As many of you long time readers know (I can say "long time" mostly seriously now) I have been gelded. Well, I still have them, they are just decorative now. If you haven't read those posts, I encourage you to do so, they are some of my better work. You can find them here and here. They are some of my better work, back when I could command double digit comments (maybe I am a comment whore after all...)
Anyway, back to the topic at hand. What the Frack?
As you are aware, the Wife is doing a lot of travel lately. Like every other week she is hopping on a plane. This seems to be affecting her physically. (Incidentally, I was going to have the John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane", but since he died on an airplane, I opted for Steve Miller.) I had been riding her pretty hard to see her doctor (yes, we reverse a lot of roles around here), and she finally went to see her doctor.
Well, she had two options. First, anti-depressants/anti-anxiety meds. Second, birth control pills. The Wife chose the second.
I guess I'd rather have her on birth control pills as opposed to anti-depressants, if for no other reason than stigma. Even if I know that they are being used for their side effect rather than their primary cause. (Also, if you read the possible side effects for these meds, all the ones I looked at had a common side effect, depressed sex drive. When she is gone nearly half the time, that is not acceptable.)
When she told me about the new prescription, I broke out my best John McEnroe impression, "You CANNOT be serious!" I went under then knife EXPLICITLY so she wouldn't have to go on birth control pills. Now her fracking job is causing her to take it to help regulate her "rhythm". Damn.
So now I've been snipped and the wife is on the pill. I guess we are DAMN sure we won't have any more kids now!
Just how fucked up is the United States? Take a gander at some of the latest news stories from around the country to find out. I should warn you that these articles are horrifying.
Texas: proceed with extreme caution. An uneasy feeling came over me as I read the article. When I made mention of the story to my wife, I could not bring myself to explain it without being very vague. As sensitive as she is, she didn't even want to hear the generalities. It is truly an awful, awful story. This terrible act of violence is completely incomprehensible.
New Hampshire: proceed with caution. This isn't the first time a story like this has made the news. Again, I can't begin to understand while something like this happens. Horrible.
South Carolina: proceed with care. When I saw the headline, I was slightly amused because it sounded incredibly ridiculous. The more I read, the more uncomfortable I became. This is a disturbing and bizarre story. I can't begin to imagine what the motivation was.
Georgia: proceed. How stupid is that? What in the world were those knuckleheads thinking?
Washington D.C.: proceed. This is only the beginning when it comes to the President and racial incidents. And sure, incidents like this probably happen more than the media cares to report. I have a hard time understanding acts of prejudice in the country that was supposedly founded on freedom and equality. Anyone can see that we live in a melting pot. The people and cultures are only going to become more diverse. Its about time the people of the United States move beyond this behavior. Perhaps all of these issues could be settled over a beer, a glass of wine or a shot of Jagermeister.
Have a nice day. Stay away from crazy people.
**I must apologize for the appalling error I made! I incorrectly spelled "squeamish" in the title. The egregious omission of the "u" is inexcusable.
My mother had suggested writing as daily therapy for relieving stress. That I could do in a journal, so why write a blog? After reading other blogs and talking with Russ, I thought that I had entertaining stories like other bloggers. It was then obvious that I should join the millions of others publishing their thoughts, ideas and anecdotes on a daily basis. Combining those two reasons could be my magic formula: I could end (or begin) the day relaxing as I recount the absurdities I experienced each day, while amusing millions of readers.
It seemed like I had it figured out, then reality slapped me in the face. In the world of blogging, I learned that receiving affirmation can be difficult. The truth is that every blogger wants affirmation, feedback or recognition for their writing. If the blogger did not want any of those things, then he would not be publishing. He would be maintaining a personal journal kept on the bedside table. The technologically savvy would be keeping their thoughts as an electronic document on a personal computer.
Why else publish a blog for the world to see? Why else have a comment section? If there are others reasons, they have escaped me.
As I said before, I thought our blog would be followed, if not by millions, surely by hundreds of readers. The sad fact of the matter is that there are probably no more than 15 regulars. Oh, I suppose there could be more. Folks may be long time lurkers or followers on Google Readers, etc. Whatever the true number is, our comment section doesn’t reflect that readership. Maybe Russ knows what that number is.
Blog readers seem to be a finicky bunch, when it comes to leaving comments, myself included. Sometimes comments are complimentary, with respect to the quality of writing. Some people must have to feel a connection the subject matter in order to respond. Some like to leave funny or sarcastic remarks. Others enjoy responding with their own experience. Then there are those who post comments from beyond left field- more like outer space. Hell, I’d even appreciate the occasional hate-filled comment, if that meant someone was reading.
It has been easy to become a lazy blogger, with Russ taking the lead. He has more time than me during the school year. Besides that, I don’t think Russ is the comment whore he says he is. He’d probably write if we didn’t have any readers, just so he feels like he’s accomplished something during the day while The Wife is at work.
I have grown lazy in my writing because I am the one that needs the comments. As I have said a hundred times, there are ideas running rampant in my head. The motivation to put them into words is lacking because I don’t think anyone is going to read them. Yes, I could simply write for myself, if writing is that important to me. Somewhere inside my heart, mind or soul, I have this tiny feeling that I could be a real writer someday. Strangely, I want to find that place. The only way for me to know if I am honing my skills is to have my work read by others. I just wonder if I have the patience.
