On Sunday morning, as we slowly stirred awake, my wife turned to me and romantically said, "I smell something burning."
Sadly, she was not referring to her loins, or my loins, or some hot chick's loins that she might have stashed in the closet for a surprise Sunday Brunch threesome. No, she just smelled something in the house that was burning. Awesome.
After a few panicked minutes of running around and checking all our laptop batteries, I eventually figured out that it was our furnace. It had burned out somehow. Awesome.
Ok, I'm being sarcastic with all the "awesome" comments. Do you know what really is awesome though? The furnace is going to be broken for a few more days while the repairman gets the necessary parts, so today when the weather cooled, I made fire appear!
I didn't just make fire, I made fire from logs that I saved from when I removed nearly every bit of plant life from our backyard last year. I had squirreled away the logs that were too big to fit into my little chipper for just such an occasion. SO I MADE FIRE WITH LOGS THAT I HAD SAWED FROM REAL PLANTS. I AM HEATING MY HOME WITH THE FRUITS OF MY LAND-TENDING!
Goddamn, pinch me. I am all man.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I recall one afternoon when I was in high school and was chatting with a very nice girl who was a year or two older than me. I don't remember exactly what prompted her to say this, but she said something to me that has stuck with me to this very day.
"Mike," she said, "You're going to be a handsome man when you're older."
She really was a sweetheart of a girl, so I never doubted that she intended it as a compliment, but the unsaid truth behind the comment was that clearly I was not a handsome boy. Of course, this wasn't big news to me given that I was a big-nosed stick-thin teenager. The end result of her comment, amazingly, was that I did mange to eke out some hope that one day I'd be a chick magnet, swimming in perfumed heaving bosoms.
That day eluded me.
I did have some girlfriends along the way, and Daisy's vague resemblance to me is near-proof that I tricked at least one woman into allowing my sperm into her vagina one time, but the chick magnet thing never happened. (Obviously I'm joking about the "one time" thing. I'm having sex with my wife RIGHT NOW.)
Back when I was single, I heard tales that having a wedding ring was the REAL way to get women to notice you. The theory was that once you were taken, and had visual proof on your finger that some woman found you worthy enough to marry, then other women would find that irresistable and would offer their naughty bits to you. Either I'm totally oblivious (possible) or I can say with complete certainty that I have completely debunked that theory in a mere 11+ years of marriage.
Really, the only time in my life that I felt the merest hint that I had something that another woman might find chick-magnetty was when I owned a motorcycle. Motorcycles, as it turns out, are sexy. Computer programmers on motorcyles are less so, but still.
The motorcycle is long gone, but these days I have something else to feed my ego. I strolled into our local nice restaurant last week to grab some take-out. It wasn't ready yet, so I stood to the side and made idle chit chat with the wait staff. After a minute the bartender ducked under the bar and came up to me.
He stood a little closer than was comfortable, put his hand on my shoulder and quietly said, "Mike, I have to tell you, if you're going to come into a place like this, you're going to have to zip up your fly."
Doh! These stupid pants!
When he referred to "a place like this", what he meant was "a place staffed mostly by gay men." The restaurant is owned by a gay couple, and plenty of the staff is gay. While I was fumbling with my pants, one of the owners walked by and spotted me.
"Why didn't you tell me his fly was down!" the owner mock-yelled to the bartender.
I did the closest thing to blushing that I do, which is sort of an awkward embarrassed smile.
"Well, at least I still get to watch you jog by at lunch sometimes," he said, clucking in approval.
I made some sort of sheepish comment about my arms-a-flailing running style.
"Oh," he said looking at me over the rims of his glasses, "It's not your arms I'm looking at."
He handed me my take-out and as I walked out, he yelled, "And be sure to wear those jeans again!"
And THAT is why San Francisco is a great place to live if you're a guy. Where else am I going to get this kind of positive feedback? It's not that I'm going to go cheat on my wife, but it's nice to pretend that I at least have the option.
"Mike," she said, "You're going to be a handsome man when you're older."
She really was a sweetheart of a girl, so I never doubted that she intended it as a compliment, but the unsaid truth behind the comment was that clearly I was not a handsome boy. Of course, this wasn't big news to me given that I was a big-nosed stick-thin teenager. The end result of her comment, amazingly, was that I did mange to eke out some hope that one day I'd be a chick magnet, swimming in perfumed heaving bosoms.
That day eluded me.
I did have some girlfriends along the way, and Daisy's vague resemblance to me is near-proof that I tricked at least one woman into allowing my sperm into her vagina one time, but the chick magnet thing never happened. (Obviously I'm joking about the "one time" thing. I'm having sex with my wife RIGHT NOW.)
Back when I was single, I heard tales that having a wedding ring was the REAL way to get women to notice you. The theory was that once you were taken, and had visual proof on your finger that some woman found you worthy enough to marry, then other women would find that irresistable and would offer their naughty bits to you. Either I'm totally oblivious (possible) or I can say with complete certainty that I have completely debunked that theory in a mere 11+ years of marriage.
Really, the only time in my life that I felt the merest hint that I had something that another woman might find chick-magnetty was when I owned a motorcycle. Motorcycles, as it turns out, are sexy. Computer programmers on motorcyles are less so, but still.
The motorcycle is long gone, but these days I have something else to feed my ego. I strolled into our local nice restaurant last week to grab some take-out. It wasn't ready yet, so I stood to the side and made idle chit chat with the wait staff. After a minute the bartender ducked under the bar and came up to me.
He stood a little closer than was comfortable, put his hand on my shoulder and quietly said, "Mike, I have to tell you, if you're going to come into a place like this, you're going to have to zip up your fly."
Doh! These stupid pants!
When he referred to "a place like this", what he meant was "a place staffed mostly by gay men." The restaurant is owned by a gay couple, and plenty of the staff is gay. While I was fumbling with my pants, one of the owners walked by and spotted me.
"Why didn't you tell me his fly was down!" the owner mock-yelled to the bartender.
