The last couple days at work I've been trying to write some documentation. You'd think that after over a year of cranking out blog entries, I'd be pretty good at filling up the page with technical gibberish. I mean, my blog is kind of like the technical user's guide about my life.
Chapter 1: Overview of a nerd
Chapter 2: Installing a child into your life
Chapter 3: Configuring your life with meaningless minutia
Chapter 4: Running marathons
Chapter 5: Troubleshooting the pain of life: Booze. Gambling.
See?
Alas, when I sit in front of Microsoft Word and try to bang out work-related documentation, my brain seizes. I look for anything else to do. My day went like this:
- Open up Microsoft Word and all related applications
- Stare blankly
- Check email and CNN.com
- Write one sentence
- Surf entire Internet
- Write another sentence
- Check to see if Internet has been updated
- See how many knuckles I can gnaw off in an hour. Try to beat that record.
- Erase previous sentence
- Pray for death, sweet death
- Insert bug into code.
- Call meeting demanding that bug be fixed. Offer to fix.
- Fix bug.
- Write half-sentence.
- Fantasize about other career options, like Manure Taster.
I will admit that this was not my most productive day. Not even in the top three.
On a positive note, if my knuckles don't stop bleeding soon, I'll call in sick tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
I'd like to thank everyone who posted words of advice or sympathy regarding the ostracization of my dear daughter. This corner of the blogosphere is a tender and wise place. Let me close out the issue (for now) by saying that my wife had a good chat with my daughter's kindergarten teacher. She assures us that we're hearing all the bad stories from Daisy and few of the good, and that the situation is not so dire. Hopefully her assessment is accurate. She also made some suggestions in the how-to-get-along-with-other-little-kids department that seem decent.
So, despondency is postponed for the time being. On to more important things.
I saw Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith last week. Although I enjoyed this movie, I found it tremendously mockable. Let us mock.
Top Five Most Mockable Things about Revenge of the Sith
(Spoilers ahead, but who really gives a crap?)
5) Digital Projection - George Lucas is ga-ga for showing his movies via digital projection. This technology is supposedly great for showing a sharp image that doesn't degrade over multiple viewings. What it sucks at though, is showing diagonal lines. As it turns out, there are diagonal lines in pretty much every scene, and they all look like tiny staircases. Someone in profile? Staircase nose. Are they moving? Escalator nose. My eyes were constantly drawn to these digital artifacts.
4) R2D2 as an offensive juggernaut - R2D2 was a fantastic fighting force in this movie. He shot laser-like electricity out of various orifices, leapt to incredible heights, and generally kicked robot ass. Why is it that in the subsequent movies, Episodes 4, 5, and 6, his offensive powers are limited to slowly rolling across very flat surfaces? What gives, R2?
3) Politics - Apparently George Lucas is a Democrat. Bad guy extraordinaire, Chancellor Palpatine, is an exaggerated and thinly veiled version of Dubya. The evidence is documented decently here. Now, who here wants their shoot-em-up science fiction movie filled with overly-simplistic political commentary? Next time, save it for your blog, George.
2) "Nooooooooooooo!" - When Anakin as Darth Vader learns that his beloved Padme has died, he stretches out his evil arms, and cries to the heavens, "Nooooooooo!". What pop-culture rock has George Lucas been hiding under that prevented him from realizing that this scene is a cliche? It's practically a humor genre! I've seen ironic versions of this scene a dozen times on the Simpsons, The Daily Show, and many other places. George Lucas's version was, unsurprisingly, irony-free.
1) Anakin vs Obi Wan - The ultimate battle in this movie is between Anakin and Obi Wan. It occurs before Anakin gets clad in his evil/cheesy black suit and it's near the end of the movie, so virtually every movie-goer knows that somehow Obi Wan will disfigure him. However, the script has built up Anakin's fighting prowess throughout the movie. He is often touted as the most gifted of the Jedis, just filled to the freakin' brim with The Force. So, we're all left wondering, how will Obi Wan best him? Will Anakin be distracted by Padme's cries for help? Will the molten lava that surrounds their battle rise up and eat Anakin alive? No, nothing so clever. Instead, at one point, Obi Wan leaps to a mound that is about 2 feet higher than Anakin and declares, "Give it up, Anakin! I've got the higher ground!". When Anakin attackes, Obi Wan neatly slices off his limbs. That's it? Higher ground?!?! That's all Lucas could write? Don't these Jedis hop around like fleas normally? Apparently all one really needs to defeat the world's most powerful Jedi is a step stool.
All that being said, I rate this movie as the 3rd best Star Wars. Episodes 4 and 5 are my top 2, but those insufferable Ewoks doomed episode 6 to teddy bear hell. Episodes 1 and 2 obviously sucked major assage.
So, despondency is postponed for the time being. On to more important things.
I saw Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith last week. Although I enjoyed this movie, I found it tremendously mockable. Let us mock.
Top Five Most Mockable Things about Revenge of the Sith
(Spoilers ahead, but who really gives a crap?)
5) Digital Projection - George Lucas is ga-ga for showing his movies via digital projection. This technology is supposedly great for showing a sharp image that doesn't degrade over multiple viewings. What it sucks at though, is showing diagonal lines. As it turns out, there are diagonal lines in pretty much every scene, and they all look like tiny staircases. Someone in profile? Staircase nose. Are they moving? Escalator nose. My eyes were constantly drawn to these digital artifacts.
4) R2D2 as an offensive juggernaut - R2D2 was a fantastic fighting force in this movie. He shot laser-like electricity out of various orifices, leapt to incredible heights, and generally kicked robot ass. Why is it that in the subsequent movies, Episodes 4, 5, and 6, his offensive powers are limited to slowly rolling across very flat surfaces? What gives, R2?
3) Politics - Apparently George Lucas is a Democrat. Bad guy extraordinaire, Chancellor Palpatine, is an exaggerated and thinly veiled version of Dubya. The evidence is documented decently here. Now, who here wants their shoot-em-up science fiction movie filled with overly-simplistic political commentary? Next time, save it for your blog, George.
2) "Nooooooooooooo!" - When Anakin as Darth Vader learns that his beloved Padme has died, he stretches out his evil arms, and cries to the heavens, "Nooooooooo!". What pop-culture rock has George Lucas been hiding under that prevented him from realizing that this scene is a cliche? It's practically a humor genre! I've seen ironic versions of this scene a dozen times on the Simpsons, The Daily Show, and many other places. George Lucas's version was, unsurprisingly, irony-free.
1) Anakin vs Obi Wan - The ultimate battle in this movie is between Anakin and Obi Wan. It occurs before Anakin gets clad in his evil/cheesy black suit and it's near the end of the movie, so virtually every movie-goer knows that somehow Obi Wan will disfigure him. However, the script has built up Anakin's fighting prowess throughout the movie. He is often touted as the most gifted of the Jedis, just filled to the freakin' brim with The Force. So, we're all left wondering, how will Obi Wan best him? Will Anakin be distracted by Padme's cries for help? Will the molten lava that surrounds their battle rise up and eat Anakin alive? No, nothing so clever. Instead, at one point, Obi Wan leaps to a mound that is about 2 feet higher than Anakin and declares, "Give it up, Anakin! I've got the higher ground!". When Anakin attackes, Obi Wan neatly slices off his limbs. That's it? Higher ground?!?! That's all Lucas could write? Don't these Jedis hop around like fleas normally? Apparently all one really needs to defeat the world's most powerful Jedi is a step stool.
All that being said, I rate this movie as the 3rd best Star Wars. Episodes 4 and 5 are my top 2, but those insufferable Ewoks doomed episode 6 to teddy bear hell. Episodes 1 and 2 obviously sucked major assage.
Friday, May 27, 2005
I'm despondent today.
Do you recall that one kid at school who got teased mercilessly? Maybe it was their clothes, or a slight speech defect, or some aspect of their personality, but something about that one kid was different, and the other kids soon noticed it. That's all it really took in elementary school (or middle school, or high school). Everyone got teased a little, but that one kid got teased every day, by almost everybody. It's scarring.
I fear that my daughter is becoming that one kid and I'm heart-broken by the thought.
My daughter (and let's just call her "Daisy" here) is probably not a typical five year old. She's has a strong and goofy personality. She likes to play elaborately structured "pretend" games and she tries to organize these with kids who would rather play something less cerebral. This rejection generally puts her in a foul mood, which makes her an even less appealing playmate. The end result is that Daisy often spends her 1 to 2 hours of daily recess playtime by herself. She fills this time by collecting little bits of crap off the playground. We find little pebbles, buttons, and small bits of brightly colored plastic in her backpack on a daily basis, each one a tiny reminder of her recess exile.
There appears to be lots to make fun of about my daughter. She has a lot of food allergies (dairy, eggs, and nuts) and is routinely mocked by some of the other children for it. There are several occasions each week where some kind of treat is brought in for the kids, and Daisy is the only one who is unable to share in the treat, highlighting this difference between her and her kindergarten classmates.
Additionally, she has an odd sense of humor for a five-year old. She likes word-plays, funny voices, and making up silly song lyrics. The other kids seem baffled by this.
Yesterday, the kids in her class would yell "Daisy alert!" each time she came near. Even the kids who come over to our house for playdates with Daisy participated in this. My daughter was once again left alone to scour the playground for amusement. Breaks my heart.
Ok, so I accept full responsibility for this. I've got an odd sense of humor and I've passed it onto my daughter, who is bright enough to process these jokes at the age of five. She's a smart kid. And when things don't go her way, she sulks. She gets that from me too. Clearly, I've made some parenting errors here, and I've helped shape a child who is adored by adults, but rejected by her peers.
But what now? What do I do now? How do I fix this? She routinely complains about having no one to play with, so there is ample opportunity for discussion.
Do I tell her why I think other kids don't want to play with her?
Do I encourage her to repress the "odd" parts of her personality and act like the other kids?
Do I refrain from suggesting a course of action and merely suggest that she try to figure out why kids act the way they do?
This school year ends in a few weeks, and maybe this will be a non-issue after the summer. Maybe her first grade class, with its slightly different mix of children, will find her to be a more acceptable playmate. Maybe all these kids, including Daisy, will grow up a bit between now and then.
I just don't want her to become that one kid. I'm practically sick over this.
Help, please.
Do you recall that one kid at school who got teased mercilessly? Maybe it was their clothes, or a slight speech defect, or some aspect of their personality, but something about that one kid was different, and the other kids soon noticed it. That's all it really took in elementary school (or middle school, or high school). Everyone got teased a little, but that one kid got teased every day, by almost everybody. It's scarring.
I fear that my daughter is becoming that one kid and I'm heart-broken by the thought.