Over time, though, the question has resurfaced repeatedly. Why write? This week, I’m searching for answers again. The reason is that a blogger/writer that I admire has quit. Black Hockey Jesus, author of The Wind in Your Vagina, decided to end his blog. (I didn’t bother to link the site because it is closed.) I don’t know the real reason and I may never. I do have my suspicions which I’ll keep to myself.
In my mind, Black Hockey Jesus seemed to rocket to blog stardom. I don’t have any real idea where his blog actually ranked among all blogs, but comparatively speaking, his blog traffic far exceeded ours. Further, he made guest “appearances,” including being a keynote speaker at BlogHer. Judging by HIS comment section, he had a very loyal following. Anyone who has followed him knows all about his exploits. He was good at what he did.
Black Hockey Jesus and I had a bit of history, if you recall. If not, read about it here, here and here. Once we put aside our differences, we found we had a few things in common. He actually provided me some much appreciated, personal feedback. And, I still aggravated him from time to time. I will miss that guy.
So, why write? If Black Hockey Jesus quits while sitting on top of the world, what is to keep me from quitting? I consider him successful because he is a good writer that was read by many. This blog has a sparse following, yet lingers on. Is it really worth it?
Maybe Black Hockey Jesus really wanted to get some practice along with affirmation. Now that he has had a year’s worth of practice under his belt and legions of adoring fans, he realizes that his can accomplish his ultimate goal (assuming that he wants to write and publish a book). Oops… that’s one suspicion revealed.
Only I can decide if it is worth my time and effort to continue writing. I shouldn’t be deterred by the lack of readers and comments. If writing is meaningful, then I’ll keep writing. If it is well-written and interesting, people will read it. If it is noteworthy, people will comment. In the back of my mind, I’ll ask myself, what would Black Hockey Jesus do (WWBHJD)?
Saturday night saw a general malaise fall over the house. This was a bit strange as both of the kids took good naps and the Wife and I spent some time in the sack too. We were looking for something to do, but couldn't put our finger on what we wanted to do.
The pool was not beckoning us. While Mr. B and Miss L would have enjoyed it, it didn't talk to us any.
I suggested going to a baseball game. The wife begrudgingly agreed. I wasn't really into it, and nor was she, but there was fireworks after the game. I wanted to get the boy exposed to fireworks. I figure that he would either love them or soil his pants.
The wife really wasn't digging the idea of going to a game, even if beer was involved. So I suggested that we visit the newish Ikea. (How do you tell when you are getting old?) Her eyes lit up! (Just how old are we?)
Just as we were shifting gears and getting ready to head out to the big blue building, Mr. B's friend did a "ring and run". (As I see her run away from the house after ringing the door bell.) The Wife explains to the girl that we are going out for the night and Mr. B can't come out to play.
The Wife then follows up the explanation to our neighbor. A moment or two later our neighbor is on the phone with me asking if we want to use our "credit" with her daughter and have a child free Ikea experience.
I ask the Wife and she gets a glint in her eye.
She asks what time the movies are playing. I tell my neighbor that we are interested, and that we will call her back in a couple of minutes.
We find out what time the Harry Potter movie was playing. Then the Wife remembers that we have free passes to the movies because we donated blood.
Sweet!
I call back our neighbor and tell her that we will use the credit!
The Wife gos over to work out the finer points with the neighbor followed by bathing the kids. While I walk the dog. It usually takes about the same amount of time.
K, the neighbor's child, shows up and I show her how to operate the TV. We tell her that the soda is in the refrigerator and the snacks are on top of it. At which time we hop into the car and I do all that I can not to lay rubber out front of our house.
We stop for dessert and a drink before the movie, which was the only thing that cost us for the whole night.
It's been a quiet week at the Russ household. My parents are in France, and The Wife is out in California (coming home today!). Now my sister seems to not have the ability to entertain herself (and/or wants to pawn off Damien on someone else), and since her husband works at a restaurant (and has since they started dating) he is not at home at night. The task of entertaining my sister and her child usually falls to my parents. Since they are out of town, it falls to me.
Joy.
In reality, my head made it out to be much worse than it was. I was unprepared because I got the days mixed up, so I had not purchased dinner yet (I was going to pick it up at the store on the way home from Mr. B's story time). At that point, I was forced to just call in an order for pizza. It's safe and everyone eats it.
Fast forward to after dinner.
We were letting the kids burn off some energy in the back yard. Mr. B and Damien wanted the sprinkler turned on. I was more than happy to do so, knowing that Mr. B would sleep well that night if he played hard.
I turn on the sprinkler to a low setting (I want them to play, I wasn't planning on watering the backyard).
Mr. B gets out his inner redneck and strips down. Now he is playing nekkid in the sprinkler. Fortunately the neighbor to one side has kids the same age and has done the same thing and the neighbor to the other side was not home.
After a fashion, Mr. B bored of playing alone in the sprinkler (Damien just watched him like Mr. B was some kind of freak), and the boys were collecting leaves off the patio (Mr. B is still nekkid).
