her again.
But she helped me move into a new direction. Once I broke the Aim barrier, I was able to make all sorts of moves. I could start washing my underwear again even if I didn't have Tide... Big stuff, like that!
When I was in school I studied a lot of marketing and we learned that our target audience for most products was the 18 to 30-ish age group. These were the people spending the most money and learning what products they liked on their own. I thought this was very timely for me to be learning as I was in that age group and I was learning to spend on my own as well.
However, for the most part, men weren't so high on the list of "target audience." It was the women we were to market most things towards. Historically, women were the big decision makers when it comes to family spending and as much as I fear sounding sexist, I think they still are.
I've grown accustomed to this. I was 100% fine with my Mom choosing what I needed and I still go with her input when she visits me and buys me groceries (I LOVE HER SO MUCH). I've considered passing the reigns onto my daughter, but that is too much power for one elementary kid to have "who need toothpaste Daddy, buy CHOCOLATE!"
I can clearly remember my Dad watching television in the evening awestruck. "What the hell was that commercial even for?" he would ask in utter digust. "It's not for you Dad," I would say "You're 30 years too old and your a man." That didn't seem to help.
Of course, when advertising is aimed at men, there's a hot woman involved. Seriously, I don't know why that girl in a bikini is holding that blender, but, I FREAKIN' NEED THAT BLENDER!!! We're too easy.
Hell, some complete stranger got me to turn my back on 18 years of Aim just for one chance at a kiss that was never meant to be.....
The skank.
As a teenager all alone for the first time, I was a little bit nervous, and somewhat scared about one particular thing. I'd never been in a plane alone. I had to talk to strangers and some people REALLY like to talk to strangers on plane flights (don't sit next to me if you don't want to talk). But that didn't scare me.
I was well aware that planes sometimes don't do so well flying, what with defying gravity and all, and occasionally gravity wins before the plane is actually ready to succumb to its grasp; A.K.A, they crash. But that didn't scare me.
I had never been on a plane that stopped at another airport en route to its final destination. Not sure what to do during the layover, I stayed on the plane. It turned out that I was the only person sitting on the plane at the airport other than the stewardess who sat in front of me and stared at me stating "you know, not all of us can leave the plane if you stay on for this one hour layover." So I got off the plane at Dulles and stood just outside the door by myself for an hour in the jet way. I wasn't even brave enough to walk into the terminal. That shook me up, but that didn't scare me.
No, what scared me was that I was flying Eastern Airlines. There wasn't any problem with that airline that I knew of. I thought they were a decent enough airline, right up until they went out of business. But, no, for me the problem was, that I was going against my family! As best as I could tell at that young age, we were a Delta Family!
I had been on one flight with my entire family before then (that I could remember) and we flew Delta. Ergo, in my youthful mindset, we were Delta people! I also knew that we were Aim Toothpaste, Kraft Cheese, Rayovac Battery, Dixie Cup, Ragu Sauce, Safeguard Soap and Oscar Mayer people! There were so many other items that identified my family and these are just a handful of what I grew up with.
And here I was on an Eastern Airlines flight. I was truly a rebel now.
I had no real self identity and was pretty much reliant on whatever Mom or Dad brought home. Dad got the batteries and car stuff. Mom did the rest. And as a child, I identified with what I had around me; that was all I knew.
But it seems that this is the way it is for kids. As they are building a sense of identity for themselves, they attach to and define themselves by what surrounds them. My child does this with me all the time: "Do we like this team... that color... this milk... that cheese... that air freshener... the French..." It goes on and on and on as kids are trying to accept what is around them.
I'll know she is going through a rebellious stage when she starts pulling for the team playing the Cubs. Well, I've got news for her, she can't stop me from pulling for my Cubbies! And, chances are, the other team is going to win anyway; I know this already.
So, when I moved away from home to go to college I had a horrible dilemma. Well I had several I'm sure but this one comes to mind as quite traumatic at the time. I was 18 years old and I ran out of toothpaste. It was awful!
We had stores on campus but they didn't carry too much, just the basics. Whereas they had toothpaste, they didn't have a large selection, so they didn't have Aim. This was rough on me. I think I went a few days without brushing because I couldn't find Aim toothpaste.
Lucky for me, this was right around the time Rain Man came out and I had a lot of dorm mates talking to me about "course three minutes to Wopner... Yeah" as they were mocking my obsession with getting the right toothpaste. And they were right. I was afraid to step out on my own and declare my independence... from AIM?
I think I found some at the 7 Eleven (or was a Circle K) across the street and I bought up all the tubes they had. These were the tiny tubes that get you through about 4 days but I didn't get 4 days out of the tubes. As I recall my roommate "donated" my tubes to a bunch of drunks who used these tubes to write on the walls of our hall. It turns out these tubes are perfect for using as gel ink crayons.... dammit. I hated that roommate. But his bad-roommate-ness actually helped me evolve as an individual. Well, that and the girl who wouldn't kiss me until I brushed my teeth at that party on my hall.
"Let's kiss," I was such a romantic.
"No. Your breath smells like ass." So was she.
"Be right back. Don't move!"
I grabbed my roommates toothpaste and my toothbrush. I ran down the hall to the bathroom (shared between 40 guys) and brushed my teeth with some salty tasting non-gel, and definitely not Aim, crap. I cupped my hand over my mouth and nose and huffed. Breath smelled clean. I ran back to my dorm room and....
She moved. I never saw her again.
But she helped me move into a new direction. Once I broke the Aim barrier, I was able to make all sorts of moves. I could start washing my underwear again even if I didn't have Tide... Big stuff, like that!
When I was in school I studied a lot of marketing and we learned that our target audience for most products was the 18 to 30-ish age group. These were the people spending the most money and learning what products they liked on their own. I thought this was very timely for me to be learning as I was in that age group and I was learning to spend on my own as well.
However, for the most part, men weren't so high on the list of "target audience." It was the women we were to market most things towards. Historically, women were the big decision makers when it comes to family spending and as much as I fear sounding sexist, I think they still are.