My daughter (and let's just call her "Daisy" here) is probably not a typical five year old. She's has a strong and goofy personality. She likes to play elaborately structured "pretend" games and she tries to organize these with kids who would rather play something less cerebral. This rejection generally puts her in a foul mood, which makes her an even less appealing playmate. The end result is that Daisy often spends her 1 to 2 hours of daily recess playtime by herself. She fills this time by collecting little bits of crap off the playground. We find little pebbles, buttons, and small bits of brightly colored plastic in her backpack on a daily basis, each one a tiny reminder of her recess exile.
There appears to be lots to make fun of about my daughter. She has a lot of food allergies (dairy, eggs, and nuts) and is routinely mocked by some of the other children for it. There are several occasions each week where some kind of treat is brought in for the kids, and Daisy is the only one who is unable to share in the treat, highlighting this difference between her and her kindergarten classmates.
Additionally, she has an odd sense of humor for a five-year old. She likes word-plays, funny voices, and making up silly song lyrics. The other kids seem baffled by this.
Yesterday, the kids in her class would yell "Daisy alert!" each time she came near. Even the kids who come over to our house for playdates with Daisy participated in this. My daughter was once again left alone to scour the playground for amusement. Breaks my heart.
Ok, so I accept full responsibility for this. I've got an odd sense of humor and I've passed it onto my daughter, who is bright enough to process these jokes at the age of five. She's a smart kid. And when things don't go her way, she sulks. She gets that from me too. Clearly, I've made some parenting errors here, and I've helped shape a child who is adored by adults, but rejected by her peers.
But what now? What do I do now? How do I fix this? She routinely complains about having no one to play with, so there is ample opportunity for discussion.
Do I tell her why I think other kids don't want to play with her?
Do I encourage her to repress the "odd" parts of her personality and act like the other kids?
Do I refrain from suggesting a course of action and merely suggest that she try to figure out why kids act the way they do?
This school year ends in a few weeks, and maybe this will be a non-issue after the summer. Maybe her first grade class, with its slightly different mix of children, will find her to be a more acceptable playmate. Maybe all these kids, including Daisy, will grow up a bit between now and then.
I just don't want her to become that one kid. I'm practically sick over this.
Help, please.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
I hate hearing stories about people's dreams. These rambling and nonsensical tales cause me to immediately adopt a facial expression that is tactfully placed somewhere on the spectrum between "If I Could Rip Off My Ears And Cram Them In Your Mouth, I Would!" and "Oh, How Droll!".
That being said, who wants to hear about my dreams last night? Line forms to the left of the browser.
Last night I dreamt that I was picked up by the San Francisco Giants. This is, of course, an absurd premise. Out of the vast list of sports that I suck at, baseball is at the tippy-top. I can neither hit nor field. I am what baseball scouts would refer to as a "no-tools" prospect. (But I do look good in jeans.)
But, this is a dream, and dreams have little to do with reality. In our dreams we can break the bounds of what is normally possible. We can fly! We can bat! We can field!
So, I'm sitting on the bench when the 8th inning rolls around and the Giants have a lead. I'm then put into the game as an outfielder, a defensive specialist whose job is to ensure that no errors are made. This is my big chance to show off what I can do in the major leagues with my dream-given fielding prowess.
I trot out to right field and immediately begin to feel anxious about my baseball skills. I recall my lifelong inability to consistently catch a baseball in a glove. I decide that a strategy of hoping that no one hits the ball to me is required.
Almost immediately a soaring fly ball is hit to me. I position myself under it and "catch" the ball by utilizing my entire body. I trap it between my glove and my abdomen, using both arms and one leg in the process. It takes a moment for me to confirm that this combination of limbs and gastrointestinal systems successfully held onto the ball. It is, perhaps, the most awkward catch in the history of baseball, and I triumphantly display the ball for all to see.
That miserable catch was the highlight of the game. The rest of the innings are filled with dropped balls and woefully underpowered throws. I'm responsible for at least a couple errors. After the game, one of the Giants' coaches takes me out for a beer and gently suggests that I stay behind during the next road trip to "work on some skills."
It would appear that even my subconscious can't pretend that I'm good at baseball. The dream ends as I'm contemplating what it means to my family for me to be a professional baseball player.
This dream came right after the dream where I was trying to squish a spider and it suddenly flew right at me (it was the jumping kind). I reacted by trying to knock the spider out of the air, only to hear my wife say, "Are you ok?". I realized that I had just thrashed around in the bed.
Yeah, I'm ok. Not crazy about spiders though.
Man, there's nothing worse than dream stories.
Go Giants!
That being said, who wants to hear about my dreams last night? Line forms to the left of the browser.
Last night I dreamt that I was picked up by the San Francisco Giants. This is, of course, an absurd premise. Out of the vast list of sports that I suck at, baseball is at the tippy-top. I can neither hit nor field. I am what baseball scouts would refer to as a "no-tools" prospect. (But I do look good in jeans.)
But, this is a dream, and dreams have little to do with reality. In our dreams we can break the bounds of what is normally possible. We can fly! We can bat! We can field!
So, I'm sitting on the bench when the 8th inning rolls around and the Giants have a lead. I'm then put into the game as an outfielder, a defensive specialist whose job is to ensure that no errors are made. This is my big chance to show off what I can do in the major leagues with my dream-given fielding prowess.
I trot out to right field and immediately begin to feel anxious about my baseball skills. I recall my lifelong inability to consistently catch a baseball in a glove. I decide that a strategy of hoping that no one hits the ball to me is required.
Almost immediately a soaring fly ball is hit to me. I position myself under it and "catch" the ball by utilizing my entire body. I trap it between my glove and my abdomen, using both arms and one leg in the process. It takes a moment for me to confirm that this combination of limbs and gastrointestinal systems successfully held onto the ball. It is, perhaps, the most awkward catch in the history of baseball, and I triumphantly display the ball for all to see.
That miserable catch was the highlight of the game. The rest of the innings are filled with dropped balls and woefully underpowered throws. I'm responsible for at least a couple errors. After the game, one of the Giants' coaches takes me out for a beer and gently suggests that I stay behind during the next road trip to "work on some skills."
It would appear that even my subconscious can't pretend that I'm good at baseball. The dream ends as I'm contemplating what it means to my family for me to be a professional baseball player.
This dream came right after the dream where I was trying to squish a spider and it suddenly flew right at me (it was the jumping kind). I reacted by trying to knock the spider out of the air, only to hear my wife say, "Are you ok?". I realized that I had just thrashed around in the bed.
Yeah, I'm ok. Not crazy about spiders though.
Man, there's nothing worse than dream stories.
Go Giants!
Monday, May 23, 2005
Most of my friends work in the software industry. Although this means that I can easily relate to them, it also means that they don't have a lot of fun free stuff to give me from their jobs. In a more perfect world, I'd be friends with bakery owners, U.S. mint employees, and hookers (who could also appreciate a good (as if there's any other kind) Java programming joke).
Thankfully, my wife is a bit more well-rounded. One of her buddies is the executive head chef at the fancy-schmancy restaurant in one of the top hotels here in San Francisco. We ran into him one evening and he offered us the chance to be "spotters" at his restaurant. The deal was that in exchange for giving him structured feedback on his restaurant, he'd pick up our dinner and drinks tab. Given that his restaurant is super nice and super expensive, this was an irresistable offer.
Additionally, there's a musical here in town called "Here Lies Jenny", and one of the performers in that show is another one of my wife's acquaintances. So, we bought tickets for the show, made reservations at the fancy restaurant and suddently Saturday was all booked up to be High-Culture-Because-We-Know-Certain-People Day. We got all gussied up in our finest gussery and off we went!
My wife is a big fan of musical theater. Her dad was a professional modern dancer, and she and her sisters grew up performing song and dance on a regular basis. Personally, I never encountered the genre as a child, but I'm capable of appreciating it. I mean, I'm practically gay (aside from the sex with men thing, and the handsome thing, and the well-groomed thing), so musical theater is ok with me.
"Here Lies Jenny" stars Bebe Neuwirth (she was Lilith in Cheers and Frasier) and showcases the music of Kurt Weill, a gifted composer whose talents are greatly appreciated by people not named Mike. I had no clue what was going on in this show at any time, even when the songs weren't in German. First Jenny hated those guys, then she was dancing, then flirting, but mostly sitting. A lot of sitting. I've never seen a musical where the performers sing so many of their songs seated. If you know someone in a wheelchair, or perhaps one of those bed-ridden obese people, who is looking to break into song and dance, send them to "Here Lies Jenny" auditions. This is their shot at Broadway.
(To be fair, my wife dug the show, as did the rest of the audience. Bebe Neuwirth is a charmer.)
Then, we were off to dinner. We were instructed to have drinks at the bar, and then order a 3-course meal with wine at the restaurant, evaluating various aspects of the service at each step. We timed some events, ordered things we wouldn't normally order, and made clandestine eye contact with our contact, the chef. This was a cush gig.
However, trying to critique dinner at a really nice restaurant is like trying to critique blowjobs. I suppose I could nitpick about the ratio of tongue action to lip action, but mostly I'm just thinking "Boy do I love blowjobs/fondue!" Even though I probably have the ability to evaluate fine food and service, I couldn't help but recall that I'm also the same guy who happily eats giant spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar for lunch.
No peanut butter at this restaurant, but the service was top freakin' notch. It was the kind of place where the hostess takes note of the color of your pants/skirt as you enter, and will swap your napkin to match. This is to ensure that men wearing black slacks don't get white fuzz on their pants, or women in a white skirt don't get black fuzz. Call me a rube, but I'd never seen that before. Cla-assy.
We had a great time and a delicious meal. The best part of the meal for me was the fondue dessert. It came with two sauces for dipping, a syrupy sweet butterscotch sauce, and a dark chocolate one. Dipping items included a variety of fruits and some whimsical pastries. I say "whimsical" not just because I'm trying to sound like a highfalutin (wow, I just found how "highfalutin" was spelled!) restaurant reviewer, but rather because they were fun. Mini cheesecakes, bites of rice krispie treats, delicate little smores! See? Fun.
Ok, maybe "whimsical" was a little queeny sounding, but we were instructed to give feedback on whether the restaurant felt "approachable". Whimsy counts.
Anyway, it was a lovely eveing. Definitely the best $200 meal that I don't have to pay for.
If some of my other friends would like grant me a similar benefit, I'm listening. Make me an offer.
Thankfully, my wife is a bit more well-rounded. One of her buddies is the executive head chef at the fancy-schmancy restaurant in one of the top hotels here in San Francisco. We ran into him one evening and he offered us the chance to be "spotters" at his restaurant. The deal was that in exchange for giving him structured feedback on his restaurant, he'd pick up our dinner and drinks tab. Given that his restaurant is super nice and super expensive, this was an irresistable offer.
Additionally, there's a musical here in town called "Here Lies Jenny", and one of the performers in that show is another one of my wife's acquaintances. So, we bought tickets for the show, made reservations at the fancy restaurant and suddently Saturday was all booked up to be High-Culture-Because-We-Know-Certain-People Day. We got all gussied up in our finest gussery and off we went!