In the midst of conversation I hear, "Me go poopy!"
Oh shit!
Yep, right there on the patio is a nice, well formed, pile of dookie.
Then Damien runs up to touch it.
Hey, my kid just made it, he didn't play with it!
I had not worked a poopy story into the blog in awhile. So I thought it was about time.
Sorry for the late post. By the time I get my writing routine set, I'll be back at school. Oh well. Today, however, I completed the post, then saved and published. Apparently it vanished. Starting over sucks. Here is goes.
This past Sunday, the girls went on a play date, so I was free to unload my inner comic book geek. To do this, I headed to the movies to checkout X-Men Origins: Wolverine.
Since the reviews were less than stellar, I waited until the movie made it to the cheap theater. The ticket was a mere $2.50, so I allowed myself to be swindled into spending $9.20 for a large soda and medium popcorn. It is rare that I treat myself, so overpaying didn’t bother me too much.
Besides, I screwed them by bringing in outside food! Suckers! They never knew that I was enjoying a bag of M & Ms and butterscotch chips right under their noses! Ha!
As is customary for most theaters these days, advertisements preceded the movie previews. I generally find commercials as the theater offensive because I prefer a pure cinematic experience; I can watch commercials at home. On this day, however, I so appreciative of my time in the theater, I didn’t seem to mind.
The first ad featured Danica Patrick, the visually appealing race car driver. Nice, you might think. I found it to be…disturbing.
Does it make you want to change mobile phone carriers? Not me. Never.
The next commercial was interesting. It previewed an upcoming television show on ABC staring Courtney Cox. I haven’t decided if I’ll watch, though the premise looks intriguing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sydney adds it to her DVR schedule.
The show could be offbeat in a sexy way, or really bad. I suppose it describes the first time you see a potential cougar from a distance. She looks hot from afar, but then up close, she’s just old and worn. Although… Courtney Cox is prime cougar material. Prediction: Cougar Town will be cancelled by mid-season.
After all the advertisements, I did finally watch the movie. It was decent as far as superhero-action movies go. It clearly wasn’t completely true to the comic book Wolverine I know. But, that’s Hollywood. For mindless Sunday afternoon entertainment, it fit the bill. That, I now I think of Courtney Cox as the mayor of Cougar Town.
The other day, I received a very troubling letter. It has put me in a very fragile state of mind. Read on, so you may understand my angst.
Dear Jasper E. Mockingbard,
This letter is to inform you that Dr. Olden Long-Fingers will be leaving his practice at the Tardis Clinic, LLP. His last day will be July 31, 2009. We thank Dr. Long-Fingers for his many years of service.
We hope you choose to stay at the Tardis Clinic for your health care, especially since you have had 6 visits in the last year about your very sensitive prostate. There are several fine physicians and staff available in the specialty of Urology, with no history of deviant behavior. The following physicians are available to assume your care, which includes poking you where the sun don’t shine: Dr. Carl Creepismile, Dr. Theodore Thikjowls and Dr. James Jolleyphaat.
Please call and we will be happy to transfer your care of your very sensitive prostate to a physician of your choosing based upon your insurance needs. Of course, if your employer eliminates your current insurance coverage to a lesser plan because of the economic downturn, then we may not be able to help you because you will not have the means to pay us. Or, if you obtain insurance through a government healthcare plan, then it may take you months to see a doctor. Unfortunately, another one of our doctors may have retired in that time. Furthermore, your very sensitive prostate could be swollen to the size of a melon and you would need more than a doctor. Should you find it difficult to decide on a new Urologist, based on the glamour shots you viewed on our website, please contact us immediately. We will send you a detailed questionnaire that will help us identify the doctor or staff member that most suits your personality traits. The doctors and staff delight in maintaining the highest rate of compatibility with their patients!
We look forward to providing for your health care needs for your very sensitive prostate. If any of us can help during this time of transition, please call and we will make every effort to assist you. This includes the Finger Fit Test, which allows patients select the Urologist, quickly and easily, based on one criterion.
Until then, may you always find yourself in good health, except when you are sick and add to our wealth!
Sincerely,
George L. George, M.D. (from another country, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?)
Medical Director (Because I’m not very good at explaining things to patients; some might say I lack bedside manner.)
Do you understand my pain? Choosing a new Urologist will not be an easy task. (I suppose it would be as bad as a woman selecting a new OB/GYN.) If you remember my first visit with Dr. Olden Long-Fingers, you would remember that we had quite a friendly chat. (You didn’t read that post? You really should!) I felt very much at ease before he examined me.
What if the next doctor isn’t so nice? What if he has large fingers, long fingernails, or worse, hooks instead of hands????
Thankfully, I don’t have an appointment scheduled, so I don’t have to make a decision anytime soon. The best thing I can do in the meantime is to maintain good urological health, by eating lots of fruits and vegetables, by taking the supplement Peenuts and by having lots of sex. That doesn’t sound like a difficult regime to maintain. I’m sure Sydney will agree.
By the way, have you ever wondered how often Urology patients sing?