I've grown accustomed to this. I was 100% fine with my Mom choosing what I needed and I still go with her input when she visits me and buys me groceries (I LOVE HER SO MUCH). I've considered passing the reigns onto my daughter, but that is too much power for one elementary kid to have "who need toothpaste Daddy, buy CHOCOLATE!"
I can clearly remember my Dad watching television in the evening awestruck. "What the hell was that commercial even for?" he would ask in utter digust. "It's not for you Dad," I would say "You're 30 years too old and your a man." That didn't seem to help.
Of course, when advertising is aimed at men, there's a hot woman involved. Seriously, I don't know why that girl in a bikini is holding that blender, but, I FREAKIN' NEED THAT BLENDER!!! We're too easy.
Hell, some complete stranger got me to turn my back on 18 years of Aim just for one chance at a kiss that was never meant to be.....
The skank.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Do not steal. Do not kill. Do not fall off of the planet!
My father had it too easy with me. Some of the most challenging, tv inspired, questions I had for him as a child were "Daddy why can't coyotes catch roadrunners... how did that duck survive that gunshot... can dogs really talk and say 'ruh rohhh'... can that girl really tap her brother's ring and turn into an eagle?" His response was always similar. "It's a cartoon. That's not real."
Modern day shows are great in that my child is getting an education. I think she is learning a lot. Frustratingly, I too am having to learn a lot to keep up with her shows.
For example, this past weekend, while I was doing dishes she was watching a show that shall remain nameless (but rhymes with Hineeous and Herb) when she came up to me and asked "Daddy, what's a law?" Of course, in my head, I started singing to myself "I'm just a Bill..." which I did learn from, but School House Rock wasn't a show, it was an educational platform to air between the mindless shows of my childhood. It's soul purpose was to inform children but to a level that we had no need for follow up questions for our folks.
So I answered her, "Well honey, a law is a rule made by the government to keep us safe from harming ourselves or others. If we break a law the police will arrest us and there will be consequences. They are there to keep the peace!" I felt pretty good about myself with that one and I still do right now having just looked up the word law finding it defined as "the principles and regulations established in a community by some authority and applicable to its people, whether in the form of legislation or of custom and policies recognized and enforced by judicial decision."
"So, if we break a law, the police might arrest us?" she asked sheepishly.
"Quite possibly, yes" I felt like we were having a moment and I was really reaching her.
"So, if I break Newton's law of gravity and start floating, the police will come get me?" My head hurt almost immediately.
"Wahhhhhhhh" I mumbled in a Fred Flintstone-esque manner.
"His Law of Gravity. If I start floating I break physics laws and the police will come get me?"
Now, I actually knew about Newtonian Physics because I remember a few things from school, but mostly because the most recent version of Battlestar Galactica was cool enough for some drunk in a bar to accost me one night and explain to me how "this series is following Newtonian Physics in the way the ships travel in space." But in NOOOOO WAY did that bar conversation prepare me for this moment with my child!
I would have thought I had at least 10 to 14 more years before I had to deal with this sort of questioning and by then I'd be able to just fake being asleep at any given moment.
I was really stumped. I knew this was a simple yes or no answer, but if I just just gave her a one word response, there would be more follow up questions and I'd sound like a complete idiot trying to stumble my way through "see, there was this apple and Newton was sitting under a tree..." and then bring it on home with "and now Starbuck is a girl!" I'm sure I've lost a lot of you, but the Starbuck thing is totally a part of this and every conversation ever if it can be!
I simply looked at her and said "what show are you watching?" She explained to me the show and reminded me that it is my favorite cartoon, which it is, and that everyone was floating and Carl was in trouble with his "Dad." "Carl doesn't have a Dad" was my reply and our crisis was averted. The conversation had changed to why Major Monogram was acting like he was Carl's Dad.
You know what, don't worry about where our conversation went. I realize I totally avoided answering my child and now she'll turn to some bad influence to help her with her gravitational concerns. Just help me understand how to answer my child the next time this comes up.
I swear, other than the whole School House Rock library I learned very little from cartoons. It was fun and mindless. Although I did learn from an episode of Spiderman that the Swastika was originally a Hindu symbol about being good or something. Oh yeah and when one bad guy saluted the non-nazi flag with the swastika on it, his partner called him a "dummkopf" so I also learned that Germans called the dumbest among them dummkopfs.
I also learned that Fearless Freep was an AWESOME diver. It's true. Dad said that part was real.
Modern day shows are great in that my child is getting an education. I think she is learning a lot. Frustratingly, I too am having to learn a lot to keep up with her shows.
For example, this past weekend, while I was doing dishes she was watching a show that shall remain nameless (but rhymes with Hineeous and Herb) when she came up to me and asked "Daddy, what's a law?" Of course, in my head, I started singing to myself "I'm just a Bill..." which I did learn from, but School House Rock wasn't a show, it was an educational platform to air between the mindless shows of my childhood. It's soul purpose was to inform children but to a level that we had no need for follow up questions for our folks.
So I answered her, "Well honey, a law is a rule made by the government to keep us safe from harming ourselves or others. If we break a law the police will arrest us and there will be consequences. They are there to keep the peace!" I felt pretty good about myself with that one and I still do right now having just looked up the word law finding it defined as "the principles and regulations established in a community by some authority and applicable to its people, whether in the form of legislation or of custom and policies recognized and enforced by judicial decision."
"So, if we break a law, the police might arrest us?" she asked sheepishly.
"Quite possibly, yes" I felt like we were having a moment and I was really reaching her.
"So, if I break Newton's law of gravity and start floating, the police will come get me?" My head hurt almost immediately.
"Wahhhhhhhh" I mumbled in a Fred Flintstone-esque manner.
"His Law of Gravity. If I start floating I break physics laws and the police will come get me?"
Now, I actually knew about Newtonian Physics because I remember a few things from school, but mostly because the most recent version of Battlestar Galactica was cool enough for some drunk in a bar to accost me one night and explain to me how "this series is following Newtonian Physics in the way the ships travel in space." But in NOOOOO WAY did that bar conversation prepare me for this moment with my child!
