Is it the weekend yet? Why is it that some weeks seem to be mercilessly long and filled with tasks and others seem to blow by you with the speed of Christina Aguilera picking up an urban accent?
Einstein once explained the theory of relativity thusly:
If you spend an hour with a pretty girl it feels like a minute. If you spend a minute with your hand on a hot stove, it feels like an hour. That is relativity.
Well, this week I’ve had my hand on the stove.
It’s not that it’s been a bad week. Far from it. I’ve had some great times with Gertrude and Matilda. Matilda and I watched Cody Banks, who I think she feels is cute, and my cell phone was a spy gadget. Now I’m cool. Gert and I played and ate a candy apple together. Perhaps, though, my highlight with her was when I went to the store and she was standing in our front window smiling and waving to me.
Sometimes they just make your heart melt.
And sometimes you want to sell them to the gypsies. Like when they’re rolling on the floor tearing out each other’s hair over a stuffed bunny. Not just any stuffed bunny, but the one that Matilda hasn’t touched in six years that Gert found and was holding. It becomes a steel cage death match until I confiscate the bunny and send it to Siberia. That one was considered a draw. But I can see in their eyes that they are waiting for a moment to crown a champion. My money is on Matilda. Not because of strength or cunning, but because she has more bargaining chips. She gets her way with the baby by saying, “Do you want to play in my room?”
The baby loses every time.
On the spousal front (holy crap, spousal is a word . . . who knew?) we watched The Two Towers and discovered a glitch in our disc. Now I have to go exchange it.
We loved the movie, of course. And I like it even more than when I saw it in the theater (honestly I was disappointed in the theater, since I had just reread the book . . . a mistake not to be repeated).
But after watching the film I want to put legislation through banning guns in favor of swords. I want to go to my local sword maker and get a nice broadsword and carry it around in a sheath at my side. I also propose that capes and masks come back in style. They’ll look much cooler than those stupid leather dusters country fans were wearing a few years ago.
Then, if I don’t like my service at Taco Bell I can threaten to “run through” the stupid clerk. Get into an accident? Fight to the death.
Plus, if I had a sword I could speak differently. “Alas! The winds of trepidation blow from the west. Thusly I cannot join you at the bar this fine evening. Perhaps again in a fortnight?”
I wonder if I could shave with a sword. I’ll have to try.
Anyway, if everyone had a sword, I think we’d be nicer to each other. After all, all you’d have to do is place your hand on the hilt and your conversation partner would say, “Whoa! There is no need to overreact! Perhaps another glass of (mead, ale, sack) will please your addled mind!”
In fact, let’s do away with Renaissance Fairs and have Medieval Fairs. I’ll go as Lancelot and my wife Margery Kemp. Where everyone stops bathing, carries brutal weaponry and eats and drinks until they pass out. And, perhaps, we can quarantine people who have the plague. Great fun will be had by all, I promise.
Seriously.
Okay, fine. Go watch Animal House. See if I care! I’ll run you through you crusty knave!
Discuss
Friday, August 29, 2003
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
They’re Trying to Kill Me
I have a test tomorrow. It’s labeled as “routine”. No problem.
But the whole point is to get my heart rate up so they can measure it properly to make sure that it isn’t going to explode say, right now.
So I called to get my pretest instructions.
“Eat a light breakfast three hours prior, but nothing after.”
Check!
“Do not take beta blockers.”
Okay. Don’t know what those are. Check!
“Don’t ingest caffeine for twelve hours prior.”
Wait. Whoa. Let’s rethink this.
Surely you’re telling me not to drink with my sister Eileen for twelve hours prior, right? Because that would be easy. She’s probably busy between 11 p.m. and 11 a.m.
“No. Don’t drink caffeine.”
That doesn’t include coffee, right?
“No, that specifically excludes coffee.”
But . . . how am I supposed to stay awake until the test?
“I don’t care. I just answer the phones.”
But you should care. If I don’t have coffee in the morning I could take a hypodermic syringe and wave it around threateningly. I could be really angry. I could even be pushed so far as to call my doctor a big meanie.
“Not my problem. No coffee.”
I can’t.
“Get off my phone.”
Okay, but I want you know I’m going to weep now.
“That’s fine Mr. O’Brien. Please hang up.”
Okay. But I just want you to understand what you are doing to me.
“I do. Hang up please.”
Okay, but I want to sing you a song first. It’s a nice song. Will you listen.
“No.”
I’m singing now. And I may cry while doing so.
“Please don’t.”
I love coffee,
I love tea,
I love the java jive
and it loves me
“I’m hanging up now Mr. O’Brien.”
That’s fine, Patricia the central scheduling cruelty imp. But you’re killing me.
“At this point sir, I feel it may be a public service.”
Fine. Be that way. Just understand that our relationship is over.
“It’s for the better sir. Have a nice test.”
I think the vein in my temple just popped.
“Okay.”
Well, at least I have my new Two Towers DVD to keep me company.
I think my skin is bubbling.
Discuss My Torture
But the whole point is to get my heart rate up so they can measure it properly to make sure that it isn’t going to explode say, right now.
So I called to get my pretest instructions.
“Eat a light breakfast three hours prior, but nothing after.”
Check!
“Do not take beta blockers.”
Okay. Don’t know what those are. Check!
“Don’t ingest caffeine for twelve hours prior.”
Wait. Whoa. Let’s rethink this.
Surely you’re telling me not to drink with my sister Eileen for twelve hours prior, right? Because that would be easy. She’s probably busy between 11 p.m. and 11 a.m.
“No. Don’t drink caffeine.”
That doesn’t include coffee, right?
“No, that specifically excludes coffee.”
But . . . how am I supposed to stay awake until the test?
“I don’t care. I just answer the phones.”
But you should care. If I don’t have coffee in the morning I could take a hypodermic syringe and wave it around threateningly. I could be really angry. I could even be pushed so far as to call my doctor a big meanie.
“Not my problem. No coffee.”
I can’t.
“Get off my phone.”
Okay, but I want you know I’m going to weep now.
“That’s fine Mr. O’Brien. Please hang up.”
Okay. But I just want you to understand what you are doing to me.
“I do. Hang up please.”
Okay, but I want to sing you a song first. It’s a nice song. Will you listen.
“No.”
I’m singing now. And I may cry while doing so.
“Please don’t.”
I love coffee,
I love tea,
I love the java jive
and it loves me
“I’m hanging up now Mr. O’Brien.”
That’s fine, Patricia the central scheduling cruelty imp. But you’re killing me.
“At this point sir, I feel it may be a public service.”
Fine. Be that way. Just understand that our relationship is over.
“It’s for the better sir. Have a nice test.”
I think the vein in my temple just popped.
“Okay.”
Well, at least I have my new Two Towers DVD to keep me company.
I think my skin is bubbling.
Discuss My Torture
New Elvis
Samples from Elvis Costello's new album can be heard here.
Not sure how I feel about it yet. Elvis has always been one to follow his muse, so to speak. He loves music and plays what strikes him. This time it's jazz ballads.
Except, I can't help thinking . . . Does the fact that the new love of his life happens to play piano-based jazz ballads have anything to do with it? Does the fact that she plays jazz ballads and looks something like this have anything to do with his new musical direction?
"Yeah baby, I can play jazz."
I love Elvis. Everyone knows that but . . . I can't help thinking that these songs were what he used to close the deal. Is this album a come on to Diana Krall?
Discuss
Not sure how I feel about it yet. Elvis has always been one to follow his muse, so to speak. He loves music and plays what strikes him. This time it's jazz ballads.
Except, I can't help thinking . . . Does the fact that the new love of his life happens to play piano-based jazz ballads have anything to do with it? Does the fact that she plays jazz ballads and looks something like this have anything to do with his new musical direction?
"Yeah baby, I can play jazz."
I love Elvis. Everyone knows that but . . . I can't help thinking that these songs were what he used to close the deal. Is this album a come on to Diana Krall?
Discuss
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
Nothing To Say
Only a joke my wife told me recently.
Q: What does a hacker call his bathroom?
A: His IP Address.
Q: What does a hacker call his bathroom?
A: His IP Address.
Monday, August 25, 2003
Peanut Butter
This weekend I had a variety of man things to do. The types of things that cause testosterone to pump wildly through your body, convince you not to shave and make you chase squirrels through the back yard with the misguided impression that they will allow you to catch them and grill them. I have squirrel scratches and ended up eating falafel.
But that’s beside the point. For every single job I had to do this weekend, I had an assistant named Gertrude. It started on Sunday morning as I was repairing a portion of a bed frame. I had to drill some new holes for screws to secure the post as well as drizzling some very sticky wood glue. As I sat there drilling my new holes, Gertrude sat by my side holding the screws. When I needed a new screw, she gently handed one to me.
As I was drizzling the glue into the appropriate spot she asked, “Wazzat?”
“Glue,” I said.
“Glue,” she responded.
I got out the drill and had to drill more holes.
“Loud,” she said, holding her ears.
“Yes it is honey.”
After everything was in place, I grabbed the first C clamp and started screwing it into place. Gert stood by holding the second C clamp. When I was done setting the first she handed me the clamp and said, “Here daddy.”
“Thank you honey,” I said. And we took everything outside to dry.
Later in the day I asked her to come with me to check on its progress. She immediately ran to the plank and started removing the C clamps.
“No,” I said, “not yet. The glue needs a long time to dry and set properly.”
“Okay daddy,” she said.
I told her we were going to go inside to assemble some book shelves. She trotted along behind me singing the very first song she’s ever written. It went something like this:
“Peanut Butttttta. Peanut Butttttta. Peanut Buttttta.” She sang. I laughed. She sang more.
