As the year draws to a close I'm trying to think of something profound to say, or, at the very least, something really really funny. Sadly, I have neither. Every New Year's Eve I find myself saying, "Damn, the year went by fast." That can be good or bad depending on how you look at it.
It's weird. I'm looking at my journal and I made only 19 entries this year compared to 27 last year and 29 the year before. Long ago when I was an English Literature major I read a poem, the name of which escapes me now. The speaker was a writer who chronicled every moment of his life not for vanity's sake, but in hopes that he might better understand himself. For him, writing was a means of freezing a small part of himself in time, and later, when he was a few months more mature, he would come back and analyze his writings.
The problem was that he overdid it and this realization didn't come to him until the winter of his life. When he finally set the last piece of the puzzle he realized that life is best enjoyed by living, and that his quest to understand himself only masked the reality that he was living in the past. My resolutions last year can be summed up by a quote: May you live all the days of your life.
With the exception of one, I honored all of my resolutions. I still don't know how to make Chinese food that tastes like the stuff from the carryouts. That may not be such a bad thing.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Saturday, December 29, 2012
The D Is Silent
I just came back from seeing Django Unchained and my original plan was to pen something about how the movie made me feel, but I got sidelined by the discovery that there's apparently a lot of negative reaction to the film. I must have been living under a rock, because I had no idea. Sifting through all of the cursing and self-righteousness, I've found a handful of coherent arguments that accuse Tarantino of making a half-hearted, Hollywood, white-washed depiction of slavery.
These people obviously haven't seen the film. I'll admit, when I saw the trailer back in the summer I shook my head thinking "really?" I've seen all of his movies except Grindhouse and I expected some kind of tongue-in-cheek, dialogue-heavy film. I like those kinds of films, so I figured, why not. What I got, was a hell of a ride.
I've seen enough superhero movies in my time to be all to familiar with the buildup of tension throughout a film and I've become quite numb to the eventual payouts. While Django is anything but a superhero film, the formula is about the same. Step 1, show the horros of slavery. Step 2, introduce an unlikely hero. Step 3, the hero saves the day.
You know what though? All of the accusations of the writer/director doing a half-assed job of showing the horrors of slavery are unfounded in my opinion. Granted, the movie didn't show every aspect of the physical, psychological and cultural damage of slavery, but no movie can. Slavery was the backdrop, not the subject of the film. Still, what he did show was enough to drive the point home. And trust me, it wasn't white-washed at all.
Without spoiling anything, I'll say that there were scenes where even I found myself looking away. I love gory, kill-em-up films, but there were some moments in this one where emotion took over. Those people getting the hell beat out of them look like me and the only reason they're getting maimed is because they look like me. Cue Jamie Foxx, the superhero.
Yeah, it's not a superhero movie, but like I said, the formula is the same. Only this time, I'm not engaged because there's some monster trying to destroy a city. I'm fully on board because I just spent the last hour and a half watching people being treated like animals and I've never hated a fictional character as much as I do the people the screen right now. So when Django rides in on his horse, I get excited.
His costume is the indignation that 21st century me carries around. It's the dignity and self respect that I've been taught to exemplify my entire life, because, for centuries, some people did their best to beat it out of us. The feeling I get is akin to what I felt whenever I used to wrap a towel around my neck as a child and pretend to be flying around with Superman on the screen. I see a former slave ride into a plantation and do what so many of us claim we'd do "if I were alive back then."
Was it the best movie of all time? Absolutely not. It's not even my favorite Tarantino film. But I came away entertained and I stood and clapped more times than I'd like to admit. And I wasn't alone in doing so. No one walked out of that theater thinking "slavery wasn't that bad." If anything, people walked out feeling bad that Django wasn't real.
These people obviously haven't seen the film. I'll admit, when I saw the trailer back in the summer I shook my head thinking "really?" I've seen all of his movies except Grindhouse and I expected some kind of tongue-in-cheek, dialogue-heavy film. I like those kinds of films, so I figured, why not. What I got, was a hell of a ride.
I've seen enough superhero movies in my time to be all to familiar with the buildup of tension throughout a film and I've become quite numb to the eventual payouts. While Django is anything but a superhero film, the formula is about the same. Step 1, show the horros of slavery. Step 2, introduce an unlikely hero. Step 3, the hero saves the day.
You know what though? All of the accusations of the writer/director doing a half-assed job of showing the horrors of slavery are unfounded in my opinion. Granted, the movie didn't show every aspect of the physical, psychological and cultural damage of slavery, but no movie can. Slavery was the backdrop, not the subject of the film. Still, what he did show was enough to drive the point home. And trust me, it wasn't white-washed at all.
Without spoiling anything, I'll say that there were scenes where even I found myself looking away. I love gory, kill-em-up films, but there were some moments in this one where emotion took over. Those people getting the hell beat out of them look like me and the only reason they're getting maimed is because they look like me. Cue Jamie Foxx, the superhero.
Yeah, it's not a superhero movie, but like I said, the formula is the same. Only this time, I'm not engaged because there's some monster trying to destroy a city. I'm fully on board because I just spent the last hour and a half watching people being treated like animals and I've never hated a fictional character as much as I do the people the screen right now. So when Django rides in on his horse, I get excited.
His costume is the indignation that 21st century me carries around. It's the dignity and self respect that I've been taught to exemplify my entire life, because, for centuries, some people did their best to beat it out of us. The feeling I get is akin to what I felt whenever I used to wrap a towel around my neck as a child and pretend to be flying around with Superman on the screen. I see a former slave ride into a plantation and do what so many of us claim we'd do "if I were alive back then."
Was it the best movie of all time? Absolutely not. It's not even my favorite Tarantino film. But I came away entertained and I stood and clapped more times than I'd like to admit. And I wasn't alone in doing so. No one walked out of that theater thinking "slavery wasn't that bad." If anything, people walked out feeling bad that Django wasn't real.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Verify Eligibility?
I'm just venting right now. Feel free to not even read this.
My wife just got a letter in the mail from her job asking her to "verify dependent eligibility." That's code for "prove these people are related to you before we put them on your insurance." What the hell? This is about as "first world problem-ish" as things can get. I should just be happy that we live in a place with running water, lights and jobs that offer discounted insurance...but I'm still a little peeved.
Now I'm sure everybody at her job got one, that is everyone with dependents. I don't believe we were unfairly targeted in any way, but is the economy that bad nowadays? It only bothers me because I used to work for (Big Brother Almiiiigh-ty) Health Insurance Company. In fact, (potential employers looking to hire me) I was the manager of our Employer Service Line division consisting of ninety-eight representatives. I know the ins and outs of enrollment and billing policies.
With that said...REALLY? You want me to send you a birth certificate to prove that "Baby Allen" is the daughter of "Wife Allen?" And then when it comes to me, it's not enough to send in a marriage certificate. You broke it down into columns. "One item from Column B and one item from Column C." REALLY? The thought never even crossed my mind that divorcees would game the system and claim their exes on their plan.
This letter exposes just how dysfunctional and unorganized our family is. I don't have a copy of last year's tax returns. Somebody in this family (who shall remain nameless) still hasn't updated the driver's license to show the new address so I can't prove it through that. We went paperless so I don't have a printed copy of my bank statement, although I guess I could print one out, but then I gotta go buy a ream of paper. We're gonna get divorced arguing about stuff before we get verified.
And all of this comes on top of the insurance rates going up but the benefits going down. Don't get me wrong, the benefits are way better than they could be. I used to see some really crappy policies come across my desk at Big Brother Insurance. I talked to a guy who had a $10k deductible for everything. I don't even know why he had insurance. But, as an employee...<Insert Praise Dance> My plan was only seven dollars a month and the benefits were so good that if someone shot me, they would hire a stunt double to come in and take the bullet for me.
But that was then and this is now. Health insurance costs continue to rise, the economy sucks and companies have to cut costs wherever possible. Back then we knew that people were probably dumping fake relatives on their plans, so I can see the rationale. And based on my insider information of how much these plans cost the employers, they'd be fools not to check. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
And now that my house is in complete disorder, because we have no proof that we're still married...I just need someone to blame. So I blame you, "Company That Shall Go Unnamed Because My Wife Needs A Job Because Only One Of Us Is Working!"
My wife just got a letter in the mail from her job asking her to "verify dependent eligibility." That's code for "prove these people are related to you before we put them on your insurance." What the hell? This is about as "first world problem-ish" as things can get. I should just be happy that we live in a place with running water, lights and jobs that offer discounted insurance...but I'm still a little peeved.
Now I'm sure everybody at her job got one, that is everyone with dependents. I don't believe we were unfairly targeted in any way, but is the economy that bad nowadays? It only bothers me because I used to work for (Big Brother Almiiiigh-ty) Health Insurance Company. In fact, (potential employers looking to hire me) I was the manager of our Employer Service Line division consisting of ninety-eight representatives. I know the ins and outs of enrollment and billing policies.
With that said...REALLY? You want me to send you a birth certificate to prove that "Baby Allen" is the daughter of "Wife Allen?" And then when it comes to me, it's not enough to send in a marriage certificate. You broke it down into columns. "One item from Column B and one item from Column C." REALLY? The thought never even crossed my mind that divorcees would game the system and claim their exes on their plan.
This letter exposes just how dysfunctional and unorganized our family is. I don't have a copy of last year's tax returns. Somebody in this family (who shall remain nameless) still hasn't updated the driver's license to show the new address so I can't prove it through that. We went paperless so I don't have a printed copy of my bank statement, although I guess I could print one out, but then I gotta go buy a ream of paper. We're gonna get divorced arguing about stuff before we get verified.
And all of this comes on top of the insurance rates going up but the benefits going down. Don't get me wrong, the benefits are way better than they could be. I used to see some really crappy policies come across my desk at Big Brother Insurance. I talked to a guy who had a $10k deductible for everything. I don't even know why he had insurance. But, as an employee...<Insert Praise Dance> My plan was only seven dollars a month and the benefits were so good that if someone shot me, they would hire a stunt double to come in and take the bullet for me.
But that was then and this is now. Health insurance costs continue to rise, the economy sucks and companies have to cut costs wherever possible. Back then we knew that people were probably dumping fake relatives on their plans, so I can see the rationale. And based on my insider information of how much these plans cost the employers, they'd be fools not to check. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
And now that my house is in complete disorder, because we have no proof that we're still married...I just need someone to blame. So I blame you, "Company That Shall Go Unnamed Because My Wife Needs A Job Because Only One Of Us Is Working!"
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Giving Ski Lessons
Random Memory #12: My first and only ski lesson
By now, everyone knows that I integrated Kayaking, and most of you know that it was a followup to my integrating skiing and ice skating. But, I don't want you guys to walk away from this blog thinking that I'm superhuman and without flaws. So I'm gonna pull back the curtain and reveal some vulnerability.
The first time I ever skied was in elementary school at the tender age of eight. I went back a few more times, but retired from the sport when I was eleven (I graduated from elementary school and my middle school never went). Sometime in the tenth grade I decided to go on the ski trip up to Killington, VT.
Up until then, my skiing experiences all took place at Ski Liberty in Pennsylvania. Compared to Killington, the slopes at Ski Liberty are the equivalent of going down a handicapped ramp on the sidewalk. But I didn't know that at the time, and throughout the entire 11 hour bus ride I channeled Muhammad Ali a little too much: "I am the greatest! I don't even need skis. I can go down in some church shoes."
The minute I got there and saw what I thought was the summit and someone told me that it was just the bunny slope...I knew I was in trouble. But I had to double down. I had convinced this girl to stick with me, because I was gonna teach her how to ski. I liked the girl and it was a four-day high school trip with only two chaperones. Obviously I had certain...aspirations, but the best way to control teenage hormones is to get to the top of a ski slope and to look a girl in the eye and say "Don't worry, I got you. Now look at my feet. To slow down, you need to make a wedge with your feet."
Now, after saying that, I look up and realize that she is much further away than she was when I first looked down. I see her mouthing something, but I can't really hear it. It looks like "Help Me," but I can't really be sure. I instantly realize that when I said, Look at me," she didn't turn her head like a normal person would've. Instead, she turned her whole body (feet and all) to face me. In doing so, her skis lined up with the slope of the hill and she is now skiing backwards down the hill.
And that's where hormones come in. On the one hand, if I catch her then I'm a hero and I'm definitely gonna have a nice evening, but on the other hand, I haven't actually skied in like four years. Come to think of it, I've never been on a mountain this size and, rather impressively, she's now veering over toward the blue square/black diamond area. The guys from the Hormone Department had an emergency meeting with the guys from the Self-Preservation Department. There was a lot of back and forth, but ultimately they decided to let her go.
I won't lie, I was a little nervous when we got back to the bus and no one had seen her the whole day, but it turns out that she came to rest in a group of people taking beginner's ski lessons (I'm not making this up) and the instructor let her join the group after hearing what happened. Personally, I saw that as God's will, but she didn't. She cursed me out when she finally made it to the bus and didn't speak to me the rest of the trip. It didn't matter. Right after she disappeared from view, who came off the ski lift alone? A girl that I really, really liked.
"Weren't you with ____, Ordale? I think I just saw her going down the hill."
"No, she was going to do her own thing. I'm riding dolo. Where's your little troupe?"
"They're scared. I'm going up to the top. You wanna come with me?"
"Why, yes I do."