I would have thought I had at least 10 to 14 more years before I had to deal with this sort of questioning and by then I'd be able to just fake being asleep at any given moment.
I was really stumped. I knew this was a simple yes or no answer, but if I just just gave her a one word response, there would be more follow up questions and I'd sound like a complete idiot trying to stumble my way through "see, there was this apple and Newton was sitting under a tree..." and then bring it on home with "and now Starbuck is a girl!" I'm sure I've lost a lot of you, but the Starbuck thing is totally a part of this and every conversation ever if it can be!
I simply looked at her and said "what show are you watching?" She explained to me the show and reminded me that it is my favorite cartoon, which it is, and that everyone was floating and Carl was in trouble with his "Dad." "Carl doesn't have a Dad" was my reply and our crisis was averted. The conversation had changed to why Major Monogram was acting like he was Carl's Dad.
You know what, don't worry about where our conversation went. I realize I totally avoided answering my child and now she'll turn to some bad influence to help her with her gravitational concerns. Just help me understand how to answer my child the next time this comes up.
I swear, other than the whole School House Rock library I learned very little from cartoons. It was fun and mindless. Although I did learn from an episode of Spiderman that the Swastika was originally a Hindu symbol about being good or something. Oh yeah and when one bad guy saluted the non-nazi flag with the swastika on it, his partner called him a "dummkopf" so I also learned that Germans called the dumbest among them dummkopfs.
I also learned that Fearless Freep was an AWESOME diver. It's true. Dad said that part was real.
Monday, July 23, 2012
The Beast Within
It's very sad when you feel unsure about your own house.
It is, at times, discouraging and concerning to know that you do not have free will to move about on your own.
It is awful to have to live in fear, not knowing what awaits you around each and every turn.
I often lie awake at night, afraid to move. Afraid to turn on the TV. Afraid to get up and go to the bathroom (which happens far too often overnight these days) or to simply move just enough to have a sip of water by my bedside.
I think the overnight fears have actually gotten worse in the summer. As the heat of the day drifts and my house settles making the loud thumping and occasional cracking noises I might regain a hint of consciousness. In the winter, some of those noises are still there, but most of the activity happens during the day when I am not around. Also in the winter it is too chilly at night, but during the summer, overnight is the only time cool enough for the beast to play.
Have I told you I have a dog? Well, I do, and she loves me!
She loves me almost more than I ever cared to be loved. She seems to worship me at times and her level of devotion is unmatched! She shows her affection by being ever ready for me to pet her or play tug of war with her, or by always being there for me to rub her belly, or throw a ball, or let her lay on my chest (whether I truly let her or not), or to let her try to climb on my lap because everyone needs a 55 pound lap dog, or to give her a treat, or to open the door for her not so she can go out but just so she can look over her dominion that is the backyard at any time in a given 24 hour period, or..... Love and Devotion. Ugh!
So there I am in the middle of the night. Laying in bed at 1:47 wide awake. It would be nice to get up and go to the bathroom and have a sip of water. That always puts me right back to sleep. But I cannot. The beast of adoration will find me.
As a child, whenever I would wake up in the middle of the night and opt to risk an attack by the bogeyman in an effort to see my mother one last time, I would walk right up to her side of the bed and just stand there.
Within seconds, she would open her eyes and say: "What's wrong?"
"I can't sleep" I would answer as I trembled.
"Go to the bathroom and when your done, have a sip of water" she would mumble wisely, half asleep.
"Ok"
And like a mindless zombie, I would do what she said and BY GOD IT WORKED!!!
To this very day, I am unable to get back to sleep most nights unless I go through this procedure. This has been going on for probably 39 years of my life! We do not need to discuss how I handled it for the years before that.
Back then, the only dog we had was a little rat like thing that slept under my parents covers and wanted nothing do with me. If I got up in the middle of the night back then, she just ignored me and hid further under the covers.
Now if I get up its "WHOO HOOO, ZIPPIDEEDODAH, WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO NOW!?!?!?!?" That's of course what the dog is saying. I'm saying more of a "murbleglahburundle, harumph, no!"
I love my dog greatly and I am blessed to have her in my life. She does help me feel like I am not a terrible person. But, DAMN. Sometimes, I am sad to say that I would just like to sleep. I do not want to pet her, or play, or stop at the pantry door for a treat as I am walking by, or... you get it.
So, when I wake up and lie in bed, I cannot move. If I lift my head, just to look at the clock, I'll hear the heavy breathing coming towards me. No matter what room of the house she is in, if I move, she will come to check and make sure I wasn't getting ready to throw a squeaky toy at 2:16 am.
Sometimes I imagine I am like a coma patient laying in a hospital bed. I open my eyes for just a second, it's the first time in years, and then the family member who is waiting in vigil watching for some sign of life sees this and says quite loudly, "Nurse, he blinked! I'm going to climb on his chest and breath as hard as I can right in his face." And the nurse just says in reply, "yup, that's what we recommend here!"
Maybe this is how people who aren't morning people, and need their coffee before they can be the slightest bit joyful about anything, feel when they wake up next to me.
Hmmmmm.... I know that I'll miss my dog having that much excitement and energy one day, but at 1:47 am, I have a hard time believing that.
It is, at times, discouraging and concerning to know that you do not have free will to move about on your own.
It is awful to have to live in fear, not knowing what awaits you around each and every turn.
I often lie awake at night, afraid to move. Afraid to turn on the TV. Afraid to get up and go to the bathroom (which happens far too often overnight these days) or to simply move just enough to have a sip of water by my bedside.
I think the overnight fears have actually gotten worse in the summer. As the heat of the day drifts and my house settles making the loud thumping and occasional cracking noises I might regain a hint of consciousness. In the winter, some of those noises are still there, but most of the activity happens during the day when I am not around. Also in the winter it is too chilly at night, but during the summer, overnight is the only time cool enough for the beast to play.
Have I told you I have a dog? Well, I do, and she loves me!