I’ve purchased her a car. Her cuteness overwhelmed me.
I went and got the materials to assemble the book shelves and Gertrude came running into the room carrying her plastic tool kit. She got out her hammer.
I worked and got the shelves put together. Though I was told I would not need a hammer, one piece needed a stronger force than my thumb to be put into its slot. I asked my wife for a hammer.
“Here Daddy,” Gertrude said, handing me her plastic hammer.
“Thank you sweetie,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
So polite when she’s not filling her diaper with nefarious bodily expectorations that send a lightning bold of fear through me.
With our projects complete, we went outside to play. We took a wagon ride around the back yard, complete with tour-style narration.
“And to your right you will see weeds I have not pulled. Just ahead are the tree shoots the previous owners let grow in the corner of the yard. You will notice that I have not pulled them myself because I don’t want to see our neighbor doing her dishes in her underwear. Next spring we will plant a bush.”
We laughed.
Then we got out the hose. I taught her how to pull the trigger and she spent the next hour spraying water all over our parched lawn and bushes. Apparently I looked a little parched myself because she shot a stream of cold water right at my ass.
“Soddy Daddy,” she said.
“That’s okay sweetie. Just point it at the lawn,” I said.
Later that night I gave her some soda. A major treat. She stood in the kitchen, drinking it out of her big girl cup reciting, “Sada! Sada!” And she grimaced as the bubbles hit the back of her throat. She cried for more.
Eventually it was time for bed. I gave her a hug and kiss and thanked her for a wonderful day. I handed her a cup of milk and she said “Thank you” in her sing songy way and climbed on mommy’s lap for a bedtime story.
Later, after everyone was settled in their beds and I was watching TV I heard a quiet voice down the hall sing:
“Peanut Butttta! Peanut Butttta! Peanut Butttta!”
I laughed loudly. The voice stopped and I heard a rustle of sheets and bed clothes. Then a little sigh came out as her breathing regulated into that of a deep sleep.
And then I sighed.
When I was young I just wanted to be a rock star. I wanted hordes of screaming girls to come and watch me singing.
Times have changed. I’m not a rock star. But I have two girl followers. And that’s even better.
I’m a dad. And I like my job.
Discuss
But that’s beside the point. For every single job I had to do this weekend, I had an assistant named Gertrude. It started on Sunday morning as I was repairing a portion of a bed frame. I had to drill some new holes for screws to secure the post as well as drizzling some very sticky wood glue. As I sat there drilling my new holes, Gertrude sat by my side holding the screws. When I needed a new screw, she gently handed one to me.
As I was drizzling the glue into the appropriate spot she asked, “Wazzat?”
“Glue,” I said.
“Glue,” she responded.
I got out the drill and had to drill more holes.
“Loud,” she said, holding her ears.
“Yes it is honey.”
After everything was in place, I grabbed the first C clamp and started screwing it into place. Gert stood by holding the second C clamp. When I was done setting the first she handed me the clamp and said, “Here daddy.”
“Thank you honey,” I said. And we took everything outside to dry.
Later in the day I asked her to come with me to check on its progress. She immediately ran to the plank and started removing the C clamps.
“No,” I said, “not yet. The glue needs a long time to dry and set properly.”
“Okay daddy,” she said.
I told her we were going to go inside to assemble some book shelves. She trotted along behind me singing the very first song she’s ever written. It went something like this:
“Peanut Butttttta. Peanut Butttttta. Peanut Buttttta.” She sang. I laughed. She sang more.
I’ve purchased her a car. Her cuteness overwhelmed me.
I went and got the materials to assemble the book shelves and Gertrude came running into the room carrying her plastic tool kit. She got out her hammer.
I worked and got the shelves put together. Though I was told I would not need a hammer, one piece needed a stronger force than my thumb to be put into its slot. I asked my wife for a hammer.
“Here Daddy,” Gertrude said, handing me her plastic hammer.
“Thank you sweetie,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
So polite when she’s not filling her diaper with nefarious bodily expectorations that send a lightning bold of fear through me.
With our projects complete, we went outside to play. We took a wagon ride around the back yard, complete with tour-style narration.
“And to your right you will see weeds I have not pulled. Just ahead are the tree shoots the previous owners let grow in the corner of the yard. You will notice that I have not pulled them myself because I don’t want to see our neighbor doing her dishes in her underwear. Next spring we will plant a bush.”
We laughed.
Then we got out the hose. I taught her how to pull the trigger and she spent the next hour spraying water all over our parched lawn and bushes. Apparently I looked a little parched myself because she shot a stream of cold water right at my ass.
“Soddy Daddy,” she said.
“That’s okay sweetie. Just point it at the lawn,” I said.
Later that night I gave her some soda. A major treat. She stood in the kitchen, drinking it out of her big girl cup reciting, “Sada! Sada!” And she grimaced as the bubbles hit the back of her throat. She cried for more.
Eventually it was time for bed. I gave her a hug and kiss and thanked her for a wonderful day. I handed her a cup of milk and she said “Thank you” in her sing songy way and climbed on mommy’s lap for a bedtime story.
Later, after everyone was settled in their beds and I was watching TV I heard a quiet voice down the hall sing:
“Peanut Butttta! Peanut Butttta! Peanut Butttta!”
I laughed loudly. The voice stopped and I heard a rustle of sheets and bed clothes. Then a little sigh came out as her breathing regulated into that of a deep sleep.
And then I sighed.
When I was young I just wanted to be a rock star. I wanted hordes of screaming girls to come and watch me singing.
Times have changed. I’m not a rock star. But I have two girl followers. And that’s even better.
I’m a dad. And I like my job.
Discuss
Friday, August 22, 2003
Where O Where Has Our Little Blogger Gone?
Away. Judging by the amount of mail asking where I’ve gone and why I haven’t been posting I’d say that exactly one of my regular readers noticed I haven’t posted all week. Sorry about that.
You see, I have this problem. I’m tired. And when I sit down to write something what usually comes out involves peanut butter and squirrels. I’m not sure what they have to do with one another, but I fear that it may be mind control. And if I succumb to their vicious and evil pressures, I will live a life of squirrel servitude.
But I may be overreacting.
Apparently the other night Gertrude woke up and ended up in bed with us. She was sleeping soundly, nuzzled up to my back when she started making her bad dream cry. She was fidgeting and whining when suddenly, she sat bolt upright and said, very lucidly:
PUDDING!
I slept through the whole event, but my wife assures me that it happened. However, I’m worried about this dream. What caused her to be so worried about her welfare?
Besides, pudding can’t hurt you. It’s creamy and sweet and good and nearly impossible to choke on. I suppose you could drown in it, but by the time you cooked all that pudding and let it cool, the skin on top would be impenetrable.
But that is beside the point, isn’t it? Clearly this was the great pudding of death. A pudding so powerful that a mere baby couldn’t possibly save herself from the onslaught of dairy goodness.
Maybe she got some Nilla Wafers out to try to fend of the horde of pudding. But the advancing mass probably just gained speed and bore down upon her. The pudding flood was probably so frightening that only something like a pie crust would have stopped and, really, a baby can’t whip together a pie crust that fast. Or could she?
I imagine in her little dream world she got her baby spoon and tried to battle the pudding as it swarmed her. She probably ate as fast as she could, but her baby spoons just don’t have the payload needed.
No word on whether the pudding was fluid.
Something funny happened this morning. Two things, actually. At about 5 a.m. Gert woke up very upset. I went to see what was wrong. As I was rubbing her back trying to reassure her that her fears of rising gas prices and possible prosecution from the RIAA would slowly abate, she looked at me and said, “I need Mommy.”
I couldn’t deny her request.
Then, while we were making our morning coffee she looked down at the shirt she was wearing and gasped in surprise. “Woggles!” Sometimes I guess even babies forget what shirt they are wearing . . .
Today I’ll leave you with my current theme song from my favorite new record, Steve Burns' Songs for Dustmites. You remember Steve. He’s best known for playing with an animated blue puppy and talking to soap. He’s a good guy. And he’s made an album about science and love. And battling dustmites. You should really check it out. It would be a shame if Steve had to give up music and start entertaining children at strip malls for pieces of gum and periodic half melted Slurpees. It would be horrible to see him drunk on Slurpee syrup screaming at the moms, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Steve Freakin’ Burns! I don’t need this. I used to have a puppy damn it! A blue puppy! Come back here! I’ll show you who has got a letter!”
Just buy the album. You won’t be disappointed. Oh, and unless your kids have a reasonable understanding of physics and/or magical porpoise voices, they probably won’t like the disc.
Here are the lyrics I like today:
i'm just a boring example of everybody else
i threw out the old one
as soon as i found something else
i'll never tell you what i do on Saturday
Actually, I’m perfectly willing to tell you what I do on Saturdays. Nothing. I’m boring! Steve probably gets to hang out with The Flaming Lips. Bastard.
Discuss
You see, I have this problem. I’m tired. And when I sit down to write something what usually comes out involves peanut butter and squirrels. I’m not sure what they have to do with one another, but I fear that it may be mind control. And if I succumb to their vicious and evil pressures, I will live a life of squirrel servitude.
But I may be overreacting.
Apparently the other night Gertrude woke up and ended up in bed with us. She was sleeping soundly, nuzzled up to my back when she started making her bad dream cry. She was fidgeting and whining when suddenly, she sat bolt upright and said, very lucidly:
PUDDING!
I slept through the whole event, but my wife assures me that it happened. However, I’m worried about this dream. What caused her to be so worried about her welfare?