By now, everyone knows that I integrated Kayaking, and most of you know that it was a followup to my integrating skiing and ice skating. But, I don't want you guys to walk away from this blog thinking that I'm superhuman and without flaws. So I'm gonna pull back the curtain and reveal some vulnerability.
The first time I ever skied was in elementary school at the tender age of eight. I went back a few more times, but retired from the sport when I was eleven (I graduated from elementary school and my middle school never went). Sometime in the tenth grade I decided to go on the ski trip up to Killington, VT.
Up until then, my skiing experiences all took place at Ski Liberty in Pennsylvania. Compared to Killington, the slopes at Ski Liberty are the equivalent of going down a handicapped ramp on the sidewalk. But I didn't know that at the time, and throughout the entire 11 hour bus ride I channeled Muhammad Ali a little too much: "I am the greatest! I don't even need skis. I can go down in some church shoes."
The minute I got there and saw what I thought was the summit and someone told me that it was just the bunny slope...I knew I was in trouble. But I had to double down. I had convinced this girl to stick with me, because I was gonna teach her how to ski. I liked the girl and it was a four-day high school trip with only two chaperones. Obviously I had certain...aspirations, but the best way to control teenage hormones is to get to the top of a ski slope and to look a girl in the eye and say "Don't worry, I got you. Now look at my feet. To slow down, you need to make a wedge with your feet."
Now, after saying that, I look up and realize that she is much further away than she was when I first looked down. I see her mouthing something, but I can't really hear it. It looks like "Help Me," but I can't really be sure. I instantly realize that when I said, Look at me," she didn't turn her head like a normal person would've. Instead, she turned her whole body (feet and all) to face me. In doing so, her skis lined up with the slope of the hill and she is now skiing backwards down the hill.
And that's where hormones come in. On the one hand, if I catch her then I'm a hero and I'm definitely gonna have a nice evening, but on the other hand, I haven't actually skied in like four years. Come to think of it, I've never been on a mountain this size and, rather impressively, she's now veering over toward the blue square/black diamond area. The guys from the Hormone Department had an emergency meeting with the guys from the Self-Preservation Department. There was a lot of back and forth, but ultimately they decided to let her go.
I won't lie, I was a little nervous when we got back to the bus and no one had seen her the whole day, but it turns out that she came to rest in a group of people taking beginner's ski lessons (I'm not making this up) and the instructor let her join the group after hearing what happened. Personally, I saw that as God's will, but she didn't. She cursed me out when she finally made it to the bus and didn't speak to me the rest of the trip. It didn't matter. Right after she disappeared from view, who came off the ski lift alone? A girl that I really, really liked.
"Weren't you with ____, Ordale? I think I just saw her going down the hill."
"No, she was going to do her own thing. I'm riding dolo. Where's your little troupe?"
"They're scared. I'm going up to the top. You wanna come with me?"
"Why, yes I do."
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Dec 26th--We Made It!
I'm sleepy. If it pleases the court, today's post will be short. It is currently 12:10 on the morning of December 26th. Operation "Don't Go Broke" was a success. This was my daughter's third Christmas and we made it through without spending more than $100.
The actual retail price of this Showcase.........$88.74! They really ought to let me host The Price Is Right: Recession Wars.
I turned this place into a Christmas wonderland. Lights on the window, a ribbon on the door and, with the attitude of "Go big or go home," I even bought a tree skirt. You can't tell me nothing.
And about 24 hours ago, my day began with us wrapping presents. Then I woke up to my daughter jumping on my spine. The highlight of the morning was convincing her that the gift wrap wasn't the actual present. Note to self: Give her a roll of gift wrap next year.
Finally, my wife cooked a very delicious dinner that we ate at 2:45 because we were starving. We watched some stuff to free up space on the DVR and I spent the next two hours playing Ski Safari on my phone.
Tomorrow the North Pole gets foreclosed and the pre-lit tree, lights and decorations will spread holiday cheer out by the dumpster. We will then prepare for the next holiday that will be shoved down our throats. It's December 26th so it's time for the Valentine's Day ads: "Choose your fate: Every kiss can begin with K or every divorce petition can begin with 'It's the thought that counts.'"
- A nice pre-lit tree
- Decorations by Le Dollar Store
- Minnie Mouse folding table and chair set
- Two angry bird dolls
- Minnie Mouse doll
- Plush penguin
- Four puzzles
The actual retail price of this Showcase.........$88.74! They really ought to let me host The Price Is Right: Recession Wars.
I turned this place into a Christmas wonderland. Lights on the window, a ribbon on the door and, with the attitude of "Go big or go home," I even bought a tree skirt. You can't tell me nothing.
And about 24 hours ago, my day began with us wrapping presents. Then I woke up to my daughter jumping on my spine. The highlight of the morning was convincing her that the gift wrap wasn't the actual present. Note to self: Give her a roll of gift wrap next year.
Finally, my wife cooked a very delicious dinner that we ate at 2:45 because we were starving. We watched some stuff to free up space on the DVR and I spent the next two hours playing Ski Safari on my phone.
Tomorrow the North Pole gets foreclosed and the pre-lit tree, lights and decorations will spread holiday cheer out by the dumpster. We will then prepare for the next holiday that will be shoved down our throats. It's December 26th so it's time for the Valentine's Day ads: "Choose your fate: Every kiss can begin with K or every divorce petition can begin with 'It's the thought that counts.'"
Monday, December 24, 2012
Santa Propaganda
Someone posted a status on Facebook about their kid seeing them with one of their unwrapped presents before Christmas. She did what any self respecting parent would do. She lied. In that same vein, here are the top ten lies people told me to keep the Santa thing going. (In no particular order)
1. (My Mother) I know that you already mailed your list to Santa, but he called me at work and said that he didn't get it. He told me to tell you to write another one and give it to me and I"ll take it to him now.
2. (My Mother) Yeah I'm going to the movies but you can't come with me. I'm supposed to meet Santa Claus again and show him your report card. He comes when you're asleep, because any child that sees Santa is banned from getting presents for the rest of their life. If you go with me, you won't be able to get presents ever again.
3. (My Mother) You saw what in the closet? Oh no, that's not yours. Santa Claus ran out of room in his shop and asked some parents to hold on to some toys for him, but if anybody opens or plays with those toys, then he'll punish them by not bringing them anything this year. As a matter of fact, just pretend you didn't even see those. We don't want to risk it.
4. (My Mother) Oh, we don't need a chimney for Santa Claus to get in. You know how the maintenance people can get in without my key? Well, Santa Claus has his own key that opens everyone's door. Huh? Oh, yeah I take the chain off the door before I go to sleep on Christmas.
5. (My father) Santa Claus brought some stuff over to my house this morning. He said that he didn't see them in the back of the sleigh when he came to your house. They must've fallen out of the bag or something. I told him I'd bring them to you so that he could hurry up and get home before sunrise. The sleigh doesn't work in sunlight.
6. (Postal worker speaking to my elementary school class) I work directly with Santa Claus. He told me to tell you guys that you don't have to put stamps on the envelopes when you mail your lists. They get to Santa through elf magic.
7. (My mother) The reason you see different Santas in the mall is because the real Santa Claus is busy making sure the elves pack up the toys correctly. He sends different people out to represent him and report back. That's why you see black ones in the black malls and white ones downtown.
8. (My grandmother) Yeah, Jesus knows Santa Claus. They're friends. He used to bring Jesus presents when he was little.
9. (My grandmother) I guess he doesn't bring grown people presents because he figures that you ought to have a job and be able to buy your own presents when you get grown.
10. (My mother) ____ is about to come over here. You know ____ is bad as hell, so Santa Claus didn't bring him nothing. Don't go running your mouth talking about what Santa Claus gave you when they get over here either. Matter of fact, take all the stuff you don't want him to break and put it in my room under the bed. Get that cheap stuff that ____ gave you and pretend that's all you got. It came from the Dollar Store anyway so if he breaks it, I can go buy you another one.
1. (My Mother) I know that you already mailed your list to Santa, but he called me at work and said that he didn't get it. He told me to tell you to write another one and give it to me and I"ll take it to him now.
2. (My Mother) Yeah I'm going to the movies but you can't come with me. I'm supposed to meet Santa Claus again and show him your report card. He comes when you're asleep, because any child that sees Santa is banned from getting presents for the rest of their life. If you go with me, you won't be able to get presents ever again.
3. (My Mother) You saw what in the closet? Oh no, that's not yours. Santa Claus ran out of room in his shop and asked some parents to hold on to some toys for him, but if anybody opens or plays with those toys, then he'll punish them by not bringing them anything this year. As a matter of fact, just pretend you didn't even see those. We don't want to risk it.
4. (My Mother) Oh, we don't need a chimney for Santa Claus to get in. You know how the maintenance people can get in without my key? Well, Santa Claus has his own key that opens everyone's door. Huh? Oh, yeah I take the chain off the door before I go to sleep on Christmas.
5. (My father) Santa Claus brought some stuff over to my house this morning. He said that he didn't see them in the back of the sleigh when he came to your house. They must've fallen out of the bag or something. I told him I'd bring them to you so that he could hurry up and get home before sunrise. The sleigh doesn't work in sunlight.
6. (Postal worker speaking to my elementary school class) I work directly with Santa Claus. He told me to tell you guys that you don't have to put stamps on the envelopes when you mail your lists. They get to Santa through elf magic.
7. (My mother) The reason you see different Santas in the mall is because the real Santa Claus is busy making sure the elves pack up the toys correctly. He sends different people out to represent him and report back. That's why you see black ones in the black malls and white ones downtown.
8. (My grandmother) Yeah, Jesus knows Santa Claus. They're friends. He used to bring Jesus presents when he was little.
9. (My grandmother) I guess he doesn't bring grown people presents because he figures that you ought to have a job and be able to buy your own presents when you get grown.
10. (My mother) ____ is about to come over here. You know ____ is bad as hell, so Santa Claus didn't bring him nothing. Don't go running your mouth talking about what Santa Claus gave you when they get over here either. Matter of fact, take all the stuff you don't want him to break and put it in my room under the bed. Get that cheap stuff that ____ gave you and pretend that's all you got. It came from the Dollar Store anyway so if he breaks it, I can go buy you another one.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Dropout
Two of the biggest regrets of my life are high school and college. As smart as I am, I regret having nothing to show for it in the world of academia. High school was fraught with the issues going on outside of school that led to four years of on again, off again depression and anxiety. To a degree it was out of my control, but college was supposed to be different.
College was to be the place where I would have my academic resurrection, but instead I think I confused getting over my issues with running away from my problems. I went to college when I absolutely should not have been there and yet there I was wasting away my potential one Perkins Loan at a time.
It wasn’t a total wash. I found my wife and, equally important, I found myself and pulled him back from the brink of despair. Dramatic interpretations aside, I really did get my shit together and my body caught up to that old soul that everyone talked about. Still, something was amiss and it only got worse when I dropped out.
Between 2000 and 2005 I think I dropped out and came back about three times before finally throwing in the towel. The reasons are irrelevant although some are noble and some are just made up excuses that I told myself to feel better. But in 2008 it came crashing down.
I rented the movie Revolver and it planted an idea that I just couldn’t shake. The movie presents the protagonist’s ego as an external character, one that lies and conspires in order to protect his investment (the self). The ego goes undetected because it is often mistaken to be inner dialogue or the conscious mind. As the main character, Jake, put it:
“You’ll always find a good opponent in the last place you’d ever look.”
At that point in time I had a secure job that afforded a very comfortable lifestyle and every single day I went to work with my head hanging because I was unfulfilled and stressed out. But every time the idea of going back to school crept in it was quickly dashed by this defiant idea that I was somehow taking the road less traveled and proving something by succeeding in spite of not having a degree.
This new idea that perhaps the voice that I’d been listening to all along wasn’t actually looking out for me, but trying to protect its investment made me question that decree. My subsequent research (Wikipedia) explained that the ego acts much like a sadistic overprotective parent. It shelters you from the truth often to your own detriment. But how could I be sure that it was ego and not just sound logic?
“Wherever you don’t want to go is where you will find him.”
I started exploring this idea by putting myself in situations that I’d normally avoid. Nothing life threatening. I don’t need an ego to tell me not to drink and drive or jump out into traffic. But I toyed with ideas and then tried to refute that sound logic. What’s so bad about going to school? So what if I choose to jump off this less traveled road? What I realized was that most, if not all, of those answers were rooted in the fear of humiliation or the fear of the unknown. It all boiled down to some derivative of insecurity, and here I was supposedly Mr. Self-Reliant who faced up to XYZ on his own and feared nothing. So what do I do?
“Use your perceived enemy to destroy your real enemy.”
I faced up to the thing that I “hated” most. I enrolled in school and when I found out that I’d basically have to start from scratch all hell broke loose. I was 26 then and there was no way in hell that I was gonna go through four more years of school when I was only one year away when I dropped out. I’d be 30 just getting a bachelor’s. All of my friends finished at 22 and some had their master’s by now. I recognized that to be ego right away, so I kept at it.
Over the last four years I’ve had heart surgery, my wife had a baby, my grandfather died and my grandmother had a heart attack. All of which are supposedly excellent reasons to leave school for a while, according to my advisor. If you throw in the whole “stay at home with the baby” thing, then I probably didn’t really have a chance in hell of finishing by 30.
But a funny thing happened about a week ago. I walked across a stage and three people shook my hand and gave me a diploma. Okay, that’s a lie. They handed me a diploma cover and inside was a letter that said, “Even though you have spent tens of thousands of dollars for this thing, we still haven’t figured out a way to at least give you an artist’s rendering of the actual degree. It’ll be in the mail sometime next month. First student loan bill to follow.”