Sorry about the late post today, Miss L had an early story time at the library and Jasper was recovering from his late night revelry (and his daughter had her own to dos).
Miss L's story time this month has been good. We have two other dads to keep me company. It has made the time pass a little faster. (Like commenting on the little boy wearing a Jake Delhomme jersey. "Gee Jake, you look a little smaller than I remember you!" "Maybe he has a better arm now?")
But it was a mommy that restored my faith. She complimented me on how I let Mr. B know it was time to leave. I just did my usual, "Hey Mr. B! Do you want to go home now or in two minutes?" Then when he came when I called with no tears or fussing, she said how great of an idea that was and she wishes that she had thought of it.
He is three. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Saturday morning everybody was up bright and shiny early (not intentionally mind you). First Miss L woke up around seven and Mr. B was not far behind her. Shortly there after the Wife threw in the towel and admitted that she couldn't sleep anymore (I could have, but was very hungry by this point). On the positive side, I did get to watch more of the British Open this way.
He is three.
I was planning on having grilled veggies for dinner, so I suggest to the Wife that we go to the farmers market. (I had been suggesting that we go, sometime subtly, sometimes not, for most of the week.) Mr. B was having none of it. He wanted to watch George, watch Thomas, watch TV, stay home, stay home, stay home!
He is three.
He sobbed the whole way to the farmers market. The whole 20 minute drive (there is a closer one, but it is only open on Tuesdays) we got to listen to "Go home!" "Home now?" and "Me not happy." the whole way there.
He is three.
Upon arriving at the market, he now will not walk. The Wife has to carry him; he would not allow me near him. Miss L wanted to be carried by Mommy too, but I wasn't going to have the Wife carrying two kids (on the order of 60 pounds between the two of them) while I walked around fondling melons. That would make for a cold bedroom that evening.
He is three.
We get through all the food stalls and arrive at the arts and crafts portion. I looked the Wife in the eyes and tell her that I would rather her beat me repeatedly about the head and shoulders than go through there. So Miss L and I high tail it over to the gardening portion. (Which was rather disappointing honestly.) When we finished, we returned to the agreed up0n meeting point.
He is three.
Evidently the Wife didn't get very far in her desired perusing. Mr. B found some woodworking that got his juices flowing. Wooden cars and trains. He stood there and organized them and lined them up and reorganized them. He was so enthralled that he refused to leave.
While in the hills of North Carolina, I was sequestered from the world of television and the internet. To my surprise, I enjoyed the freedom from the information overload that sometimes consumes me. Aside from the van radio, which was always tuned to music, and my cell phone, which received an occasional text message, there were no real outside distractions. It was a pleasure. I could really focus on the purpose of my trip.
Meanwhile, 1300 miles away, Sydney and Esmeralda were undoubtedly waist-deep in any media frenzy that may have been engulfing the American airwaves. They were visiting Sydney’s 88 year old grandfather. He is part of the demographic that has to stay in the know. As a result, the television is always on with some news network clamoring about the latest in current events.
Agitating circumstances further, Sydney’s mother is rapidly approaching that same demographic. To make matters even worse, that Michael Jackson guy died. As you probably know (and I later learned), the only events that occurred around the world had to do with Michael Jackson. So, whether in the hotel or while visiting Grandpa, Sydney and Esmeralda were bombarded with the “most up to date coverage”. Sigh.
As much as I love and trust my dear, sweet wife, I fully expected her to protect our precious child from the evils of infotainment. You can only imagine the horror I felt when I saw this picture among all the others from their trip.
There Esmeralda stands, as still as a statue, mesmerized by Manilow. The most disturbing part of the image is Barry’s outstretched hand. The context of Manilow’s television appearance is going to require further analysis.
I just hope that she isn't going to be part of the closet Manilow-fan demographic.
I try to get to know my neighbors. At the very minimum their names so I can greet them properly. If possible a little more in depth without prying too much (you know, kids, job, sports, etc). I don't want to be the nosey neighbor after all.
Mostly I do this for a several reasons. First off, to be friendly. I just prefer having people use all five fingers when they wave at me. Secondly, if you at least know your neighbor, you are more likely to notice if something is amiss on their property, in return, they might notice something amiss on mine. Thirdly, you have someone to mind the property while you are away (this is a bit of a double edged sword as we are about to discover).
Over last weekend I had a knock at the door (the doorbell really, which set Nala off in a shit fit). It was my neighbor from across the street. She is squarely in the "wave using all five fingers" category, but I didn't know her name to save my soul (I know it now!). She mentioned that she was going out of town on vacation, and would I mind picking up their mail. Sure I said with Nala trying to remove my kidney with her back paws. Then she let it drop that they will be gone for two weeks.
WTF?
Two weeks? Why not go to the post office and stop the mail? At least then you won't have some nosy schmuck, me, looking through your mail! A weekend, that's fine, not worth the effort of going to the post office. But fourteen days? Take your sorry ass to the post office and stop the mail.
Next was last night.
During dinner, of course, I get a call from my next door neighbor (single mom with five kids, really four at the moment and that is a whole post unto itself). Well it was actually the oldest girl wanting to know if I can watch her younger siblings while she and her mom go watch Harry Potter.