Besides, pudding can’t hurt you. It’s creamy and sweet and good and nearly impossible to choke on. I suppose you could drown in it, but by the time you cooked all that pudding and let it cool, the skin on top would be impenetrable.
But that is beside the point, isn’t it? Clearly this was the great pudding of death. A pudding so powerful that a mere baby couldn’t possibly save herself from the onslaught of dairy goodness.
Maybe she got some Nilla Wafers out to try to fend of the horde of pudding. But the advancing mass probably just gained speed and bore down upon her. The pudding flood was probably so frightening that only something like a pie crust would have stopped and, really, a baby can’t whip together a pie crust that fast. Or could she?
I imagine in her little dream world she got her baby spoon and tried to battle the pudding as it swarmed her. She probably ate as fast as she could, but her baby spoons just don’t have the payload needed.
No word on whether the pudding was fluid.
Something funny happened this morning. Two things, actually. At about 5 a.m. Gert woke up very upset. I went to see what was wrong. As I was rubbing her back trying to reassure her that her fears of rising gas prices and possible prosecution from the RIAA would slowly abate, she looked at me and said, “I need Mommy.”
I couldn’t deny her request.
Then, while we were making our morning coffee she looked down at the shirt she was wearing and gasped in surprise. “Woggles!” Sometimes I guess even babies forget what shirt they are wearing . . .
Today I’ll leave you with my current theme song from my favorite new record, Steve Burns' Songs for Dustmites. You remember Steve. He’s best known for playing with an animated blue puppy and talking to soap. He’s a good guy. And he’s made an album about science and love. And battling dustmites. You should really check it out. It would be a shame if Steve had to give up music and start entertaining children at strip malls for pieces of gum and periodic half melted Slurpees. It would be horrible to see him drunk on Slurpee syrup screaming at the moms, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Steve Freakin’ Burns! I don’t need this. I used to have a puppy damn it! A blue puppy! Come back here! I’ll show you who has got a letter!”
Just buy the album. You won’t be disappointed. Oh, and unless your kids have a reasonable understanding of physics and/or magical porpoise voices, they probably won’t like the disc.
Here are the lyrics I like today:
i'm just a boring example of everybody else
i threw out the old one
as soon as i found something else
i'll never tell you what i do on Saturday
Actually, I’m perfectly willing to tell you what I do on Saturdays. Nothing. I’m boring! Steve probably gets to hang out with The Flaming Lips. Bastard.
Discuss
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
EAT IT!
Yesterday was Matilda’s first day at her new school. Starting third grade in a new school, with no established friends, must have been a terrifying experience. I mean, you’re starting fresh, at a disadvantage to all of the other kids. Or so I thought.
Sunday night we knocked off reading early so she could get to bed early and rest up. She yelled, “Yay!” and went to bed.
Um. Okay.
She was up at the crack of dawn, sitting in front of the door with her backpack on, new outfit and hair already professionally coiffed and ready to go. Mom and I questioned her intensely. Do you have your pencils? Your paper? Your folders? Are you sure that your outfit is sufficiently cool for your first day of school? It’s not too late to buy something else. I can go out and get you something right now. I’ll sew it from drapes, napkins and cat fur from the carpet.
No. She was fine. One hour before the bus was due to arrive, she was ready to go. We waited and waited and finally it was time.
We stood there, meeting the other neighborhood parents. Talking and enjoying things. Matilda surveyed the world, saw the other kids and when the bus came, she gave us a half wave and hopped on.
We worried all day long. Was she fitting in? Was she figuring out the lunch routine? Did she find her class?
Turns out everything went fine. Go figure. Our eight year old is more mature than we are.
Because we both took the day off from work, I was able to spend some quality alone time with Gertrude. Mom had set her up with a little doll house and dolls in the play area and we when I came down Gertrude yelled, “UNDER WATER!” All of the dolls were either swimming in the doll pool or she had been recreating a scene from the Salem Witch trials.
The daddy doll was cooking something on the grill and I selected a doll that I was to act out my version of the events. I picked a rather effete looking boy doll in a strange Victorian bonnet and night gown. I named him Edvard.
“Why Edvard, it’s nice to meet you. Edvard is an interesting name. Are you Norwegian?”
“No. I’m Irish.”
“But, isn’t Edvard a Norwegian name? Why did your parents name you Edvard?”
“Flemish paintings. They are big fans of existential anguish.”
My scene amused Gertrude, as Edvard let it be known that he was your typical Gothic child and he was obsessed with the Vicorian concepts of death. But, she moved on.
She took two of the babies and set them up in high chairs in the doll house. Then she moved over to the play kitchen and made them some sort of stew of plastic food. I think it was stew. It contained a potato, plastic peanut butter, a tomato, a whole roasting chicken, two scoops of ice cream and a donut.
She sat down in front of the babies and served them the meal. She was quiet for a moment when a cloud of darkness washed over her face. “EAT IT!” The babies did not move. “EAT IT!” At this point, her voice took on a slight Germanic tinge and she began to march around the room, demanding that her children eat her particularly yummy stew.
The children eventually relented and ate the stew while Gertrude watch disapprovingly. I wasn’t quite sure where this behavior came from. As far as I know, we rarely had Dickensonian lunches where we demand that the children eat under our steely, watchful gaze.
Eventually, her cuteness wore me down and I eventually forgot all about it.
Later that night, after baths we were sitting at the kitchen table eating an evening snack. Gertrude had a tiny bowl of Chex which she was shoveling into her mouth with the dainty care of Henry VIII eating a Boar’s leg.
As she finished her bowl, she plunged her chubby little fingers into the milk and seized one piece of soggy Chex in in fingers.
“EAT IT!” she yelled, authorotatively as she shoved the soggy cereal unexpectedly into my mouth.
And I did. Out of fear.
Discuss
Sunday night we knocked off reading early so she could get to bed early and rest up. She yelled, “Yay!” and went to bed.
Um. Okay.
She was up at the crack of dawn, sitting in front of the door with her backpack on, new outfit and hair already professionally coiffed and ready to go. Mom and I questioned her intensely. Do you have your pencils? Your paper? Your folders? Are you sure that your outfit is sufficiently cool for your first day of school? It’s not too late to buy something else. I can go out and get you something right now. I’ll sew it from drapes, napkins and cat fur from the carpet.
No. She was fine. One hour before the bus was due to arrive, she was ready to go. We waited and waited and finally it was time.
We stood there, meeting the other neighborhood parents. Talking and enjoying things. Matilda surveyed the world, saw the other kids and when the bus came, she gave us a half wave and hopped on.
We worried all day long. Was she fitting in? Was she figuring out the lunch routine? Did she find her class?
Turns out everything went fine. Go figure. Our eight year old is more mature than we are.
Because we both took the day off from work, I was able to spend some quality alone time with Gertrude. Mom had set her up with a little doll house and dolls in the play area and we when I came down Gertrude yelled, “UNDER WATER!” All of the dolls were either swimming in the doll pool or she had been recreating a scene from the Salem Witch trials.
The daddy doll was cooking something on the grill and I selected a doll that I was to act out my version of the events. I picked a rather effete looking boy doll in a strange Victorian bonnet and night gown. I named him Edvard.
“Why Edvard, it’s nice to meet you. Edvard is an interesting name. Are you Norwegian?”
“No. I’m Irish.”
“But, isn’t Edvard a Norwegian name? Why did your parents name you Edvard?”
“Flemish paintings. They are big fans of existential anguish.”
My scene amused Gertrude, as Edvard let it be known that he was your typical Gothic child and he was obsessed with the Vicorian concepts of death. But, she moved on.
She took two of the babies and set them up in high chairs in the doll house. Then she moved over to the play kitchen and made them some sort of stew of plastic food. I think it was stew. It contained a potato, plastic peanut butter, a tomato, a whole roasting chicken, two scoops of ice cream and a donut.
She sat down in front of the babies and served them the meal. She was quiet for a moment when a cloud of darkness washed over her face. “EAT IT!” The babies did not move. “EAT IT!” At this point, her voice took on a slight Germanic tinge and she began to march around the room, demanding that her children eat her particularly yummy stew.
The children eventually relented and ate the stew while Gertrude watch disapprovingly. I wasn’t quite sure where this behavior came from. As far as I know, we rarely had Dickensonian lunches where we demand that the children eat under our steely, watchful gaze.
Eventually, her cuteness wore me down and I eventually forgot all about it.
Later that night, after baths we were sitting at the kitchen table eating an evening snack. Gertrude had a tiny bowl of Chex which she was shoveling into her mouth with the dainty care of Henry VIII eating a Boar’s leg.
As she finished her bowl, she plunged her chubby little fingers into the milk and seized one piece of soggy Chex in in fingers.
“EAT IT!” she yelled, authorotatively as she shoved the soggy cereal unexpectedly into my mouth.
And I did. Out of fear.
Discuss
Friday, August 15, 2003
The Wiggles
Breaking the ban on posting photos of my unusually talented and gorgeous children I offer you proof of our Wiggly Wiggly adventures.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
A Car is a Car is a Car
We’re down to one car thanks to the asspony that decided to try and drive his Buick LeSabre through my wife’s car. Thankfully she was okay. But now we’re playing the waiting game with the insurance company.
The car has been totaled out, which was both a relief and a pain. We only had $700 left on that loan. We had plans for the money, darn it.
So the car search is on. We know what we don’t want in a car, but we don’t know exactly what we do want. Everything we thought was cool is turning out to be a bit expensive. Plus, we can’t move on a car until we have the check from the insurance company.
Luckily we have my father in law on our side. Because if he were on the other side, we’d be screwed.
He’s on the hunt. And when Dad’s on the hunt, the rest of the world better watch out. He’s a bargainer, a haggler and doesn’t like BS unless he’s the one dishing it out. He’s trying his best to get us a bargain.