I graduated from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. Now if only I could go back to high school.
College was to be the place where I would have my academic resurrection, but instead I think I confused getting over my issues with running away from my problems. I went to college when I absolutely should not have been there and yet there I was wasting away my potential one Perkins Loan at a time.
It wasn’t a total wash. I found my wife and, equally important, I found myself and pulled him back from the brink of despair. Dramatic interpretations aside, I really did get my shit together and my body caught up to that old soul that everyone talked about. Still, something was amiss and it only got worse when I dropped out.
Between 2000 and 2005 I think I dropped out and came back about three times before finally throwing in the towel. The reasons are irrelevant although some are noble and some are just made up excuses that I told myself to feel better. But in 2008 it came crashing down.
I rented the movie Revolver and it planted an idea that I just couldn’t shake. The movie presents the protagonist’s ego as an external character, one that lies and conspires in order to protect his investment (the self). The ego goes undetected because it is often mistaken to be inner dialogue or the conscious mind. As the main character, Jake, put it:
“You’ll always find a good opponent in the last place you’d ever look.”
At that point in time I had a secure job that afforded a very comfortable lifestyle and every single day I went to work with my head hanging because I was unfulfilled and stressed out. But every time the idea of going back to school crept in it was quickly dashed by this defiant idea that I was somehow taking the road less traveled and proving something by succeeding in spite of not having a degree.
This new idea that perhaps the voice that I’d been listening to all along wasn’t actually looking out for me, but trying to protect its investment made me question that decree. My subsequent research (Wikipedia) explained that the ego acts much like a sadistic overprotective parent. It shelters you from the truth often to your own detriment. But how could I be sure that it was ego and not just sound logic?
“Wherever you don’t want to go is where you will find him.”
I started exploring this idea by putting myself in situations that I’d normally avoid. Nothing life threatening. I don’t need an ego to tell me not to drink and drive or jump out into traffic. But I toyed with ideas and then tried to refute that sound logic. What’s so bad about going to school? So what if I choose to jump off this less traveled road? What I realized was that most, if not all, of those answers were rooted in the fear of humiliation or the fear of the unknown. It all boiled down to some derivative of insecurity, and here I was supposedly Mr. Self-Reliant who faced up to XYZ on his own and feared nothing. So what do I do?
“Use your perceived enemy to destroy your real enemy.”
I faced up to the thing that I “hated” most. I enrolled in school and when I found out that I’d basically have to start from scratch all hell broke loose. I was 26 then and there was no way in hell that I was gonna go through four more years of school when I was only one year away when I dropped out. I’d be 30 just getting a bachelor’s. All of my friends finished at 22 and some had their master’s by now. I recognized that to be ego right away, so I kept at it.
Over the last four years I’ve had heart surgery, my wife had a baby, my grandfather died and my grandmother had a heart attack. All of which are supposedly excellent reasons to leave school for a while, according to my advisor. If you throw in the whole “stay at home with the baby” thing, then I probably didn’t really have a chance in hell of finishing by 30.
But a funny thing happened about a week ago. I walked across a stage and three people shook my hand and gave me a diploma. Okay, that’s a lie. They handed me a diploma cover and inside was a letter that said, “Even though you have spent tens of thousands of dollars for this thing, we still haven’t figured out a way to at least give you an artist’s rendering of the actual degree. It’ll be in the mail sometime next month. First student loan bill to follow.”
I graduated from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. Now if only I could go back to high school.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Goodbye
Okay, so I'm writing this on the 19th and scheduling it to publish on the 21st. If you're reading this then there are two scenarios.
1) The world didn't end. That's good news. I'm probably out celebrating that, but it does mean that those school loans are still due, so...yeah.
2) The world did end, but not for you which means that I somehow made it on the Rapture bus. I have NO idea how that happened. Maybe there was a raffle or something or they just decided to go a completely different direction with it at the last minute. I don't know. But you're welcomed to all my stuff in my apartment, provided my wife and daughter are Rapturized with me. If they're still there then all bets are off.
I guess there is a third option
3) It just hasn't ended yet. The end of the world is kind of a gray area. I usually set these things to post at 7AM, so...You may not have actually made it and I may not have a seat on that bus after all. So what do we do with our last few hours? I'm probably asleep right now. I think I'll keep doing that.
Good luck and if tomorrow comes then I'll see ya then.
1) The world didn't end. That's good news. I'm probably out celebrating that, but it does mean that those school loans are still due, so...yeah.
2) The world did end, but not for you which means that I somehow made it on the Rapture bus. I have NO idea how that happened. Maybe there was a raffle or something or they just decided to go a completely different direction with it at the last minute. I don't know. But you're welcomed to all my stuff in my apartment, provided my wife and daughter are Rapturized with me. If they're still there then all bets are off.
I guess there is a third option
3) It just hasn't ended yet. The end of the world is kind of a gray area. I usually set these things to post at 7AM, so...You may not have actually made it and I may not have a seat on that bus after all. So what do we do with our last few hours? I'm probably asleep right now. I think I'll keep doing that.
Good luck and if tomorrow comes then I'll see ya then.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Where's My Food?
There's always a moment when the reality of a situation sets in. For example, I remember the moment when I realized that I was married. Don't get me wrong, the big thing at the church was a dead giveaway, but it was something happened the next week that really drove the point. Actually, it was two things...
We got married in college at the beginning of the semester, so we didn't have a honeymoon. Married on Saturday, back in class on Monday. I remember sitting in my Economics class that Monday talking to this girl and on her way out the door she handed me her number. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't flirting with the girl. At that exact moment the fourth digit on my left hand started to burn. I could feel the watchful eye of Sauron upon me. A voice whispered in my head, "But they were all of them deceived..." I caught up to her and handed that shit back. "Look, it's not you. I got married over the weekend (internal sobbing)."
But that wasn't the real kicker that said, "Hey, you're married!" For me, it was later in the week when I realized that we were out of Cap'n Crunch. I had just bought some and yet it was magically gone. It's weird when you go from by yourself to incorporating this extra person in your life. Kool-Aid was disappearing at a record pace. "Did you eat my Reese's out the freezer?"
Women hitting on me who wouldn't have given me a second glance pre-marriage, I can deal with. But there's only two goddamned Reese's in a pack. I'm about to file some papers!
(What's your point, Ordale?)
I'm starting to realize that I have a child. If the permanent state of fatigue wasn't enough indication, I'm starting to notice that food isn't stretching as far as it's supposed to. I've been poor for a very long time and with that comes the skill of being able to eyeball a pack of a chicken wings and calculate exactly how many days we can eat off of them.
A $10.04 pack from Whole Foods at $2.99 per lb, will last two full days if the wife and I each get four wings a piece. So, to my surprise the other day, I went to make Day 2's chicken and there were only four wings left. It's almost as if a third person got some chicken wings on Day 1! Why am I re-upping on chicken a day early?
"Who ate the last of the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios?" "Where's that roll of Ritz Crackers that was in the cabinet?" "Where did you put the leftover pancakes from this morning? What do you mean they're gone?"
She's two and a half, and she's 37 inches tall. Where in the hell are you putting two slices of pizza, eight chicken drummettes, and a half cup of peas? And what Children's Advil are you snorting that makes you think that it's okay to scrape the tunafish off my Ritz Crackers and put them in your mouth?
I went grocery shopping on Sunday. It's Thursday and my fridge is empty. I'm very concerned.
We got married in college at the beginning of the semester, so we didn't have a honeymoon. Married on Saturday, back in class on Monday. I remember sitting in my Economics class that Monday talking to this girl and on her way out the door she handed me her number. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't flirting with the girl. At that exact moment the fourth digit on my left hand started to burn. I could feel the watchful eye of Sauron upon me. A voice whispered in my head, "But they were all of them deceived..." I caught up to her and handed that shit back. "Look, it's not you. I got married over the weekend (internal sobbing)."
But that wasn't the real kicker that said, "Hey, you're married!" For me, it was later in the week when I realized that we were out of Cap'n Crunch. I had just bought some and yet it was magically gone. It's weird when you go from by yourself to incorporating this extra person in your life. Kool-Aid was disappearing at a record pace. "Did you eat my Reese's out the freezer?"
Women hitting on me who wouldn't have given me a second glance pre-marriage, I can deal with. But there's only two goddamned Reese's in a pack. I'm about to file some papers!
(What's your point, Ordale?)
I'm starting to realize that I have a child. If the permanent state of fatigue wasn't enough indication, I'm starting to notice that food isn't stretching as far as it's supposed to. I've been poor for a very long time and with that comes the skill of being able to eyeball a pack of a chicken wings and calculate exactly how many days we can eat off of them.
A $10.04 pack from Whole Foods at $2.99 per lb, will last two full days if the wife and I each get four wings a piece. So, to my surprise the other day, I went to make Day 2's chicken and there were only four wings left. It's almost as if a third person got some chicken wings on Day 1! Why am I re-upping on chicken a day early?
"Who ate the last of the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios?" "Where's that roll of Ritz Crackers that was in the cabinet?" "Where did you put the leftover pancakes from this morning? What do you mean they're gone?"
She's two and a half, and she's 37 inches tall. Where in the hell are you putting two slices of pizza, eight chicken drummettes, and a half cup of peas? And what Children's Advil are you snorting that makes you think that it's okay to scrape the tunafish off my Ritz Crackers and put them in your mouth?
I went grocery shopping on Sunday. It's Thursday and my fridge is empty. I'm very concerned.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Necessary Roughness
As I sat and watched the game last night I couldn't help but think about what could have been. For those who don't know, I was on the fast track to becoming a football star until DC Public Schools intervened.
The year was 1990 and eight year old me played his first game of "Throwback." For the uninitiated, the rules of Throwback are simple:
1) Everybody stands in a group and someone throws the football into the group.
2) Whoever catches the ball has to run through the group of guys to the designated "end zone."
Step 3 varies based on the caliber of players. By caliber, I don't mean skill. I mean class and human decency. I once played throwback with some kids from "happier" backgrounds who said I was down when someone tapped me with both hands. It baffled the hell out of me, because I was used to being down when I felt something break inside of me. Anyway, it was in 1990 that I realized that I would go on to be a great player one day. All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call me names until one day I finally caught the ball and not one of their "too big to be playing with 8 year olds" asses could stop me. All those years of running home had made me fast and strong as hell. Even when this big dude named Bo, who never met a sandwich that he didn't like, jumped on my back, I was still trucking into the end zone.
Fast forward and the year is 1995 and I'm in the seventh grade. I've started to shed that baby fat and the miracle of puberty is telling me all kinds of lies like, "I'm gonna be tall if my recent growth spurt from 4'11 to 5'3 these past few months is any indication." (It wasn't) I beat the fastest kid in my class during the gym class run from one end of the playground to the other. I was still a nerd of the highest order, but football was gonna be my ticket to popularity. (It didn't)
That's where good ole DC Public Schools comes in. We didn't play football on the same type of surface that those suburban kids played on. I think they call it "grass." We played on something a little more stable...concrete. They also didn't play Throwback in the big leagues of middle school. No, they played good old fashioned backyard football and none of that two-hand tap stuff either. You're down when the concrete gets between you and gravity.
I got out there and held my own quite a few times. Football isn't that hard. It's very similar to life in DC. "That dude right there is gonna try and hit you and those dudes over there are gonna help him. Run!" So let's recap. I was fast, and even though I was a hobbit, I could still jump up and grab a regulation rim. I had serious ups. So put all those together...you got speed, you got ups and you have this nerd eager to impress the girls standing on the sidelines. What could go wrong.
Concrete, that's what. I'll never forget the play that ended my career. I ran a slant and when I jumped up to catch the uncatchable ball, time slowed down. I remember seeing the clouds get closer than they'd ever gotten. I had this feeling like "Yo, I'm flying." I remember pulling the ball back towards me and clutching it up against my chest. "Thank God, I caught it." Since I had so much hang time, I looked over and saw the girl of my dreams staring back at me and I had time to envision her throwing herself at me like, "I love you Ordale, you are so fine!" And I remember thinking about how I wished somebody was filming this so that I could send a highlight reel to my college prospects one day.
The whole thing lasted about a half hour in my head, but was probably three or four seconds. Anyway, once I was done fantasizing, I decided to go ahead and "land" so that I could turn around and run the ball in for a touchdown. But a funny thing happened. I was still in slow motion when I realized that my feet weren't touching the ground. I mean, I felt something. It was definitely solid, but it was lacking the density and firmness of concrete. No, this felt malleable. Pliable, even. It felt a lot like cotton if it was wrapped around a skeleton of some sort. Maybe a shoulder or an arm. It was definitely something from an upper torso.
What was even stranger, and remember that I'm still in slow motion in my head, was that it felt like it was somehow rotating me. I wasn't "landing" anymore. Now it felt like I was falling, and sideways at that. Someone had hit me, undercut me in mid air, but I couldn't see who it was...at least not on the first rotation. I imagine it was like watching a gymnast vault at the Olympics or something. Two and a half rotations and a twist at the end (Sympathetic "gasp" from the crowd) and bam! Just as I caught a glimpse of who hit me, I landed on whatever bone connects your butt to your spine. The force of the impact was concentrated on that one spot and caused my entire body to go limp and the momentum slammed my head into the ground.