She loves me almost more than I ever cared to be loved. She seems to worship me at times and her level of devotion is unmatched! She shows her affection by being ever ready for me to pet her or play tug of war with her, or by always being there for me to rub her belly, or throw a ball, or let her lay on my chest (whether I truly let her or not), or to let her try to climb on my lap because everyone needs a 55 pound lap dog, or to give her a treat, or to open the door for her not so she can go out but just so she can look over her dominion that is the backyard at any time in a given 24 hour period, or..... Love and Devotion. Ugh!
So there I am in the middle of the night. Laying in bed at 1:47 wide awake. It would be nice to get up and go to the bathroom and have a sip of water. That always puts me right back to sleep. But I cannot. The beast of adoration will find me.
As a child, whenever I would wake up in the middle of the night and opt to risk an attack by the bogeyman in an effort to see my mother one last time, I would walk right up to her side of the bed and just stand there.
Within seconds, she would open her eyes and say: "What's wrong?"
"I can't sleep" I would answer as I trembled.
"Go to the bathroom and when your done, have a sip of water" she would mumble wisely, half asleep.
"Ok"
And like a mindless zombie, I would do what she said and BY GOD IT WORKED!!!
To this very day, I am unable to get back to sleep most nights unless I go through this procedure. This has been going on for probably 39 years of my life! We do not need to discuss how I handled it for the years before that.
Back then, the only dog we had was a little rat like thing that slept under my parents covers and wanted nothing do with me. If I got up in the middle of the night back then, she just ignored me and hid further under the covers.
Now if I get up its "WHOO HOOO, ZIPPIDEEDODAH, WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO NOW!?!?!?!?" That's of course what the dog is saying. I'm saying more of a "murbleglahburundle, harumph, no!"
I love my dog greatly and I am blessed to have her in my life. She does help me feel like I am not a terrible person. But, DAMN. Sometimes, I am sad to say that I would just like to sleep. I do not want to pet her, or play, or stop at the pantry door for a treat as I am walking by, or... you get it.
So, when I wake up and lie in bed, I cannot move. If I lift my head, just to look at the clock, I'll hear the heavy breathing coming towards me. No matter what room of the house she is in, if I move, she will come to check and make sure I wasn't getting ready to throw a squeaky toy at 2:16 am.
Sometimes I imagine I am like a coma patient laying in a hospital bed. I open my eyes for just a second, it's the first time in years, and then the family member who is waiting in vigil watching for some sign of life sees this and says quite loudly, "Nurse, he blinked! I'm going to climb on his chest and breath as hard as I can right in his face." And the nurse just says in reply, "yup, that's what we recommend here!"
Maybe this is how people who aren't morning people, and need their coffee before they can be the slightest bit joyful about anything, feel when they wake up next to me.
Hmmmmm.... I know that I'll miss my dog having that much excitement and energy one day, but at 1:47 am, I have a hard time believing that.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Shhhhhh... Don't wake the timebomb!
It is Sunday morning once again. I sit here with my coffee by my side as I type away on my laptop and my dog working on a bone at my feet. We are both clacking away; I at my keyboard and the pup at her tasty bone.
Both of us live in constant fear of waking up, THE CHILD!!! Actually, it's just me. I'd like to think the dog is in on it with me, but she wants nothing more than to have the kid get up and play tug-of-war, or a round of belly scratch or the game loud-squeaky-toy-sound-off. Man's Best Friend...Pffffttt!
I got lucky yesterday in that my daughter slept for a good 11 hours even though she still woke up early. I'd kill for eleven hours of sleep but I'm at that age where too much time in bed leads to back pain, an unstoppable urge to have to go to the bathroom or just extreme boredom. Also my dog is at that age where she likes to think "why the hell should he sleep past sunrise?" I just don't sleep very long.
It's not that the world would end if the child woke up now, it's just that the world would be a little less pleasant. My child is a great kid. She's a lot of fun and pretty funny. But, like any kid, if she doesn't get enough sleep she will be a whiny mess all day.
She will complain about any and everything. Basically, on "lack of sleep" days, I feel like I am raising a ticking time bomb. She might explode at any second and when she does, well, you just hope you're not in public; That's the worst.
Now, on vacation it is hard to get a lengthy night of sleep every day and so I have learned that if I "cave in" and let her get her way more often than normal during a trip, there is a lot less chance of the time bomb going off. Letting her watch Spongebob in the hotel, or maybe letting her have that much needed milkshake for lunch is comparable to cutting the correct wire on the device which ends up adding another 24 hours to your bomb going off. But that's the key, I'm still just postponing the inevitable.
But I think I'm getting lost on a tangent here. All kids do this. All kids need sleep. All parents want quiet and peace and we have a choice to make about teaching our children responsibility or choosing to have peace each and every day. All parents will do what they can to ensure that peace but we still have to teach our children those life morals and responsibilities.
So as parents, if we're up to the challenge, we'll let our kids have their meltdown moment just so a.) they learn a life lesson and b.) they understand that we, the parents, are convinced that we call the shots! However, if we're having a day where we're not up for the challenge, then we may cave and give in to the Mr. Hyde-esque qualities the kid may show, just to ensure some peace until we, the parents, are ready.
With that stated, I'd like her to sleep for another 2 hours this morning. So I will continue to sip my coffee in a quiet house with the tv off. If she wakes up in two hours, I might make muffins for breakfast. If she wakes up sooner, I'm thinking hot fudge Sunday for breakfast.
Yes, today I am choosing peace!
Both of us live in constant fear of waking up, THE CHILD!!! Actually, it's just me. I'd like to think the dog is in on it with me, but she wants nothing more than to have the kid get up and play tug-of-war, or a round of belly scratch or the game loud-squeaky-toy-sound-off. Man's Best Friend...Pffffttt!
I got lucky yesterday in that my daughter slept for a good 11 hours even though she still woke up early. I'd kill for eleven hours of sleep but I'm at that age where too much time in bed leads to back pain, an unstoppable urge to have to go to the bathroom or just extreme boredom. Also my dog is at that age where she likes to think "why the hell should he sleep past sunrise?" I just don't sleep very long.