“I found a 2003 Aztek for $2000.”
“Dad, why is a $20,000 car going for a tenth of its value?”
“Don’t ask questions. We can get the blood stains taken care of with a little 409 I think.”
He’d be willing to buy a car from a guy at a stoplight.
“Nice car. I’ll give you a grand for it.”
The man has an eagle eye. We can visit a lot that has “upfront pricing” and walk out with the dealer owing us money and promising a lifetime of free maintenance.
We don’t know how he does it. He’s not intimidating. In fact, he’s entirely too generous and kind. He understands the enemy. Gets in their head and then decimates them with his version of logic. By the time he’s done with them, they’re pledging allegiance to him and resealing is driveway on their day off.
He offers them a new outlook on life, I suppose. Something that no other customer can offer.
It’s amazing. If he’d been running the war in Iraq, Saddam would have surrendered without a single bullet fired and would be polishing Dad’s shoes for a living. And he’d be happy to have the job.
But I fear the levels of his dedication. I keep expecting to get a phone call at three a.m.
“I found you a car. How quickly can you get to Memphis? Bring a goat, two coconuts and a chain. You’ll need them. Stop at 21st street and ask for a man named Zuzu. Give him one of the coconuts and then go to Graceland. Wrap the chains around the gate, bury the other coconut and do the Charleston with the goat. By two p.m. a car will appear in the parking lot. Take that car to Sun Studios. Park it facing north. You’ll soon be met by a man in a fez . . .”
The car has been totaled out, which was both a relief and a pain. We only had $700 left on that loan. We had plans for the money, darn it.
So the car search is on. We know what we don’t want in a car, but we don’t know exactly what we do want. Everything we thought was cool is turning out to be a bit expensive. Plus, we can’t move on a car until we have the check from the insurance company.
Luckily we have my father in law on our side. Because if he were on the other side, we’d be screwed.
He’s on the hunt. And when Dad’s on the hunt, the rest of the world better watch out. He’s a bargainer, a haggler and doesn’t like BS unless he’s the one dishing it out. He’s trying his best to get us a bargain.
“I found a 2003 Aztek for $2000.”
“Dad, why is a $20,000 car going for a tenth of its value?”
“Don’t ask questions. We can get the blood stains taken care of with a little 409 I think.”
He’d be willing to buy a car from a guy at a stoplight.
“Nice car. I’ll give you a grand for it.”
The man has an eagle eye. We can visit a lot that has “upfront pricing” and walk out with the dealer owing us money and promising a lifetime of free maintenance.
We don’t know how he does it. He’s not intimidating. In fact, he’s entirely too generous and kind. He understands the enemy. Gets in their head and then decimates them with his version of logic. By the time he’s done with them, they’re pledging allegiance to him and resealing is driveway on their day off.
He offers them a new outlook on life, I suppose. Something that no other customer can offer.
It’s amazing. If he’d been running the war in Iraq, Saddam would have surrendered without a single bullet fired and would be polishing Dad’s shoes for a living. And he’d be happy to have the job.
But I fear the levels of his dedication. I keep expecting to get a phone call at three a.m.
“I found you a car. How quickly can you get to Memphis? Bring a goat, two coconuts and a chain. You’ll need them. Stop at 21st street and ask for a man named Zuzu. Give him one of the coconuts and then go to Graceland. Wrap the chains around the gate, bury the other coconut and do the Charleston with the goat. By two p.m. a car will appear in the parking lot. Take that car to Sun Studios. Park it facing north. You’ll soon be met by a man in a fez . . .”
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Stupidity 101
Yes. I’m working on book about Life Skills. At the end of each chapter the author kindly puts review questions for key concepts that the student should have learned (which is another way of saying “Things any moron should know, buy you’re apparently too stupid to pick up”). The questions are along the lines of. . .
“When faced with a situation where you wake up naked in a corn field wearing only KISS make up and holding A Swinger’s Guide to Des Moines should you:
I’m not sure what my point is. Maybe it’s just general curiosity. Curiosity about whether or not this sort of behavior is learned. And if it is, does the Y offer classes?
“When faced with a situation where you wake up naked in a corn field wearing only KISS make up and holding A Swinger’s Guide to Des Moines should you:
A: Sew a makeshift outfit out of Corn Silk
B: Claim Alien Abduction
C: Find your car and eat everything in the ash tray. Then call the police.
D: Chalk it up to youthful indulgence.
E: Pray that when you regain your memory you’ll remember that you are on the basketball team so that the situation won’t seem out of the ordinary."
I’m not sure what my point is. Maybe it’s just general curiosity. Curiosity about whether or not this sort of behavior is learned. And if it is, does the Y offer classes?
Ten Things I Hate
1. Broccoli
2. Men in bicycle shorts with no bicycle in sight, nor do they look like they’ve touched a bicycle.
3. People at buffets reaching over the food, exposing it to something dropping off their armpit and into the food.
4. That really slow lady at the concert venue the other night that took twenty minutes to fill a cup with Diet Coke.
5. Warm, flat beer.
6. Rotting railroad ties with gross, malformed, squirming bug things. Bug things that touch me and make me retch.
7. The fact that I’m afraid of bug things.
8. People who protest things but can’t support their reason for protest.
9. People who support something but can’t explain why they support it.
10. Monkeys who wear clothes. They’re uppity and think that we somehow should show them respect. As if I’ll say, “Oh look at the cute little monkey in human clothes doing cute little human things.” Please. He’s still a lesser primate and I deserve his subservience. And you know what? He should be my butler, not some sort of high ranking governmental official. I mean, monkeys in office? Okay, I can understand that. But this particular monkey isn’t that smart and when cornered on an issue he throws certain things at you. And the way he talks to me, like I’m an idiot. I don’t even believe him half the time. He’s a talking monkey after all, and talking monkeys, for the most part, are untrustworthy. But, perhaps, what’s most disturbing about this particular monkey is how low slung his pants are. Like he’s a member of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. I hate him. Don’t talk to this monkey if you can avoid it.
Oooh look. My medication is here. Sweet medicine that makes the flying trolls go away.
2. Men in bicycle shorts with no bicycle in sight, nor do they look like they’ve touched a bicycle.
3. People at buffets reaching over the food, exposing it to something dropping off their armpit and into the food.
4. That really slow lady at the concert venue the other night that took twenty minutes to fill a cup with Diet Coke.
5. Warm, flat beer.
6. Rotting railroad ties with gross, malformed, squirming bug things. Bug things that touch me and make me retch.
7. The fact that I’m afraid of bug things.
8. People who protest things but can’t support their reason for protest.
9. People who support something but can’t explain why they support it.
10. Monkeys who wear clothes. They’re uppity and think that we somehow should show them respect. As if I’ll say, “Oh look at the cute little monkey in human clothes doing cute little human things.” Please. He’s still a lesser primate and I deserve his subservience. And you know what? He should be my butler, not some sort of high ranking governmental official. I mean, monkeys in office? Okay, I can understand that. But this particular monkey isn’t that smart and when cornered on an issue he throws certain things at you. And the way he talks to me, like I’m an idiot. I don’t even believe him half the time. He’s a talking monkey after all, and talking monkeys, for the most part, are untrustworthy. But, perhaps, what’s most disturbing about this particular monkey is how low slung his pants are. Like he’s a member of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. I hate him. Don’t talk to this monkey if you can avoid it.
Oooh look. My medication is here. Sweet medicine that makes the flying trolls go away.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Get Ready to Wiggle
Set the scene: Two cute little girls in the back seat, prepared to wiggle. One is a toddler, still thinking we’re going somewhere to watch a Wiggles video. The other an eight-year-old who will never actually publicly admit this trip. Nor will she ever speak of what she’s done.
But I have pictures. Insert Mandark laugh here.
We arrived at the theater, parked and stood in a very, very, very long line to get merchandise. I went up with instructions to get only a t-shirt (extra small) and a program. Sadly, they didn’t have adult sizes because I’d wear a Captain Feathersword shirt if I could. I came back with what I was instructed to purchase. Plus a cute little hat.
We found our seats and Gertrude flipped through the program, pointing out each Wiggle and discussing their various educational backgrounds. She was being very germane for a toddler. The theater slowly began to fill with a variety of other young squirts, all primed for some intense wiggling.
At this point, I think Gertrude was still convinced we were going to see the Wiggles on a screen. They were piping in the CDs as a preshow and everyone was singing and clapping along.
We discussed the finer points of the possible set list with the family behind us and I noticed that two sockless brothers who were in charge of business development at a now defunct company that once employed me were sitting in front of us with their vapid, anorexic trophy wives. I ignored them.
The lights dimmed (but did not go out because there would be a collective scream of terror from the toddlers in the audience) and an announcement came on letting us know that very soon we would be in Wiggle World. There was a collective gasp and a murmur of excitement. That was from the parents, especially those moms who were getting all verklempt waiting to see Anthony Wiggle (who, alas, was out for surgery).
And the Wiggles hit the stage. Matilda was on her feet dancing like she was at Woodstock. Gertrude clung to her mother’s neck and stared at the stage, confused. This wasn’t a video.
She stayed like that for the first few songs. Her face looked like she was going through some sort of inner-turmoil. I expected her to stand up and say:
“What manner of witchcraft is this father? These once two-dimensional characters from that charming little Aussie TV show are now cavorting in front of us as if they are alive. Ha ha! I know better. Things on TV aren’t real. Those charming, colorful characters live in a plastic box by our TV and wait patiently until we summon their spirits.”