I didn't have a lot of interest in football after that. A half-broken coccyx will do that to you. I played a few times, but somehow concrete seemed to be the motivational speaker that I needed to just focus on track.
The year was 1990 and eight year old me played his first game of "Throwback." For the uninitiated, the rules of Throwback are simple:
1) Everybody stands in a group and someone throws the football into the group.
2) Whoever catches the ball has to run through the group of guys to the designated "end zone."
Step 3 varies based on the caliber of players. By caliber, I don't mean skill. I mean class and human decency. I once played throwback with some kids from "happier" backgrounds who said I was down when someone tapped me with both hands. It baffled the hell out of me, because I was used to being down when I felt something break inside of me. Anyway, it was in 1990 that I realized that I would go on to be a great player one day. All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call me names until one day I finally caught the ball and not one of their "too big to be playing with 8 year olds" asses could stop me. All those years of running home had made me fast and strong as hell. Even when this big dude named Bo, who never met a sandwich that he didn't like, jumped on my back, I was still trucking into the end zone.
Fast forward and the year is 1995 and I'm in the seventh grade. I've started to shed that baby fat and the miracle of puberty is telling me all kinds of lies like, "I'm gonna be tall if my recent growth spurt from 4'11 to 5'3 these past few months is any indication." (It wasn't) I beat the fastest kid in my class during the gym class run from one end of the playground to the other. I was still a nerd of the highest order, but football was gonna be my ticket to popularity. (It didn't)
That's where good ole DC Public Schools comes in. We didn't play football on the same type of surface that those suburban kids played on. I think they call it "grass." We played on something a little more stable...concrete. They also didn't play Throwback in the big leagues of middle school. No, they played good old fashioned backyard football and none of that two-hand tap stuff either. You're down when the concrete gets between you and gravity.
I got out there and held my own quite a few times. Football isn't that hard. It's very similar to life in DC. "That dude right there is gonna try and hit you and those dudes over there are gonna help him. Run!" So let's recap. I was fast, and even though I was a hobbit, I could still jump up and grab a regulation rim. I had serious ups. So put all those together...you got speed, you got ups and you have this nerd eager to impress the girls standing on the sidelines. What could go wrong.
Concrete, that's what. I'll never forget the play that ended my career. I ran a slant and when I jumped up to catch the uncatchable ball, time slowed down. I remember seeing the clouds get closer than they'd ever gotten. I had this feeling like "Yo, I'm flying." I remember pulling the ball back towards me and clutching it up against my chest. "Thank God, I caught it." Since I had so much hang time, I looked over and saw the girl of my dreams staring back at me and I had time to envision her throwing herself at me like, "I love you Ordale, you are so fine!" And I remember thinking about how I wished somebody was filming this so that I could send a highlight reel to my college prospects one day.
The whole thing lasted about a half hour in my head, but was probably three or four seconds. Anyway, once I was done fantasizing, I decided to go ahead and "land" so that I could turn around and run the ball in for a touchdown. But a funny thing happened. I was still in slow motion when I realized that my feet weren't touching the ground. I mean, I felt something. It was definitely solid, but it was lacking the density and firmness of concrete. No, this felt malleable. Pliable, even. It felt a lot like cotton if it was wrapped around a skeleton of some sort. Maybe a shoulder or an arm. It was definitely something from an upper torso.
What was even stranger, and remember that I'm still in slow motion in my head, was that it felt like it was somehow rotating me. I wasn't "landing" anymore. Now it felt like I was falling, and sideways at that. Someone had hit me, undercut me in mid air, but I couldn't see who it was...at least not on the first rotation. I imagine it was like watching a gymnast vault at the Olympics or something. Two and a half rotations and a twist at the end (Sympathetic "gasp" from the crowd) and bam! Just as I caught a glimpse of who hit me, I landed on whatever bone connects your butt to your spine. The force of the impact was concentrated on that one spot and caused my entire body to go limp and the momentum slammed my head into the ground.
I didn't have a lot of interest in football after that. A half-broken coccyx will do that to you. I played a few times, but somehow concrete seemed to be the motivational speaker that I needed to just focus on track.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Parent of the Month
Being a parent is a full time job. You hear that all the time. What you don't hear is that as an employee of one of the crappiest companies in existence (Don't get me started on salary and working conditions) you never really know how you're doing. It's not like the corporate world where you get monthly reviews. You get your performance review at random unexpected moments...like finding out your daughter is the headliner at a strip club (Make that money, Diamond! Don't let it make you!).
If you're a shitty parent then you don't really care, but if you're a decent one then you probably are giving it your all and looking for telltale signs. I had the (pleasure?) of watching a little kid lick the side of the trashcan at the bus stop while his mom explained to another concerned onlooker that she was wasn't a germaphobe. Compared to her, I'd say that gives me an Exceeds Expectations on my quarterly review.
For self-esteem purposes, I'd venture to say that I'm actually an Outstanding parent. If this were a sport, I would've been a first round draft pick. Other parents would put posters of me up on their walls. Maybe I'd even have endorsement deals: "The Ordale J Allen 'ass-whipping' belt is the only belt to have five different removable grips and a quick release latch for on the go disciplining."
Anyway, for every pro athlete, there's always someone better. Even Jordan had someone he looked up to. So who's your favorite parent's favorite parent? A good friend of mine who will only allow me to refer to her as D.B. is my inspiration. If I was a first round draft pick, she walked on right after high school. You already know how my daughter is: Sleeps two hours a night, beats me in my sleep and has me wrapped around her finger.
Watching D.B. with my daughter is like watching Bobby Flay come into my kitchen and turn a pack of Ramen Noodles and a hot dog into a Fettucini Bolognese. We stayed with her this past weekend and not only did my daughter embrace her, she acted like we were foster parents bringing her back. Little stuff like, "Go sit back down at the table and eat" was met with compliance. No whining, no crying, no pulling out a blade and threatening to stab D.B. She just did it.
The real kicker was when we decided to try something new...let her babysit. We started putting on our coats and heading for the door. "Goodbye, we'll see you later!" She looked up for all of a second and went back to playing. We came back and found out that she went to bed at 7:30PM...and slept for 13 hours! What!? The last time my daughter went to sleep before 8:00 was in the hospital the day she was born. Even then she woke up a few hours later.
I tip my hat, bow, curtsy, and kneel before Zod. If this little crappy company that we all work for has any kind of a CEO award then she deserves it. I should've known, though. Her kids will be studied by science one day. I once watched her then-six and seven year olds suggest that they play rock, paper, scissors in order to decide which Wii game to play. After winning, the seven year old immediately volunteered to play for only ten minutes so that the six year old could get a chance. No ninja kicking, no battle royale. Just compromise.
So to sum things up, I'm doing better than the lady who lets her kid lick the trash can, but I'm below the woman whose kids entertain themselves in the evening by having spelling bees with each other. You know what...I'm just gonna call it even.
If you're a shitty parent then you don't really care, but if you're a decent one then you probably are giving it your all and looking for telltale signs. I had the (pleasure?) of watching a little kid lick the side of the trashcan at the bus stop while his mom explained to another concerned onlooker that she was wasn't a germaphobe. Compared to her, I'd say that gives me an Exceeds Expectations on my quarterly review.
For self-esteem purposes, I'd venture to say that I'm actually an Outstanding parent. If this were a sport, I would've been a first round draft pick. Other parents would put posters of me up on their walls. Maybe I'd even have endorsement deals: "The Ordale J Allen 'ass-whipping' belt is the only belt to have five different removable grips and a quick release latch for on the go disciplining."
Anyway, for every pro athlete, there's always someone better. Even Jordan had someone he looked up to. So who's your favorite parent's favorite parent? A good friend of mine who will only allow me to refer to her as D.B. is my inspiration. If I was a first round draft pick, she walked on right after high school. You already know how my daughter is: Sleeps two hours a night, beats me in my sleep and has me wrapped around her finger.
Watching D.B. with my daughter is like watching Bobby Flay come into my kitchen and turn a pack of Ramen Noodles and a hot dog into a Fettucini Bolognese. We stayed with her this past weekend and not only did my daughter embrace her, she acted like we were foster parents bringing her back. Little stuff like, "Go sit back down at the table and eat" was met with compliance. No whining, no crying, no pulling out a blade and threatening to stab D.B. She just did it.
The real kicker was when we decided to try something new...let her babysit. We started putting on our coats and heading for the door. "Goodbye, we'll see you later!" She looked up for all of a second and went back to playing. We came back and found out that she went to bed at 7:30PM...and slept for 13 hours! What!? The last time my daughter went to sleep before 8:00 was in the hospital the day she was born. Even then she woke up a few hours later.
I tip my hat, bow, curtsy, and kneel before Zod. If this little crappy company that we all work for has any kind of a CEO award then she deserves it. I should've known, though. Her kids will be studied by science one day. I once watched her then-six and seven year olds suggest that they play rock, paper, scissors in order to decide which Wii game to play. After winning, the seven year old immediately volunteered to play for only ten minutes so that the six year old could get a chance. No ninja kicking, no battle royale. Just compromise.
So to sum things up, I'm doing better than the lady who lets her kid lick the trash can, but I'm below the woman whose kids entertain themselves in the evening by having spelling bees with each other. You know what...I'm just gonna call it even.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Change
Does anyone care what those kids' races were? Religion? Future sexual or political orientation? Does it matter less if some were bused in from less affluent areas? Do we care because they were between five and ten years old? In 8 to 13 years we wouldn't have cared as much if the finished product didn't match the stencil that we use to draw our ideas of acceptable and unacceptable, right and wrong. Or maybe a less cynical perspective is that we care, because, in children, we see the potential to be better than that.
They aren't yet a part of the flawed perpetual motion machine that continues to oscillate between misguided polarized perceptions of right and wrong, good and bad, us and them. With us, everything is divisive, everything is reactionary and thus our consciousness evolves at a snail's pace. Everyone is trying to pick the right side of a circle. Kids are different. They're better than us and they deserve better...than us. They deserve better than being slaughtered by the visceral reactions of our inability to cope with the world and the decisions and the mistakes that we've made and continue to make.
Schools are supposed to be hallowed ground if only because they house the last bit of hope that we have for ourselves. Like prisons, history is filled with despicable people who still somehow managed to conjure up enough love for their children. When we get to the point that the worst of us start destroying, en masse, the best of us, then we need to take heed and see it for what it is...a warning that we're approaching the point of no return. Something needs to change.
They aren't yet a part of the flawed perpetual motion machine that continues to oscillate between misguided polarized perceptions of right and wrong, good and bad, us and them. With us, everything is divisive, everything is reactionary and thus our consciousness evolves at a snail's pace. Everyone is trying to pick the right side of a circle. Kids are different. They're better than us and they deserve better...than us. They deserve better than being slaughtered by the visceral reactions of our inability to cope with the world and the decisions and the mistakes that we've made and continue to make.
Schools are supposed to be hallowed ground if only because they house the last bit of hope that we have for ourselves. Like prisons, history is filled with despicable people who still somehow managed to conjure up enough love for their children. When we get to the point that the worst of us start destroying, en masse, the best of us, then we need to take heed and see it for what it is...a warning that we're approaching the point of no return. Something needs to change.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Your Baby Can Read
Yesterday was uneventful with the exception of me having to read Fox in Socks, The Cat in the Hat, Oh, The Places You'll Go!, and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish a total of 23 times. It was only because of the sheer intrigue of seeing a glimmer of myself in my daughter that I kept reading those things over and over and over and...
When I was about three I developed the unique skill of pissing people off. It's a skill that I continue to perfect to this very day. Back then it was more cute than it is now. People used to come from far and wide (Southeast DC and PG County) to see the amazing three year old me read a book. The books of choice: Snoopy Come Home, The Wuzzles: Bumblelion's Funny Money, and Tony the Tiger's Clubhouse Blues.
What they didn't know was that my literary skill was made possible by "books on record." That's how long ago it was...they weren't even on tape. Back then people didn't treat kids like they were slow. I put the record in my Fisher Price player and some voice came through saying, "Hey, I'm a record and you have a book in your hands. I'm gonna read it to you, because you don't know how to read and when you hear this sound (chime) turn the page."
Well, me being the smart little guy that I was, I memorized the record. I also figured out that the pauses between words aligned with the spaces in between the words on the page, so I started pointing at the words as the record played. I kept doing this long after I lost the record. To the casual observer, I could read. To my family, "He's a con artist." Either way, it was fun seeing people's reactions at church or wherever I took my book...until they handed me something else to read. Then I just acted like I was tired.
My daughter is starting to do the same thing. She knows most of all of those books by heart, even though she sounds like English is her second language. I found it hilarious that when I tried to skip pages (thinking she wasn't paying attention), she quickly grabbed the book out of my hand and turned back to the correct page and then "cued" me as to what the next word was. "Look at me sid the cat, look at me sid uh cat in uh hat!" She was pointing at the words and everything. (The wrong words, but words nonetheless)
Real recognizes real...and she's looking familiar.
When I was about three I developed the unique skill of pissing people off. It's a skill that I continue to perfect to this very day. Back then it was more cute than it is now. People used to come from far and wide (Southeast DC and PG County) to see the amazing three year old me read a book. The books of choice: Snoopy Come Home, The Wuzzles: Bumblelion's Funny Money, and Tony the Tiger's Clubhouse Blues.