After doing a little kabuki dance about what time they were going (she gave the inference that they had one foot out the door, aren't "tweens" great?) I discovered that they wanted to go about 8pm give or take. I told them that worked for me.
Fast forward to later in the evening.
Everything was sold out, everything until the 9:50 showing that is. And they went to it. Give or take two hours evidently.
So I got to watch their house as the babies slept and they went to the movie. They didn't get home until 1am. At least I got a bunch of pages read in my book and the oldest girl agreed to baby sit for us one night.
This morning, both kids were up by 7am. Not in my happy place.
I have returned from my sabbatical, perhaps as a changed man. What that really means, I have not determined. Much time is still needed to reflect upon the trip so that I can figure out how it may affect my life.
Over the next few days, I hope to finish the oodles of blog entries that I’ve started. And, yes, I know- you’re all dying to hear about the “Shirtless Club”. Maybe part of the change I’m feeling is a new found motivation to finish what I’ve started. We shall see.
In the meantime, please take in the spectacular view that I had the pleasure of enjoying everyday during my time away. (I apologize for the picture quality, as it was the camera on my phone.)
That was the phrase uttered by the Wife on Sunday morning as she and the kids were playing in the sandbox and I was under the pergola reading the paper. What I can't properly convey to you was her tone and timber of the phrase. It was somewhere between, "hey, that's interesting" and "Sweet Mother of Pearl, that ain't good!" (Feel free to get more creative, we had two kids in ear shot.)
So I head up to the sandbox at a rate of speed that I hope doesn't betray my concern (I was wrong). I ask the Wife what was the matter, and she responds with, "I saw a spider."
So? I see lots of spider. We have some funnel spiders in the yard. Countless little brown spiders. A fair amount of wolf spiders. Heck, I think we even have a baby golden orb spider on the pergola (I doubt it will make it to adulthood, there is a morning dove roosting nearby.)
Well, the Wife goes on to say that it was a black spider with red markings on its belly. (Fuck) What did the red markings look like? Did they look like triangles touching? (Please no) Yes, they did. (Fuck) Ok, where is it? I flung it into the yard. (Brilliant)
After that, I go on to the fearmonger enabler (aka, the internet) and pull down a picture of what I think the offending spider is. The Wife confirms, it was a black widow.
I knew that they lived in this area, one of my old clients was bitten by one. That was one ugly bite, let me assure you. Her whole arm was swollen and reddish/purple. That is not something I want to have to deal with on me, let alone the kids.
I guess this is one of the "benefits" of keeping your yard free of chemicals. You attract all sorts of predatory insects. I could just do without the ones that could hurt my family. I have to keep reminding myself that, a) they are more afraid of us, b) they only want something to eat, and c) we aren't on their menu.
My parents recently returned from a visit to the old country (aka New Jersey). The purpose for that trip was to attend a wedding of the son of a former coworker. Getting to see the rest of the family was a bit of a bonus (an added bonus, if you like redundancies).
The wedding was on a lake, out doors. Those of you readers from the tri-state area already know what kind of weather you have had over the past few weeks. For those souls who don't live there, well, let's just say that they have received their rain, my rain, and most likely your rain too. It was moist to say the least. On the positive side, the lake was full.
On the way out to the wedding my parents drove through rain (big surprise right?). As they were approaching the wedding site, things cleared up nicely. To make matters better, the weather held up for the entirety of the ceremony.
When they arrived, while there were groomsmen everywhere, no one was being seated. There was no indication of which was the bride's side and which was the groom's. So people just sat where they pleased. This, of course, is fine, but a little indication of what you are supposed to do would have been nice.
Ok, now on to the gist of the post. The happy couple are exchanging their vows. Most of it was fairly traditional, I, (state your name), blah blah blah, (which then took a turn with) "for as long as our love shall last".
Excuse me?
For as long as our love shall last?
So after a year when the passion has fallen by the wayside and all you have is the day to day minutae of daily life, what then? Are you truly committed, or just want to file "married" on your tax form?
It's easy to look past the verbage if you're a starry eyed young one in love (lust?). I have been married for nine years now, the Wife and I dated for an additional seven prior to marriage. Let's just say that there were very few surprises when it came to life together (there still was enough to make thing interesting though).
Maybe I'm just getting to be an old fart. Maybe I just like tradition. Mostly I think I respect commitment, and to have an "out" written directly into your vows just smacks of today's disposable mentality.
Nine years ago tonight I got to go to bed with my bride for the first time. Tonight (and all week for that matter), she is out of town on business. This sucks moose balls.
Safety Dance - Men Without Hats (Sorry about the song choice, it felt to be the most appropriate. 80's music is a bit of a guilty pleasure.)
While I'm sure he will go through several phases of "What I want to be when I grow up" (Hell, I wanted to be a paleontologist for the first 13 or so years of my life. Then I realized that in that job you are always, a) dirty, I hate being dirty, and b) groveling for money, I hate begging. So I was on to my next idea, but that is a post for another day.) Based on Mr. B's actions/obsessive compulsive behaviors, the Wife and I figure that he will be an OSHA inspector.