I did the closest thing to blushing that I do, which is sort of an awkward embarrassed smile.
"Well, at least I still get to watch you jog by at lunch sometimes," he said, clucking in approval.
I made some sort of sheepish comment about my arms-a-flailing running style.
"Oh," he said looking at me over the rims of his glasses, "It's not your arms I'm looking at."
He handed me my take-out and as I walked out, he yelled, "And be sure to wear those jeans again!"
And THAT is why San Francisco is a great place to live if you're a guy. Where else am I going to get this kind of positive feedback? It's not that I'm going to go cheat on my wife, but it's nice to pretend that I at least have the option.
Friday, April 25, 2008
We went to go visit my family last weekend for a mishmash of birthday and Passover celebration.
Passover, like many Jewish holidays, is the celebration of one of those rare days in history when Jews weren't being killed. It's a lot of fun. Thankfully, my family is kind of post-Judaism so all we really did to celebrate was eat some latkes (potato pancakes). It could have been a lot worse.
Meanwhile, my brother-in-law entertained us with the story of how he led a troop of Brownie Scouts (9 year-old girls) on a four hour hike the previous day. Did the girls complain about the length of the hike? Did they whine that they were tired 5 minutes into it. They did not, my bro-in-law explained. Why not? Because they weren't just hiking; they were geocaching.*
Geocaching, for those of you unfamiliar with this new activity is kind of like a combination between hiking and a treasure hunt. Breaking the word down into its Latin roots may be informative here.
Geo means earth. So, you know that you don't have to hike in outer space. That's a pretty handy starting point.
Cache means that you shouldn't expect to find any cash. It's not that kind of treasure.
These caches are small containers that various geocachers have hidden all over the world. Some contain nothing but a log book while others contain a variety of knickknacks. The idea is that when you find a cache, you sign the log book, and perhaps take something from the container, replacing it with something of your own.
You find the locations of the caches by going to the geocaching web site and entering a zip code or city. It then shows you all the caches in that area and you download the coordinates to a GPS device, along with some clues in case you get stuck. With this information, you then embark upon your quest. Or maybe you set up your own cache and upload that information to the web site, to wait and see who finds your cache and what they leave behind.
I'm not exactly sure which way to mock geocaching. Do I mock it for taking a pure activity like hiking and sullying it with technology and goals? Or should I instead mock the hippie-like concept of taking something while leaving something behind? I mean, really, was hiking not hippie enough? Would anyone be surprised if we found some granola and a joint in one of these caches?
So, it seems that geocaching is the perfect activity for your standard techno hippie geeks. And, apparently, that's what my family is filled with. My brother-in-law led us on a short geocaching expedition and Daisy was in hippie-heaven. She's a big fan of treasure hunts and the fact that you get to log your accomplishment is the cherry on the icing on the cake.
Geocaching, my friends, is in my future.
* That sentence contains my annual attempt to use a semi-colon.
Passover, like many Jewish holidays, is the celebration of one of those rare days in history when Jews weren't being killed. It's a lot of fun. Thankfully, my family is kind of post-Judaism so all we really did to celebrate was eat some latkes (potato pancakes). It could have been a lot worse.
Meanwhile, my brother-in-law entertained us with the story of how he led a troop of Brownie Scouts (9 year-old girls) on a four hour hike the previous day. Did the girls complain about the length of the hike? Did they whine that they were tired 5 minutes into it. They did not, my bro-in-law explained. Why not? Because they weren't just hiking; they were geocaching.*
Geocaching, for those of you unfamiliar with this new activity is kind of like a combination between hiking and a treasure hunt. Breaking the word down into its Latin roots may be informative here.
Geo means earth. So, you know that you don't have to hike in outer space. That's a pretty handy starting point.
Cache means that you shouldn't expect to find any cash. It's not that kind of treasure.
These caches are small containers that various geocachers have hidden all over the world. Some contain nothing but a log book while others contain a variety of knickknacks. The idea is that when you find a cache, you sign the log book, and perhaps take something from the container, replacing it with something of your own.
You find the locations of the caches by going to the geocaching web site and entering a zip code or city. It then shows you all the caches in that area and you download the coordinates to a GPS device, along with some clues in case you get stuck. With this information, you then embark upon your quest. Or maybe you set up your own cache and upload that information to the web site, to wait and see who finds your cache and what they leave behind.
I'm not exactly sure which way to mock geocaching. Do I mock it for taking a pure activity like hiking and sullying it with technology and goals? Or should I instead mock the hippie-like concept of taking something while leaving something behind? I mean, really, was hiking not hippie enough? Would anyone be surprised if we found some granola and a joint in one of these caches?
So, it seems that geocaching is the perfect activity for your standard techno hippie geeks. And, apparently, that's what my family is filled with. My brother-in-law led us on a short geocaching expedition and Daisy was in hippie-heaven. She's a big fan of treasure hunts and the fact that you get to log your accomplishment is the cherry on the icing on the cake.
Geocaching, my friends, is in my future.
* That sentence contains my annual attempt to use a semi-colon.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
In my last post, I showed the world the awkwardness, skill, and smarminess that characterized my appearance on Family Feud's first ever College Week as a member of UC Berkeley's team. In this post, I'll cover UC Berkeley's second episode, which, in a dramatic departure from the first episode.... is more of the same.
So, let's play The Feud! I've edited down the 22 minutes of inanity into a crisp 7 or 8 minutes of inanity.
First up, the dreaded "pose", where I get a second chance to show off my rhythm and cheering skills...
Ok, 0 for 2 on that whole cheering thing. Let's see how the team leader introduces me this time. Am I still a "computer whiz" like last time?
No! I'm Albert's life long buddy! How very tragic then that I haven't seen or spoken to Albert since the day this show was tapes. Love you, man!
Anyway, let's get on to the game! First question, Ray...
Blah blah blah. Berkeley comes through and leads 89 to 0. Next question, please...