My wife is a big fan of musical theater. Her dad was a professional modern dancer, and she and her sisters grew up performing song and dance on a regular basis. Personally, I never encountered the genre as a child, but I'm capable of appreciating it. I mean, I'm practically gay (aside from the sex with men thing, and the handsome thing, and the well-groomed thing), so musical theater is ok with me.
"Here Lies Jenny" stars Bebe Neuwirth (she was Lilith in Cheers and Frasier) and showcases the music of Kurt Weill, a gifted composer whose talents are greatly appreciated by people not named Mike. I had no clue what was going on in this show at any time, even when the songs weren't in German. First Jenny hated those guys, then she was dancing, then flirting, but mostly sitting. A lot of sitting. I've never seen a musical where the performers sing so many of their songs seated. If you know someone in a wheelchair, or perhaps one of those bed-ridden obese people, who is looking to break into song and dance, send them to "Here Lies Jenny" auditions. This is their shot at Broadway.
(To be fair, my wife dug the show, as did the rest of the audience. Bebe Neuwirth is a charmer.)
Then, we were off to dinner. We were instructed to have drinks at the bar, and then order a 3-course meal with wine at the restaurant, evaluating various aspects of the service at each step. We timed some events, ordered things we wouldn't normally order, and made clandestine eye contact with our contact, the chef. This was a cush gig.
However, trying to critique dinner at a really nice restaurant is like trying to critique blowjobs. I suppose I could nitpick about the ratio of tongue action to lip action, but mostly I'm just thinking "Boy do I love blowjobs/fondue!" Even though I probably have the ability to evaluate fine food and service, I couldn't help but recall that I'm also the same guy who happily eats giant spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar for lunch.
No peanut butter at this restaurant, but the service was top freakin' notch. It was the kind of place where the hostess takes note of the color of your pants/skirt as you enter, and will swap your napkin to match. This is to ensure that men wearing black slacks don't get white fuzz on their pants, or women in a white skirt don't get black fuzz. Call me a rube, but I'd never seen that before. Cla-assy.
We had a great time and a delicious meal. The best part of the meal for me was the fondue dessert. It came with two sauces for dipping, a syrupy sweet butterscotch sauce, and a dark chocolate one. Dipping items included a variety of fruits and some whimsical pastries. I say "whimsical" not just because I'm trying to sound like a highfalutin (wow, I just found how "highfalutin" was spelled!) restaurant reviewer, but rather because they were fun. Mini cheesecakes, bites of rice krispie treats, delicate little smores! See? Fun.
Ok, maybe "whimsical" was a little queeny sounding, but we were instructed to give feedback on whether the restaurant felt "approachable". Whimsy counts.
Anyway, it was a lovely eveing. Definitely the best $200 meal that I don't have to pay for.
If some of my other friends would like grant me a similar benefit, I'm listening. Make me an offer.
Friday, May 20, 2005
I'm anal retentive about time. I've mentioned it before, but it bears repeating. I'm anal retentive about time.
My daughter, like most small children, does not share this fine attribute. What's the opposite of anal retentive? Anally unretentive? Head retentive? Regardless, whenever it's time to do something, she suddenly wants to do something else.
Example numero uno: In general, my daughter is a reasonably focused child, as far as five year-olds go. She's concentrates on her homework, and can watch TV intently for hours at a clip, if need be. However, if you're in a hurry, and need her to perform some errand on the other side of the house, it will take an eternity. All of a sudden, every object, dust mote, and imaginary object between her and the task-at-hand becomes distraction incarnate.
"Hey, I've never played with this wall before!"
"Ooooh, my esophagus! Wheeeeee!"
Without fail, when time is of the essence (always, no?) the mundane becomes extraodinary.
Example numero two: School mornings at our house are a constant battle to keep my daughter on schedule. I nag her to wake up. I nag her to get dressed. I nag her to pee and eat breakfast. Breakfast is the most annoying part. She'll sit quietly in front of her food until I urge her to take a bite. This process repeats until she's out of time and I tell her to get up and brush her teeth.
At that moment, and not one moment earlier, she furiously starts shoveling down her breakfast. I asked her the other day why she paws at her breakfast listlessly until she's out of time. Why only then does she begin to eat? My daughter contemplated this for a moment and then concluded, "Because that's when it's most delicious!"
Fair enough.
My daughter, like most small children, does not share this fine attribute. What's the opposite of anal retentive? Anally unretentive? Head retentive? Regardless, whenever it's time to do something, she suddenly wants to do something else.
Example numero uno: In general, my daughter is a reasonably focused child, as far as five year-olds go. She's concentrates on her homework, and can watch TV intently for hours at a clip, if need be. However, if you're in a hurry, and need her to perform some errand on the other side of the house, it will take an eternity. All of a sudden, every object, dust mote, and imaginary object between her and the task-at-hand becomes distraction incarnate.
"Hey, I've never played with this wall before!"
"Ooooh, my esophagus! Wheeeeee!"
Without fail, when time is of the essence (always, no?) the mundane becomes extraodinary.
Example numero two: School mornings at our house are a constant battle to keep my daughter on schedule. I nag her to wake up. I nag her to get dressed. I nag her to pee and eat breakfast. Breakfast is the most annoying part. She'll sit quietly in front of her food until I urge her to take a bite. This process repeats until she's out of time and I tell her to get up and brush her teeth.
At that moment, and not one moment earlier, she furiously starts shoveling down her breakfast. I asked her the other day why she paws at her breakfast listlessly until she's out of time. Why only then does she begin to eat? My daughter contemplated this for a moment and then concluded, "Because that's when it's most delicious!"
Fair enough.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Ok, final notes on my Vegas trip, then we're back to the usual cutesy stories about daughter taking a crap, or maybe tips on how to more efficiently stare into space.
In no particular order:
1) The Palms casino was hosting what they called "Dennis Rodman's Birthday Party". Sure enough, I saw Dennis exiting the casino and getting into a Palms Escalade. I yelled "Happy birthday, Dennis!" to him and refrained from tacking on "you big prick!"
I'm pretty sure he waved back. Big Daddy agreed that it was a wave, but that it only included one finger.
2) The showrooms at the Riviera casino are literally infested with giant flying beetles and moths. Although the showgirls took the infestation in naked stride, the comedians were visibly flustered. The comedy show was the very worst I have ever seen. Not only did they use old jokes that you'd see in an Internet email, but watching the comedians get freaked out over the beetles was easily the funniest thing on stage.
3) If you only have time to see one poorly-lit, vermin-infested, awkwardly-choreographed topless revue this year, I highly recommend the Crazy Girls show at the Riviera.
Seriously, what's with the poorly lit topless revue? You've got a stage full of attractive women with expensive implants and you're not going to bath them in light? Idiots! There was one number where they kept the spotlight trained on the women's faces. Crikey, it's not the stage version of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, it's Crazy Girls, a T&A show.
Frankly, the girls weren't even crazy. Judging by their pained smiles and stilted movements, I'd guess they were merely constipated.
4) Big Daddy is good friends with an interior designer. He tells me that copper is the new stainless steel. It's times like these that I hate being such a fashionista. All new cock rings for 2005.
5) We spent an hour at the piano bar in Harrah's which featured dueling piano players whose repertoire consisted entirely of songs that everyone can sing in their sleep. Watching drunken casino guests sing and stumble around to the cheesiest hits of the 90s, 80s, 70, and 60s was fairly entertaining. I was able to make some astute observations about my fellow humans:
- If you are a drunk cute overweight woman, you LOVE, I mean LOOOOOVE Bon Jovi. Based on the 10-or-so data points I saw that evening, this is a statistical fact.
- If you are a drunk Marine in a piano bar, you LOOOVE the song YMCA, and are gay. No worries, I won't tell.
6) Everyone was laughing and playing grab-ass on the flight into Vegas. Everyone was asleep on the flight out.
Next time I am absolutely going to have one of those trips to Vegas where everyone comes home all sheepish and embarrassed and infected. This time, what happened in Vegas, ended up in this blog. Oooh, I think there's a whole line of T-shirts in this theme:
"I went to Vegas, and all I got was this lousy blog post"
"My husband went to Vegas, and all I got was this lousy case of gonorrhea"
Eh, maybe not.
In no particular order:
1) The Palms casino was hosting what they called "Dennis Rodman's Birthday Party". Sure enough, I saw Dennis exiting the casino and getting into a Palms Escalade. I yelled "Happy birthday, Dennis!" to him and refrained from tacking on "you big prick!"
I'm pretty sure he waved back. Big Daddy agreed that it was a wave, but that it only included one finger.
2) The showrooms at the Riviera casino are literally infested with giant flying beetles and moths. Although the showgirls took the infestation in naked stride, the comedians were visibly flustered. The comedy show was the very worst I have ever seen. Not only did they use old jokes that you'd see in an Internet email, but watching the comedians get freaked out over the beetles was easily the funniest thing on stage.
3) If you only have time to see one poorly-lit, vermin-infested, awkwardly-choreographed topless revue this year, I highly recommend the Crazy Girls show at the Riviera.
Seriously, what's with the poorly lit topless revue? You've got a stage full of attractive women with expensive implants and you're not going to bath them in light? Idiots! There was one number where they kept the spotlight trained on the women's faces. Crikey, it's not the stage version of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, it's Crazy Girls, a T&A show.
Frankly, the girls weren't even crazy. Judging by their pained smiles and stilted movements, I'd guess they were merely constipated.
4) Big Daddy is good friends with an interior designer. He tells me that copper is the new stainless steel. It's times like these that I hate being such a fashionista. All new cock rings for 2005.
5) We spent an hour at the piano bar in Harrah's which featured dueling piano players whose repertoire consisted entirely of songs that everyone can sing in their sleep. Watching drunken casino guests sing and stumble around to the cheesiest hits of the 90s, 80s, 70, and 60s was fairly entertaining. I was able to make some astute observations about my fellow humans:
- If you are a drunk cute overweight woman, you LOVE, I mean LOOOOOVE Bon Jovi. Based on the 10-or-so data points I saw that evening, this is a statistical fact.
- If you are a drunk Marine in a piano bar, you LOOOVE the song YMCA, and are gay. No worries, I won't tell.
6) Everyone was laughing and playing grab-ass on the flight into Vegas. Everyone was asleep on the flight out.
Next time I am absolutely going to have one of those trips to Vegas where everyone comes home all sheepish and embarrassed and infected. This time, what happened in Vegas, ended up in this blog. Oooh, I think there's a whole line of T-shirts in this theme:
"I went to Vegas, and all I got was this lousy blog post"
"My husband went to Vegas, and all I got was this lousy case of gonorrhea"
Eh, maybe not.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
My favorite part of the Vegas trip (aside from spending time with friends blah blah blah) was playing in a poker tournament. I learned a little bit about poker and ...cue the cheesy music....a little bit about myself.