What brings me to this conclusion, you ask. Well for starters, whenever he goes upstairs (bidden or not) he closes the gate at the top of the stairs behind him (he doesn't have the hand strength to latch it). I'm not sure that it would be enough to stop either he or Miss L from falling down the stairs, but the fact that he remembers to close it is amazing enough for me.
The next thing is on the stroller. If either he or Miss L don't have their tray snapped down in front of him/her, he flips his gourd. A simple "Mother, Father, the tray is not fastened properly" would be quite enough. Instead he screams, "NOOOO, NOOOO, NOOOO!" and starts flailing his arms and legs so we have to stop the cart. He then will demonstrate what is wrong by moving the tray up and down.
On to my experience with a safety inspector. I'm sure Jasper would be able to chime in on this too, but he is busy in the hinterlands of NC entertaining the elderly with a bunch of High School kids.
This is a pretty crappy job, near as I can figure. I worked in a corrugated board plant for a couple of years (as Plant Accountant, man I hated that job). I was friendly with the guy who was the safety inspector for the plant. (I controlled the checkbook, so lots of people were friendly with me.) He was a nice enough guy, but all of the guys in the actual plant (as opposed to the office/cubical dwellers that I normally associated with) went into double check mode whenever he walked by. It was rather amusing.
I'm pretty sure he wasn't well liked either. He would ride the poor bastards who worked on the corrugater about their safety equipment. It's one thing in January when the weather is cool/cold and heat and steam put off by it most likely felt good. It's totally different in July and August. In South Carolina. Where it routinely gets to 95 or better (Heat Index would be well over 100). Those guy would trail sweat off of them like no body's business. They would leave slug slime trails after them. Nice.
But back to the safety inspector.
He was in a no win situation. The workers wanted to be comfortable (as possible) and he had to keep them safe. If there was an accident, he had to answer for it. Obviously, sometimes the worker was just goofing off, but he still had to do the paperwork. There is always paperwork. But what would happen if something truly serious happened on his watch? It's his ass on the line.
I mean, if I transpose a couple of numbers on an entry, no body dies or is even maimed. Best case I catch it quickly and no harm done. Worst case I screw up the books and get canned. I'm the only one hurt.
Admittedly, I only saw what he did every so often (over 10 years ago) so my recollection is sketchy at best. Still, it didn't make me say, "Well damn, that looks like an interesting job!"
No, it is not about me insulting or being insulted. It's more about the art of the come back. Me, well let's just say that I am fairly weak in this department. I am the equivalent of a three year old's "every color finger paint project", just an ugly smudge on paper (unless it is your child's finger painting project, in which case Picasso has nothing on him/her).
Having a child alters what can/should be said. Not that I was a huge curse word user to begin with, I would rather save up for a real occasion to drop a bomb, thus maximizing the effect. Now, I bite my tongue even in those instances out of the fear that the little parrot know as Mr. B will run around the house yelling, "sh!t, f*ck, sh!t, f*ck".
So on that note, what is your favorite non-curse word come back? I'll get things started, "I'd call you a tool, but tools have a use."
(sorry about the late post, the Wife left for CA again this morning and we had story time at the library {where I got shushed!})
How to tell if you are old (according to the Wife), the Forth of July Edition:
Fireworks are no longer enjoyable because of: a) kindling for a lawn and local kids shooting off fireworks in the neighborhood, b) both children are asleep when said kids are shooting off fireworks in the neighborhood, and c) neurotic dog is threatening to shit on the carpet due to said neighborhood kids shooting off fireworks in the neighborhood.
Otherwise, we sat outside and ate my homemade banana ice cream and watched the locals explode their hard earned money in the air (and they tell me the economy sucks). It's cheaper than going to an organized show and the commute is my walk out the back door.
Also according to the Wife, hot pink pants make everything better. So I'm off to get some hot pink pants.
Happy Independence Day everyone (particularly since I don't have too many readers from the UK)! No worries though, the vast majority of my family was in Germany at the time, except for the those rabble rousers on my Mom's side that were giving the Red Coats a bit of grief.
Here it is, 11:20 AM, and there is no post yet on the blog. I guess earlier in the week I told Russ that I would post Thursday and Friday. It’s surprising to me that he hasn’t picked up the slack or cared enough to write a blog entry yet. Thanks, buddy!
In an effort to appease the masses of followers (4) and regular commenter’s (maybe 12), I’ll write something that could be considered readable. Maybe it’ll be fluff or filler. Perhaps it could evolve into a charming anecdote. It’s possible that a stream of consciousness will flow like a river, filled with the random thoughts of a lonely, shirtless man. Whatever happens, rest assured, very little effort was used.
Jasper is lonely? Yes, friends. I am lonely. The house is empty, save for the three cats and the marauding band of black ants that seem to roam freely. Sydney and Esmeralda have abandoned me again. This time, they are deep in the heart of Texas. My girls are visiting Sydney’s grandfather. Millie drove straight there after finally leaving us. Fil, Syd’s dad, is also making the flight down from Kansas. Apparently the only way to entice him into traveling is to mention that his granddaughter would be around. They’ll just be gone for the weekend.