Did you see that?!?! I'm a Family Feud savant! Was it not obvious to everyone else on the panel that when the judges asked the USC guy to be more specific on his "remote control vehicle" answer that's because there were more than one remote control vehicles on the list? This is the same thing that happened the last episode when a Stanford person said "hair" and they wanted a more specific answer so I followed his "pet hair" with my "human hair". At least America got to see my indignation.
Anyway, Berkeley leads 89 to 88 and I'm back up at the podium for the next face off. On the last episode I won the face-off by answering the question "Name a place to find young people" with a brilliant answer of "school". Let's see how I do this time...
I'm 2 for 2 with "school" answers! I'm also the only member of the Berkeley team who got a correct answer. That makes winning hard. USC leads 156 to 89...
That was it. Albert, finally recognizing that I was the brains of the Berkeley team finally chose my answer, and we lost the game. Doh! One round too late, ol' buddy. In my defense, however, "get married"??? Was this show taped in the '50s?
What's left? Time to dance. I'm the swaying-guy on the right, holding hands with my then-girlfriend. Goodbye, America.
Anyway, the UC Berkeley team, having gone 0 for 2, ended their stint on College Week. Stanford went on to beat USC in the final game, while we went home with a bunch of really crappy consolation prizes that I never ever used with nary a box of rice-a-roni nor the home version of the game. Woe is me.
There you have it. The full extent of my television career. My blog has now filled the glaring hole that IMDB has stubbornly ignored.
So, let's play The Feud! I've edited down the 22 minutes of inanity into a crisp 7 or 8 minutes of inanity.
First up, the dreaded "pose", where I get a second chance to show off my rhythm and cheering skills...
Ok, 0 for 2 on that whole cheering thing. Let's see how the team leader introduces me this time. Am I still a "computer whiz" like last time?
No! I'm Albert's life long buddy! How very tragic then that I haven't seen or spoken to Albert since the day this show was tapes. Love you, man!
Anyway, let's get on to the game! First question, Ray...
Blah blah blah. Berkeley comes through and leads 89 to 0. Next question, please...
Did you see that?!?! I'm a Family Feud savant! Was it not obvious to everyone else on the panel that when the judges asked the USC guy to be more specific on his "remote control vehicle" answer that's because there were more than one remote control vehicles on the list? This is the same thing that happened the last episode when a Stanford person said "hair" and they wanted a more specific answer so I followed his "pet hair" with my "human hair". At least America got to see my indignation.
Anyway, Berkeley leads 89 to 88 and I'm back up at the podium for the next face off. On the last episode I won the face-off by answering the question "Name a place to find young people" with a brilliant answer of "school". Let's see how I do this time...
I'm 2 for 2 with "school" answers! I'm also the only member of the Berkeley team who got a correct answer. That makes winning hard. USC leads 156 to 89...
That was it. Albert, finally recognizing that I was the brains of the Berkeley team finally chose my answer, and we lost the game. Doh! One round too late, ol' buddy. In my defense, however, "get married"??? Was this show taped in the '50s?
What's left? Time to dance. I'm the swaying-guy on the right, holding hands with my then-girlfriend. Goodbye, America.
Anyway, the UC Berkeley team, having gone 0 for 2, ended their stint on College Week. Stanford went on to beat USC in the final game, while we went home with a bunch of really crappy consolation prizes that I never ever used with nary a box of rice-a-roni nor the home version of the game. Woe is me.
There you have it. The full extent of my television career. My blog has now filled the glaring hole that IMDB has stubbornly ignored.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Without further ado, I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time embarrassedly presents UC Berkeley's first episode ever on Family Feud's College Week. I've chopped the 22 minute episode down into about 9 or 10 minutes of YouTube footage below. It's still painful, but any less and you'd risk losing the multi-threaded complex narrative that is Family Feud.
For a description of Family Feud or how I got there, I'd encourage you to read the introduction I wrote a couple years ago.
Ok, here goes. (Apologies for including the same bit of footage from my last post.)
The first part of Family Feud is the corny "family picture" pose. I'm the awkward rhythmless guy on the left. Cheering is not my forte.
Then, the teams get introduced. Here's Albert introducing me to host Ray Combs, and the rest of the world.
"Computer whiz"? Thanks, Albert. I'll be sure to include this footage on my next resume.
Anyway, the game finally begins. Each team sends a person to the podium to quickly come up with the most popular answers to...
Since Stanford struck out before getting all the right answers, Berkeley has a chance to steal their points by getting one right answer...
"Getting walked to her front door" !! Am I a sweetheart or what? Can you believe I didn't date much? Me either. Anyway, regardless of my inability to woo the average American woman, we won that round.
Next question, Ray...
Okok, sure "Queen Elizabeth" was the bottom answer, but at least it was on the board, which is more than I can say for the two players at the podium, ONE OF WHOM KEPT LAUGHING AT ALL MY ANSWERS! I'm still bitter. Anyway, Berkeley is winning, 118 to 0.
Next up...ME!
THREE IN A ROW! Behind my brilliant answers, Berkeley is winning 266 to 0! The game ends at 300 points, so all we need is just...one...more...
Well, Stanford runs the table on the next question, which was worth triple value, bring their score up near ours. It all comes down to the final question....
Crap. Cornbreaded crap on a stick. So we lose to our rival school. Big deal. Thankfully, there's an ENTIRE OTHER EPISODE where we play a much stupider school, USC. Stay tuned for more footage of Brett lamenting my usually-correct answers....
For a description of Family Feud or how I got there, I'd encourage you to read the introduction I wrote a couple years ago.
Ok, here goes. (Apologies for including the same bit of footage from my last post.)
The first part of Family Feud is the corny "family picture" pose. I'm the awkward rhythmless guy on the left. Cheering is not my forte.
Then, the teams get introduced. Here's Albert introducing me to host Ray Combs, and the rest of the world.
"Computer whiz"? Thanks, Albert. I'll be sure to include this footage on my next resume.