What they didn't know was that my literary skill was made possible by "books on record." That's how long ago it was...they weren't even on tape. Back then people didn't treat kids like they were slow. I put the record in my Fisher Price player and some voice came through saying, "Hey, I'm a record and you have a book in your hands. I'm gonna read it to you, because you don't know how to read and when you hear this sound (chime) turn the page."
Well, me being the smart little guy that I was, I memorized the record. I also figured out that the pauses between words aligned with the spaces in between the words on the page, so I started pointing at the words as the record played. I kept doing this long after I lost the record. To the casual observer, I could read. To my family, "He's a con artist." Either way, it was fun seeing people's reactions at church or wherever I took my book...until they handed me something else to read. Then I just acted like I was tired.
My daughter is starting to do the same thing. She knows most of all of those books by heart, even though she sounds like English is her second language. I found it hilarious that when I tried to skip pages (thinking she wasn't paying attention), she quickly grabbed the book out of my hand and turned back to the correct page and then "cued" me as to what the next word was. "Look at me sid the cat, look at me sid uh cat in uh hat!" She was pointing at the words and everything. (The wrong words, but words nonetheless)
Real recognizes real...and she's looking familiar.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Man-cub
I don't have much to talk about today. As you know, I usually write these things the night before. Well, most of today has been spent "studying" for the DCPS Preschool Lottery. My head hurts from the stress. There's a funny thing about living on my side of town. Apparently, everyone is doing so well over here that they see no need to have a preschool program at any of the public schools in my area. I've been checking some of the parenting boards and I see conversations like, "We're considering taking our child out of (Expensive Day Care #234) and putting her in (Expensive Private School #452)."
Meanwhile in Poverty's Paradise, I'm thinking..."Hmm, if I drink nothing but water for the next two months will I clean my kidney up enough to sell on the black market so that my daughter can go to daycare for a year?" She has to go to school next year! It's not even about me at this point. There's a scene in The Jacksons: An American Dream, where Michael (and those four other guys) want to play basketball or something and Joe beats the hell out of them with a sledgehammer or a staple gun or something (I might have that part wrong). Anyway, the writers go out of their way to highlight that Michael didn't have a childhood.
Well that's how I feel whenever my daughter and I walk past a school. She sees the kids on the playground and goes running towards them. At first I thought it was just her wanting to play, but she does the same thing when she sees a group of kids on a field trip at the zoo. We were walking to the grocery store one day and ran into the little rope-line of kids from the daycare out on their morning walk. The way she started yelling and fighting to get in line with them, you would've thought I was kidnapping her.
The point is that she wants to be with her own kind. I'm starting to feel like Balou from The Jungle Book. (Wait til you have kids...you'll start speaking in Disney references too.) I joke about her trying to kill me...Okay those aren't really jokes. I recount the horrifying truths of my life in a humorous slant. Anyway, I love my little girl and it sucks when you finally realize that being with you 24/7 is no longer the best thing for her.
I've been spending my free time studying like a QB before the game. I'm reading PDF files of lottery placement results for the last few years and it appears that most of the schools that I want her to go to usually fill up with in-boundary kids or kids with siblings already in the school. So then I start looking at my backup schools and I go all Magellan with it. I'm printing out Google Maps and breaking out the protractor and abacus. I'm trying to calculate how long, how much and how difficult it would be to get to some of these places on the Metro or by driving.
I'm studying traffic patterns, rush hour schedules, bottlenecks, etc. How much is before and aftercare? If/When Metro breaks down, can the wife get to point A before I can? If two trains leave Metro Center at the same time and one is traveling North at a speed of X...when the A/C conks out and "a situation on the platform" prevents the train from moving for 35 minutes, can the other parent pick our child up?
I gotta tell you...it's not looking good right now. But I'm super dad. I gotta make this happen. So, enough typing in the blog. It's time to get back to work.
Meanwhile in Poverty's Paradise, I'm thinking..."Hmm, if I drink nothing but water for the next two months will I clean my kidney up enough to sell on the black market so that my daughter can go to daycare for a year?" She has to go to school next year! It's not even about me at this point. There's a scene in The Jacksons: An American Dream, where Michael (and those four other guys) want to play basketball or something and Joe beats the hell out of them with a sledgehammer or a staple gun or something (I might have that part wrong). Anyway, the writers go out of their way to highlight that Michael didn't have a childhood.
Well that's how I feel whenever my daughter and I walk past a school. She sees the kids on the playground and goes running towards them. At first I thought it was just her wanting to play, but she does the same thing when she sees a group of kids on a field trip at the zoo. We were walking to the grocery store one day and ran into the little rope-line of kids from the daycare out on their morning walk. The way she started yelling and fighting to get in line with them, you would've thought I was kidnapping her.
The point is that she wants to be with her own kind. I'm starting to feel like Balou from The Jungle Book. (Wait til you have kids...you'll start speaking in Disney references too.) I joke about her trying to kill me...Okay those aren't really jokes. I recount the horrifying truths of my life in a humorous slant. Anyway, I love my little girl and it sucks when you finally realize that being with you 24/7 is no longer the best thing for her.
I've been spending my free time studying like a QB before the game. I'm reading PDF files of lottery placement results for the last few years and it appears that most of the schools that I want her to go to usually fill up with in-boundary kids or kids with siblings already in the school. So then I start looking at my backup schools and I go all Magellan with it. I'm printing out Google Maps and breaking out the protractor and abacus. I'm trying to calculate how long, how much and how difficult it would be to get to some of these places on the Metro or by driving.
I'm studying traffic patterns, rush hour schedules, bottlenecks, etc. How much is before and aftercare? If/When Metro breaks down, can the wife get to point A before I can? If two trains leave Metro Center at the same time and one is traveling North at a speed of X...when the A/C conks out and "a situation on the platform" prevents the train from moving for 35 minutes, can the other parent pick our child up?
I gotta tell you...it's not looking good right now. But I'm super dad. I gotta make this happen. So, enough typing in the blog. It's time to get back to work.
Monday, December 10, 2012
And I Feel Fine
Damn, I just realized that the world is supposed to end ten days from now...I think. Is it the stroke of midnight on the 21st or just at some point during the day? Well, give or take a few hours, the world will end sometime on or about December 21st.
Ah, I remember the last time the world ended. Y2K. Talk about anticlimactic. It's almost as if nothing happened. Of course, I knew nothing would happen. Many years before I thought it would be cool to set the time and date on my mother's work computer to 12/31/99 23:59:00. I stood back about five feet and waited for it to explode. Nothing.
Time passed, I reached 12th grade and everyone started yapping about canned goods and shotguns. I hated my high school so much that I thought it would be just my luck for the world to end six months before graduation. On New Year's Eve I faced the difficult choice of going down to The Mall to see a free concert hosted by Will Smith and Jada Pinkett or going to church.
Now this was back when I was a Jedi-Christian and, while I had no doubt that I was going to heaven, I really thought it would look good on my resume to be in church to hold the door open for Jesus on the off chance that He might come back that night. I heard on the radio that there was going to be a big midnight service out at the old US Air Arena. I decided to go there.
I went out there all by lonesome and didn't know a single person there. There was a lot of music and different people got up to speak. The theme of the night was "We aren't worried about Y2K because we KNOW where we're going if the world ends!!!" Every single person got up to say something along those lines and the thousands of people in the audience erupted into thunderous applause.
But a funny thing happened around 11:55. They asked people to come down closer to the floor so that we could join hands and praise the Lord as we rang in the new year. Then, they turned on the giant screen so that we could simultaneously watch the ball drop and pray/sing.
I was holding hands with two girls and we were rocking back and forth singing...something. "Yay Jesus...We're going to heaven...We're not afraid!" (Not the actual lyrics. I can't remember. Just go with it.)
All I know is that around 11:58, the volume in that place turned down REAL quick. It went from a deafening roar (We're not afraid!!!) to a stirring commotion (Okay, so like...maybe we are like kinda concerned, but we aint afraid) and then by 11:59, no one was singing, no one was rocking...everybody just kinda froze (We gon' die!). The preacher wasn't even singing anymore.
Then the countdown, 5-4-3-silence-silence...and nothing. I looked to my left and my right and realized that everyone was doing the same thing. It took about five seconds to sink in. We're ALIVE! And we went right back to singing..."Yay Jesus! We told you we weren't afraid!"
Ah, I remember the last time the world ended. Y2K. Talk about anticlimactic. It's almost as if nothing happened. Of course, I knew nothing would happen. Many years before I thought it would be cool to set the time and date on my mother's work computer to 12/31/99 23:59:00. I stood back about five feet and waited for it to explode. Nothing.
Time passed, I reached 12th grade and everyone started yapping about canned goods and shotguns. I hated my high school so much that I thought it would be just my luck for the world to end six months before graduation. On New Year's Eve I faced the difficult choice of going down to The Mall to see a free concert hosted by Will Smith and Jada Pinkett or going to church.
Now this was back when I was a Jedi-Christian and, while I had no doubt that I was going to heaven, I really thought it would look good on my resume to be in church to hold the door open for Jesus on the off chance that He might come back that night. I heard on the radio that there was going to be a big midnight service out at the old US Air Arena. I decided to go there.
I went out there all by lonesome and didn't know a single person there. There was a lot of music and different people got up to speak. The theme of the night was "We aren't worried about Y2K because we KNOW where we're going if the world ends!!!" Every single person got up to say something along those lines and the thousands of people in the audience erupted into thunderous applause.
But a funny thing happened around 11:55. They asked people to come down closer to the floor so that we could join hands and praise the Lord as we rang in the new year. Then, they turned on the giant screen so that we could simultaneously watch the ball drop and pray/sing.
I was holding hands with two girls and we were rocking back and forth singing...something. "Yay Jesus...We're going to heaven...We're not afraid!" (Not the actual lyrics. I can't remember. Just go with it.)
All I know is that around 11:58, the volume in that place turned down REAL quick. It went from a deafening roar (We're not afraid!!!) to a stirring commotion (Okay, so like...maybe we are like kinda concerned, but we aint afraid) and then by 11:59, no one was singing, no one was rocking...everybody just kinda froze (We gon' die!). The preacher wasn't even singing anymore.
Then the countdown, 5-4-3-silence-silence...and nothing. I looked to my left and my right and realized that everyone was doing the same thing. It took about five seconds to sink in. We're ALIVE! And we went right back to singing..."Yay Jesus! We told you we weren't afraid!"
Sunday, December 9, 2012
And Another One
Here's my second video upload to my Youtube channel. Facebook friends have probably seen this one before, so consider it an oldie but goodie.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Midday Update: Hug Yourself
***Midday Update***
I feel like a horrible parent. I didn't get much sleep last night and my daughter woke up earlier than usual. My head hurts and I feel sick, which seems to be my default setting in the winter. Somehow the shame of my parenting is the only thing keeping me from laughing now. I'm laying on the couch where I'm drifting in and out of sleep, and I awake to see my daughter dancing in front of the television in a pair of shorts, a tank top, one of those winter hats with the flaps that come down over your ears with the ball on top, some sunglasses and a toy microphone. Into the microphone, she's shouting out letters and numbers. Apparently SuperWhy had long since stopped playing on the DVR and the screen went back to CNBC. She's shouting out stock ticker prices.
"A-A-P-L 5-3-1-9-7"
It's actually kinda funny, not just because she looks like Homeless American Idol, but because she actually has stock in Apple. I started her portfolio when she was born. So, her few shares of Apple are apparently down to 531.97. Maybe she was waking me up because she wanted me to dump it. Relax, I bought it at $250. You're doing better than most.
I'm learning today that the hardest thing about parenting is discipline. I don't mean disciplining them. I mean, disciplining yourself. She's addicted to Ritz Crackers. She'll eat a whole roll if you let her. So today she tried to con me into some. I said no, so she asked for a banana, knowing that the open roll of Ritz Crackers was sitting right next to the bunch of bananas. When I gave her the banana instead, she fell out. Then she wouldn't eat it. So I made her go stand in the corner.
Do you know how hard it is not to laugh at a child dressed up in a pink winter hat, with a yellow tank top, peach pants and holding a microphone? Especially when the kid starts fake crying into the microphone. When I came out of the bathroom she was standing in the corner hugging herself saying, "It's okay. It's okay. Hug!" Then she started kissing her own arm. Who are you talking to?
She looked back up at me and I did my best not to laugh. "I said stand there and be quiet!" Then I had to turn around real quick so that she couldn't see me laughing.
I'm a horrible parent.
I feel like a horrible parent. I didn't get much sleep last night and my daughter woke up earlier than usual. My head hurts and I feel sick, which seems to be my default setting in the winter. Somehow the shame of my parenting is the only thing keeping me from laughing now. I'm laying on the couch where I'm drifting in and out of sleep, and I awake to see my daughter dancing in front of the television in a pair of shorts, a tank top, one of those winter hats with the flaps that come down over your ears with the ball on top, some sunglasses and a toy microphone. Into the microphone, she's shouting out letters and numbers. Apparently SuperWhy had long since stopped playing on the DVR and the screen went back to CNBC. She's shouting out stock ticker prices.
"A-A-P-L 5-3-1-9-7"
It's actually kinda funny, not just because she looks like Homeless American Idol, but because she actually has stock in Apple. I started her portfolio when she was born. So, her few shares of Apple are apparently down to 531.97. Maybe she was waking me up because she wanted me to dump it. Relax, I bought it at $250. You're doing better than most.