As we got a little deeper into the show, she became more concerned. “DO YOU NOT SEE? THEY ARE ALIVE! ALIVE! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS REPRESENTS?”
Apparently she didn’t either. She moved over to my lap, because it had a better view. Slowly the little head started to bop. And she started doing pieces of the dances. And then her legs started to move and then . . . she couldn’t handle it anymore. She hopped off my lap and into the aisle and the Wiggle was upon her. She planted one foot firmly in front of the other and started gyrating in a way that only my child could. With no sense of rhythm or style. One arm would swing up and the other would flail behind her. Her little diapered butt shook and wiggled, but the legs never moved. All the while, her little red Wiggles cap was on her head, backwards, making her look like some sort of thug.
She picked up on that vibe too. There were two little prissy girls standing in front of her. They were holding hands and kind of swaying in a mindless, cult sort of way. Gertrude looked at them as if they were freaks and whenever they would turn around, she’d stare at them with a look that said, “Got a problem? I’ll kick your diaper from here to daycare.”
Luckily, the tensions never elevated.
For the rest of the show Gertrude and Matilda rocked and wiggled their little hearts out (despite the fact that Matilda will never admit to being there).
One of the highlights of the day was when I was taking pictures of the festivities Gertrude grabbed the camera from me and decided to try her hand at the process. She framed it up and looked ready to snap but change her mind, shifted the camera and reframed the photo. She’s had an obsession with cameras lately.
All in all, the Wiggles were a great hit. Both girls had a wonderful time and talked about it for the rest of the day.
We got pizza for dinner. When it was served, Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She had a bath. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She got dressed. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She was put down for bed. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She woke up in the middle of the night. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
A lot of people told me how sorry they felt for me, that I’d have to spend a few hours watching children’s entertainment which would surely rot my brain and make me die from hyperglycemia from all the sugary crap raining from above. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry that they have to view children’s entertainment that way.
It wasn’t about me. It was about her. And it always will be. It’s not about the parents. It’s about the happiness and enjoyment of a child. The enjoyment of a thing that is so pure and unadulterated that it can only be a child’s joy.
Because the look of sheer joy that was on my daughter’s face, the total bliss and her ecstatic, jubilant dancing, and her pride and astonishment at the experience would have been worth anything. I would walk over hot coals to provide her with that joy again. I’d do anything for my children’s happiness. I’ll carry around the look of shock and happiness on that little girl’s face for the rest of my life.
She won’t be this age forever. She’ll grow and find her own life. Right now I am her life. And my wife and I managed to provide her with what amounted to the best day she’s ever had thus far. And it’s all thanks to four goofy guys in colored shirts who sang songs about potatoes, fruit salad and wobbly camels. And I thank them for allowing me the opportunity to share such a wonderful and happy experience with a little girl who gives my life meaning.
And not only that, despite the fact that I mostly watched what my daughter was doing instead of the stage, I enjoyed the show too. I sang, clapped along and even wiggled a little myself.
You know what? I say it with pride to close my blog.
“I saw the Woggles!”
Discuss
But I have pictures. Insert Mandark laugh here.
We arrived at the theater, parked and stood in a very, very, very long line to get merchandise. I went up with instructions to get only a t-shirt (extra small) and a program. Sadly, they didn’t have adult sizes because I’d wear a Captain Feathersword shirt if I could. I came back with what I was instructed to purchase. Plus a cute little hat.
We found our seats and Gertrude flipped through the program, pointing out each Wiggle and discussing their various educational backgrounds. She was being very germane for a toddler. The theater slowly began to fill with a variety of other young squirts, all primed for some intense wiggling.
At this point, I think Gertrude was still convinced we were going to see the Wiggles on a screen. They were piping in the CDs as a preshow and everyone was singing and clapping along.
We discussed the finer points of the possible set list with the family behind us and I noticed that two sockless brothers who were in charge of business development at a now defunct company that once employed me were sitting in front of us with their vapid, anorexic trophy wives. I ignored them.
The lights dimmed (but did not go out because there would be a collective scream of terror from the toddlers in the audience) and an announcement came on letting us know that very soon we would be in Wiggle World. There was a collective gasp and a murmur of excitement. That was from the parents, especially those moms who were getting all verklempt waiting to see Anthony Wiggle (who, alas, was out for surgery).
And the Wiggles hit the stage. Matilda was on her feet dancing like she was at Woodstock. Gertrude clung to her mother’s neck and stared at the stage, confused. This wasn’t a video.
She stayed like that for the first few songs. Her face looked like she was going through some sort of inner-turmoil. I expected her to stand up and say:
“What manner of witchcraft is this father? These once two-dimensional characters from that charming little Aussie TV show are now cavorting in front of us as if they are alive. Ha ha! I know better. Things on TV aren’t real. Those charming, colorful characters live in a plastic box by our TV and wait patiently until we summon their spirits.”
As we got a little deeper into the show, she became more concerned. “DO YOU NOT SEE? THEY ARE ALIVE! ALIVE! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS REPRESENTS?”
Apparently she didn’t either. She moved over to my lap, because it had a better view. Slowly the little head started to bop. And she started doing pieces of the dances. And then her legs started to move and then . . . she couldn’t handle it anymore. She hopped off my lap and into the aisle and the Wiggle was upon her. She planted one foot firmly in front of the other and started gyrating in a way that only my child could. With no sense of rhythm or style. One arm would swing up and the other would flail behind her. Her little diapered butt shook and wiggled, but the legs never moved. All the while, her little red Wiggles cap was on her head, backwards, making her look like some sort of thug.
She picked up on that vibe too. There were two little prissy girls standing in front of her. They were holding hands and kind of swaying in a mindless, cult sort of way. Gertrude looked at them as if they were freaks and whenever they would turn around, she’d stare at them with a look that said, “Got a problem? I’ll kick your diaper from here to daycare.”
Luckily, the tensions never elevated.
For the rest of the show Gertrude and Matilda rocked and wiggled their little hearts out (despite the fact that Matilda will never admit to being there).
One of the highlights of the day was when I was taking pictures of the festivities Gertrude grabbed the camera from me and decided to try her hand at the process. She framed it up and looked ready to snap but change her mind, shifted the camera and reframed the photo. She’s had an obsession with cameras lately.
All in all, the Wiggles were a great hit. Both girls had a wonderful time and talked about it for the rest of the day.
We got pizza for dinner. When it was served, Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She had a bath. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She got dressed. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She was put down for bed. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
She woke up in the middle of the night. Gertrude said, “I saw the Woggles!”
A lot of people told me how sorry they felt for me, that I’d have to spend a few hours watching children’s entertainment which would surely rot my brain and make me die from hyperglycemia from all the sugary crap raining from above. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry that they have to view children’s entertainment that way.
It wasn’t about me. It was about her. And it always will be. It’s not about the parents. It’s about the happiness and enjoyment of a child. The enjoyment of a thing that is so pure and unadulterated that it can only be a child’s joy.
Because the look of sheer joy that was on my daughter’s face, the total bliss and her ecstatic, jubilant dancing, and her pride and astonishment at the experience would have been worth anything. I would walk over hot coals to provide her with that joy again. I’d do anything for my children’s happiness. I’ll carry around the look of shock and happiness on that little girl’s face for the rest of my life.
She won’t be this age forever. She’ll grow and find her own life. Right now I am her life. And my wife and I managed to provide her with what amounted to the best day she’s ever had thus far. And it’s all thanks to four goofy guys in colored shirts who sang songs about potatoes, fruit salad and wobbly camels. And I thank them for allowing me the opportunity to share such a wonderful and happy experience with a little girl who gives my life meaning.
And not only that, despite the fact that I mostly watched what my daughter was doing instead of the stage, I enjoyed the show too. I sang, clapped along and even wiggled a little myself.
You know what? I say it with pride to close my blog.
“I saw the Woggles!”
Discuss
Friday, August 08, 2003
Addendum
Gertrude would like me to say that, despite conventional wisdom, we are seeing "The Woggles" not "The Wiggles". It is spelled the same, but not pronounced the same.
Today Is the Day
We take Gertrude to see her Beatles. The Wiggles. It's her favorite band. And, admittedly, they play some pretty cool sixties pop-flavored childrens music.
I just hope she doesn't have a heart attack when they come on stage. After all, she's only seen them on television. I fear she'll run around screaming, "Run! They're alive! They're alive! Get out of the building!"
I just hope she doesn't have a heart attack when they come on stage. After all, she's only seen them on television. I fear she'll run around screaming, "Run! They're alive! They're alive! Get out of the building!"
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Stuff, Things and Randomness
Last night it was just me and the kidlings. We partied till dawn and got high on cookies and ice cream. It was fantastic.
Mommy was out at some work dinner, for which I provided some music. We felt as though we were presenting our children to her coworkers, since the music we listen to is so integral to our daily lives. That it makes us cooler than everyone else is beside the point.
Most of the people there were in marketing, so I included a bunch of songs that have made it into commercials. From Stereolab to The Shins to Arling and Cameron to the jubilant Polyphonic Spree. My guess is that the music was barely noticed because of all the alcohol available.
I’ve been to this type of gathering and they are often fun, if not frustrating. Inevitably you get stuck in a conversation with someone whose entire intellect was built upon one philosophy class they took in college. They bore the crap out of you by misquoting the theory of Monads by Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. Then the ditz sitting next to you will say, “Annie Leibowitz? Oh I LOVE her.” Commence with the drinking!
But I wasn’t there, so that’s all my wife’s problem.
Instead, I made a nice healthy dinner for the kids. Gertrude helped. She poured in the water for the rice, crushed the garlic and caramelized the onions. Every time I was preparing to add a new ingredient she would put on a New Yawk accent and yell, “Another notch!”