It's not that the world would end if the child woke up now, it's just that the world would be a little less pleasant. My child is a great kid. She's a lot of fun and pretty funny. But, like any kid, if she doesn't get enough sleep she will be a whiny mess all day.
She will complain about any and everything. Basically, on "lack of sleep" days, I feel like I am raising a ticking time bomb. She might explode at any second and when she does, well, you just hope you're not in public; That's the worst.
Now, on vacation it is hard to get a lengthy night of sleep every day and so I have learned that if I "cave in" and let her get her way more often than normal during a trip, there is a lot less chance of the time bomb going off. Letting her watch Spongebob in the hotel, or maybe letting her have that much needed milkshake for lunch is comparable to cutting the correct wire on the device which ends up adding another 24 hours to your bomb going off. But that's the key, I'm still just postponing the inevitable.
But I think I'm getting lost on a tangent here. All kids do this. All kids need sleep. All parents want quiet and peace and we have a choice to make about teaching our children responsibility or choosing to have peace each and every day. All parents will do what they can to ensure that peace but we still have to teach our children those life morals and responsibilities.
So as parents, if we're up to the challenge, we'll let our kids have their meltdown moment just so a.) they learn a life lesson and b.) they understand that we, the parents, are convinced that we call the shots! However, if we're having a day where we're not up for the challenge, then we may cave and give in to the Mr. Hyde-esque qualities the kid may show, just to ensure some peace until we, the parents, are ready.
With that stated, I'd like her to sleep for another 2 hours this morning. So I will continue to sip my coffee in a quiet house with the tv off. If she wakes up in two hours, I might make muffins for breakfast. If she wakes up sooner, I'm thinking hot fudge Sunday for breakfast.
Yes, today I am choosing peace!
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Who Needs Sleep?
I don't sleep late on the weekends but I sleep later than I do during the week. I have very dark curtains in my bedroom to aid in my sleeping later, but they fail. As dark as they are, when it is sunny enough outside they will turn a brighter shade of brown which is just enough to wake me up. It's still okay though, because sometimes I'll sleep as late as 7 am!
I've simply never been a late sleeper. I guess I am a morning person and I'm not entirely certain as to why. I wake up happy and early (sorta happy). During the week I wake up before six am, typically, even though my alarm is set for later.
When I was a child, my parents had to give me a bed time and a wake up time. No matter what time I woke up, I was not allowed to leave my room and start stirring around the house before 7 am. My siblings would sleep so much later. One would go as late as noon quite often. Another was so thrilled to sleep that she wasn't allowed to go to bed until a certain time. It was a reverse bed time. While most every kid were being told by their parents that they had to go to bed at a certain time, she was being told that she could not go to bed until a certain time. Ahhhhhh, good times.
So now I have kid and she is torn about whether or not to be a morning person. I find it funny that during the week it is a struggle to get her to wake up on time but on the weekend, it is a struggle to get her to sleep as late as she needs to.
But I understand that it is not only my child who does this, so it isn't just the "curse of the child of a morning person!" It is quite a common occurrence. I guess they simply do not want to wake up early during the week to see what school has to offer, but maybe they want to be up early on the weekend to see what a world free of structure and education has to offer!
Kids are funny like that.
And now, as if on cue, my precious angel has just woken up, so I am going to stop this post right now.
I've simply never been a late sleeper. I guess I am a morning person and I'm not entirely certain as to why. I wake up happy and early (sorta happy). During the week I wake up before six am, typically, even though my alarm is set for later.
When I was a child, my parents had to give me a bed time and a wake up time. No matter what time I woke up, I was not allowed to leave my room and start stirring around the house before 7 am. My siblings would sleep so much later. One would go as late as noon quite often. Another was so thrilled to sleep that she wasn't allowed to go to bed until a certain time. It was a reverse bed time. While most every kid were being told by their parents that they had to go to bed at a certain time, she was being told that she could not go to bed until a certain time. Ahhhhhh, good times.
So now I have kid and she is torn about whether or not to be a morning person. I find it funny that during the week it is a struggle to get her to wake up on time but on the weekend, it is a struggle to get her to sleep as late as she needs to.
But I understand that it is not only my child who does this, so it isn't just the "curse of the child of a morning person!" It is quite a common occurrence. I guess they simply do not want to wake up early during the week to see what school has to offer, but maybe they want to be up early on the weekend to see what a world free of structure and education has to offer!
Kids are funny like that.
And now, as if on cue, my precious angel has just woken up, so I am going to stop this post right now.
Friday, July 20, 2012
The BIG three ohhhhh.
Wow! I cannot believe I've been at this 30 days now!
Seriously, this is my 30th published post of 30 days in a row. When I first started this blog lo that many month ago I didn't think I could do 30 days straight but that was my goal.
"Write for thirty days" I said to myself.
"You write for thirty days ya jackass, I'm busy!" I said back.
"What" I queried?
"You heard me" I retorted.
"But, you... errrr... you're me.. and how..." you know what, it just gets sillier for a bit after that. Just know that in the end I worked it out with me and we're both better off for myselves.
Right, then.
To be honest, I did skip my second or third day at this, but I posted twice the very next day! So it evens out. Also, I guess I have been kind of lax on holidays and weekends, but I still put something out there on those days, even it really was just me writing about how I don't plan on writing much that day. As it turns out, I typically still write something more significant on those days but I simply do not publish that days efforts until later in the week.
Pretty much, at any given moment I have 3 to 5 "gems" just waiting for me to be finished with them and publish! GEMS I TELL YOU!!!
Most days, I'll have a thought in my head (just most days mind you, not every day) and so I start typing in a direction towards that thought. And then I get lost. LITERATURE!
I honestly don't know where it all comes from. Although I do have a theory. Most ex-girlfriends parting words to me have been remarkably consistent: "You know what? You're full of CRAP!" they all say to me. Well, it tends to be a variation of a similar expression, but you get the point. I now understand what they really meant to say. "You're full of WORDS." See, it was the word "words" that they were going for.