I'm learning today that the hardest thing about parenting is discipline. I don't mean disciplining them. I mean, disciplining yourself. She's addicted to Ritz Crackers. She'll eat a whole roll if you let her. So today she tried to con me into some. I said no, so she asked for a banana, knowing that the open roll of Ritz Crackers was sitting right next to the bunch of bananas. When I gave her the banana instead, she fell out. Then she wouldn't eat it. So I made her go stand in the corner.
Do you know how hard it is not to laugh at a child dressed up in a pink winter hat, with a yellow tank top, peach pants and holding a microphone? Especially when the kid starts fake crying into the microphone. When I came out of the bathroom she was standing in the corner hugging herself saying, "It's okay. It's okay. Hug!" Then she started kissing her own arm. Who are you talking to?
She looked back up at me and I did my best not to laugh. "I said stand there and be quiet!" Then I had to turn around real quick so that she couldn't see me laughing.
I'm a horrible parent.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Wanted: Rich Friend
I just realized something today. I don't know anyone who has anything. I was on Facebook and started scrolling through the newsfeed. One person got invited on a free cruise with their best friend. Somebody else thanked their parents for helping them get a house. Now you may be thinking, "Well, if they're in your newsfeed then you must know them." Nope. I've come to the sad realization that there are quite a few people in my friend list that I don't think I've ever met. And I'm not that kind of Facebook user.
It has never been my goal to have a million friends. In fact, I do a mass purge every year. There's one coming up at the end of the month. Everyone goes through a recertification process. Did you like or comment on anything on my page this year? Did I like or comment on your stuff? Are we related or do we have history that makes you indispensable? No? Then I'm afraid we're gonna have to let you go, Barack Obama.
Ironically, the people who I don't really know are the ones that I interact with most frequently on Facebook. It can be someone my wife knows and asked me to accept so that they could see pictures of my daughter. Or, someone has a friend who keeps hearing about my "hilarious" status updates and asked me to just add them so that they could read them for themselves.
These are the people who I need to get to know better. I don't want a handout, I just want to find out what their life is like. I worked on the last Census and a few of the kids there were students at Georgetown. We were talking about student loan debt. This girl said, "Thanks to parents, I don't have any loans." My naive mind took that to mean:
A) Mommy and Daddy have good credit so they qualified for the full amount of the Parent Loans.
B) Mommy and Daddy stayed on me the whole time from K-12 to make sure that I got a scholarship to college.
At NO POINT did my feeble, inner city, impoverished mind consider that she meant that her parents paid her tuition. The idea that a bill went to their house, was opened (probably with one of those pointy letter openers because they're balling outta control), and then someone wrote a check for the full amount and mailed it back in is just incredible.
That's up there with the girl that I liked in high school who, after a week of putting in some of my BEST talk game, finally invited me over her house one day on a Staff Development Day when her mother was at work. I got to her house and was taken aback by the fact that it was... a house. We poor folks have just adopted the term "house" to mean "the apartment that I live in." She had a single mom and still somehow lived in a house. They had stairs and a yard and no landlord. I was like, "Okay so did your grandmother die and leave your mom this house?"
She told me her mother bought it outright. She was a lawyer or an accountant or a baroness or something. She offered me a sandwich and she went to the fridge. I was waiting for the little round plastic thing of bologna and some store-brand white bread, but she pulled out a sub roll and a ziplock bag with the meat wrapped up in wax paper. That was the end of our courtship. I could afford an Oscar Meyer girl, but those deli meat girls were out of my league. "Did I do something wrong, Ordale?" You sure as hell did. When you said you'd never had Kraft, you talked yourself outta the best thing that ever happened to you.
[End tangent]
Where was I? Oh yeah...I want to be able to say that I know at least one person who has something. I'm not saying that my current friends aren't good enough. They are fantastic. Just the fact that the majority of my closest friends are people I met in high school says a lot. Their longevity is a testament to their character. Still...they're broke as hell. Hell, I can do that by myself. I don't want anything from anybody. I'm no moocher. I just want to say that I know a NFL player or a dude with a boat.
I can't imagine what it would have been like to have a parent pay for me to do anything, let alone go to college. The moral of my life story was, "You got any McDonalds/K.B. Toy Store/Teddy Ruxpin money?" That's not to say that my mother and grandmother didn't do anything for me...because they did. But at no point in the process did I ever feel like, 'Oh they can afford it." I went on a ski trip one February and knew that I was not allowed to ask for anything, not even the time of day, for the other ten months.
"Yes Mommy. I do want to go to see House Party with you, but um, it's like March and um...will you still be able to get me a Game Genie for Christmas if I go?" "Oh, okay...I'll just stay home and wait for it come out on tape."
Now that I think about it...I'd settle for a friend who had House Party on the official New Line Cinema manufactured VHS and not some Sony blank tape with three other movies of varying color and quality with "House Party, 48 Hours, Coming 2 America" written in black magic marker across the back.
It has never been my goal to have a million friends. In fact, I do a mass purge every year. There's one coming up at the end of the month. Everyone goes through a recertification process. Did you like or comment on anything on my page this year? Did I like or comment on your stuff? Are we related or do we have history that makes you indispensable? No? Then I'm afraid we're gonna have to let you go, Barack Obama.
Ironically, the people who I don't really know are the ones that I interact with most frequently on Facebook. It can be someone my wife knows and asked me to accept so that they could see pictures of my daughter. Or, someone has a friend who keeps hearing about my "hilarious" status updates and asked me to just add them so that they could read them for themselves.
These are the people who I need to get to know better. I don't want a handout, I just want to find out what their life is like. I worked on the last Census and a few of the kids there were students at Georgetown. We were talking about student loan debt. This girl said, "Thanks to parents, I don't have any loans." My naive mind took that to mean:
A) Mommy and Daddy have good credit so they qualified for the full amount of the Parent Loans.
B) Mommy and Daddy stayed on me the whole time from K-12 to make sure that I got a scholarship to college.
At NO POINT did my feeble, inner city, impoverished mind consider that she meant that her parents paid her tuition. The idea that a bill went to their house, was opened (probably with one of those pointy letter openers because they're balling outta control), and then someone wrote a check for the full amount and mailed it back in is just incredible.
That's up there with the girl that I liked in high school who, after a week of putting in some of my BEST talk game, finally invited me over her house one day on a Staff Development Day when her mother was at work. I got to her house and was taken aback by the fact that it was... a house. We poor folks have just adopted the term "house" to mean "the apartment that I live in." She had a single mom and still somehow lived in a house. They had stairs and a yard and no landlord. I was like, "Okay so did your grandmother die and leave your mom this house?"
She told me her mother bought it outright. She was a lawyer or an accountant or a baroness or something. She offered me a sandwich and she went to the fridge. I was waiting for the little round plastic thing of bologna and some store-brand white bread, but she pulled out a sub roll and a ziplock bag with the meat wrapped up in wax paper. That was the end of our courtship. I could afford an Oscar Meyer girl, but those deli meat girls were out of my league. "Did I do something wrong, Ordale?" You sure as hell did. When you said you'd never had Kraft, you talked yourself outta the best thing that ever happened to you.
[End tangent]
Where was I? Oh yeah...I want to be able to say that I know at least one person who has something. I'm not saying that my current friends aren't good enough. They are fantastic. Just the fact that the majority of my closest friends are people I met in high school says a lot. Their longevity is a testament to their character. Still...they're broke as hell. Hell, I can do that by myself. I don't want anything from anybody. I'm no moocher. I just want to say that I know a NFL player or a dude with a boat.
I can't imagine what it would have been like to have a parent pay for me to do anything, let alone go to college. The moral of my life story was, "You got any McDonalds/K.B. Toy Store/Teddy Ruxpin money?" That's not to say that my mother and grandmother didn't do anything for me...because they did. But at no point in the process did I ever feel like, 'Oh they can afford it." I went on a ski trip one February and knew that I was not allowed to ask for anything, not even the time of day, for the other ten months.
"Yes Mommy. I do want to go to see House Party with you, but um, it's like March and um...will you still be able to get me a Game Genie for Christmas if I go?" "Oh, okay...I'll just stay home and wait for it come out on tape."
Now that I think about it...I'd settle for a friend who had House Party on the official New Line Cinema manufactured VHS and not some Sony blank tape with three other movies of varying color and quality with "House Party, 48 Hours, Coming 2 America" written in black magic marker across the back.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Youtubing
"This face right here, Gina, belongs on the tizzube!"
I finally got around to creating a Youtube channel. You can check it out here. Don't get too excited, I only have one video. It kinda sucks, but I'm getting my feet wet with iMovie. I'm sure there's something better out there to use, but I'm what the French call, 'Le Broke', so I have to use what came with my computer. Also, pay no attention to the monotone voice. I have a cold, I'm doped up on medicine and I was trying to sound serious.
Okay, so I finally got around to creating a Youtube channel and uploading a video. Now I'm not gonna lie. It sucks. I personally hate the sound of my own voice (although I love talking incessantly), and I have a cold so I sound super monotone. I assure you that I have an actual personality and a mastery of things like 'inflection' and 'tone.' It's my first video and I'm still figuring iMovie out. Give me a pass. I promise the next one will have some pizazz.
I'm asking everyone to cross their fingers and pray to their respective gods. If you worship money, that'd really be helpful as I signed up for Adsense, which means that for every 1,000 views I'll get like a nickel or something. Anyway, I'm praying that I don't catch the ire of someone crazy. The decision to use my real name on this blog was not made lightly. People are looking for any reason not to hire someone these days and I'm sure that I've given them plenty of excuses with the profanity, bad grammar and honesty. "You quit working to watch your baby? Shiftless! Get outta here!" I've been even more wary of using pictures of myself and especially pictures of my daughter. People are crazy. I've written about some of them at length.
But I really enjoy writing and if I ever get a moment alone I'd like to put together a little e-book or something of all my adventures. It worked out well for The Hobbit and we're about the same size. If he can do it, why can't I? Anyway, I figure that if I half ass it then I don't really believe in myself. If by some strange happenstance a grammatically challenged e-book about a baby trying to kill a grown man becomes a best seller...someone is bound to find out what I look like, what my kid looks like and all sorts of other personal details. So, there it is, a Youtube video that finally puts a face to the legend of the warrior-baby.
Enjoy.
PS, I promise they'll get better and I'll sound like I have an emotion chip.
I finally got around to creating a Youtube channel. You can check it out here. Don't get too excited, I only have one video. It kinda sucks, but I'm getting my feet wet with iMovie. I'm sure there's something better out there to use, but I'm what the French call, 'Le Broke', so I have to use what came with my computer. Also, pay no attention to the monotone voice. I have a cold, I'm doped up on medicine and I was trying to sound serious.
Okay, so I finally got around to creating a Youtube channel and uploading a video. Now I'm not gonna lie. It sucks. I personally hate the sound of my own voice (although I love talking incessantly), and I have a cold so I sound super monotone. I assure you that I have an actual personality and a mastery of things like 'inflection' and 'tone.' It's my first video and I'm still figuring iMovie out. Give me a pass. I promise the next one will have some pizazz.
I'm asking everyone to cross their fingers and pray to their respective gods. If you worship money, that'd really be helpful as I signed up for Adsense, which means that for every 1,000 views I'll get like a nickel or something. Anyway, I'm praying that I don't catch the ire of someone crazy. The decision to use my real name on this blog was not made lightly. People are looking for any reason not to hire someone these days and I'm sure that I've given them plenty of excuses with the profanity, bad grammar and honesty. "You quit working to watch your baby? Shiftless! Get outta here!" I've been even more wary of using pictures of myself and especially pictures of my daughter. People are crazy. I've written about some of them at length.
But I really enjoy writing and if I ever get a moment alone I'd like to put together a little e-book or something of all my adventures. It worked out well for The Hobbit and we're about the same size. If he can do it, why can't I? Anyway, I figure that if I half ass it then I don't really believe in myself. If by some strange happenstance a grammatically challenged e-book about a baby trying to kill a grown man becomes a best seller...someone is bound to find out what I look like, what my kid looks like and all sorts of other personal details. So, there it is, a Youtube video that finally puts a face to the legend of the warrior-baby.
Enjoy.
PS, I promise they'll get better and I'll sound like I have an emotion chip.
Monday, December 3, 2012
A Tale of Two Babies
Friday we babysat for the first time as parents. It was an eye opening experience. Watching kids is nothing new to me. Even before it was my official job description, I was the family babysitter...at five. But this was the first time that I had a child of my own to compare and contrast.
Friday's specimen: Wonderbaby. That's the little girl that I wrote about before who's four or five months younger than my daughter, but has clearly been here before. I finally got the chance to put the two of them in a room with a paper clip, stick of gum and 9 volt battery and just stand back and watch to see who would build the bigger nuclear weapon.
Right off the bat, things weren't looking good for Team Allen. The parents showed up, dropped off the kid and rather than catching the holy ghost and screaming at the prospect of being left (like my child would do), she just said "Bye Mommy. Bye Daddy." I don't trust a kid that doesn't fear me. I hid all the sharp objects right away.
Time came to eat and on the menu: Pizza. My daughter doesn't like pizza, but the two parents gave it to us for free, so it is imperative that my child learn to appreciate free stuff. We asked Wonderbaby, "Are you hungry? Would you like some pizza." She looked up all doe-eyed, "Yes." We asked my child. "Do you want some pizza?" She didn't take her eyes away from the TV: "Crackers!"
Me: "We don't have crackers, but we have pizza."