Well, not really. But she was really involved in the making of the meal, while her big sister practiced vegetating in front of the tube.
After I finished the dishes, I told Gert I’d take her downstairs to play. She agreed, but wanted to look at “The Woggles” on the computer. As we were going downstairs, she walked on her own.
“You’re very brave,” I told her.
“I not brave,” she replied. “I me!” And she jabbed her little index finger into her chest.
Only a year and a half and already she understand pronouns to the point of being able to use a subject and an object. Clearly a genius. Brilliant I tell you.
We played on the Woggles (her word for Wiggles) website for a while and were dismayed to see that when we see them live on Friday, Anthony Wiggle will not be in attendance. That wuss had surgery for an inguinal hernia and claims that he won’t be able to perform. Pussy.
I took the girls for a walk. Matilda walked ahead of us, sullen and withdrawn. I think she’s practicing for her teen years. Gertrude and I chased a bunny. Or, more accurately, Gertrude screamed “Bunny! Bunny!” and ran after the poor thing while I tackled her and lectured her on leaving wildlife alone.
Matilda came back and watched TV until reading time while Gert and I played outside.
Overall it was a great evening. I had great quality time with both girls and they seemed to enjoy themselves.
Matilda hasn’t had the time to work through Harry Potter this summer as we did last summer. We’re still laboring through book five. One chapter a night in a book larger than the bible takes a while. But we’re starting to get into the good stuff.
Mom eventually came home smelling like wine. She won two awards for best brochure. Good for her.
The last award I won was for having a clean desk in third grade.
Perhaps I need to find something worthwhile to do in my spare time.
Oh. I don’t have spare time. Screw it then.
Wow. This was a really boring entry. I hope you didn’t read this far. Snore.
Discuss
Mommy was out at some work dinner, for which I provided some music. We felt as though we were presenting our children to her coworkers, since the music we listen to is so integral to our daily lives. That it makes us cooler than everyone else is beside the point.
Most of the people there were in marketing, so I included a bunch of songs that have made it into commercials. From Stereolab to The Shins to Arling and Cameron to the jubilant Polyphonic Spree. My guess is that the music was barely noticed because of all the alcohol available.
I’ve been to this type of gathering and they are often fun, if not frustrating. Inevitably you get stuck in a conversation with someone whose entire intellect was built upon one philosophy class they took in college. They bore the crap out of you by misquoting the theory of Monads by Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz. Then the ditz sitting next to you will say, “Annie Leibowitz? Oh I LOVE her.” Commence with the drinking!
But I wasn’t there, so that’s all my wife’s problem.
Instead, I made a nice healthy dinner for the kids. Gertrude helped. She poured in the water for the rice, crushed the garlic and caramelized the onions. Every time I was preparing to add a new ingredient she would put on a New Yawk accent and yell, “Another notch!”
Well, not really. But she was really involved in the making of the meal, while her big sister practiced vegetating in front of the tube.
After I finished the dishes, I told Gert I’d take her downstairs to play. She agreed, but wanted to look at “The Woggles” on the computer. As we were going downstairs, she walked on her own.
“You’re very brave,” I told her.
“I not brave,” she replied. “I me!” And she jabbed her little index finger into her chest.
Only a year and a half and already she understand pronouns to the point of being able to use a subject and an object. Clearly a genius. Brilliant I tell you.
We played on the Woggles (her word for Wiggles) website for a while and were dismayed to see that when we see them live on Friday, Anthony Wiggle will not be in attendance. That wuss had surgery for an inguinal hernia and claims that he won’t be able to perform. Pussy.
I took the girls for a walk. Matilda walked ahead of us, sullen and withdrawn. I think she’s practicing for her teen years. Gertrude and I chased a bunny. Or, more accurately, Gertrude screamed “Bunny! Bunny!” and ran after the poor thing while I tackled her and lectured her on leaving wildlife alone.
Matilda came back and watched TV until reading time while Gert and I played outside.
Overall it was a great evening. I had great quality time with both girls and they seemed to enjoy themselves.
Matilda hasn’t had the time to work through Harry Potter this summer as we did last summer. We’re still laboring through book five. One chapter a night in a book larger than the bible takes a while. But we’re starting to get into the good stuff.
Mom eventually came home smelling like wine. She won two awards for best brochure. Good for her.
The last award I won was for having a clean desk in third grade.
Perhaps I need to find something worthwhile to do in my spare time.
Oh. I don’t have spare time. Screw it then.
Wow. This was a really boring entry. I hope you didn’t read this far. Snore.
Discuss
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Ten Questions to Ponder:
1. Why do I like Stereolab despite my best efforts to hate them?
2. Whatever happened to Shirley Manson? I k now Garbage is still around, but why don’t we ever get to see her anymore? She was purty in a sort of vampire with red hair that mated with the New York Dolls sort of way.
3. Why did The Polyphonic Spree have to give a song to Apple/VW? Now my wife’s co-worker, whom I intensely dislike (the co-worker, not my wife . . . I kinda like her) will key in on them and sap out all their cool until they start covering Kajagoogoo songs.
4. For that matter why is “Blitzkrieg Bop” on a wireless telephone commercial? If Joey Ramone were still alive he’d die.
5. If conservatives websites that tout the lies of global warming can spend half the year talking about how we’re not choking the planet don’t believe in global warming, why are they so freaked out about London having the hottest day in its history yesterday? At least hotter than the day William Shakespeare called Francis Bacon a roguish clapper-clawed pigeon-egg. That was a good day.
6. Back to the Ramones. Now that Gertrude yells, “Hey! Hey!” every time I stop her from doing some thing she shouldn’t, is it such a leap that she greet people with “Gabba gabba hey”?
7. How does one become a famous chef? And why isn’t the guy who invented the donut famous? Maybe God invented the donut. You’d think He did and, if so, he would consider it His greatest creation. “Yeah, that whole life thing was cool. But have you seen the donut? So round. So greasy and sweet. I think the hole was a stroke of genius. Really made up for the platypus.”
8. Whenever I see a sign on the road that says “Flasher Ahead” why do I close my eyes?
9. You know those people who “run” at the same pace you walk, but consider it running because they imitate the running motion? They bug me.
10. Yes. When I want advice on how to convince my kids not to smoke this is where I go. Because if you can’t trust the cigarette companies to properly guide your choices with regards to smoking, who can you trust? They gave us Joe Camel who said, “Hey! If you smoke you can be cool too!” Plus they gave us the Marlboro Man who told us, “Even gay cowboys smoke. Aren’t you at least as cool as a gay cowboy?”
Bonus: Because of Phillip Morris’ efforts to convince my kids not to smoke I had this conversation with Matilda last night, based on a script from Phillip Morris.
Me: Honey, you know that smoking is bad, right?
Matilda: Sure dad. It causes cancer, heart disease and a general foul odor about your body.
Me: That’s true honey. What else?
Matilda: Well, that doesn’t even take into consideration all the problems with litter or second hand smoke.
Me: True. But have you ever considered moments when you’re frightened?
Matilda: Huh?
Me: Well, a cigarette certainly won’t calm your jangley nerves when you’re upset. A nice long drag and that exquisite tingly feeling all over your body as the nicotine rushes through your blood stream won’t help you when you’re nervous.
Matilda: Um. Okay.
Me: And the best part isn’t when your feet feel lighter than air as the nicotine hits.
Matilda: Right. You know dad, I’m not going to smoke. Don’t worry. I don’t want to get winded when I walk up the stairs.
Me: Of course you don’t. And you certainly don’t want to be cool.
Matilda: Smoking doesn’t make you cool Dad. You know that.
Me: Of course not. I mean, James Dean wasn’t cool. And he smoked.
Matilda: Well, actually, he was pretty cool.
Me: Right. Sure honey.
Matilda: Still Dad. I promise I won’t smoke.
Me: Don’t. Because smoking isn’t good. Especially when combined with alcohol or coffee, which is a truly wonderful experience, according to Phillip Morris and Budweiser and Starbucks.
Matilda: Um.
Me: Because smokers suck. When you work you’ll notice that they’re allowed to leave and take a break. But you won’t be able to. You’ll sit at your desk all day, only leaving to go to the bathroom. But the smokers get to go outside and enjoy the fresh air. Eventually you’ll decide to just space out at your desk for five minutes every two hours. That is until your boss notices. Then he’ll say, “What are you doing?” And you’ll say, “Nothing. Just zoning.” And he’ll say, “Knock it off.” Then you’ll envy the smokers who are outside communing with each other. And nature I might add.
Matilda: Um. Yeah. Thanks Dad. I need to go over there now. Away from you.
Me: Okay honey. This conversation was brought to you by Phillip Morris’ Youth Smoking Prevention office. Phillip Morris is the maker of such fine products as Marlboro, Virginia Slims, Benson & Hedges, Merit, Parliament, Alpine, Basic, Cambridge, Bristol, Bucks, Chesterfield, and Saratoga. Remember, smoking is bad for your health. But it feels oh so good.
Matilda: Right. Thanks dad.
Me: Anytime honey. And remember, don’t start smoking. But if you do, call me because I sure could use a cigarette break. This parenting stuff is tough.
DISCLAIMER: This is satire. Phillip Morris, Budweiser and their subsidiaries should not sue me. However, if Guinness would like to hire me for endorsements, my schedule is pretty clear.
Discuss
2. Whatever happened to Shirley Manson? I k now Garbage is still around, but why don’t we ever get to see her anymore? She was purty in a sort of vampire with red hair that mated with the New York Dolls sort of way.