Poker is both a game that I should be good at and a game that I should be terrible at. I should be good at it because I'm a even-keeled guy guy who is capable of calculating odds. I should be terrible at poker because it requires being able to read your opponents and I SUCK at reading people. I was eager to play in a real poker tournament and see how it all turned out.
So, on Saturday at noon, I sat down at a poker table at the lovely Rio casino for their daily Texas Hold 'Em No Limit tournament. I plunked down my $40 and was given $1500 in funny-money chips. About 100 other people did the same, as did The Dentist, to whom I had just spent the previous 90 minutes teaching the non-subtleties of the game.
I was hoping there would be a bunch of bluffers at my table, because my poker book recommends a conservative approach against them. That's what I'm most comfortable with. If they're all very conservative, then I'm supposed to bluff aggressively, which I suck at. So, my strategy was to take advantage of the idiots and the bluffers and then just get lucky after that. Brilliant!
After a few hands, I was able to make some generalizations about other players at the table. Out of my 9 opponents, only one of them seemed to be a bluffer. The rest of them seemed to be playing competently and conservatively. AAAAAAAH! Where were the I'll-call-anything morons? Things looked grim.
One guy at the table was the unintentional comic relief. He was a big frat-boy type who kept yammering incessantly. He failed to realize that when you start a story by saying, "Do you want to hear the funniest poker story ever?", not only will my answer be "No!", but even if your story is the 2nd funniest poker story of all time, you've still disappointed your audience. Also, his idea was witty repartee was to say, "And that's why I stay home and jerk off." Dude! Too Much Information!
His big move was to stare at everyone involved in the pot before deciding what to do with his cards each time. At one point when he and I were contesting a pot, he tried to stare me down and I gave him a big stage wink. Next round he stared at me again, so I upped the ante by giving him the stage wink AND a big cheesy smile. At the end of the hand he smiled at me and said, "I'm your huckleberry." I wasn't sure what this meant, but I was scared that I just made a date.
After an hour of play, I had already bought another $1500 worth of funny-money chips for $40 (which everyone did) and I had managed to lose almost all of it. I was down to about $400. The one bluffer was long-gone, so it was me and a bunch of decent players who had more chips than me. The technical term for this situation is "crap". There was a break at the one-hour mark, so I went over to chat with The Dentist who had been playing at another table.
Within a minute, the frat boy descended upon us. We had the most bizarre conversation I've had in a long time.
Frat Boy: (pointing at me) I want YOU to represent the table!
Me: Huh?
Frat Boy: (a faint whiff of booze coming from his mouth) I want you to start representing the table!
Me: Uh, I have no idea what you're asking me to do.
Frat Boy: Look, when Internet Boy has 9's or less, he folds. When he has Jacks or better, he raises! That's all you need to know.
I puzzled this statement for a minute and then remembered that he had referred to the guy to the left of me as Internet Boy during the game at one point. I don't know why that guy got to be Internet Boy instead of me, but it didn't seem wise to try and claim the title at this point in time.
Me: Ok.
Frat Boy: Got that? 9's or less and he folds. Jacks or better and he raises! So, push him around!
Me: I've only got $400 at this point, I'm not pushing anyone around...
Frat Boy: NO! I don't want to hear that. 9's or less and he folds! Just do it!
This advice seemed about as good as his breath. Regardless I recognized that he was A Crazy Man and I needed to just start agreeing with him to make him go away.
Me: (crossing my arms in front of me) Okay!
Frat Boy: You take care of your half of the table and I'll take care of mine!
Me: Alrighty! I'll take care of mine.
FratBoy: You know, when your arms are crossed it means that you're unapproachable:
Me: SO WHY DID YOU APPROACH ME?
Frat Boy: I don't give a shit.
Me: Lucky me.
Frat Boy: Look, just take care of your half of the table and I'll take care of mine. Then I'll see you at the FINAL TABLE! (puts out his fist so that I can give him some sort of male-bonding-gone-awry fist-punch)
Me: Uh (awkwardly raising my fist as though I had never made one before), ok.
Frat Boy: I can GUARANTEE you that I'll be there!
And then, having felt the silky touch of my dainty knuckles, he left. I debriefed with The Dentist and we agreed that was the previous minute or two had made zero sense whatsoever.
I went back to my table and promptly got dealt a King and a Jack. Given that I had very few chips it made sense to gamble on this hand. I made my move and declared "All In". Internet Boy on my left promptly folded as did almost everyone else. One guy called my bet and I ended up beating his hand. I had doubled up to $800. Frat Boy caught my eye and gave me a "I told you so!" smile. I refrained from informing him that I wasn't acting on his advice or trying to advance our imaginary partnership.
I went all-in again two hands later and won that one too. Frat Boy raised an eyebrow at me knowingly. I said, "Gee, I guess he had 9's or less."
"Shhh! Don't talk about it!" Frat Boy whispered angrily across the table. Super, not only did Frat Boy think that I was on his team, he thought I was a crummy member of it. Good god.
After another win or two, I did claw my way back to respectibility. At one point, at the two-hour mark in the tournament, I had a Queen and a Jack, and the flop (three cards that are shared by all players) turned out to be a Jack, 10 and 3. It was very likely that I had the best hand, and the only other player in the pot was a recent addition to our table who had been bluffing a lot. He made a big bet and I went all in on his ass. He called my bet and we flipped our cards. He was holding a 10 and 7.
So, I was had a pair of Jacks to his pair of 10s. The dealer flipped the next card and it was a 6. I'm still winning. The final card came up and it was a....10! That gave Mr. Bluffer three 10s, beating my pair of Jacks.
Doh! And I'm out of the tournament.
The Dentist had also gotten knocked out, so we made our exit. We did, however, stop back by the poker room a few hours later to see if Frat Boy had made it to the final table. Pleasingly, I noted he had not.
Now, flash forward to Sunday night.
I'm back in San Francisco, and the wife and I are out for Date Night, having deposited our child in the care of her aunt. We went to go see Sin City, which I enjoyed, but was easily the most violent and gory movie I had seen in a while.
Three-quarters of the way through the movie, a couple comes into the theater carrying their small daughter, who looked to be between one and two years old. They came over to sit next to me. I stared at them aghast and said, "A baby!?!", stunned that they would bring a toddler into an obviously gory movie. They ignored me and sat down.
I immediately felt aggressive, dismayed at their bad parenting and annoyed by the rudeness of bothering the rest of us with a soon-to-be-whining small child. Without thinking, I became territorial and took control of the armrest. The father made a timid play for it, but I stood firm.
This is EXTREMELY bizarre behavior for me. I NEVER confront strangers. In fact, I never say anything to people in a movie theater unless they're part of the 2% of society that I can successfully beat up (essentially just small children). Somehow, it felt natural despite the fact he was among the small 98% of people who could kick my ass.
I turned towards the man and stared at him. After a few seconds, I could see him trying to check me out in his peripheral vision. I kept staring and loudly said, "YOU CAN'T BRING A BABY TO THIS MOVIE." The man ignored me a for a while longer, but then his kid started whining, as you'd expect from a small child in an unpleasant movie.
With me staring, and the kid whining, the man couldn't take the heat. He stood up with his kid and moved to the front row, leaving his wife in our row. After a couple minutes there, his kid started to sing "Daaaa-ddy. Daaa-ddy. Daaa-ddy" fairly insistently and the whole theater could hear. After about 30 seconds of this, he got up, signaled to his wife, and they both left.
VICTORY!
Granted, the guy probably left more because he couldn't shut up his kid rather than being purely intimidated by my show of manliness, but clearly I had applied some pressure here. I was all up in his bizness!
So, after he leaves, I'm left wondering why I chose this particular moment in life to confront a stranger. Why him? I'd like to think it's because I was so concerned about the emotional health of his small child, but I think a truer reason was that I had just spent two hours the previous day trying to be aggressive to strangers. Poker had been training me to do this sort of thing. However, if that guy had turned to me and yelled "Shut up, bitch!" I probably would have meekly turned towards the movie, or perhaps left the theater, or maybe just wept a bit. But that didn't happen. I bluffed the guy. I was strangely comfortable being aggressive to someone I didn't know.
Thanks, poker! I'm now more of an asshole and I have you to thank.
Poker is both a game that I should be good at and a game that I should be terrible at. I should be good at it because I'm a even-keeled guy guy who is capable of calculating odds. I should be terrible at poker because it requires being able to read your opponents and I SUCK at reading people. I was eager to play in a real poker tournament and see how it all turned out.
So, on Saturday at noon, I sat down at a poker table at the lovely Rio casino for their daily Texas Hold 'Em No Limit tournament. I plunked down my $40 and was given $1500 in funny-money chips. About 100 other people did the same, as did The Dentist, to whom I had just spent the previous 90 minutes teaching the non-subtleties of the game.
I was hoping there would be a bunch of bluffers at my table, because my poker book recommends a conservative approach against them. That's what I'm most comfortable with. If they're all very conservative, then I'm supposed to bluff aggressively, which I suck at. So, my strategy was to take advantage of the idiots and the bluffers and then just get lucky after that. Brilliant!
After a few hands, I was able to make some generalizations about other players at the table. Out of my 9 opponents, only one of them seemed to be a bluffer. The rest of them seemed to be playing competently and conservatively. AAAAAAAH! Where were the I'll-call-anything morons? Things looked grim.
One guy at the table was the unintentional comic relief. He was a big frat-boy type who kept yammering incessantly. He failed to realize that when you start a story by saying, "Do you want to hear the funniest poker story ever?", not only will my answer be "No!", but even if your story is the 2nd funniest poker story of all time, you've still disappointed your audience. Also, his idea was witty repartee was to say, "And that's why I stay home and jerk off." Dude! Too Much Information!
His big move was to stare at everyone involved in the pot before deciding what to do with his cards each time. At one point when he and I were contesting a pot, he tried to stare me down and I gave him a big stage wink. Next round he stared at me again, so I upped the ante by giving him the stage wink AND a big cheesy smile. At the end of the hand he smiled at me and said, "I'm your huckleberry." I wasn't sure what this meant, but I was scared that I just made a date.
After an hour of play, I had already bought another $1500 worth of funny-money chips for $40 (which everyone did) and I had managed to lose almost all of it. I was down to about $400. The one bluffer was long-gone, so it was me and a bunch of decent players who had more chips than me. The technical term for this situation is "crap". There was a break at the one-hour mark, so I went over to chat with The Dentist who had been playing at another table.
Within a minute, the frat boy descended upon us. We had the most bizarre conversation I've had in a long time.
Frat Boy: (pointing at me) I want YOU to represent the table!
Me: Huh?
Frat Boy: (a faint whiff of booze coming from his mouth) I want you to start representing the table!