Anyway, the game finally begins. Each team sends a person to the podium to quickly come up with the most popular answers to...
Since Stanford struck out before getting all the right answers, Berkeley has a chance to steal their points by getting one right answer...
"Getting walked to her front door" !! Am I a sweetheart or what? Can you believe I didn't date much? Me either. Anyway, regardless of my inability to woo the average American woman, we won that round.
Next question, Ray...
Okok, sure "Queen Elizabeth" was the bottom answer, but at least it was on the board, which is more than I can say for the two players at the podium, ONE OF WHOM KEPT LAUGHING AT ALL MY ANSWERS! I'm still bitter. Anyway, Berkeley is winning, 118 to 0.
Next up...ME!
THREE IN A ROW! Behind my brilliant answers, Berkeley is winning 266 to 0! The game ends at 300 points, so all we need is just...one...more...
Well, Stanford runs the table on the next question, which was worth triple value, bring their score up near ours. It all comes down to the final question....
Crap. Cornbreaded crap on a stick. So we lose to our rival school. Big deal. Thankfully, there's an ENTIRE OTHER EPISODE where we play a much stupider school, USC. Stay tuned for more footage of Brett lamenting my usually-correct answers....
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Holy cow. It requires a dizzying number of steps to get a video from a VHS tape to this blog given the equipment in this house. This is not a task for those with vertigo. At one point I complained to no one in particular that I would be willing to cut off my left testicle to get this accomplished, and then I realized that was step number 194 in the process. It's okay though. Righty was always my favorite.
Anyway, what I had hoped to do was upload and present the fun bits of footage from the episodes of Family Feud that I appeared on back when I was in college. Since iMovie made the tiniest edit a herculean chore, so far all I have available is the intro to my episode.
So, without further ado, I proudly present the first minute of my first appearance on network television. I'm the guy in the bright yellow sweatshirt on the left of the UC Berkeley team. Behold my complete lack of rhythm and body awareness. It's cringetastic!
Anyway, what I had hoped to do was upload and present the fun bits of footage from the episodes of Family Feud that I appeared on back when I was in college. Since iMovie made the tiniest edit a herculean chore, so far all I have available is the intro to my episode.
So, without further ado, I proudly present the first minute of my first appearance on network television. I'm the guy in the bright yellow sweatshirt on the left of the UC Berkeley team. Behold my complete lack of rhythm and body awareness. It's cringetastic!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Sorry for the lack of posts around here, but it's been a busy time. Tax day really kicked my ass this year. It was a roller coaster of unexpected costs and surprise income. I spent much of tax day banging on my keyboard trying to make money appear in my checking account. Amazingly, this tactic worked. I look forward to the logical conclusion of this effort involving an infinite number of monkeys.
On an unrelated note, inspired by my recent wedding picture post, I'm trying to dig up some old video footage which should be quite entertaining.
Please stand by.
On an unrelated note, inspired by my recent wedding picture post, I'm trying to dig up some old video footage which should be quite entertaining.
Please stand by.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Now that the school auction is 99% behind us, Hank can devote her free time to her favorite leisure activity: going through every one of our possessions and finding new places to put them.
Extra coaxial cable? In the cable box!
Empty picture frames? In the stray picture drawer!
Automobile? Under the sink!
I know she's fighting the good fight, but she always seems to organize things out of sight about 24 hours before I need them. Granted, I do keep a supply of coax cables hidden under the dust bunnies in my office for emergencies, but it's a constant battle.
The other day, however, Hank came across a true gem. She found our wedding pictures.
Hank and I got married in Vegas over 11 years ago. We had an awesome wedding with a photographer provided by the fabulous Stratosphere casino. We returned home later that weekend and promptly lost the photos. It was a shame, because the photos were fabulously cheesy.
Now, however, thanks to Hank's desire to move every molecule in our house, I proudly present a sampling of my wedding pictures:
Look, it's me! Debonairly flying through space at warp speed! In a long sleeve t-shirt, vest, and communicator disguised as a boutonniere!
I've landed on an alien planet! I've attached myself to a life form! It's love!
I've brought the alien to the skies of my home planet! Must! Stay! Attached!
I'm... uh... looking at my watch?
The deed is done! Thanks to non-denominational generic minister, I'm married!
And THAT is how to get married. You listening, Daisy?
Extra coaxial cable? In the cable box!
Empty picture frames? In the stray picture drawer!
Automobile? Under the sink!
I know she's fighting the good fight, but she always seems to organize things out of sight about 24 hours before I need them. Granted, I do keep a supply of coax cables hidden under the dust bunnies in my office for emergencies, but it's a constant battle.
The other day, however, Hank came across a true gem. She found our wedding pictures.
Hank and I got married in Vegas over 11 years ago. We had an awesome wedding with a photographer provided by the fabulous Stratosphere casino. We returned home later that weekend and promptly lost the photos. It was a shame, because the photos were fabulously cheesy.
Now, however, thanks to Hank's desire to move every molecule in our house, I proudly present a sampling of my wedding pictures:
Look, it's me! Debonairly flying through space at warp speed! In a long sleeve t-shirt, vest, and communicator disguised as a boutonniere!
I've landed on an alien planet! I've attached myself to a life form! It's love!
I've brought the alien to the skies of my home planet! Must! Stay! Attached!
I'm... uh... looking at my watch?
The deed is done! Thanks to non-denominational generic minister, I'm married!
And THAT is how to get married. You listening, Daisy?
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Having a kid would have been a lot more fun if I had done it when I was a kid.
Playing rounds of Go Fish, visiting the local amusement park, and eating hot dogs would all be immeasurably more entertaining if I were eight years old alongside Daisy. Watching High School Musical for the umpteenth time would still suck, but overall there would be a lot more common ground.
Some days we do alright though.
Daisy: Daddy, you know how we make up words sometimes?
Me: Sure. I'm all about making up words. Wordimafying!
Daisy: Is 'discombobulate' a real word?