You may have noticed the word “shirtless”. You probably asked yourself, “Shirtless? Jasper mentioned something about the ‘Shirtless Club’ last week. He said would write about it this week. Where is it? I demand satisfaction!” Sorry, dear readers, but that post is still in process. It will be ready in two weeks. I can say that it is my preferred state of dress.
Inquiring minds surely want to know why the “shirtless” post won’t be ready for next week. Well, I’m leaving tomorrow to do something nice, noble and Jesus-like. It is difficult to explain. Let’s just say that Jasper is taking a sabbatical. Hopefully I'll be able to keep Russ posted via text messaging.
Since I am leaving for a week, there is much to do to prepare. So, for the rest of the day, I have to attempt to attack a lengthy list of tasks to complete for departing. That being said, what the hell am I doing sitting here? I better get busy.
Oh look, I have something that resembles a blog post. Hurray! That didn’t take long at all. And, look, its 11:50! It was like no time at all!
In closing, I would like to dedicate the following video to Sydney and Esmeralda:
This past Sunday, the girls went on a play date, so I was free to unload my inner comic book geek. To do this, I headed to the movies to checkout X-Men Origins: Wolverine.
Since the reviews were less than stellar, I waited until the movie made it to the cheap theater. The ticket was a mere $2.50, so I allowed myself to be swindled into spending $9.20 for a large soda and medium popcorn. It is rare that I treat myself, so overpaying didn’t bother me too much.
Besides, I screwed them by bringing in outside food! Suckers! They never knew that I was enjoying a bag of M & Ms and butterscotch chips right under their noses! Ha!
As is customary for most theaters these days, advertisements preceded the movie previews. I generally find commercials at the theater offensive because I prefer a pure cinematic experience; I can watch commercials at home. On this day, however, I so appreciative of my time in the theater, I didn’t seem to mind.
The first ad featured Danica Patrick, the visually appealing race car driver. Nice, you might think. I found it to be…disturbing.
Does it make you want to change mobile phone carriers? Not me. Never.
The next commercial was interesting. It previewed an upcoming television show on ABC staring Courtney Cox. I haven’t decided if I’ll watch, though the premise looks intriguing. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sydney adds it to her DVR schedule.
The show could be offbeat in a sexy way, or really bad. I suppose it describes the first time you see a potential cougar from a distance. She looks hot from afar, but then up close, she’s just old and worn. Only time will tell, I suppose. Although… Courtney Cox is prime cougar material.
Prediction: Cougar Town will be cancelled by mid-season.
After all the advertisements, I did finally watch the movie. It was decent as far as superhero-action movies go. It clearly wasn’t completely true to the comic book Wolverine I know. But, that’s Hollywood. For mindless Sunday afternoon entertainment, it fit the bill. That, and now I think of Courtney Cox as the mayor of Cougar Town.
Sydney and I decided some time ago that August would be the month we would begin the process of procreating the next Mockingbard. June would have been fine, yet the s-i-l and m-i-l were visiting. July would be great, but I’m not going to be around for a week. So, August wins.
Sydney wants a May birth so that more of her maternity leave would coincide with “The Summer of Jasper.” Also, she didn’t want to next spawn to have a birthday too close to Esmeralda. I don’t understand that reasoning though. To me, it doesn’t matter. I’m just looking forward to the daily sex… with hopes of begetting another heir to the Mockingbard Manor.
To begin preparing her body’s metabolism for pregnancy, Sydney stopped taking the pill in April or May. As a result, anytime we review the proper procedure, I am required to wear to a condom. It is no big deal, really. I’d used them before. But since we’ve been married, there have been only a few times I’ve had to interrupt that intimate moment to don a raincoat. When she had taken antibiotics, the pill’s effectiveness was reduced, so the condom was necessary. Also, one was used each time we reviewed procedure before producing Esmeralda.
What I am about to say will contradict what was previously was stated… A few days before Millie was to leave, Sydney suddenly found herself in the mood. Sure I was surprised, but who am I to refuse her advances? Besides, Millie’s room was on the other side of the house, and she is slightly hard of hearing. It was then that I discovered something that induced feelings of dread. The Trojan condoms I prefer have an expiration date. The date printed on that square little packet: 6 2009. Ugh.
I suppose condoms have an expiration date for a reason. Perhaps after time, the lubricant begins to dry-up or the latex begins to break-down. I don’t know. But I don’t usually question expiration dates. My real fear was not having a wardrobe malfunction that resulted in a sooner-than-expected pregnancy. Rather, I was terrified that I was going to have to purchase condoms.
It seems that I have always felt that way. I have this notion that people are thinking something terrible about me when I sneak up to the counter with a box of Trojans. Even if I casually stroll up to check-out with my Trojans, a pack of gum and a bottle of Coke (or any other random items), I know the cashier to making fun of me in her mind. It seemed to ease my hesitation if I imagined the cashier giving me a high-five, or a nod and a smile, knowing that I was about to get some sweet action.
To a lesser degree, I was deterred by fear-nervousness-embarrassment when I was single. I lived in a town where I didn’t know anyone. (I lived 30 miles from my job, so I never saw co-workers, nor did I socialize with any neighbors, etc. Also, at the time, my girlfriend worked for me. Convenient.) Maybe I thought I was perceived as a stud. I don’t know.