Me: Uh, I have no idea what you're asking me to do.
Frat Boy: Look, when Internet Boy has 9's or less, he folds. When he has Jacks or better, he raises! That's all you need to know.
I puzzled this statement for a minute and then remembered that he had referred to the guy to the left of me as Internet Boy during the game at one point. I don't know why that guy got to be Internet Boy instead of me, but it didn't seem wise to try and claim the title at this point in time.
Me: Ok.
Frat Boy: Got that? 9's or less and he folds. Jacks or better and he raises! So, push him around!
Me: I've only got $400 at this point, I'm not pushing anyone around...
Frat Boy: NO! I don't want to hear that. 9's or less and he folds! Just do it!
This advice seemed about as good as his breath. Regardless I recognized that he was A Crazy Man and I needed to just start agreeing with him to make him go away.
Me: (crossing my arms in front of me) Okay!
Frat Boy: You take care of your half of the table and I'll take care of mine!
Me: Alrighty! I'll take care of mine.
FratBoy: You know, when your arms are crossed it means that you're unapproachable:
Me: SO WHY DID YOU APPROACH ME?
Frat Boy: I don't give a shit.
Me: Lucky me.
Frat Boy: Look, just take care of your half of the table and I'll take care of mine. Then I'll see you at the FINAL TABLE! (puts out his fist so that I can give him some sort of male-bonding-gone-awry fist-punch)
Me: Uh (awkwardly raising my fist as though I had never made one before), ok.
Frat Boy: I can GUARANTEE you that I'll be there!
And then, having felt the silky touch of my dainty knuckles, he left. I debriefed with The Dentist and we agreed that was the previous minute or two had made zero sense whatsoever.
I went back to my table and promptly got dealt a King and a Jack. Given that I had very few chips it made sense to gamble on this hand. I made my move and declared "All In". Internet Boy on my left promptly folded as did almost everyone else. One guy called my bet and I ended up beating his hand. I had doubled up to $800. Frat Boy caught my eye and gave me a "I told you so!" smile. I refrained from informing him that I wasn't acting on his advice or trying to advance our imaginary partnership.
I went all-in again two hands later and won that one too. Frat Boy raised an eyebrow at me knowingly. I said, "Gee, I guess he had 9's or less."
"Shhh! Don't talk about it!" Frat Boy whispered angrily across the table. Super, not only did Frat Boy think that I was on his team, he thought I was a crummy member of it. Good god.
After another win or two, I did claw my way back to respectibility. At one point, at the two-hour mark in the tournament, I had a Queen and a Jack, and the flop (three cards that are shared by all players) turned out to be a Jack, 10 and 3. It was very likely that I had the best hand, and the only other player in the pot was a recent addition to our table who had been bluffing a lot. He made a big bet and I went all in on his ass. He called my bet and we flipped our cards. He was holding a 10 and 7.
So, I was had a pair of Jacks to his pair of 10s. The dealer flipped the next card and it was a 6. I'm still winning. The final card came up and it was a....10! That gave Mr. Bluffer three 10s, beating my pair of Jacks.
Doh! And I'm out of the tournament.
The Dentist had also gotten knocked out, so we made our exit. We did, however, stop back by the poker room a few hours later to see if Frat Boy had made it to the final table. Pleasingly, I noted he had not.
Now, flash forward to Sunday night.
I'm back in San Francisco, and the wife and I are out for Date Night, having deposited our child in the care of her aunt. We went to go see Sin City, which I enjoyed, but was easily the most violent and gory movie I had seen in a while.
Three-quarters of the way through the movie, a couple comes into the theater carrying their small daughter, who looked to be between one and two years old. They came over to sit next to me. I stared at them aghast and said, "A baby!?!", stunned that they would bring a toddler into an obviously gory movie. They ignored me and sat down.
I immediately felt aggressive, dismayed at their bad parenting and annoyed by the rudeness of bothering the rest of us with a soon-to-be-whining small child. Without thinking, I became territorial and took control of the armrest. The father made a timid play for it, but I stood firm.
This is EXTREMELY bizarre behavior for me. I NEVER confront strangers. In fact, I never say anything to people in a movie theater unless they're part of the 2% of society that I can successfully beat up (essentially just small children). Somehow, it felt natural despite the fact he was among the small 98% of people who could kick my ass.
I turned towards the man and stared at him. After a few seconds, I could see him trying to check me out in his peripheral vision. I kept staring and loudly said, "YOU CAN'T BRING A BABY TO THIS MOVIE." The man ignored me a for a while longer, but then his kid started whining, as you'd expect from a small child in an unpleasant movie.
With me staring, and the kid whining, the man couldn't take the heat. He stood up with his kid and moved to the front row, leaving his wife in our row. After a couple minutes there, his kid started to sing "Daaaa-ddy. Daaa-ddy. Daaa-ddy" fairly insistently and the whole theater could hear. After about 30 seconds of this, he got up, signaled to his wife, and they both left.
VICTORY!
Granted, the guy probably left more because he couldn't shut up his kid rather than being purely intimidated by my show of manliness, but clearly I had applied some pressure here. I was all up in his bizness!
So, after he leaves, I'm left wondering why I chose this particular moment in life to confront a stranger. Why him? I'd like to think it's because I was so concerned about the emotional health of his small child, but I think a truer reason was that I had just spent two hours the previous day trying to be aggressive to strangers. Poker had been training me to do this sort of thing. However, if that guy had turned to me and yelled "Shut up, bitch!" I probably would have meekly turned towards the movie, or perhaps left the theater, or maybe just wept a bit. But that didn't happen. I bluffed the guy. I was strangely comfortable being aggressive to someone I didn't know.
Thanks, poker! I'm now more of an asshole and I have you to thank.
Monday, May 16, 2005
I really like the two guys I went to Vegas with. They are both nice, smart, fun guys. Hell, I lived with one of them for 3 years. I would happily hang out with these guys anytime.
Now that that disclaimer is out of the way, let the mocking commence.
One of the guys, my ex-roommate suggested that we should all have nicknames for our Vegas weekend. This was suggested tongue-in-cheek, but the proposal was adopted. Thus, I became "Ace" (due to my card-playing expertise and general coolness), my ex-roommie became "Big Daddy" (for no discernable reason), and the other guy became "The Dentist" for a reason that's more convoluted than funny.
I didn't know The Dentist particularly well, but Big Daddy said that The Dentist would be "partying like an imbecile." I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but given that they're both doctors, I figured I'd be in good hands.
I arrived in Vegas at around 6:00pm on Friday night, meeting up with Big Daddy who had already been there for a day. He was in town for a series of cardiac-related classes, that would take place from 8:00am to noon for the next several days. The Dentist wasn't due to arrive until around midnight, so we entertained ourselves with some food, a crappy show, aimless wandering, an hour of blackjack, and a couple of free drinks.
Walking around with Big Daddy was pretty funny. We were strolling along the Strip, chatting, and eventually we'd get to a red light and have to wait along with 200 other pedestrians. Often, the crowd would spot an opening in traffic and just cross the street against the light. In a crowd of 200 people, it's a pretty safe maneuver. I'd step off the curb, protected by the drunken masses while Big Daddy stared bug-eyed at my recklessness. I must have screamed, "Don't be a pussy!" at him a half-dozen times that weekend. What a pussy (no offense).
By the time midnight rolled around, I was pretty tired. I had been sleeping very poorly all week. Big Daddy cautioned me that we still had a long night ahead of us because The Dentist liked to work hard and play hard. "Very intense guy", he ominously warned me.
The Dentist arrived shortly thereafter declared that it was time for us to do some shots. I put on my party face and gamely followed him and Big Daddy down to the bar. I wasn't going to wuss out. I was going to do the stupid manly thing and bravely drink as many shots as it took.
Big Daddy and The Dentist almost immediately launched into a discussion of the finer points of cardiac catheterization. I followed a few steps behind them, taking notes in my PDA about how rockin' our weekend was starting off.
Party on.
We got to the bar and I asked The Dentist what we were drinking. "Kamikazes!" he replied. No offense to my large WWII Veteran readership, but those sounded pretty good. Kamikazes go down smoothly, so it's pretty easy to pound a few of them. Big Daddy watched, but refused to take part, wary of his his 8:00am cardiac class the next morning.
The Dentist and I sucked down our drinks and amicably chatted for a few minutes before he blurted out, "I'm so buzzed!!" He confessed that he wasn't much of a drinker. I was forced to agree.
I'm not a big drunkard, but one drink? One drink?!?! Christ, that's just embarrassing. I decided to assume that he was drinking on an empty stomach and nothing more was said of the matter. Frankly, going to bed sober sounded pretty good to me, given that I knew Saturday was going to be a long and booze-filled day.
Saturday was pretty good. We did a lot of aimless wandering and some good gaming (more details in another blog entry). That night, on our way to see a show, we decided to get liquored up beforehand for maximum show-enjoyment. We had just finished a big dinner, so some vigorous drinking was required. The Dentist suggested cosmopolitans as a drink choice, but I explained that we weren't women, so we settled on a first round of Long Island iced teas.
A few minutes later Big Daddy exclaimed, "Whoa, I'm buzzed!"
The Dentist immediately replied, "Oh, I am DRUNK!".
Ok, I know they're Long Island iced teas, which are essentially twice the alcohol of a typical drink, but COME ON! We're grown men! With full stomachs! One freakin' drink??? These guys were cheap dates.
More tomorrow, but those were my Vegas buddies. In their defense, I must admit that I did learn more than a little bit about cardiac catheterization.
Now that that disclaimer is out of the way, let the mocking commence.
One of the guys, my ex-roommate suggested that we should all have nicknames for our Vegas weekend. This was suggested tongue-in-cheek, but the proposal was adopted. Thus, I became "Ace" (due to my card-playing expertise and general coolness), my ex-roommie became "Big Daddy" (for no discernable reason), and the other guy became "The Dentist" for a reason that's more convoluted than funny.
I didn't know The Dentist particularly well, but Big Daddy said that The Dentist would be "partying like an imbecile." I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but given that they're both doctors, I figured I'd be in good hands.
I arrived in Vegas at around 6:00pm on Friday night, meeting up with Big Daddy who had already been there for a day. He was in town for a series of cardiac-related classes, that would take place from 8:00am to noon for the next several days. The Dentist wasn't due to arrive until around midnight, so we entertained ourselves with some food, a crappy show, aimless wandering, an hour of blackjack, and a couple of free drinks.
Walking around with Big Daddy was pretty funny. We were strolling along the Strip, chatting, and eventually we'd get to a red light and have to wait along with 200 other pedestrians. Often, the crowd would spot an opening in traffic and just cross the street against the light. In a crowd of 200 people, it's a pretty safe maneuver. I'd step off the curb, protected by the drunken masses while Big Daddy stared bug-eyed at my recklessness. I must have screamed, "Don't be a pussy!" at him a half-dozen times that weekend. What a pussy (no offense).