Me: It sure is.
Daisy: Really? Is that how it's pronounced?
Me: Yeah... geez... now you've got me wondering. I'm pretty sure that's right. Let's go check.
I brought Daisy over to the computer and I googled up a site that would pronounce English words. I typed in 'discombobulate'...
Me: Ooooh! It pronounced it with an English accent! Fancy!
Daisy: Try another word!
I typed in 'pooh'. I was rewarded by another English pronunciation.
Daisy: (squealing with delight) He said it! He said 'pooh'!
Me: (fighting overpowering urges to type in every obscenity I know) Awesome! What should we try next?
Daisy: Table! Try 'table'!!
I did. It wasn't as funny as pooh. I typed in 'fart' next. It didn't disappoint. It came out all British and snooty. Faahhht.
Daisy and I busted up.
Daisy: (falling off the chair laughing) He said fart!! He.... said.... it!!
Me: (also laughing) That was a good one, huh? Fahhhhhhhhhht!
We spent a good while longer trying all the toilet words I could think of. It's nice finding common ground.
Playing rounds of Go Fish, visiting the local amusement park, and eating hot dogs would all be immeasurably more entertaining if I were eight years old alongside Daisy. Watching High School Musical for the umpteenth time would still suck, but overall there would be a lot more common ground.
Some days we do alright though.
Daisy: Daddy, you know how we make up words sometimes?
Me: Sure. I'm all about making up words. Wordimafying!
Daisy: Is 'discombobulate' a real word?
Me: It sure is.
Daisy: Really? Is that how it's pronounced?
Me: Yeah... geez... now you've got me wondering. I'm pretty sure that's right. Let's go check.
I brought Daisy over to the computer and I googled up a site that would pronounce English words. I typed in 'discombobulate'...
Me: Ooooh! It pronounced it with an English accent! Fancy!
Daisy: Try another word!
I typed in 'pooh'. I was rewarded by another English pronunciation.
Daisy: (squealing with delight) He said it! He said 'pooh'!
Me: (fighting overpowering urges to type in every obscenity I know) Awesome! What should we try next?
Daisy: Table! Try 'table'!!
I did. It wasn't as funny as pooh. I typed in 'fart' next. It didn't disappoint. It came out all British and snooty. Faahhht.
Daisy and I busted up.
Daisy: (falling off the chair laughing) He said fart!! He.... said.... it!!
Me: (also laughing) That was a good one, huh? Fahhhhhhhhhht!
We spent a good while longer trying all the toilet words I could think of. It's nice finding common ground.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Go grab some packaged food. Read the ingredients. I'll bet they include at least one of the following: eggs, nuts, sesame seeds, or a dairy product (milk, cheese, whey, casein, etc).
This is why feeding Daisy with her allergies is difficult. Desserts are the toughest though. Cookies, cakes, and of course ice creams, are filled with her allergens. For most of these items we've found good substitutes. We've found a vegan chocolate chip cookie that doesn't taste like dirt, Hank can make a pretty good egg and dairy-free cake, and we live near a top-notch ice cream shop that specializes in surprisingly good soy-based ice cream.
Despite all our efforts, there are still some foods that Daisy has never tried. Situated at the very top of her to-eat list is the almighty donut.
Good luck finding an egg-free donut out in the wild. I'm sure they exist in some hippie commune store in Oregon, where you pay by bartering with kharma, but we haven't been able to find any around here.
So, on Sunday morning, Hank and Daisy strapped on their aprons and set about to cook up some home-made egg-free dairy-free donuts. The process took many hours. There was mixing, and dough rising, and dough punching, and more dough rising, and uh dough begging, and then maybe some dough swearing. By the time they were done, they had made glazed donuts, powdered donuts, cinnamon donuts, and maple donuts. (They had also dirtied almost every single vessel and surface in the kitchen, but, hey, it's not like THEY do the dishes in this household).
I swear, I have never seen Daisy as excited about eating a food as she was about these donuts. She was DELIGHTED to try each kind. The day was filled with conversations like this.
Daisy: May I have a donut after my lunch?
Hank: Sure
Daisy: Oh, thank you, mommy! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!
I mean, it's not like we deprive her of sweets. Dessert is a staple in this house, but to see the unadulterated glee that she derived from baking and then eating donuts was something to behold.
Of course I wasn't around for any of the baking part of the day. Hank and I have a carefully constructed Good Parent / Bad Parent shtick that we do. Playing my role to a hilt, I ducked out of the house at around 7:00am on Sunday to go run in a race.
I haven't really run in a race in over a year, so I signed up for a local 10 miler. I wasn't very familiar with the course, although I had heard that it was somewhat hilly. I randomly decided in advance that my goal would be to complete the race in an hour and 10 minutes. That meant 7 minutes per mile.
I loaded up on caffeine and jostled my way to the front of the pack. I wasn't planning on winning the race, but I didn't want to get stuck behind the casual joggers.
The gun went off and I started my watch. I was running a bit faster than I probably should have, but the hills started after about 1/4 mile, so that slowed everyone down. I checked my watch at the first mile marker:
Mile 1 -- 7:14
14 seconds behind schedule. Considering the hills, that wasn't bad. I knew the 2nd mile would be hilly too, but after that hopefully I'd start making up some of those lost seconds.
Mile 2 -- 7:31
31 more seconds. Ok, no big deal. I had been told the course would flatten out soon.
Mile 3 -- 7:03
Hmmmph. Still losing time. I was 48 seconds behind schedule, which was a bit disheartening, but still doable. I was constantly computing and recomputing my required pace. I knew that I still had 7 miles left, so all I had to do was save 7 seconds on each of those miles by running 6:53s
Mile 4 -- 7:06
Doh! Dammit! It was still kind of rolly-hilly. I was now 54 seconds behind. Around this time we ran onto the Golden Gate Bridge, which is one of the most scenic places in the world. During a race, however, it's just a long boring slog with a gentle hill in the middle that seems to go on forever.