All I can say to you, the reader, is, Thank you! Thank you for checking in from day to day. Some of you I know. Many of you, I'm guessing I don't, especially those of you in Europe and Russia and even as faaaaaar away as Sunny Canada! I probably don't know you so well but I'm certain I've met your beers!
I know that everything I write can't be a winner, or even necessarily good. So it's times like this, when you're reading something remarkably un-monumental that I've published, that you should relax and just let these four words get you through your day:
"I PROMISED YOU NOTHING!!!"
It really has been very freeing for me to tell you from the very beginning, and even in my own blog title, that I can neither promise you that any of this will make sense nor is it really well thought out. There is NO WAY I can disappoint you with the humdrum thoughts in my head. My title is my disclaimer! BRILLIANT!
I'll be amazed at myself if I can actually keep this pace up for another 30 days, but I'll try. I'm baby stepping my way to 30 day increments of blogs. So far, I've managed to make one step. Although, I am taking a vacation in a few weeks, so chances are, I won't be posting much of anything. I'm sorry for that. I really am.
Of course, I'm assuming a lot thinking that you might miss what I have to say. I'm sure you have plenty of things you can say to yourself in my absence, when/ if ever that happens for an extended period of time. It is very presumptuous of me to think that you might not be capable of carrying on without me. It is in fact more like I could not carry on without you. I need you. I need you to LIKE ME.... oh pleeeeeease just keep liking me.... pleeeeeeeeease......
But seriously, thank you.
Hmmmm.... maybe my ex-girlfriends were right.
Seriously, this is my 30th published post of 30 days in a row. When I first started this blog lo that many month ago I didn't think I could do 30 days straight but that was my goal.
"Write for thirty days" I said to myself.
"You write for thirty days ya jackass, I'm busy!" I said back.
"What" I queried?
"You heard me" I retorted.
"But, you... errrr... you're me.. and how..." you know what, it just gets sillier for a bit after that. Just know that in the end I worked it out with me and we're both better off for myselves.
Right, then.
To be honest, I did skip my second or third day at this, but I posted twice the very next day! So it evens out. Also, I guess I have been kind of lax on holidays and weekends, but I still put something out there on those days, even it really was just me writing about how I don't plan on writing much that day. As it turns out, I typically still write something more significant on those days but I simply do not publish that days efforts until later in the week.
Pretty much, at any given moment I have 3 to 5 "gems" just waiting for me to be finished with them and publish! GEMS I TELL YOU!!!
Most days, I'll have a thought in my head (just most days mind you, not every day) and so I start typing in a direction towards that thought. And then I get lost. LITERATURE!
I honestly don't know where it all comes from. Although I do have a theory. Most ex-girlfriends parting words to me have been remarkably consistent: "You know what? You're full of CRAP!" they all say to me. Well, it tends to be a variation of a similar expression, but you get the point. I now understand what they really meant to say. "You're full of WORDS." See, it was the word "words" that they were going for.
All I can say to you, the reader, is, Thank you! Thank you for checking in from day to day. Some of you I know. Many of you, I'm guessing I don't, especially those of you in Europe and Russia and even as faaaaaar away as Sunny Canada! I probably don't know you so well but I'm certain I've met your beers!
I know that everything I write can't be a winner, or even necessarily good. So it's times like this, when you're reading something remarkably un-monumental that I've published, that you should relax and just let these four words get you through your day:
"I PROMISED YOU NOTHING!!!"
It really has been very freeing for me to tell you from the very beginning, and even in my own blog title, that I can neither promise you that any of this will make sense nor is it really well thought out. There is NO WAY I can disappoint you with the humdrum thoughts in my head. My title is my disclaimer! BRILLIANT!
I'll be amazed at myself if I can actually keep this pace up for another 30 days, but I'll try. I'm baby stepping my way to 30 day increments of blogs. So far, I've managed to make one step. Although, I am taking a vacation in a few weeks, so chances are, I won't be posting much of anything. I'm sorry for that. I really am.
Of course, I'm assuming a lot thinking that you might miss what I have to say. I'm sure you have plenty of things you can say to yourself in my absence, when/ if ever that happens for an extended period of time. It is very presumptuous of me to think that you might not be capable of carrying on without me. It is in fact more like I could not carry on without you. I need you. I need you to LIKE ME.... oh pleeeeeease just keep liking me.... pleeeeeeeeease......
But seriously, thank you.
Hmmmm.... maybe my ex-girlfriends were right.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
I forgot where I was going with this one.
"Well I'm riding in the car
and we're going someplace far
My dad's so funny
The sun's hot on my kneeeeee...
SHE RAN CALLING WILD FIRE
SHE RAN CALLING WI-I-I-ILD FIRE
SHE RAN CALLING WI-I-I-I-I-I-I-ILD FIRE..."
It was sometime in the 70's driving in either a big green station wagon or a big blue station wagon. I remember looking up at my dad from the front passenger seat (with no seat belt on). His hair was so black and he had long side burns, almost mutton chops. I just remember looking up to him and admiring him so.
I have absolutely no clue why I remember that moment. I can even remember the shirt he was wearing and the fact that I was too small to either see out of the side window or even over the dashboard. I of course, do not remember the words to Wildfire correctly, but I think maybe the wrong lyrics I did remember have helped me remember the moment.
On a side note, I always thought that was such a happy song until a family member wrote the words out in an attempt to learn the song. I think we all cried for at least a day once we figured out what the song was about. Why the HELL would anyone write a song about a horse dying and why the HELL would it get any airplay?
On another side note, I do believe that kids should be in the backseat and everyone should have seat belts on in the car, but back then, this was not common place. Yet, many of us still managed to live!
I wish I could come up with one more "side note" and get the hat trick! I am not even quite certain if three side notes constitutes a hat trick in writing anyway. Alas it is not meant to be. Unless, of course, you consider this particular paragraph another side note in which case HAT TRICK BABY!!!