By the time midnight rolled around, I was pretty tired. I had been sleeping very poorly all week. Big Daddy cautioned me that we still had a long night ahead of us because The Dentist liked to work hard and play hard. "Very intense guy", he ominously warned me.
The Dentist arrived shortly thereafter declared that it was time for us to do some shots. I put on my party face and gamely followed him and Big Daddy down to the bar. I wasn't going to wuss out. I was going to do the stupid manly thing and bravely drink as many shots as it took.
Big Daddy and The Dentist almost immediately launched into a discussion of the finer points of cardiac catheterization. I followed a few steps behind them, taking notes in my PDA about how rockin' our weekend was starting off.
Party on.
We got to the bar and I asked The Dentist what we were drinking. "Kamikazes!" he replied. No offense to my large WWII Veteran readership, but those sounded pretty good. Kamikazes go down smoothly, so it's pretty easy to pound a few of them. Big Daddy watched, but refused to take part, wary of his his 8:00am cardiac class the next morning.
The Dentist and I sucked down our drinks and amicably chatted for a few minutes before he blurted out, "I'm so buzzed!!" He confessed that he wasn't much of a drinker. I was forced to agree.
I'm not a big drunkard, but one drink? One drink?!?! Christ, that's just embarrassing. I decided to assume that he was drinking on an empty stomach and nothing more was said of the matter. Frankly, going to bed sober sounded pretty good to me, given that I knew Saturday was going to be a long and booze-filled day.
Saturday was pretty good. We did a lot of aimless wandering and some good gaming (more details in another blog entry). That night, on our way to see a show, we decided to get liquored up beforehand for maximum show-enjoyment. We had just finished a big dinner, so some vigorous drinking was required. The Dentist suggested cosmopolitans as a drink choice, but I explained that we weren't women, so we settled on a first round of Long Island iced teas.
A few minutes later Big Daddy exclaimed, "Whoa, I'm buzzed!"
The Dentist immediately replied, "Oh, I am DRUNK!".
Ok, I know they're Long Island iced teas, which are essentially twice the alcohol of a typical drink, but COME ON! We're grown men! With full stomachs! One freakin' drink??? These guys were cheap dates.
More tomorrow, but those were my Vegas buddies. In their defense, I must admit that I did learn more than a little bit about cardiac catheterization.
Friday, May 13, 2005
A few weeks ago I took a trip to Boston for the marathon and wrote gobs of entries before and after the trip about the marathon. My site visits promptly dropped. I'm forced to conclude that marathoning is as exciting to read about as it is to perform.
So, in an effort to garner more material for this blog, I'm going to Vegas for the next two nights. I do this for YOU! YOU ARE WELCOME, INGRATES!
Although I'm jonesing to spend my 36 hours there doing nothing but poker, blackjack, and baseball bets, I'll try to do something blogworthy, like maybe vomit in a funny place or accidentally have sex with a transvestite. Whoops!
Hi, my name is Mike and I'm a compulsive gambler.
My two traveling companions on this trip are both doctors, one practicing and one academic. A computer programmer, a doctor, and a professor walk into a casino... Unfortunately, neither one of these bastards is much of a gambler. They'll play a little video poker, but nothing manly. It's going to be hard to feed my addiction while dragging around these MDs, but I'm a persistent man.
Anyways, Internet, please take good care of my wife and child while I'm gone. Thanks.
So, in an effort to garner more material for this blog, I'm going to Vegas for the next two nights. I do this for YOU! YOU ARE WELCOME, INGRATES!
Although I'm jonesing to spend my 36 hours there doing nothing but poker, blackjack, and baseball bets, I'll try to do something blogworthy, like maybe vomit in a funny place or accidentally have sex with a transvestite. Whoops!
Hi, my name is Mike and I'm a compulsive gambler.
My two traveling companions on this trip are both doctors, one practicing and one academic. A computer programmer, a doctor, and a professor walk into a casino... Unfortunately, neither one of these bastards is much of a gambler. They'll play a little video poker, but nothing manly. It's going to be hard to feed my addiction while dragging around these MDs, but I'm a persistent man.
Anyways, Internet, please take good care of my wife and child while I'm gone. Thanks.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Computers have viruses, humans have STDs, snail mail has chain letters and blogs have the insipid question lists. Evil blogger Louie, of As Told To (your name here), "tagged" me as the next stooge to fill out this list. Because I am a sheep at heart, here I go.
This odd exercise requires me to accept the list of unfinished statements below, perhaps add a few, and then finish 5 of them. Then, I get the pleasure of propagating thisvirus list onwards. Seems like the list of questions grow forever, but who am I to judge?
If I could be an assassin's bullet (Mike/Ogblay)
If I could be a member of the opposite sex (Mike/Ogblay)
If I could be a list of blog questions (Mike/Ogblay)
If I could be a ninja (Tinyhands)
If I could be a fly on the wall (Tinyhands)
If I could be a rodeo clown (Tinyhands)
If I could be a celebrity (Tinyhands)
If I could be totally at peace (April)
If I could be on the other side of the world (April)
If I could be a cat burgler (April)
If I could be a supermodel (April)
If I could be in a movie (April)
If I could be a music executive (The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a grandparent(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a computer hacker(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a professional basketball player(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a Customer Service Representative(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be an artist
If I could be a marketing director
If I could be a nanny
If I could be a psychic
If I could be an emergency medical technician
If I could be a firefighter
If I could be a designer
If I could be a policeman/woman
If I could be a teacher
If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a musician
If I could be a doctor
If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionary
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer
If I could be an innkeeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer
If I could be a llama-rider(by Ogre)
If I could be a bonnie pirate(By Teach)
If I could be a servicemember(By Jeremy)
If I could be a business owner(By Blue 944)
If I could be an actor(By Blue 944)
If I could be an agent(By KelBel)
If I could be video game designer(By KelBel)
If I could be a comic book artist(By Stoli)
If I could be a hooker(By Pollo Loco)
If I could be a crack addict(by Elizabeth)
If I could be a porn star(by Elizabeth)
If I could be a mime(by Garrison)
If I could be a domestic engineer(by Rick)
If I could be a chimney sweep(by laine)
If I could be a masseuse(by laine)
If I could be a taxi driver(by Brian)
If I could be a priest(by Brian)
If I could be the Sherrif Of Nottingham(Karen)
If I could be a dancer(Karen)
If I could be Santa Claus(Karen)
If I could be on a reality TV show(Dawn)
If I could be a magician(Dawn)
If I could be a rich man
If I could be perfect
If I could be a comedian
Now.
If I could be a psychic, I'd spend my days looking into my future and then trying to change it, thus causing a rift in the space-time continuum. Stupid universe.
If I could be a could be a supermodel, I don't think people would buy that season's clothing line.
If I could be a porn star....could be?
If I could be a priest, I'd dismantle the church from the inside by espousing a archaic philosphy which discriminated against women and gays.
If I could be a magician, I'd make everyone forget this blog post. POOF!
I shall now "tag" the following people for the following reasons:
1) The Mincemeat Vixen - By bringing you down to this level, I seemingly elevate my cool factor. Seriously, do I not seem cooler (and taller) now?
2) Vivian to Some - I see that Mr. Tony Pierce keeps linking you. I'd like the world to know that I read your blog before they did.
3) Colby - This is your punishment for outing me.
This odd exercise requires me to accept the list of unfinished statements below, perhaps add a few, and then finish 5 of them. Then, I get the pleasure of propagating this
If I could be an assassin's bullet (Mike/Ogblay)
If I could be a member of the opposite sex (Mike/Ogblay)
If I could be a list of blog questions (Mike/Ogblay)
If I could be a ninja (Tinyhands)
If I could be a fly on the wall (Tinyhands)
If I could be a rodeo clown (Tinyhands)
If I could be a celebrity (Tinyhands)
If I could be totally at peace (April)
If I could be on the other side of the world (April)
If I could be a cat burgler (April)
If I could be a supermodel (April)
If I could be in a movie (April)
If I could be a music executive (The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a grandparent(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a computer hacker(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a professional basketball player(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be a Customer Service Representative(The Man In The Middle)
If I could be an artist
If I could be a marketing director
If I could be a nanny
If I could be a psychic
If I could be an emergency medical technician
If I could be a firefighter
If I could be a designer
If I could be a policeman/woman
If I could be a teacher
If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a musician
If I could be a doctor
If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionary
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer
If I could be an innkeeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer
If I could be a llama-rider(by Ogre)
If I could be a bonnie pirate(By Teach)
If I could be a servicemember(By Jeremy)
If I could be a business owner(By Blue 944)
If I could be an actor(By Blue 944)
If I could be an agent(By KelBel)
If I could be video game designer(By KelBel)
If I could be a comic book artist(By Stoli)
If I could be a hooker(By Pollo Loco)
If I could be a crack addict(by Elizabeth)
If I could be a porn star(by Elizabeth)
If I could be a mime(by Garrison)
If I could be a domestic engineer(by Rick)
If I could be a chimney sweep(by laine)
If I could be a masseuse(by laine)
If I could be a taxi driver(by Brian)
If I could be a priest(by Brian)
If I could be the Sherrif Of Nottingham(Karen)
If I could be a dancer(Karen)
If I could be Santa Claus(Karen)
If I could be on a reality TV show(Dawn)
If I could be a magician(Dawn)
If I could be a rich man
If I could be perfect
If I could be a comedian
Now.
If I could be a psychic, I'd spend my days looking into my future and then trying to change it, thus causing a rift in the space-time continuum. Stupid universe.
If I could be a could be a supermodel, I don't think people would buy that season's clothing line.
If I could be a porn star....could be?
If I could be a priest, I'd dismantle the church from the inside by espousing a archaic philosphy which discriminated against women and gays.
If I could be a magician, I'd make everyone forget this blog post. POOF!
I shall now "tag" the following people for the following reasons:
1) The Mincemeat Vixen - By bringing you down to this level, I seemingly elevate my cool factor. Seriously, do I not seem cooler (and taller) now?
2) Vivian to Some - I see that Mr. Tony Pierce keeps linking you. I'd like the world to know that I read your blog before they did.
3) Colby - This is your punishment for outing me.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
The nominees for Best Method of Communication Between Two People are:
A) Speaking, face to face
B) Instant messaging
C) Telephone
D) Lambada, the forbidden dance
And the winner is...
INSTANT MESSAGING!
Yes! Woooo, instant messaging! You kick ass!
Man, I really and truly do love instant messaging. It is my favorite form of communication these days. It's Mike (that's me!) at his best.
I find all other forms of communication to be flawed. Let's review.