Mile 5 -- 7:07
This was a disappointing mile too. 7 more seconds down the drain. This was make-or-break time. I was at the halfway point and was 61 seconds behind schedule, so over the final five miles, I'd need to make up 61 seconds. That's only one minute, I told myself. All I'd need to do is run about a 6:48 pace. There was barely any uphill left. I knew I could do this.
Mile 6 -- 7:12
And that's the precise moment when I said, "An hour and 10 minutes? Eh."
I mean, really, what's so special about an hour and 10 minutes? Nothing! Is it THAT much better than an hour and 11 minutes or 12 minutes? Nope. For the first time in the race, I didn't compute what I needed to run to break 1:10.
Mile 7 -- 6:56
Hey! It's too goddamn little too goddamn late, but at least it was a sub 7:00. I still didn't bother to recompute my pace, knowing it would just dishearten me. I just focused on taking advantage of the downhill (and trying to catch the woman who just sped past me)
Mile 8 -- 6:34
Whoa! Dang! That downhill really helped! Unfortunately, the downhill was over and I was still 43 seconds behind schedule. It seemed unlikely that I'd make up enough time over the next two miles, which were going to be completely flat. Screw 1:10. I was getting kind of tired. Running will do that to you.
Mile 9 -- 4:59
What. The. Hell. I have NEVER in my life run a 5 minute mile. This was not a case of me reaching deep down and finding untapped speed, this was absolutely a case of the race coordinators making an tremendously bad mistake at marking the miles. There was ZERO chance that I had run a 5 minute mile or even a 6 minute mile. I figured they were off by about 1/4 mile, which is the biggest mistake I've ever seen in mile marking in a race. The only question in my mind was wondering where the missing 1/4 mile was. I hoped it was in the previous 8 miles and not in the remaining one.
Regardless, I had virtually no data about my pace at this point. I was running blind. It was really disconcerting.
I kept my eyes peeled for the finish line. After over 7 minutes of running, I spotted it. It looked to be just over a minute away. I checked my watch for the total time so far: 1 hour and 9 minutes.
AAAAAAH!
I wanted the finish line to either be easily accessible in my remaining minute or way too far away to even consider sprinting, but, noooooo, it had to be within lung-busting difference. So, I ran as fast as my little programmer legs would carry me and crossed the finish line in.....
1 hour, 9 minutes, and 57 seconds.
That last "mile" had taken me 8:16, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure it was my fastest mile. I couldn't believe that I had somehow stumbled my way to achieving my randomly chosen goal. It was surely a case of a whole bunch of wrongs all canceling each other out.
When I got home, I rewarded myself with a home-made donut.
This is why feeding Daisy with her allergies is difficult. Desserts are the toughest though. Cookies, cakes, and of course ice creams, are filled with her allergens. For most of these items we've found good substitutes. We've found a vegan chocolate chip cookie that doesn't taste like dirt, Hank can make a pretty good egg and dairy-free cake, and we live near a top-notch ice cream shop that specializes in surprisingly good soy-based ice cream.
Despite all our efforts, there are still some foods that Daisy has never tried. Situated at the very top of her to-eat list is the almighty donut.
Good luck finding an egg-free donut out in the wild. I'm sure they exist in some hippie commune store in Oregon, where you pay by bartering with kharma, but we haven't been able to find any around here.
So, on Sunday morning, Hank and Daisy strapped on their aprons and set about to cook up some home-made egg-free dairy-free donuts. The process took many hours. There was mixing, and dough rising, and dough punching, and more dough rising, and uh dough begging, and then maybe some dough swearing. By the time they were done, they had made glazed donuts, powdered donuts, cinnamon donuts, and maple donuts. (They had also dirtied almost every single vessel and surface in the kitchen, but, hey, it's not like THEY do the dishes in this household).
I swear, I have never seen Daisy as excited about eating a food as she was about these donuts. She was DELIGHTED to try each kind. The day was filled with conversations like this.
Daisy: May I have a donut after my lunch?
Hank: Sure
Daisy: Oh, thank you, mommy! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!
I mean, it's not like we deprive her of sweets. Dessert is a staple in this house, but to see the unadulterated glee that she derived from baking and then eating donuts was something to behold.
Of course I wasn't around for any of the baking part of the day. Hank and I have a carefully constructed Good Parent / Bad Parent shtick that we do. Playing my role to a hilt, I ducked out of the house at around 7:00am on Sunday to go run in a race.
I haven't really run in a race in over a year, so I signed up for a local 10 miler. I wasn't very familiar with the course, although I had heard that it was somewhat hilly. I randomly decided in advance that my goal would be to complete the race in an hour and 10 minutes. That meant 7 minutes per mile.
I loaded up on caffeine and jostled my way to the front of the pack. I wasn't planning on winning the race, but I didn't want to get stuck behind the casual joggers.
The gun went off and I started my watch. I was running a bit faster than I probably should have, but the hills started after about 1/4 mile, so that slowed everyone down. I checked my watch at the first mile marker:
Mile 1 -- 7:14
14 seconds behind schedule. Considering the hills, that wasn't bad. I knew the 2nd mile would be hilly too, but after that hopefully I'd start making up some of those lost seconds.
Mile 2 -- 7:31
31 more seconds. Ok, no big deal. I had been told the course would flatten out soon.
Mile 3 -- 7:03
Hmmmph. Still losing time. I was 48 seconds behind schedule, which was a bit disheartening, but still doable. I was constantly computing and recomputing my required pace. I knew that I still had 7 miles left, so all I had to do was save 7 seconds on each of those miles by running 6:53s
Mile 4 -- 7:06
Doh! Dammit! It was still kind of rolly-hilly. I was now 54 seconds behind. Around this time we ran onto the Golden Gate Bridge, which is one of the most scenic places in the world. During a race, however, it's just a long boring slog with a gentle hill in the middle that seems to go on forever.