3. Why did The Polyphonic Spree have to give a song to Apple/VW? Now my wife’s co-worker, whom I intensely dislike (the co-worker, not my wife . . . I kinda like her) will key in on them and sap out all their cool until they start covering Kajagoogoo songs.
4. For that matter why is “Blitzkrieg Bop” on a wireless telephone commercial? If Joey Ramone were still alive he’d die.
5. If conservatives websites that tout the lies of global warming can spend half the year talking about how we’re not choking the planet don’t believe in global warming, why are they so freaked out about London having the hottest day in its history yesterday? At least hotter than the day William Shakespeare called Francis Bacon a roguish clapper-clawed pigeon-egg. That was a good day.
6. Back to the Ramones. Now that Gertrude yells, “Hey! Hey!” every time I stop her from doing some thing she shouldn’t, is it such a leap that she greet people with “Gabba gabba hey”?
7. How does one become a famous chef? And why isn’t the guy who invented the donut famous? Maybe God invented the donut. You’d think He did and, if so, he would consider it His greatest creation. “Yeah, that whole life thing was cool. But have you seen the donut? So round. So greasy and sweet. I think the hole was a stroke of genius. Really made up for the platypus.”
8. Whenever I see a sign on the road that says “Flasher Ahead” why do I close my eyes?
9. You know those people who “run” at the same pace you walk, but consider it running because they imitate the running motion? They bug me.
10. Yes. When I want advice on how to convince my kids not to smoke this is where I go. Because if you can’t trust the cigarette companies to properly guide your choices with regards to smoking, who can you trust? They gave us Joe Camel who said, “Hey! If you smoke you can be cool too!” Plus they gave us the Marlboro Man who told us, “Even gay cowboys smoke. Aren’t you at least as cool as a gay cowboy?”
Bonus: Because of Phillip Morris’ efforts to convince my kids not to smoke I had this conversation with Matilda last night, based on a script from Phillip Morris.
Me: Honey, you know that smoking is bad, right?
Matilda: Sure dad. It causes cancer, heart disease and a general foul odor about your body.
Me: That’s true honey. What else?
Matilda: Well, that doesn’t even take into consideration all the problems with litter or second hand smoke.
Me: True. But have you ever considered moments when you’re frightened?
Matilda: Huh?
Me: Well, a cigarette certainly won’t calm your jangley nerves when you’re upset. A nice long drag and that exquisite tingly feeling all over your body as the nicotine rushes through your blood stream won’t help you when you’re nervous.
Matilda: Um. Okay.
Me: And the best part isn’t when your feet feel lighter than air as the nicotine hits.
Matilda: Right. You know dad, I’m not going to smoke. Don’t worry. I don’t want to get winded when I walk up the stairs.
Me: Of course you don’t. And you certainly don’t want to be cool.
Matilda: Smoking doesn’t make you cool Dad. You know that.
Me: Of course not. I mean, James Dean wasn’t cool. And he smoked.
Matilda: Well, actually, he was pretty cool.
Me: Right. Sure honey.
Matilda: Still Dad. I promise I won’t smoke.
Me: Don’t. Because smoking isn’t good. Especially when combined with alcohol or coffee, which is a truly wonderful experience, according to Phillip Morris and Budweiser and Starbucks.
Matilda: Um.
Me: Because smokers suck. When you work you’ll notice that they’re allowed to leave and take a break. But you won’t be able to. You’ll sit at your desk all day, only leaving to go to the bathroom. But the smokers get to go outside and enjoy the fresh air. Eventually you’ll decide to just space out at your desk for five minutes every two hours. That is until your boss notices. Then he’ll say, “What are you doing?” And you’ll say, “Nothing. Just zoning.” And he’ll say, “Knock it off.” Then you’ll envy the smokers who are outside communing with each other. And nature I might add.
Matilda: Um. Yeah. Thanks Dad. I need to go over there now. Away from you.
Me: Okay honey. This conversation was brought to you by Phillip Morris’ Youth Smoking Prevention office. Phillip Morris is the maker of such fine products as Marlboro, Virginia Slims, Benson & Hedges, Merit, Parliament, Alpine, Basic, Cambridge, Bristol, Bucks, Chesterfield, and Saratoga. Remember, smoking is bad for your health. But it feels oh so good.
Matilda: Right. Thanks dad.
Me: Anytime honey. And remember, don’t start smoking. But if you do, call me because I sure could use a cigarette break. This parenting stuff is tough.
DISCLAIMER: This is satire. Phillip Morris, Budweiser and their subsidiaries should not sue me. However, if Guinness would like to hire me for endorsements, my schedule is pretty clear.
Discuss
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Sometimes I Remember . . .
Time heals all wounds, they say. As time passes, the pain subsides into the haze of memory.
I’ve found this to be untrue, specifically when it relates to a loved one who has passed away. Passed away. What a euphemism that means nothing. A loved one who is dead.
Healing, when it relates to an interpersonal relationship, required both parties to close the wounds. Without both parties, there are a series of unanswered questions, accusations, and perceptions that are frozen in time.
It is possible to forgive the dead, this is true. It is impossible, however, to make up with the dead. “I’m sorry. I love you.” When the person these words are directed towards can’t answer, there is no anesthetic for the pain you feel.
All of this occurred to me at my family reunion two weeks ago. I had been discussing loss with an aunt and a few of my cousins. Those of us sitting at the table understood, for the most part, how it felt to lose a parent. We couldn’t help but wonder how much our respective parents would feel to see their family together like they were.
In the following weeks, I’ve been giving some thought to what we lose when someone dies. How that person, our relationship, is frozen in the ether of time. Never changing, never growing, always stagnant in our minds. Our understanding of that person, the motivations, the misunderstandings, the perceptions cannot evolve. They cannot change beyond the mind that we had at the time of their death. These things cannot change because we change but the object of our loss doesn’t. We change, but our relationship is forever frozen in toddlerhood, teenaged angst or young-adult self-centeredness.
My father died nearly 25 years ago. I was five. Eighty percent of my life has been spent without a father. Fifty percent of my older brother’s life was spent without a father. All of my siblings fall somewhere in between. But the bottom line is, at this point of our lives, we’ve all been fatherless for more than half our lives.
Half our lives. Is there anything in your life that has been there for half of it? Imagine that. It’s a long, long time.
When dad died, none of us knew him at all. We knew pieces of him. Good pieces and bad pieces. But we carry with us only a character sketch of who this man was. We know that he liked war movies and cowboys. He listened to Vaughan Monroe and watched football. He smoked and drank. He told tall tales. He was stern. Maybe too stern.
But none of us know for sure. None of us actually know who our father was. What was important to him? What where his dreams? His plans? What made him tick?
Imagine if your children’s memory of you was frozen today. At this exact moment when you said goodbye to them. What would they think of you for the rest of their lives? Did you have a fight? Was there a long-standing rift between you that you figured would be resolved soon? If today was the end of that relationship, that rift may never heal. It may just be the result of a teen-aged angst and rebellion, but in their mind they will always see you through the eyes of a teen. That perception will never change because you will never change.
I know my father was a human being. I know he hurt and laughed and feared and longed like the rest of us. But in my mind, and probably most of my family’s, he was an archetype. He was a “Dad”. That was his job and he was doing it. Being stern with one kid, loving to another. And we, as kids, were doing our jobs. Being resentful at one age, indifferent at another, adoring at another.
Our relationship with our father was at varying stages when he died and they never were allowed to come to fruition. Not like with our mother. We got to know her as she was, outside of her role as mother. We got to know what made her tick. And she with us. She knew us as adults, not just kids. But we didn’t have that luxury with Dad. He was gone too quickly.
So now each of us has an archetype in our heads. The myth, the hero, the disciplinarian, the ogre, the non-entity, the guy who didn’t understand. And in his mind we were children who needed to be raised.
And it’s not fair. It’s not fair to us and it’s not fair to him.
I know that each of my brothers and sisters view my dad differently. I look at him as this mythical creature still. One who could fly and break through brick walls and conjure tigers out of closets. Some of my siblings see him as they did when they were teens. And they may still carry anger. Others yet see him as they did when young adults and they may regret not stopping and finding out, did he like his job? What did he really want to do for a living? What was he going to do in retirement?
We didn’t know him and he didn’t know us. He’ll never get a chance to know us now, lest he’s watching from wherever he may be. And our chances to know him are dwindling. His best friends and siblings are dying. His wife is gone. His parents are gone.
We know so little.
Life is short. And we spend so much time focusing on getting our kids through life without them being harmed or making horrible mistakes. But in the process we don’t get the chance to know each other as we really are. We don’t relate to one another on the level of human beings, but instead we relate through our roles. Father, son, mother, daughter. These are only roles we play. Break out of them. Try to understand each other for yourselves. Ask your kids some questions. Offer some answers of your own.
Let us learn from each other’s experiences and mistakes. Let’s learn from our desires and fears.
Don’t let life slip you by. Not your life, not your kids, not your parents. It is my sincere hope that you never have to look back on a relationship and ask yourself, “I wonder if they liked their job. I wonder if they had hidden dreams. I know I do.”
Because now that I’m thirty, gaining on my dad’s final age, I wonder to myself all the time. I look at what I fear, what I miss, what I yearn for and I wonder. I wonder if he felt these same things.
With 25 years, and counting, between us, a canyon of time, I’m running out of opportunities. And I’m learning to live with the idea that I never actually knew my dad. I could pick him out of a line up, but I could never identify his favorite food, his favorite book or his dream job.
Don’t let yourself be an archetype. Share with your children and allow them to share with you.