I guess I am simply intrigued by the whole process of thought and recall. What causes certain moments of my life to stick out more clearly than others when the others played a larger role?
It is well known that other stimulus aid in memory, such as sight, sounds, smells, taste... but I tend to think of it emotionally. I would guess you could write books about the subject but who has that kind of time? Probably brain scientists or the thought police?
I remember clearly being in Washington D.C. for the U.S. Bicentennial in July of 1976. It was very warm and sunny. I was very small and pretty much got dragged everywhere. It turns out that downtown Washington D.C is the last place on Earth you should be for the U.S. Bicentennial. It seemed like EVERYONE was there. I had to hold my parents hands at all times. So, I remember that whole trip with my right arm straight up in the air holding a hand and all I could see were the asses of all the people in front of me and the sandy ground of the mall.
However, a year later, I was in a pretty bad bicycle accident and ended up severing a body part. I got a lot of stitches and had to wear a pretty serious leg cast for quite some time. I have NO MEMORY of the accident or much thereafter regarding that injury. I only recall it as well as I do because my family is quite open to talk about how much of an injury freak I was as a child.
In fact, the only real memory I have around that time was the night Elvis Presley died. I was in my living room alone with one of my Grandmothers. I still had a portion of my cast on and I was up and walking around in only tighty whiteys when Walter Cronkite got on tv to make the announcement.
In case you're worried, the body part was reattached and I'm fine.
I guess that would be the emotional side of my memory. My mind will recall the trauma of a trip to D.C. in 1976, which was actually a fun time and I learned a lot. However, it will block out the pain and suffering of a serious injury.
I don't always remember word for word what people say to me, but I tend to remember how their words made me feel. For example, if I met you at a party and shortly after you threw your drink in my face and told me how horrible I am, you hate me and wish I was dead and that I would never be worthy of someone like you, the next time I see you my memory will stop me from talking to you again by reminding me that A.) you make me feel bad and B.) you like to go home alone.
It's a beautiful thing that my mind seems to filter out the pain and just maintain the concept of the event.
My memories of High School are very sketchy. I hated High School. There, I said it. I can't explain to you why I hated it because I honestly don't remember. I just know thinking about it makes me feel bad.
I think John Hughes is to blame. He made it look so fun. He captured a lot of the experience of High School in the 80's, but the part where the main characters come out on top in the end... yeah, I didn't have that experience.
Of course, I remember some of the people from high school but I have forgotten a lot of them. It wasn't their fault I forgot them. I think they were just around me during unhappy memories and ergo my mind filtered them out. Thanks to social media I've been re-acquainted with many of those folks and am very grateful, but I'm honestly amazed by the people who remember me.
College was sort of a blur. I remember parties and playing music in bars and singing a lot. Sometimes I think I went to class. It was fun. The hardest part about college, or any aspect of life on your own once you move away from your folks, is learning how to be responsible. I knew almost immediately when I moved into my dorm that waking up on time each morning was going to be very difficult without having Dad threatening to pour water over my head if I didn't get up.
But as much of a blur as it was, I remember so many happy experiences. I made life long friends there. I have know idea who I may have forgotten. There was a lot of music and happiness for me at the time. It was almost a memory stimulus overload. I'm sure beer helped keep all the memory and stimulus in check. See, beer was a medical necessity at the time.
After college the memories slowed down. Life slowed down. But the memory filter stayed in place. For example, a marriage happened to me. For the most part, unless I try really hard, I have no bad memories of that whole experience, but it was apparently quite bad. I only know this because, I am no longer married and I'm pretty sure I'm much better off for it, but I'm not always so sure as to why? I mean, I know absolutely why, but I only remember the happier times. Sometimes that's a curse, but it is kind of nice moving on and making new happy times with someone else...
Of course, from the marriage, there is a child. Once you become a parent, you are full on back to MEMORY STIMULUS OVERLOAD!!!! Not only do you have to remember your kids name each and every day, but you have remember what they like, don't like, did the day before and are doing in the next few days, and then there's all the damned birthday parties.... Of course, all the while you're parenting, you're constantly thinking "Was I this nuts at that age? Did I do all of those insane things? No, I ABSOLUTELY did NOT!!!"
You totally did. You've just filtered it out.
It wasn't until the first or maybe 700th time my child cried at bedtime that I remembered crying myself to sleep many nights. However, as I recall, that was because my evil family would sit in the living room, which happened to be right next to my bedroom, and they would watch Three's Company right when I went to bed and they would laugh so hard! I knew they were doing it just to let me know what I was missing!!!
Yup, the filter got a hold of that one for me, but the kid dragged it back out.
I guess, I am lucky (and maybe you are too but I don't know how you think) that I seem to have some sort of happy or anti-negativity filter in my brain. I've heard mother's say something like "you forget the pain of childbirth" which convinces them that it's okay to have another child. I liken that to my own mantra of "you forget the lines at the roller coaster" because, damn, those lines are long but the roller coaster is AWESOME!!!
Maybe that's a common experience for all of us and our own memory filters.
The thing that worries me most about memory is that, as I recall, I have heard that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. With that, what if all of those people that remember me so well only remember me because I smelled bad?
What if that is the only reason dogs like me so much?
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
I'm NOT giving you the finger!
Does anyone else remember when some theory got out there stating that we would soon evolve to only having four fingers because our pinky was useless? I am very pleased that this has not happened, yet, but I have given it some much do attention over the past thirty years.
Seriously, I remember this being a real conversation topic some time in the early to mid 80's. I don't know where or why this theory came about and how it became such a common conversation piece, but it was out there.
I always wondered why the pinky would be considered "useless?" It seems like such a useful tool in the arsenal of human anatomy. But as I grew up and learned how to behave properly in a public setting (still working on it) I came to realize that the pinky's God given duties had been deemed "gross" by modern society.
That is simply just not fair!
Let's face it, in an attempt to be not so graphic I will try to keep this toned down and say, the pinky is a very useful tool at getting into places no other finger can get into and scratching itches, or clearing out "blockages" that might otherwise be left unattended, driving us all crazy!