Things are different now. Sydney and I are established in this town. Most of our friends are from church. My position as a teacher gives me a higher level of prominence in the community. I can’t go to the local Publix or Wal-Mart without seeing a student, a student’s parent or fellow teacher.
If I were to bump into Bobby’s mom or Pastor Paulson while carrying a box of Trojans, what would they do? What would I do? I can’t even begin to imagine the awkwardness I would feel. In all likelihood they would ignore it, even if they noticed the bright blue box of Trojan-enz. But then, what would they do after they saw me? Would discovery of Mr. Mockingbard’s choice of contraceptive be the subject of gossip? Would I be scorned for fear that I might be carrying some STD???? The horror! The horror!
Negative thoughts such as these filled my mind. What was to be my course of action? I realized that for the good of reviewing proper procedure, I must put aside my fears and make the purchase. Sydney also requested two additional items: Diet Cherry Coke and bananas.
I left for my quest around 8:00 PM. Hopefully that would be a time most people would be home enjoying their evening. When I arrived at Wal-Mart, I headed directly to the produce section. As I was searching for the perfect bunch of bananas, I heard my name. “Mr. Mockingbard! Mr. Mockingbard!” I shuddered when I turned around. It was two little boys from the school, with their parents and younger sister. Excitement filled their voices as they continued to shout while raining eager waves upon me. I waved multiple times, selected my bananas and sped away. I located the soda without incident.
When I neared the condom aisle, I winced as I heard a familiar voice. It was the director of Esmeralda’s daycare, talking to her kids. I thought I darted passed her unseen, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw her wave. I paused and returned the wave. My paced slowed. Who would I see next?
I cautiously approached the shelf. Suddenly, there was an onslaught of customers passing by. I redirected myself and walked several aisles away. I made a u-turn and assessed the situation. The coast was clear! I sprinted to the shelf, grabbed the appropriate box of Trojan-enz. Carefully, I tucked the box behind the case of soda, which made carrying the items awkward. I didn’t care. I wanted to be discreet. Thankfully, self check-out was operational! After the transaction, I hurried to my car to avoid being seen.
Sydney greeted me with a smile when I got home. Without hesitation, I relayed what had transpired. We both laughed, noting the ridiculousness of my trepidation. Though the fear had subsided, I’m sure it will return when I restock my supply. Maybe next time I’ll order from Trojan’s website. Incidentally, Trojan has expanded their product offerings. Check it out. No one will know.
I figured you guys need a break from poop and other bodily functions for a day or two.
The Wife and I had my parents over for lunch last weekend. This is not an unusual occurrence, although it is not a usual as it probably should be. As they came over on Sunday, my parents came straight from church. (Not the best choice of clothes to wear as I was serving crab still in the shell. Yes, they did know this before hand.)
To say that Dad is not a big church goer is a bit of an understatement. He humors my Mom. She humors him by allowing him to pick where to sit. He chose the back of the church. You gotta beat the traffic out of church, don't you know! (In the Catholic church, you can leave when the priest passes you on the way out, so it behooves you to sit up front. Well, for those who don't leave right after communion, that is. If that observation is wrong, any of you Catholics out there, feel free to correct me.)
As it happens, Dad's choice of seats put him directly under an AC vent. He arrived at my house still overly cool (Mom was not cold/having a hot flash and requested the AC on in the car). So Dad asked for some coffee when he arrived.
I brewed a pot figuring whatever he didn't drink I could make into granita (I substitued orange flavored liquor for the sambuca and vanilla). After thanking me for making the coffee, Dad said that I made strong coffee. To which I would argue, a) I grind my own beans right before brewing. This makes a much fuller flavored coffee with much more body. And b) he is used to IHOP coffee, which is coffee in color only. (IHOP, just where someone with Type 2 diabetes should be eating breakfast three days a week.)
Jasper and I are always looking for a business that we could run that would free us from the man and allow us to enjoy the hours that we would be away from our family. (I'm sure no one else wants that!) I think I have found one that may work for me.
It seems that I have a knack for causing prices to fall on stocks that I purchase. My sample size is still a little too small to be conclusive, but the signs thus far are promising.
I also have to figure out what is the minimum amount of shares that I have to purchase. If I don't meet that ephemeral threshold the stock will continue to go up, but any purchase over that threshold is wasted money.
Now I am not saying that I will run XYZ company into the ground, but certainly I've put a hurting on the stocks in the short term (in one case, down 30% in less than a month). I don't know how much of this is me versus our utterly rudderless economy at the moment. In as much as my Dad has told me that he has found many ways to lose money in the stock market over the years, I may have inherited this gift from him.
My biggest question is going to be fee structure. Knocking down a penny stock just isn't as hard as big stock. Cost less to buy as well. Example, Brookshire Hathaway closed yesterday at $85,600. I can't charge $19.95 on that and expect to make money on that (I don't have anything against Buffet, BRK-A is just the most expensive stock that I am aware of).
Of course you have to option to short sell the stock in question and make money to cover whatever my fees are!
So tell me/us, dear reader. Does this sound interesting?