People often ask me, “How do you think of some of these things you write about? When did you get to be so reflective?” Here’s my answer. I’ve always thought about these things. I’m just getting old enough now to have the words for them. Since I was five, I’ve had nothing but time to think . . . Time can't heal the wounds. But it does provide you with the opportunity to consider them.
Discuss
I’ve found this to be untrue, specifically when it relates to a loved one who has passed away. Passed away. What a euphemism that means nothing. A loved one who is dead.
Healing, when it relates to an interpersonal relationship, required both parties to close the wounds. Without both parties, there are a series of unanswered questions, accusations, and perceptions that are frozen in time.
It is possible to forgive the dead, this is true. It is impossible, however, to make up with the dead. “I’m sorry. I love you.” When the person these words are directed towards can’t answer, there is no anesthetic for the pain you feel.
All of this occurred to me at my family reunion two weeks ago. I had been discussing loss with an aunt and a few of my cousins. Those of us sitting at the table understood, for the most part, how it felt to lose a parent. We couldn’t help but wonder how much our respective parents would feel to see their family together like they were.
In the following weeks, I’ve been giving some thought to what we lose when someone dies. How that person, our relationship, is frozen in the ether of time. Never changing, never growing, always stagnant in our minds. Our understanding of that person, the motivations, the misunderstandings, the perceptions cannot evolve. They cannot change beyond the mind that we had at the time of their death. These things cannot change because we change but the object of our loss doesn’t. We change, but our relationship is forever frozen in toddlerhood, teenaged angst or young-adult self-centeredness.
My father died nearly 25 years ago. I was five. Eighty percent of my life has been spent without a father. Fifty percent of my older brother’s life was spent without a father. All of my siblings fall somewhere in between. But the bottom line is, at this point of our lives, we’ve all been fatherless for more than half our lives.
Half our lives. Is there anything in your life that has been there for half of it? Imagine that. It’s a long, long time.
When dad died, none of us knew him at all. We knew pieces of him. Good pieces and bad pieces. But we carry with us only a character sketch of who this man was. We know that he liked war movies and cowboys. He listened to Vaughan Monroe and watched football. He smoked and drank. He told tall tales. He was stern. Maybe too stern.
But none of us know for sure. None of us actually know who our father was. What was important to him? What where his dreams? His plans? What made him tick?
Imagine if your children’s memory of you was frozen today. At this exact moment when you said goodbye to them. What would they think of you for the rest of their lives? Did you have a fight? Was there a long-standing rift between you that you figured would be resolved soon? If today was the end of that relationship, that rift may never heal. It may just be the result of a teen-aged angst and rebellion, but in their mind they will always see you through the eyes of a teen. That perception will never change because you will never change.
I know my father was a human being. I know he hurt and laughed and feared and longed like the rest of us. But in my mind, and probably most of my family’s, he was an archetype. He was a “Dad”. That was his job and he was doing it. Being stern with one kid, loving to another. And we, as kids, were doing our jobs. Being resentful at one age, indifferent at another, adoring at another.
Our relationship with our father was at varying stages when he died and they never were allowed to come to fruition. Not like with our mother. We got to know her as she was, outside of her role as mother. We got to know what made her tick. And she with us. She knew us as adults, not just kids. But we didn’t have that luxury with Dad. He was gone too quickly.
So now each of us has an archetype in our heads. The myth, the hero, the disciplinarian, the ogre, the non-entity, the guy who didn’t understand. And in his mind we were children who needed to be raised.
And it’s not fair. It’s not fair to us and it’s not fair to him.
I know that each of my brothers and sisters view my dad differently. I look at him as this mythical creature still. One who could fly and break through brick walls and conjure tigers out of closets. Some of my siblings see him as they did when they were teens. And they may still carry anger. Others yet see him as they did when young adults and they may regret not stopping and finding out, did he like his job? What did he really want to do for a living? What was he going to do in retirement?
We didn’t know him and he didn’t know us. He’ll never get a chance to know us now, lest he’s watching from wherever he may be. And our chances to know him are dwindling. His best friends and siblings are dying. His wife is gone. His parents are gone.
We know so little.
Life is short. And we spend so much time focusing on getting our kids through life without them being harmed or making horrible mistakes. But in the process we don’t get the chance to know each other as we really are. We don’t relate to one another on the level of human beings, but instead we relate through our roles. Father, son, mother, daughter. These are only roles we play. Break out of them. Try to understand each other for yourselves. Ask your kids some questions. Offer some answers of your own.
Let us learn from each other’s experiences and mistakes. Let’s learn from our desires and fears.
Don’t let life slip you by. Not your life, not your kids, not your parents. It is my sincere hope that you never have to look back on a relationship and ask yourself, “I wonder if they liked their job. I wonder if they had hidden dreams. I know I do.”
Because now that I’m thirty, gaining on my dad’s final age, I wonder to myself all the time. I look at what I fear, what I miss, what I yearn for and I wonder. I wonder if he felt these same things.
With 25 years, and counting, between us, a canyon of time, I’m running out of opportunities. And I’m learning to live with the idea that I never actually knew my dad. I could pick him out of a line up, but I could never identify his favorite food, his favorite book or his dream job.
Don’t let yourself be an archetype. Share with your children and allow them to share with you.
People often ask me, “How do you think of some of these things you write about? When did you get to be so reflective?” Here’s my answer. I’ve always thought about these things. I’m just getting old enough now to have the words for them. Since I was five, I’ve had nothing but time to think . . . Time can't heal the wounds. But it does provide you with the opportunity to consider them.
Discuss
Monday, August 04, 2003
15:01
Jared. Your time is up. It’s time to get your now skinny ass and bespectacled face off of my TV screen. I’m tired of you.
I’m very happy for you. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a good role model for people with bad eating habits. You changed your life. You lost weight and you credit Subway with helping you. You managed to change your habits without losing your enjoyment of food. Good for you. Now go away.
Look, I understand that the company needs a spokesman. Arby’s has that talking oven mitt. But he doesn’t stand for anything. You do. I understand that Jared. But your story isn’t interesting anymore. Until you are on the E! True Hollywood Story explaining that your hot trophy wife only married you because you had money from your endorsement, I don’t care about you anymore. I don’t care if chicken is your favorite submarine sandwich. In fact, I don’t care if you eat Chihuahuas as long as I don’t have to see you anymore.
It’s time to step down. You’ve lost your effect. Whenever I see you I just want to shove a pizza down your throat and dance around you like Piggy in Lord of the Flies. Survival of the fittest, I call it. Not that I’m remotely fit.
That’s the problem Jared. Your commercials don’t really paint a full picture. They make it sound like you lost a zillion pounds by eating the damn sandwiches. That’s not true, is it? You exercised. We don’t want to hear that. We want to think that a turkey sub from Subway will magically make us look like Christina Aguilera. But they won’t, will they Jared? In fact, we’ll probably gain weight, won’t we? Because we won’t ask for the cheese to be left off. And we’ll add a truckload of mayo.
Step down. I hear Emanuel Lewis is in need of a good endorsement. Let him in. I want to hear short jokes combined with a sale of foot long subs. I don’t want to be told I’m fat anymore.
In fact, I want the guy from King of Queens to hawk Papa John’s pizza and beer. I want him to say that, “If you eat this pizza and guzzle this pitcher of beer, you won’t look like Jared. You won’t capture a little blonde trophy wife. In fact, you’ll get fatter, your arteries will clog and you’ll get winded sitting down. But you’ll be happy. Life’s short! Make it shorter!”
Go away Jared. Please. Hearing you talk about chicken makes me long for Mexican stereotyped dogs hawking chalupas. Man do I miss that dog.
Hurry up Jared. Before this chubby guy gets mad. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I throw bacon.
Discuss
I’m very happy for you. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a good role model for people with bad eating habits. You changed your life. You lost weight and you credit Subway with helping you. You managed to change your habits without losing your enjoyment of food. Good for you. Now go away.
Look, I understand that the company needs a spokesman. Arby’s has that talking oven mitt. But he doesn’t stand for anything. You do. I understand that Jared. But your story isn’t interesting anymore. Until you are on the E! True Hollywood Story explaining that your hot trophy wife only married you because you had money from your endorsement, I don’t care about you anymore. I don’t care if chicken is your favorite submarine sandwich. In fact, I don’t care if you eat Chihuahuas as long as I don’t have to see you anymore.
It’s time to step down. You’ve lost your effect. Whenever I see you I just want to shove a pizza down your throat and dance around you like Piggy in Lord of the Flies. Survival of the fittest, I call it. Not that I’m remotely fit.
That’s the problem Jared. Your commercials don’t really paint a full picture. They make it sound like you lost a zillion pounds by eating the damn sandwiches. That’s not true, is it? You exercised. We don’t want to hear that. We want to think that a turkey sub from Subway will magically make us look like Christina Aguilera. But they won’t, will they Jared? In fact, we’ll probably gain weight, won’t we? Because we won’t ask for the cheese to be left off. And we’ll add a truckload of mayo.
Step down. I hear Emanuel Lewis is in need of a good endorsement. Let him in. I want to hear short jokes combined with a sale of foot long subs. I don’t want to be told I’m fat anymore.
In fact, I want the guy from King of Queens to hawk Papa John’s pizza and beer. I want him to say that, “If you eat this pizza and guzzle this pitcher of beer, you won’t look like Jared. You won’t capture a little blonde trophy wife. In fact, you’ll get fatter, your arteries will clog and you’ll get winded sitting down. But you’ll be happy. Life’s short! Make it shorter!”
Go away Jared. Please. Hearing you talk about chicken makes me long for Mexican stereotyped dogs hawking chalupas. Man do I miss that dog.
Hurry up Jared. Before this chubby guy gets mad. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I throw bacon.
Discuss
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