Sure modern technology and pharmaceutical companies have brought us things like swabs, or tissues or medicated wipes, saline rinses or other devices to avoid the nastiness that the pinky had to endure, but this was merely a way for companies to make a buck off of us by telling us we were gross and are better than that. They're really only punishing the pinky.
If it's such a bad finger, then why don't we point that one at people in disgust? Yes, I do realize its diminutive size might make that more of a humorous gesture as the middle finger is longer and makes more of a point, but, it's the principle of the thing!
The pinky certainly isn't as fickle as the "ring finger" which seems to only serve as a fashion accessory. You can put a ring on any finger, and then you get dumped and you have to take the ring off and store it forever for no real reason! But hey, free ring. Stupid finger.
The middle finger, well, it's useful for making rude gestures, pointing things out to people in a very intimdating manner and for getting that last little bit of mustard out of the jar. Still not as useful as the pinky!
However, I must admit that the pinky, as well as any other finger, pale in comparison to the thumb and forefinger. Ah yes, Thumbkin and Pointer, we need you so, what with your pincer grasp and all....
But the pinky is still wonderful! I find my pinky is quite useful in keeping my hands the correct distance from my keyboard. It also is nice for doing that cute little thing you do with someone you like when you just want to hold pinkys instead of going full on and holding hands. It also serves as a brilliant counter weight when I drink my coffee or tea. I just stick that pinky out, sip my coffee and get picked on by strangers in public because I am sticking my pinky out.
TO HECK WITH YOU!!! I USE MY PINKY WITH PRIDE!
I am sure I could go on with the many important non-nasty uses of the pinky. I'm almost certian I can do it... some other time.
I also feel the pinky has been represented poorly in art. Yes, there was "Pinky Tuscadero" whom I loved so dearly. She was a bit brash, but whaddya gonna do? She needed to provide a tough persona when representing the Pinky versus Fonzie's thumbs.... "Ayyyyyyy!" She was representing the pinky right? The name clearly says it all, I think.
But then we also had Pinky and the Brain. You know, the only reason they never achieved world domination was because of Brain's mistakes, NOT Pinky's! Ahhhh, but Pinky... He represented the jovial side of the fingers!
And then you had.... ummm... welll... errrr... I guess Pinky Tuscadero and Pinky were it. See, poor representation in art. I cannot even think of any other medium to represent the pinky.
But what I wish most of all is that they simply didn't break so easily. Seriously, I've broken one of my pinkies twice. I wasn't doing anything gross (in public) when I broke it.
The doctor wanted to do surgery on it after the second break. I passed out when he mentioned that.
It was not a good day.
So there you go... thirty years of pondering on the pinky. That's all I got.
Ahhhh Pinky... How I love thee so!
Seriously, I remember this being a real conversation topic some time in the early to mid 80's. I don't know where or why this theory came about and how it became such a common conversation piece, but it was out there.
I always wondered why the pinky would be considered "useless?" It seems like such a useful tool in the arsenal of human anatomy. But as I grew up and learned how to behave properly in a public setting (still working on it) I came to realize that the pinky's God given duties had been deemed "gross" by modern society.
That is simply just not fair!
Let's face it, in an attempt to be not so graphic I will try to keep this toned down and say, the pinky is a very useful tool at getting into places no other finger can get into and scratching itches, or clearing out "blockages" that might otherwise be left unattended, driving us all crazy!
Sure modern technology and pharmaceutical companies have brought us things like swabs, or tissues or medicated wipes, saline rinses or other devices to avoid the nastiness that the pinky had to endure, but this was merely a way for companies to make a buck off of us by telling us we were gross and are better than that. They're really only punishing the pinky.
If it's such a bad finger, then why don't we point that one at people in disgust? Yes, I do realize its diminutive size might make that more of a humorous gesture as the middle finger is longer and makes more of a point, but, it's the principle of the thing!
 |
| TAKE THAT EVOLUTION! |
The middle finger, well, it's useful for making rude gestures, pointing things out to people in a very intimdating manner and for getting that last little bit of mustard out of the jar. Still not as useful as the pinky!
However, I must admit that the pinky, as well as any other finger, pale in comparison to the thumb and forefinger. Ah yes, Thumbkin and Pointer, we need you so, what with your pincer grasp and all....
But the pinky is still wonderful! I find my pinky is quite useful in keeping my hands the correct distance from my keyboard. It also is nice for doing that cute little thing you do with someone you like when you just want to hold pinkys instead of going full on and holding hands. It also serves as a brilliant counter weight when I drink my coffee or tea. I just stick that pinky out, sip my coffee and get picked on by strangers in public because I am sticking my pinky out.
TO HECK WITH YOU!!! I USE MY PINKY WITH PRIDE!
I am sure I could go on with the many important non-nasty uses of the pinky. I'm almost certian I can do it... some other time.
I also feel the pinky has been represented poorly in art. Yes, there was "Pinky Tuscadero" whom I loved so dearly. She was a bit brash, but whaddya gonna do? She needed to provide a tough persona when representing the Pinky versus Fonzie's thumbs.... "Ayyyyyyy!" She was representing the pinky right? The name clearly says it all, I think.
But then we also had Pinky and the Brain. You know, the only reason they never achieved world domination was because of Brain's mistakes, NOT Pinky's! Ahhhh, but Pinky... He represented the jovial side of the fingers!
And then you had.... ummm... welll... errrr... I guess Pinky Tuscadero and Pinky were it. See, poor representation in art. I cannot even think of any other medium to represent the pinky.
 |
| Oh Andy, you missed your calling! |
But what I wish most of all is that they simply didn't break so easily. Seriously, I've broken one of my pinkies twice. I wasn't doing anything gross (in public) when I broke it.
The doctor wanted to do surgery on it after the second break. I passed out when he mentioned that.
It was not a good day.
So there you go... thirty years of pondering on the pinky. That's all I got.
Ahhhh Pinky... How I love thee so!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)