Face to face speaking? That crap is a nightmare. First, there's the body language aspect of it that totally eludes me. When my wife puts her hand on her hip, does it mean that I'm a good husband or that she hates me? Or is she just copping a quick self-feel? Indecipherable.
Then, there's whole issue of eye contact. I AM A COMPUTER PROGRAMMER AND I DO NOT LIKE LOOKING YOU IN THE EYE. Are you trying to peer into my soul? Christ on a crutch, quit looking at me! And, if you're a woman with breasts, am I really supposed to be able to look you in the eye? That's patently absurd. Only magicians can do that.
Finally, it's too quick! No backspace to retract the ethnic slur that sounded ironic in my head. No adequate time to come up with a rhyme for testicle. No chance to construct a believably human facade.
Without a doubt, face to face speaking is unmanageable.
Phone calls? Well, they still have the immediacy problem that face-to-face speaking does. Just not enough time to respond with a sympathetic/humorous comment. Plus, I'm probably making online Scrabble moves, or watching TV while I'm talking to you, so you're really only getting 10% of my attention. It's a lose-lose proposition.
The Lambada, the forbidden dance? That's pretty good, but forbidden.
So, we're left with the Cadillac of conversation, instant messaging! I can copy and paste humorous anecdotes from one window to another! I can pause for a few seconds before responding to your fat-pitch setup comment! I can be the Mike I always wanted to pretend to be!
Congratulations, instant messaging. Your ASCII sensibilities rock my world.
A) Speaking, face to face
B) Instant messaging
C) Telephone
D) Lambada, the forbidden dance
And the winner is...
INSTANT MESSAGING!
Yes! Woooo, instant messaging! You kick ass!
Man, I really and truly do love instant messaging. It is my favorite form of communication these days. It's Mike (that's me!) at his best.
I find all other forms of communication to be flawed. Let's review.
Face to face speaking? That crap is a nightmare. First, there's the body language aspect of it that totally eludes me. When my wife puts her hand on her hip, does it mean that I'm a good husband or that she hates me? Or is she just copping a quick self-feel? Indecipherable.
Then, there's whole issue of eye contact. I AM A COMPUTER PROGRAMMER AND I DO NOT LIKE LOOKING YOU IN THE EYE. Are you trying to peer into my soul? Christ on a crutch, quit looking at me! And, if you're a woman with breasts, am I really supposed to be able to look you in the eye? That's patently absurd. Only magicians can do that.
Finally, it's too quick! No backspace to retract the ethnic slur that sounded ironic in my head. No adequate time to come up with a rhyme for testicle. No chance to construct a believably human facade.
Without a doubt, face to face speaking is unmanageable.
Phone calls? Well, they still have the immediacy problem that face-to-face speaking does. Just not enough time to respond with a sympathetic/humorous comment. Plus, I'm probably making online Scrabble moves, or watching TV while I'm talking to you, so you're really only getting 10% of my attention. It's a lose-lose proposition.
The Lambada, the forbidden dance? That's pretty good, but forbidden.
So, we're left with the Cadillac of conversation, instant messaging! I can copy and paste humorous anecdotes from one window to another! I can pause for a few seconds before responding to your fat-pitch setup comment! I can be the Mike I always wanted to pretend to be!
Congratulations, instant messaging. Your ASCII sensibilities rock my world.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Ok, Mike, think of something good to blog...NOW!
Crap.
My wife thinks I should do a post on the goofy names for nail polish colors. She went for a manicure this weekend and bounded home with tales of colors like "Persimmon Confusion" and "Pretentiously Overpriced Pink". I just don't think I have it in me though. I've recently done posts on hair-salon-naming-algorithms and deoderant names gone awry. That's probably all the product-name mockery I have in me right now. That dead horse has been kicked adequately. Well, kicked is a bit strong, maybe nudged.
Yesterday was Mother's Day. I celebrated by giving my wife the remainder of her birthday presents. I didn't want to fall too far behind in the present-giving department. I'm only one back!
Also struggled through giving my mother a present. She's really hard to buy for. She's very minimalist and generally hates "stuff". Ever tried to buy presents for someone (3 times a year) who doesn't want any more things in the house? It's tough. The wife and I made a couple passes through the mall and eventually found some things for her to return. Happy Mother's Day, momma!
Crap.
My wife thinks I should do a post on the goofy names for nail polish colors. She went for a manicure this weekend and bounded home with tales of colors like "Persimmon Confusion" and "Pretentiously Overpriced Pink". I just don't think I have it in me though. I've recently done posts on hair-salon-naming-algorithms and deoderant names gone awry. That's probably all the product-name mockery I have in me right now. That dead horse has been kicked adequately. Well, kicked is a bit strong, maybe nudged.
Yesterday was Mother's Day. I celebrated by giving my wife the remainder of her birthday presents. I didn't want to fall too far behind in the present-giving department. I'm only one back!
Also struggled through giving my mother a present. She's really hard to buy for. She's very minimalist and generally hates "stuff". Ever tried to buy presents for someone (3 times a year) who doesn't want any more things in the house? It's tough. The wife and I made a couple passes through the mall and eventually found some things for her to return. Happy Mother's Day, momma!
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Here are some ways that my daughter's life will differ from all previous generations, technologically speaking:
- TiVo. For as long as my daughter has been allowed to see TV, she's always been able to select her program from a list of prerecorded shows. She doesn't understand the concept of channels, or just watching whatever crap happens to be on. There's always a Rolie Polie Olie or a House of Mouse for her (oh, and lots of educational programming, of course). When we encounter normal TV, like in a hotel, she's baffled. "Where's the list? Pause it! Oooh, rewind that part!"
Similarly, commercials are both alien and fascinating to her. She's seen so few, that she's mesmerized more by them than by the shows. - Phones. They're omnipresent. Want to call Grandma from the grocery store? Done. Also, I don't think my daughter has ever used a corded phone. We have one or two in the house, but they never get used.
- Information Superhighway. Information is available to my daughter at the parental press of a button. There is always at least one computer turned on in our house that has a high-speed connection to the Internet. The immediacy of information is startling to me, but expected to her.
Any time our family wonders something, my daughter will suggest that we look it up atdot com. For example, I'll say something like "I don't know how to build a time machine" and she'll say, "Oh, just go to time machine dot com!". (FYI, that's a crappy site. Virtually no information on time travel.) - ATMs. I think my daughter has been in an actual bank once. It's possible that it'll never happen again.
- Music. When there's a song she wants us to get, she understands that it'll come from a computer. She'll probably never buy a CD, and certainly not a tape or a record.
- Blogging. Her life will be excruciatingly documented for dozens of readers by an amateur writer. One day soon she'll realize this and be pissed.
- Travel. Soon, she'll use nothing but flying cars, jetpacks, and teleportation for trips to the store, or downstairs.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
My daughter eyed the Lifesaver in her hand. So shiny. So delicious.
"Momma, can I eat this candy?"
"No, sweetie. Maybe after dinner."
She trudged upstairs to her room to look at some books. Ominously, she closed her door.
My wife went upstairs a little while later to check in. She came back down and reported that our daughter was acting strangely. She wouldn't let my wife kiss her and refused to look my wife in the eye.
"I think she ate the candy."
I laughed. Our daughter is only five years old and doesn't really know how to lie yet. Further investigation was required. I went up to her room, knocked, and entered.
"Baby, did you eat that candy?" I gently asked, lowering my head a bit to see straight into her eyes.
"No." she answered flatly, meeting my gaze calmly.
This is new. That answer came out of her mouth way too smoothly for someone who stank of sweet fruity goodness.
"So, where is the candy?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's lost."
Dang! She's unflappable. This is NOT my child! My daughter cracks under the slightest interrogation. Deceit is alien to her! This was a troubling development for my good little girl. I blame other children and the public school system and TV. Anyone but me.
I looked her dead in the eye. "Honey, did you eat the candy?"
She paused, looked down, and sloooooowly dropped her head. It took about 10 full seconds for her head to travel from the normal level position to the shamed, head-down position. Once her head was fully hanging low, the mournful tears began.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!! I just waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah really wanted....waaaaaaaaaah! I'm waaaaaah sorry!"
Ah, there was the guilty reaction I was expecting. There's the remorse welling up inside her. I awkwardly snuggled up to her and put my arms around her sobbing little body. I told her that I loved her. I also realized that I was going to have to come up with some sort of disciplinary action. This felt strange. I gave her a little squeeze and pulled away.
"Sweetie, you weren't supposed to eat that candy, so I'm going to punish you. First, I need you to say you're sorry to your mother. She told you not to eat the candy and you did it anyway. You owe her an apology. Also, there will be no dessert tonight after dinner."
She nodded somberly at this pronouncement and I was relieved to have finished my little speech. I told her that I loved her again, and then I left her alone in her room, per her wishes.
I realized in hindsight that it was a completely inadequate punishment. The apology part was good, but asking her to skip dessert missed the mark. She probably just would have eaten that Lifesaver for dessert anyway, so it's really no net change in total sweets consumed. It's like punishing a thief by docking his pay to cover the price of the things he stole. In the end, he's no worse off than when he started.
Also, I didn't really address the worst part of all, the lying. Blech. This was her first real act of willful disobedience and cover-up, and I muffed the response.
Hmmph. Where's the do-over button? Reboot? Smart-bomb?
"Momma, can I eat this candy?"
"No, sweetie. Maybe after dinner."
She trudged upstairs to her room to look at some books. Ominously, she closed her door.
My wife went upstairs a little while later to check in. She came back down and reported that our daughter was acting strangely. She wouldn't let my wife kiss her and refused to look my wife in the eye.
"I think she ate the candy."
I laughed. Our daughter is only five years old and doesn't really know how to lie yet. Further investigation was required. I went up to her room, knocked, and entered.
"Baby, did you eat that candy?" I gently asked, lowering my head a bit to see straight into her eyes.
"No." she answered flatly, meeting my gaze calmly.
This is new. That answer came out of her mouth way too smoothly for someone who stank of sweet fruity goodness.
"So, where is the candy?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's lost."
Dang! She's unflappable. This is NOT my child! My daughter cracks under the slightest interrogation. Deceit is alien to her! This was a troubling development for my good little girl. I blame other children and the public school system and TV. Anyone but me.
I looked her dead in the eye. "Honey, did you eat the candy?"
She paused, looked down, and sloooooowly dropped her head. It took about 10 full seconds for her head to travel from the normal level position to the shamed, head-down position. Once her head was fully hanging low, the mournful tears began.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!! I just waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah really wanted....waaaaaaaaaah! I'm waaaaaah sorry!"
Ah, there was the guilty reaction I was expecting. There's the remorse welling up inside her. I awkwardly snuggled up to her and put my arms around her sobbing little body. I told her that I loved her. I also realized that I was going to have to come up with some sort of disciplinary action. This felt strange. I gave her a little squeeze and pulled away.