Mile 5 -- 7:07
This was a disappointing mile too. 7 more seconds down the drain. This was make-or-break time. I was at the halfway point and was 61 seconds behind schedule, so over the final five miles, I'd need to make up 61 seconds. That's only one minute, I told myself. All I'd need to do is run about a 6:48 pace. There was barely any uphill left. I knew I could do this.
Mile 6 -- 7:12
And that's the precise moment when I said, "An hour and 10 minutes? Eh."
I mean, really, what's so special about an hour and 10 minutes? Nothing! Is it THAT much better than an hour and 11 minutes or 12 minutes? Nope. For the first time in the race, I didn't compute what I needed to run to break 1:10.
Mile 7 -- 6:56
Hey! It's too goddamn little too goddamn late, but at least it was a sub 7:00. I still didn't bother to recompute my pace, knowing it would just dishearten me. I just focused on taking advantage of the downhill (and trying to catch the woman who just sped past me)
Mile 8 -- 6:34
Whoa! Dang! That downhill really helped! Unfortunately, the downhill was over and I was still 43 seconds behind schedule. It seemed unlikely that I'd make up enough time over the next two miles, which were going to be completely flat. Screw 1:10. I was getting kind of tired. Running will do that to you.
Mile 9 -- 4:59
What. The. Hell. I have NEVER in my life run a 5 minute mile. This was not a case of me reaching deep down and finding untapped speed, this was absolutely a case of the race coordinators making an tremendously bad mistake at marking the miles. There was ZERO chance that I had run a 5 minute mile or even a 6 minute mile. I figured they were off by about 1/4 mile, which is the biggest mistake I've ever seen in mile marking in a race. The only question in my mind was wondering where the missing 1/4 mile was. I hoped it was in the previous 8 miles and not in the remaining one.
Regardless, I had virtually no data about my pace at this point. I was running blind. It was really disconcerting.
I kept my eyes peeled for the finish line. After over 7 minutes of running, I spotted it. It looked to be just over a minute away. I checked my watch for the total time so far: 1 hour and 9 minutes.
AAAAAAH!
I wanted the finish line to either be easily accessible in my remaining minute or way too far away to even consider sprinting, but, noooooo, it had to be within lung-busting difference. So, I ran as fast as my little programmer legs would carry me and crossed the finish line in.....
1 hour, 9 minutes, and 57 seconds.
That last "mile" had taken me 8:16, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure it was my fastest mile. I couldn't believe that I had somehow stumbled my way to achieving my randomly chosen goal. It was surely a case of a whole bunch of wrongs all canceling each other out.
When I got home, I rewarded myself with a home-made donut.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
During about half of Daisy's play-dates, one of the kids will suggest that they play hide 'n' seek.
"Yay! Great idea! Fun!" the other darling little cherubs will exclaim.
Meanwhile, I'll grimace in anticipation of the inevitable result, which will undoubtedly distract me from my dish-washing, wood-chipping, or boob-surfing.
Actually, that's not entirely accurate. There's not a single inevitable result. There's one of two possible results:
1) Some "hider" will hide in plain sight and will be traumatized by how easily they're found. They will then beg me to help them hide somewhere better.
OR
2) Some "seeker" will be traumatized by their inability to find the kid hiding in the closet. They will then beg me to help them seek better.
That's it. Just two possible outcomes. Scientists have long theorized a third theoretical outcome where children hide and seek with a modicum of competence and then feel both entertained and enriched by the activity. Those scientists do not have children.
I only get to witness the instances of this activity which take place at our house, where Daisy obviously has the home field advantage. She's played this game long enough to know that she can effectively hide in the back of her closet, behind a thick layer of hanging dresses. Since eight year-olds are physically incapable of looking behind things, Daisy is as well hidden there as she would be in a remote Pakistani cave.
"Miiiiiiiiiiiiiike!" one of the little monsters will wail, after several minutes or seconds of seeking (depending on age) "I need a hint!"
"You want a hint? She's in her closet. She always hides there. That's your hint." I'll reply, quickly shutting down my browser window.
"Nooooooo! I already looked there!" they'll cry.
Eventually I'll convince the untrusting urchin that I'm not tricking them into getting locked in the closet and they'll find her. Then, it's Daisy's turn to be the seeker. She'll either find the kid in 10 seconds sitting in a puddle of his/her own piss in the middle of the kitchen, or she'll tentatively tip-toe around the upstairs, trembling with fear, barking out new mid-game rules:
"No hiding in dark places! And no jumping out! No hiding in my dad's office! .... Are you hiding in a dark place?!?!"
Wheeeeeeeeeee! Are we having fun yet? Hide 'n' seek is at the exact confluence of incompetence and fear.
It's around this time that I'll gently suggest that perhaps the kids should go play with matches instead.
"Yay! Great idea! Fun!" the other darling little cherubs will exclaim.
Meanwhile, I'll grimace in anticipation of the inevitable result, which will undoubtedly distract me from my dish-washing, wood-chipping, or boob-surfing.
Actually, that's not entirely accurate. There's not a single inevitable result. There's one of two possible results:
1) Some "hider" will hide in plain sight and will be traumatized by how easily they're found. They will then beg me to help them hide somewhere better.
OR
2) Some "seeker" will be traumatized by their inability to find the kid hiding in the closet. They will then beg me to help them seek better.
That's it. Just two possible outcomes. Scientists have long theorized a third theoretical outcome where children hide and seek with a modicum of competence and then feel both entertained and enriched by the activity. Those scientists do not have children.
I only get to witness the instances of this activity which take place at our house, where Daisy obviously has the home field advantage. She's played this game long enough to know that she can effectively hide in the back of her closet, behind a thick layer of hanging dresses. Since eight year-olds are physically incapable of looking behind things, Daisy is as well hidden there as she would be in a remote Pakistani cave.
"Miiiiiiiiiiiiiike!" one of the little monsters will wail, after several minutes or seconds of seeking (depending on age) "I need a hint!"