Her: "Sausage!"
Me: "No sausage either. We have pizza."
Her: "Okay (ten syllables of jibberish) chicken."
Me: "We have piz-za. That's it. Just piz-za."
Her: (disappointed stare)
So Wonderbaby ate her entire slice of pizza from the point to the crust. Mine only ate the cheese. We asked Wonderbaby if she wanted some more and (right hand to God) she said, "Yes. I want one more piece." I wanted to go to like NY and get her a real slice just because she was proper and specific. We asked mine if she wanted more and she hastily replied, "Cracker?"
Dinner was over (evident by my daughter just getting up and walking away). Wonderbaby remained at the table. "Um, you can get up if you like." She said, "I want to wash my hands." Don't get me wrong, we were gonna do that, but I'm used to having to bait mine into the bathroom. "Hey look...something shiny! GOTCHA!" Afterwards she went and stood directly in front of the television. "Wonderbaby, don't stand so close. Have a seat on the couch." She turned around, went to the couch and sat there for the rest of the evening until her parents came back. Meanwhile, mine was somewhere in the corner building a pipe bomb.
I was very intrigued by that little girl. I really wanted to take her sock off and see if there was a battery compartment inside her foot. You have to build a child like that. They aren't just born that way. As pleasant an experience as it was, I think that I would lose my mind if my daughter was like that. You ever seen those movies where the super soldiers retire and they're forced to live amongst regular people? They usually go crazy.
My daughter keeps me sharp. I'm always on guard. Yesterday, she came to me in the kitchen saying "Daisy! Daisy!" Then she grabbed my hand and led me to the couch. She got down on the floor and started looking under the couch saying "Daisy!" So, I assumed that her Daisy Duck doll was under the couch and out of her reach. I got on the floor and started reaching for it. About three seconds later my spine crushed in towards the floor and made contact with the inside of my navel. She-Hulk Hogan decided that it was the perfect moment to stand up on the couch and jump off the top rope onto my back. If I had feeling in my hands, I would've beat the hell out of her. I never found Daisy and I wonder if she was even looking for her in the first place.
I got sloppy, and moments like that show what my daughter does for my survival skills. I slipped, but I won't do it again. She's assertive, manipulative, calculating and sometimes just plain loud. She reminds me of a younger me. I realize that genetics are stronger than I thought. I probably couldn't make her have Wonderbaby's personality if I tried. Her parents seem like quiet, unassuming people. I highly doubt that either of them ever spent a lot of time in the principal's office. They probably never even got a cafeteria worker fired by going on the news and saying that the food was spoiled. If she's anything like me, my daughter is gonna need a good civil defense attorney. We'll keep Wonderbaby's number on file.
Friday's specimen: Wonderbaby. That's the little girl that I wrote about before who's four or five months younger than my daughter, but has clearly been here before. I finally got the chance to put the two of them in a room with a paper clip, stick of gum and 9 volt battery and just stand back and watch to see who would build the bigger nuclear weapon.
Right off the bat, things weren't looking good for Team Allen. The parents showed up, dropped off the kid and rather than catching the holy ghost and screaming at the prospect of being left (like my child would do), she just said "Bye Mommy. Bye Daddy." I don't trust a kid that doesn't fear me. I hid all the sharp objects right away.
Time came to eat and on the menu: Pizza. My daughter doesn't like pizza, but the two parents gave it to us for free, so it is imperative that my child learn to appreciate free stuff. We asked Wonderbaby, "Are you hungry? Would you like some pizza." She looked up all doe-eyed, "Yes." We asked my child. "Do you want some pizza?" She didn't take her eyes away from the TV: "Crackers!"
Me: "We don't have crackers, but we have pizza."
Her: "Sausage!"
Me: "No sausage either. We have pizza."
Her: "Okay (ten syllables of jibberish) chicken."
Me: "We have piz-za. That's it. Just piz-za."
Her: (disappointed stare)
So Wonderbaby ate her entire slice of pizza from the point to the crust. Mine only ate the cheese. We asked Wonderbaby if she wanted some more and (right hand to God) she said, "Yes. I want one more piece." I wanted to go to like NY and get her a real slice just because she was proper and specific. We asked mine if she wanted more and she hastily replied, "Cracker?"
Dinner was over (evident by my daughter just getting up and walking away). Wonderbaby remained at the table. "Um, you can get up if you like." She said, "I want to wash my hands." Don't get me wrong, we were gonna do that, but I'm used to having to bait mine into the bathroom. "Hey look...something shiny! GOTCHA!" Afterwards she went and stood directly in front of the television. "Wonderbaby, don't stand so close. Have a seat on the couch." She turned around, went to the couch and sat there for the rest of the evening until her parents came back. Meanwhile, mine was somewhere in the corner building a pipe bomb.
I was very intrigued by that little girl. I really wanted to take her sock off and see if there was a battery compartment inside her foot. You have to build a child like that. They aren't just born that way. As pleasant an experience as it was, I think that I would lose my mind if my daughter was like that. You ever seen those movies where the super soldiers retire and they're forced to live amongst regular people? They usually go crazy.
My daughter keeps me sharp. I'm always on guard. Yesterday, she came to me in the kitchen saying "Daisy! Daisy!" Then she grabbed my hand and led me to the couch. She got down on the floor and started looking under the couch saying "Daisy!" So, I assumed that her Daisy Duck doll was under the couch and out of her reach. I got on the floor and started reaching for it. About three seconds later my spine crushed in towards the floor and made contact with the inside of my navel. She-Hulk Hogan decided that it was the perfect moment to stand up on the couch and jump off the top rope onto my back. If I had feeling in my hands, I would've beat the hell out of her. I never found Daisy and I wonder if she was even looking for her in the first place.
I got sloppy, and moments like that show what my daughter does for my survival skills. I slipped, but I won't do it again. She's assertive, manipulative, calculating and sometimes just plain loud. She reminds me of a younger me. I realize that genetics are stronger than I thought. I probably couldn't make her have Wonderbaby's personality if I tried. Her parents seem like quiet, unassuming people. I highly doubt that either of them ever spent a lot of time in the principal's office. They probably never even got a cafeteria worker fired by going on the news and saying that the food was spoiled. If she's anything like me, my daughter is gonna need a good civil defense attorney. We'll keep Wonderbaby's number on file.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Apollonia IV
Saturday afternoon at approximately 4:23PM EST, my wife's iPhone, "Apollonia," suffered a heart attack while riding on the Capital Beltway. Doctors at the Genius Bar attempted an experimental battery transplant to no avail. She was pronounced dead on Sunday December 2. My wife is understandably inconsolable. Apollonia IV was her first and only iPhone and just two months shy of her second birthday. It seems like only yesterday when I brought her home from the Apple Store...
We had been trying for an iPhone since 2007. There was something about us being Verizon members that made it impossible. In the Winter of 2010, my wife decided to call it quits. We had allowed "New Every Two" upgrades to remain on our account for almost four years. "It's time to just accept that it's not meant to be," she said looking down at the burgundy carpet in the Bethesda Verizon Store. I wasn't willing to give up hope just yet, but trying to convince her only made her angry. "We could always just adopt a Droid." Hearing her say that made me shudder. There's nothing wrong with Android, it just wasn't what I wanted. I just wanted to see her smile. We convinced ourselves that we were doing the right thing. The "Buy one, get one free" sale didn't hurt either. We walked out as the proud owners of twin Droid Xs.
Three weeks later, they announced the Verizon iPhone 4. Fate can be cruel at times. It was too late to return them, and my wife swore that she was happy with her Droid. I made the tough decision to take my chances with eBay. A few days later I had four hundred bucks and I bought my iPhone. It immediately caused a rift between my wife and I. Too often, I caught her comparing apps between the two phones. "Why is it so clear on yours? Why isn't that app on Droid?" She moped around the house for a week. I couldn't take it anymore.
For Valentine's Day, I went to her job at lunch. I gave her a vase of flowers and a gift bag. Inside the bag was a box of chocolates and a framed black and white photo of me and my daughter. She was happy...and OCD'ish as ever. She noticed that the picture wasn't level inside the frame. It was an ugly boxy frame that I got for six bucks at Target. If only I'd been more attentive when setting the photo.
If I had caught it instead of her then she would've just sat the frame on her desk and gone about her day. At exactly three o'clock, she would've gotten a call from me at her desk where I would've told her about some cool new feature of my phone. She would've listened and feigned interest even though she would have been envious as hell. I would've made it worse by dragging out the conversation for at least another two minutes until she heard her new picture frame playing "Overjoyed" (one of our songs). She would've been baffled at first as she tried to figure out where the music was coming from and, more importantly, how to turn it off. Eventually she would've removed the latch, opened the back of the frame and found her brand new iPhone loaded with all the apps she liked on mine, a photo album of us throughout the years and a playlist that I made called "I Love You." As a bonus, I put my number in the phone under "Best Husband Ever."
But that didn't happen. She noticed the picture was off-centered, and opened the back to fix it. I got a phone call of her screaming and all I could say in response was, "Goddammit!" Flash forward nearly two years and Apollonia is no longer with us. The stock market hasn't been as good to me this year as it was then, so I can't just run out and buy another one. I have to pick between a new phone for her or Christmas presents for my daughter. She doesn't even know why there's a fake tree in the middle of the living room, so we could get by. But I want to buy her gifts. So the best I can do is what I just did.
I called Verizon and deactivated the iPhone that I love so much that it has not left its case except to be polished and knelt before once a week. I dug my old flip phone out of a box somewhere and activated it on my line, then I put my iPhone on hers. It's the best I can do right now. So when you see me walking down the street with a portable CD player (I gave my aunt my old iPod once I got my phone), a digital camera and a cell phone duct taped together...don't laugh at me. I do it for love.
We had been trying for an iPhone since 2007. There was something about us being Verizon members that made it impossible. In the Winter of 2010, my wife decided to call it quits. We had allowed "New Every Two" upgrades to remain on our account for almost four years. "It's time to just accept that it's not meant to be," she said looking down at the burgundy carpet in the Bethesda Verizon Store. I wasn't willing to give up hope just yet, but trying to convince her only made her angry. "We could always just adopt a Droid." Hearing her say that made me shudder. There's nothing wrong with Android, it just wasn't what I wanted. I just wanted to see her smile. We convinced ourselves that we were doing the right thing. The "Buy one, get one free" sale didn't hurt either. We walked out as the proud owners of twin Droid Xs.
Three weeks later, they announced the Verizon iPhone 4. Fate can be cruel at times. It was too late to return them, and my wife swore that she was happy with her Droid. I made the tough decision to take my chances with eBay. A few days later I had four hundred bucks and I bought my iPhone. It immediately caused a rift between my wife and I. Too often, I caught her comparing apps between the two phones. "Why is it so clear on yours? Why isn't that app on Droid?" She moped around the house for a week. I couldn't take it anymore.
For Valentine's Day, I went to her job at lunch. I gave her a vase of flowers and a gift bag. Inside the bag was a box of chocolates and a framed black and white photo of me and my daughter. She was happy...and OCD'ish as ever. She noticed that the picture wasn't level inside the frame. It was an ugly boxy frame that I got for six bucks at Target. If only I'd been more attentive when setting the photo.
If I had caught it instead of her then she would've just sat the frame on her desk and gone about her day. At exactly three o'clock, she would've gotten a call from me at her desk where I would've told her about some cool new feature of my phone. She would've listened and feigned interest even though she would have been envious as hell. I would've made it worse by dragging out the conversation for at least another two minutes until she heard her new picture frame playing "Overjoyed" (one of our songs). She would've been baffled at first as she tried to figure out where the music was coming from and, more importantly, how to turn it off. Eventually she would've removed the latch, opened the back of the frame and found her brand new iPhone loaded with all the apps she liked on mine, a photo album of us throughout the years and a playlist that I made called "I Love You." As a bonus, I put my number in the phone under "Best Husband Ever."
But that didn't happen. She noticed the picture was off-centered, and opened the back to fix it. I got a phone call of her screaming and all I could say in response was, "Goddammit!" Flash forward nearly two years and Apollonia is no longer with us. The stock market hasn't been as good to me this year as it was then, so I can't just run out and buy another one. I have to pick between a new phone for her or Christmas presents for my daughter. She doesn't even know why there's a fake tree in the middle of the living room, so we could get by. But I want to buy her gifts. So the best I can do is what I just did.
I called Verizon and deactivated the iPhone that I love so much that it has not left its case except to be polished and knelt before once a week. I dug my old flip phone out of a box somewhere and activated it on my line, then I put my iPhone on hers. It's the best I can do right now. So when you see me walking down the street with a portable CD player (I gave my aunt my old iPod once I got my phone), a digital camera and a cell phone duct taped together...don't laugh at me. I do it for love.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Do I Even Have An Immune System?
It's 11PM Wed Nov 28th. I'm sick again because I took my daughter to a birthday party last weekend where one of the children was an Outbreak monkey in disguise. She had a runny nose on Monday and I knew something was up. I was praying that it was just the cold air. I knew she was sick when I put all her toys up and they stayed in the same spot all day long. If she were one of the X-Men, her mutant power would be the ability to take a cold and strengthen that shit so that by the time you catch it from her...it's smallpox. She's sick, but I'm sicker.