"Sweetie, you weren't supposed to eat that candy, so I'm going to punish you. First, I need you to say you're sorry to your mother. She told you not to eat the candy and you did it anyway. You owe her an apology. Also, there will be no dessert tonight after dinner."
She nodded somberly at this pronouncement and I was relieved to have finished my little speech. I told her that I loved her again, and then I left her alone in her room, per her wishes.
I realized in hindsight that it was a completely inadequate punishment. The apology part was good, but asking her to skip dessert missed the mark. She probably just would have eaten that Lifesaver for dessert anyway, so it's really no net change in total sweets consumed. It's like punishing a thief by docking his pay to cover the price of the things he stole. In the end, he's no worse off than when he started.
Also, I didn't really address the worst part of all, the lying. Blech. This was her first real act of willful disobedience and cover-up, and I muffed the response.
Hmmph. Where's the do-over button? Reboot? Smart-bomb?
Sunday, May 01, 2005
One of my big problems is that I don't give a crap.
I'd like my car to be shiny and dent-free, but I can't be bothered. It would be nice if my desk were tidy and not a major vector for infectious diseases, but that smacks of effort. Similarly, I am at odds with this collection of hairs on the top of my head.
Two conditions must be met for me to get my hair professionally groomed:
1) I have to have muttered the phrase "Goddamn, I need a haircut" at least 20 times since my last haircut.
AND
2) I must stumble across a barbershop/salon/scissor-factory that has no waiting line while muttering that phrase.
Then, and only then, will I suffer through the vanity maintenance ritual that is commonly known as a haircut. It's not that I hate haircuts, it's that I just don't give enough of a crap.
I've kept my hair the same way, give or take an inch, all my life. Early on in my relationship with wife, she made some subtle attempts to get me to change my hair style. I recall this actual conversation from our more lovey-dovey days:
Wife: Have you considered doing something different with your hair?
Me: Like what?
Wife: ANYTHING! ANYTHING BUT THIS!
Not being much of a mind-reader, I never quite understood what she was getting at. But getting a haircut is a whole different affair for her. She goes to upscale salons with names like (and, honest to god, I am not making this up) Architects and Heroes or Cowboys and Angels.
Oh, man, where do I start? I guess with indignation.
What the hell?!? Architects and Heroes would be a pretentious name for a firm that actually employed both architects and heroes, let alone just cosmetologists. I'm confused about why even one salon went with the Fill-in-Career and Fill-in-Mythic-Role madlib-style naming algorithm, and now it's some sort of trend?! Frankly, I don't even know how my wife managed to walk in there. Do you say to yourself, "My hair is structurally unsound and requires someone savvy with both blueprints and city permit legislation" or do you instead go with, "An evil super-villain has given me grey roots, IS THERE A HERO IN THE HOUSE??" ? Tough call.
(The mocking of Cowboys and Angels is left as an exercise for the reader.)
When my wife finally exits these places, she leaves with a bag full of "product". Even the bags themselves look like they're worth more than my entire head, let alone one of my haircuts. They're usually handwoven out of unicorn eyelashes and they smell like rainbows.
But I digress.
So, I'm wandering around San Francisco yesterday, trying to kill two hours while my car gets worked on, and I'm muttering to myself about needing a haircut, when I stumble across a mostly-empty salon. I think it was called Prisoners and Malcontents. Before I know it, I'm sitting in the special haircut chair, wearing my haircut poncho, and I'm being asked the question I can never answer: "How would you like your hair cut?". I gave my usual succinct answer.
"Well, uh...I guess nice. Yeah, nice. Maybe a bit shorter. Hmmmm. How about I tell you what I hate? I hate the hair over my ears. I trim that myself! (beaming, like an awkward five year-old proudly displaying artwork consisting of glue, glitter, and spilled apple juice) Also the hair in back is a mess. All higgle-piggledy! On top it's definitely too bushy. Oh, just make something my wife will like. Ok?"
Confident I had expertly explained what I needed, I sat back in silence, awaiting her masterpiece. No matter what was going to happen in the next 20 minutes or so, I was not going to kibitz. That would be like sending food back in a restaurant. I heard that the cooks spit in it if you do. Similarly, I keep my mouth shut in a salon. I definitely do not want my hairdresser spitting on my head.
For the next 30 minutes, the hairdresser took painstaking efforts to cut my hair to my exact specifications. She mercilessly trimmed the crap out of my sides and back. Those sections are now tapered down, ending in microscopically short hairs. Then, she just sort of waved the scissors at the top and front. Without exaggeration, I can honestly say that she cut about 3 or 4 millimeters off of the top.
Then, she used some sort of hair-yanking device. They LOOKED like thinning shears, presumably to address my bushiness, but she used them to just PULL the hairs out of my head. I sat there, gritting my teeth, while she wielded the yanking shears for a good 10 or 15 minutes.
My only distraction from the pain was when I looked down and was astonished to see that she had the hairiest toes I had ever seen on any human being. They were hobbit-hairy. I was only slightly relieved when I realized that those were MY hairs that had fallen onto her toes. Ewww! I can tell you that if I had a job that allowed pieces of other human beings to shower down on me, I would not wear open-toed shoes. But that's just me.
After all the debushifying (where was she in 2004??), she then rebushified my hair by fluffing it up with a blow-dryer and then hair-spraying it in place. I surveyed her work in the mirror. It was super short on the sides and in the back, and then tapered up into a big mop of neatly poofed hair on top. If you had given me a pony tail, and a couple of mod sidekicks, I would have looked like the guy in the middle here:
I hated it, but didn't really give enough of a crap to do anything about it. I said thanks, tipped her, and went home.
My wife was seemingly pleased to see that my hair at least looked a little different than when I had left. "Oh, it's nice!" she said a little too quickly. She persisted in saying that it was a fine hair cut despite my concern about the poofiness on top. It was only later that evening, once the house was filled with our friends for poker night, that she conceded that my hair was "a little 80's".
I tore off my legwarmers and we haven't spoken since.
I'd like my car to be shiny and dent-free, but I can't be bothered. It would be nice if my desk were tidy and not a major vector for infectious diseases, but that smacks of effort. Similarly, I am at odds with this collection of hairs on the top of my head.
Two conditions must be met for me to get my hair professionally groomed:
1) I have to have muttered the phrase "Goddamn, I need a haircut" at least 20 times since my last haircut.
AND
2) I must stumble across a barbershop/salon/scissor-factory that has no waiting line while muttering that phrase.
Then, and only then, will I suffer through the vanity maintenance ritual that is commonly known as a haircut. It's not that I hate haircuts, it's that I just don't give enough of a crap.
I've kept my hair the same way, give or take an inch, all my life. Early on in my relationship with wife, she made some subtle attempts to get me to change my hair style. I recall this actual conversation from our more lovey-dovey days:
Wife: Have you considered doing something different with your hair?
Me: Like what?
Wife: ANYTHING! ANYTHING BUT THIS!
Not being much of a mind-reader, I never quite understood what she was getting at. But getting a haircut is a whole different affair for her. She goes to upscale salons with names like (and, honest to god, I am not making this up) Architects and Heroes or Cowboys and Angels.
Oh, man, where do I start? I guess with indignation.
What the hell?!? Architects and Heroes would be a pretentious name for a firm that actually employed both architects and heroes, let alone just cosmetologists. I'm confused about why even one salon went with the Fill-in-Career and Fill-in-Mythic-Role madlib-style naming algorithm, and now it's some sort of trend?! Frankly, I don't even know how my wife managed to walk in there. Do you say to yourself, "My hair is structurally unsound and requires someone savvy with both blueprints and city permit legislation" or do you instead go with, "An evil super-villain has given me grey roots, IS THERE A HERO IN THE HOUSE??" ? Tough call.
(The mocking of Cowboys and Angels is left as an exercise for the reader.)
When my wife finally exits these places, she leaves with a bag full of "product". Even the bags themselves look like they're worth more than my entire head, let alone one of my haircuts. They're usually handwoven out of unicorn eyelashes and they smell like rainbows.
But I digress.
So, I'm wandering around San Francisco yesterday, trying to kill two hours while my car gets worked on, and I'm muttering to myself about needing a haircut, when I stumble across a mostly-empty salon. I think it was called Prisoners and Malcontents. Before I know it, I'm sitting in the special haircut chair, wearing my haircut poncho, and I'm being asked the question I can never answer: "How would you like your hair cut?". I gave my usual succinct answer.
"Well, uh...I guess nice. Yeah, nice. Maybe a bit shorter. Hmmmm. How about I tell you what I hate? I hate the hair over my ears. I trim that myself! (beaming, like an awkward five year-old proudly displaying artwork consisting of glue, glitter, and spilled apple juice) Also the hair in back is a mess. All higgle-piggledy! On top it's definitely too bushy. Oh, just make something my wife will like. Ok?"
Confident I had expertly explained what I needed, I sat back in silence, awaiting her masterpiece. No matter what was going to happen in the next 20 minutes or so, I was not going to kibitz. That would be like sending food back in a restaurant. I heard that the cooks spit in it if you do. Similarly, I keep my mouth shut in a salon. I definitely do not want my hairdresser spitting on my head.
For the next 30 minutes, the hairdresser took painstaking efforts to cut my hair to my exact specifications. She mercilessly trimmed the crap out of my sides and back. Those sections are now tapered down, ending in microscopically short hairs. Then, she just sort of waved the scissors at the top and front. Without exaggeration, I can honestly say that she cut about 3 or 4 millimeters off of the top.
Then, she used some sort of hair-yanking device. They LOOKED like thinning shears, presumably to address my bushiness, but she used them to just PULL the hairs out of my head. I sat there, gritting my teeth, while she wielded the yanking shears for a good 10 or 15 minutes.
My only distraction from the pain was when I looked down and was astonished to see that she had the hairiest toes I had ever seen on any human being. They were hobbit-hairy. I was only slightly relieved when I realized that those were MY hairs that had fallen onto her toes. Ewww! I can tell you that if I had a job that allowed pieces of other human beings to shower down on me, I would not wear open-toed shoes. But that's just me.
After all the debushifying (where was she in 2004??), she then rebushified my hair by fluffing it up with a blow-dryer and then hair-spraying it in place. I surveyed her work in the mirror. It was super short on the sides and in the back, and then tapered up into a big mop of neatly poofed hair on top. If you had given me a pony tail, and a couple of mod sidekicks, I would have looked like the guy in the middle here:
I hated it, but didn't really give enough of a crap to do anything about it. I said thanks, tipped her, and went home.
My wife was seemingly pleased to see that my hair at least looked a little different than when I had left. "Oh, it's nice!" she said a little too quickly. She persisted in saying that it was a fine hair cut despite my concern about the poofiness on top. It was only later that evening, once the house was filled with our friends for poker night, that she conceded that my hair was "a little 80's".
I tore off my legwarmers and we haven't spoken since.
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