"You want a hint? She's in her closet. She always hides there. That's your hint." I'll reply, quickly shutting down my browser window.
"Nooooooo! I already looked there!" they'll cry.
Eventually I'll convince the untrusting urchin that I'm not tricking them into getting locked in the closet and they'll find her. Then, it's Daisy's turn to be the seeker. She'll either find the kid in 10 seconds sitting in a puddle of his/her own piss in the middle of the kitchen, or she'll tentatively tip-toe around the upstairs, trembling with fear, barking out new mid-game rules:
"No hiding in dark places! And no jumping out! No hiding in my dad's office! .... Are you hiding in a dark place?!?!"
Wheeeeeeeeeee! Are we having fun yet? Hide 'n' seek is at the exact confluence of incompetence and fear.
It's around this time that I'll gently suggest that perhaps the kids should go play with matches instead.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The boys and I headed out of town on Tuesday night for our semi-annual... uh... team-building exercise. As usual, this consisted primarily of gambling and drinking. Participating in activities that normally end marriages or cause interventions is the way we build a team. Old school, baby.
In no particular order, here were the most memorable moments
1) Cabela's
I had never heard of Cabela's before, but it is a national chain of ENORMOUS retail stores specializing in various flavors of hunting activities. There were entire aisles full of bullet components (apparently hunters re-use and refill their bullets. Environmental!), life-sized wildlife dioramas, and a bevy of customers unironically dressed like hunters who moseyed through the store in their dungarees and camouflage vests..
I wasn't sure whether I expected to see a sign by the register specifying a maximum or minimum number of weapons per purchase. All we were there for was to buy some AA batteries for our Wii remotes, but we kept that fact to ourselves.
2) Robots
A group of 7 computer programmers typically won't spend very much time dancing during their outings. However, whenever something good happened to my boss and my oldest coworker, like when they both won a big hand in blackjack, they'd bust out with their best Robot moves.
I don't know if you've ever seen programmers in their 40s and 50s performing the Robot, but I chuckled about it long after the booze wore off. I'm still chuckling.
3) The Mill
About 7 years ago I was gambling in my favorite casino, The Peppermill, when they identified me as a card counter. The director of casino operations approached me and informed me that I was officially banned from playing blackjack there FOR LIFE.
Aside from a trip back to play poker, I haven't stepped foot in the 'Mill since that day. For some reason, though, this trip felt like the time. I figured that it was unlikely that the Peppermill had employed face recognition software 7 years ago, so the only chance that I'd get caught would be if that one employee was still there, and still remembered me. I decided it was worth the risk or at least the blog post.
"I'll need a disguise," I announced to the boys. I grabbed Pablo's baseball cap and informed everyone that they should call me "Orlando".
My boss suggested that perhaps I'd be drawing attention to myself, so I gave Pablo his cap back and suggested that perhaps everyone should call me "Steve" instead. I made them all practice calling me Steve so that there would be no mishaps at the table.
As it turned out, our dealers were VERY interested in knowing our names. They often double-checked to make sure they knew all our names and when one dealer replaced another, they'd review the name list with the new dealer. This all worked great for about 20 minutes, when my boss slipped up and called me "Mike"
"Mike? I thought your name was Steve!" the dealer exclaimed.
"Oh, ha ha," I said very quickly thinking on my stool, "that's my other name."
As it turns out, either the Peppermill had forgotten all about me, or they just didn't give a crap about the guy who raked in another $15. Either way, I'M BACK, BABY! MIKE IS BACK AT THE MILL!
Yeeeeeeehaw!
In no particular order, here were the most memorable moments
1) Cabela's
I had never heard of Cabela's before, but it is a national chain of ENORMOUS retail stores specializing in various flavors of hunting activities. There were entire aisles full of bullet components (apparently hunters re-use and refill their bullets. Environmental!), life-sized wildlife dioramas, and a bevy of customers unironically dressed like hunters who moseyed through the store in their dungarees and camouflage vests..
I wasn't sure whether I expected to see a sign by the register specifying a maximum or minimum number of weapons per purchase. All we were there for was to buy some AA batteries for our Wii remotes, but we kept that fact to ourselves.
2) Robots
A group of 7 computer programmers typically won't spend very much time dancing during their outings. However, whenever something good happened to my boss and my oldest coworker, like when they both won a big hand in blackjack, they'd bust out with their best Robot moves.
I don't know if you've ever seen programmers in their 40s and 50s performing the Robot, but I chuckled about it long after the booze wore off. I'm still chuckling.
3) The Mill
About 7 years ago I was gambling in my favorite casino, The Peppermill, when they identified me as a card counter. The director of casino operations approached me and informed me that I was officially banned from playing blackjack there FOR LIFE.
Aside from a trip back to play poker, I haven't stepped foot in the 'Mill since that day. For some reason, though, this trip felt like the time. I figured that it was unlikely that the Peppermill had employed face recognition software 7 years ago, so the only chance that I'd get caught would be if that one employee was still there, and still remembered me. I decided it was worth the risk or at least the blog post.
"I'll need a disguise," I announced to the boys. I grabbed Pablo's baseball cap and informed everyone that they should call me "Orlando".
My boss suggested that perhaps I'd be drawing attention to myself, so I gave Pablo his cap back and suggested that perhaps everyone should call me "Steve" instead. I made them all practice calling me Steve so that there would be no mishaps at the table.
As it turned out, our dealers were VERY interested in knowing our names. They often double-checked to make sure they knew all our names and when one dealer replaced another, they'd review the name list with the new dealer. This all worked great for about 20 minutes, when my boss slipped up and called me "Mike"
"Mike? I thought your name was Steve!" the dealer exclaimed.
"Oh, ha ha," I said very quickly thinking on my stool, "that's my other name."
As it turns out, either the Peppermill had forgotten all about me, or they just didn't give a crap about the guy who raked in another $15. Either way, I'M BACK, BABY! MIKE IS BACK AT THE MILL!
Yeeeeeeehaw!
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