My wife got home around 6:30 and both of us were knocked out on the couch. The thing is, I don't remember even sitting down on the couch. I think I collapsed in the kitchen somewhere and my daughter carried me to the couch. My head hurts, throat hurts, fingernails hurt. I'm coughing and sneezing simultaneously so my lungs hurt. Right now I have on sweat pants, a hoodie and a hat. The heat is on 85 and I have a space heater on and I'm still cold, but have a fever.
So why am I still up then? I can give you 550 million reasons. Powerball. Talk all the shit you want about the lottery being for fools. I will gladly spend $2 on the off chance that I MIGHT win half a billion. I'm good when it comes to defying the odds. Hell, I'm the sperm that made it. Out of the estimated 280 million swimmers, I was the one smart enough to bring a jackhammer. If I don't win...meh, whatever. But if I do win...you can say goodbye to Mentalstorage.com, because I'm going into hiding. I know too many grimy people to stay visible.
But let me not reveal my secrets. Just know this: If there's no post tomorrow, be happy for me...or send some flowers to the "Outbreak" ward at GW Hospital.
My wife got home around 6:30 and both of us were knocked out on the couch. The thing is, I don't remember even sitting down on the couch. I think I collapsed in the kitchen somewhere and my daughter carried me to the couch. My head hurts, throat hurts, fingernails hurt. I'm coughing and sneezing simultaneously so my lungs hurt. Right now I have on sweat pants, a hoodie and a hat. The heat is on 85 and I have a space heater on and I'm still cold, but have a fever.
So why am I still up then? I can give you 550 million reasons. Powerball. Talk all the shit you want about the lottery being for fools. I will gladly spend $2 on the off chance that I MIGHT win half a billion. I'm good when it comes to defying the odds. Hell, I'm the sperm that made it. Out of the estimated 280 million swimmers, I was the one smart enough to bring a jackhammer. If I don't win...meh, whatever. But if I do win...you can say goodbye to Mentalstorage.com, because I'm going into hiding. I know too many grimy people to stay visible.
But let me not reveal my secrets. Just know this: If there's no post tomorrow, be happy for me...or send some flowers to the "Outbreak" ward at GW Hospital.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Christmas '92
So let's pick up where yesterday's post left off. I picked the Christmas tree up, leaned it back against the wall, and straightened out the decorations. I Will Always Love You went off, and I gave up on finding Christmas music. Fast forward a few days and it's Christmas. I wake up at my mother's apartment where we have an actual (green) Christmas tree. The white one that I put up at my grandmother's house was so pitiful that my mother was compelled to go to Ames or Zares or whatever the place was called over on Rhode Island Avenue and we got a cheap tree.
I was ten, so the magic of Santa Claus was long since dead. I'm sure it came as a relief to my mother. Instead of me handing her thick envelopes with four or five page letters to mail to Santa detailing all of the things I did right that year and the presents I felt were reasonable compensations for my efforts, now she sat down with me at the kitchen table like some kind of proprietor of a fledgling small business. "Look, I don't have a whole lot of money. You give me a list of what you want. Want! Not what you think you're actually going to get. Write it in order of how bad you want it and put down how much it costs. I have about a hundred dollars to spend this year, so don't go crazy."
It wasn't something that she needed to say. The four of us were living in a one bedroom apartment in a sketchy neighborhood about a block from Trinidad near Benning Road. All I wanted for Christmas was a moving truck. Still, I swung for the fences and asked for a Super Nintendo, a Sega Genesis or a Neo Geo. She sent the list back. My union redrafted a list asking only for Ninja Turtles II: The Arcade Game for regular Nintendo.
So I ran to the tree that morning and there were dozens of gifts...all labeled for my one-year old sister. Beneath the pile was a box that I knew was probably a sweater or a hat and glove set from my grandmother (I was right) and some cheap, ugly Tiger Handheld LCD Game knockoff from Montgomery Wards. "Hurt" doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, but I didn't say anything. I tried to look grateful. I kept waiting around hoping that there was a big surprise somewhere. Nope. Over the next hour my mother seemed to develop an attitude that I could only guess was the result of my poorly hidden lack of appreciation for my presents.
I sat down to play Nintendo on my beat up 13 inch black and white television and she got mad. The living room was technically my room, because I used to sleep on the couch, but during the day it was everybody's room. It was apparently rude to play video games on the living room television on Christmas. That was another thing that always bothered me. My mother had a 20 inch color TV in her room. Back then 20 inches was huge, at least compared to my little TV which looked like an iPod screen compared to what's out now. You could turn her TV on and tune to a station and the show would just appear as if by some kind of witchcraft. Not my little pathetic thing.
Step 1: Turn on the TV
Step 2: Take the knob off the top and put it on the bottom to change the station
Step 3: Move the antenna
Step 4: Move it some more
Step 5: Walk away from the TV to see if the picture stays still
Step 6: Move the antenna again
Step 7: Adjust the vertical and horizontal knobs in the back
Step 8: Bang the top of the TV
Step 9: Just stand there with your hand touching the antenna until the next commercial
So, you know how it goes when you're mad as a kid. You can't speak your mind, at least not to the average black mother. I just sat there and "thought" things real hard. "She could go in her room and watch TV. Why do they need to be out here? Why can't I go in her room and plug up my Nintendo? Maybe I was switched at birth. Maybe my real family is rich and they're gonna come find me and when they do I'm gonna get a TV of my own and my own room." My mother interrupted with, "Fix your face! You roll your eyes at me again and Imma knock em out your head. Matter of fact, go take out the trash!"
So I went outside to take out the trash and I came back in and just sat in the kitchen imagining what my real rich family might be like. My mother appeared again. "What are you sitting in the kitchen for? Go clean up the living room!" I walk into the living room (cursing her out in my head) and I immediately moonwalk backwards towards the door. My TV was gone. In its place was a brand new Zenith 20 inch television with a remote control.
...
...
...
I didn't say anything for a good minute. I just stared at it. I knew it was a TV and I knew it was in my house. My brain just couldn't connect the dots. I looked back toward the kitchen and my mother was smiling, "Merry Christmas!" I still didn't get it. "So, am I getting your old television?" She looked at me, "No boy, it's yours." I lost my damned mind! I can't even find the words to describe the emotion. It had buttons! Like...no knobs. Just buttons! That was futuristic to me. A remote control!? Oh my God, the possibilities! I can be on the couch and change the channel at the same time. Oh my God! I can turn up the sound from over there by the window. Holy shit! I can hook my Nintendo up with the coaxial cable. I don't need that adapter with the two screws anymore! I'm one of the Jetsons! And when I turned it on...Man/Girl/Whoever you are out there...When I turned it on, it asked me to set the time. My TV could tell me what time it was! "I don't need a watch anymore!"
I cherished that thing for the next 16 years until that lady I married finally convinced me to give it away in 2008. "You have a flat screen now. Let it go!" Little does she know, I kept the remote.
I was ten, so the magic of Santa Claus was long since dead. I'm sure it came as a relief to my mother. Instead of me handing her thick envelopes with four or five page letters to mail to Santa detailing all of the things I did right that year and the presents I felt were reasonable compensations for my efforts, now she sat down with me at the kitchen table like some kind of proprietor of a fledgling small business. "Look, I don't have a whole lot of money. You give me a list of what you want. Want! Not what you think you're actually going to get. Write it in order of how bad you want it and put down how much it costs. I have about a hundred dollars to spend this year, so don't go crazy."
It wasn't something that she needed to say. The four of us were living in a one bedroom apartment in a sketchy neighborhood about a block from Trinidad near Benning Road. All I wanted for Christmas was a moving truck. Still, I swung for the fences and asked for a Super Nintendo, a Sega Genesis or a Neo Geo. She sent the list back. My union redrafted a list asking only for Ninja Turtles II: The Arcade Game for regular Nintendo.
So I ran to the tree that morning and there were dozens of gifts...all labeled for my one-year old sister. Beneath the pile was a box that I knew was probably a sweater or a hat and glove set from my grandmother (I was right) and some cheap, ugly Tiger Handheld LCD Game knockoff from Montgomery Wards. "Hurt" doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, but I didn't say anything. I tried to look grateful. I kept waiting around hoping that there was a big surprise somewhere. Nope. Over the next hour my mother seemed to develop an attitude that I could only guess was the result of my poorly hidden lack of appreciation for my presents.
I sat down to play Nintendo on my beat up 13 inch black and white television and she got mad. The living room was technically my room, because I used to sleep on the couch, but during the day it was everybody's room. It was apparently rude to play video games on the living room television on Christmas. That was another thing that always bothered me. My mother had a 20 inch color TV in her room. Back then 20 inches was huge, at least compared to my little TV which looked like an iPod screen compared to what's out now. You could turn her TV on and tune to a station and the show would just appear as if by some kind of witchcraft. Not my little pathetic thing.
Step 1: Turn on the TV
Step 2: Take the knob off the top and put it on the bottom to change the station
Step 3: Move the antenna
Step 4: Move it some more
Step 5: Walk away from the TV to see if the picture stays still
Step 6: Move the antenna again
Step 7: Adjust the vertical and horizontal knobs in the back
Step 8: Bang the top of the TV
Step 9: Just stand there with your hand touching the antenna until the next commercial
So, you know how it goes when you're mad as a kid. You can't speak your mind, at least not to the average black mother. I just sat there and "thought" things real hard. "She could go in her room and watch TV. Why do they need to be out here? Why can't I go in her room and plug up my Nintendo? Maybe I was switched at birth. Maybe my real family is rich and they're gonna come find me and when they do I'm gonna get a TV of my own and my own room." My mother interrupted with, "Fix your face! You roll your eyes at me again and Imma knock em out your head. Matter of fact, go take out the trash!"
So I went outside to take out the trash and I came back in and just sat in the kitchen imagining what my real rich family might be like. My mother appeared again. "What are you sitting in the kitchen for? Go clean up the living room!" I walk into the living room (cursing her out in my head) and I immediately moonwalk backwards towards the door. My TV was gone. In its place was a brand new Zenith 20 inch television with a remote control.
...
...
...
I didn't say anything for a good minute. I just stared at it. I knew it was a TV and I knew it was in my house. My brain just couldn't connect the dots. I looked back toward the kitchen and my mother was smiling, "Merry Christmas!" I still didn't get it. "So, am I getting your old television?" She looked at me, "No boy, it's yours." I lost my damned mind! I can't even find the words to describe the emotion. It had buttons! Like...no knobs. Just buttons! That was futuristic to me. A remote control!? Oh my God, the possibilities! I can be on the couch and change the channel at the same time. Oh my God! I can turn up the sound from over there by the window. Holy shit! I can hook my Nintendo up with the coaxial cable. I don't need that adapter with the two screws anymore! I'm one of the Jetsons! And when I turned it on...Man/Girl/Whoever you are out there...When I turned it on, it asked me to set the time. My TV could tell me what time it was! "I don't need a watch anymore!"
I cherished that thing for the next 16 years until that lady I married finally convinced me to give it away in 2008. "You have a flat screen now. Let it go!" Little does she know, I kept the remote.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Trim the Tree
Well for the first time in my life, I put up a Christmas tree in November instead of waiting until the last minute. Hold your applause, I have another announcement to share: For the first time ever, I put up lights on my window. (Thunderous Applause)
Christmas was always confusing growing up. It was that magical time when Santa Claus brought me all the stuff that I wanted out of the store and none of the stuff that I asked the elves to build through meticulous drawings, diagrams and blueprints. Every year he delivered presents to my mother's house and my father's house instead of just leaving them at one location. And despite being an honor roll student throughout my childhood, Santa always seemed to have a dollar limit. Anything over $150 was absent from the tree. For a man whose elves could build anything and whose sleigh could go anywhere, he sure had limits.
Nothing was as confusing as the holiday spirit in my house. The best way to describe it is...well, as a spirit: Some lingering entity moaning about, trapped between one place and the next. Not really at peace, nor was it happy. It just existed, hoping to move on. It was Christmas '92 when things really got weird. For my birthday, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree. My birthday is in July, by the way. To commemorate turning 10 and my age having two digits instead of one, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree...in the Summer. An explanation would soon follow sometime around Thanksgiving.
My grandmother felt, in her own words, that since her children were unappreciative of her efforts that she was henceforth and forevermore canceling Thanksgiving in her house. She would no longer host it, cook for it or acknowledge it. There's more to the story, but too many relatives still alive to do it justice and live to tell about it. So let's just say that when my grandmother gets mad, the Earth trembles. So, Grandma P. Diddy Allen shut down the studio. She then went on to explain that she was also done with Christmas. She wasn't wasting her time putting up a tree, but if I wanted to do it then she wouldn't stop me, so the cheap, ugly white Christmas tree became mine.
The white Christmas tree got its start in our house sometime in '88 or '89. My grandmother saw a sale on trees and sent my grandfather to retrieve one from Hechinger's. He and I got inside his 1807 Plymouth and chugged down the street to Hechinger Mall leaving a trail of deathly smoke behind us. He didn't pay attention to the fact that there was a white tree on the box and my grandmother spent the next two hours reminding him of that. Flash forward three or four years and now the tree was handed down to me.
For a few days in December I asked my grandmother to put up the tree with me and she refused. My mother wasn't interested either. Aunts didn't seem to care and uncles lived too far away. My grandfather wasn't even an option as the tree brought back too many painful memories of my grandmother cursing him out. So on the evening of December _?_ 1992, I cleared a space for my tree, dragged it up from the basement and proceeded to put together what remains to this day to be the ugliest tree I have ever seen.
Because no one with a job was interested enough to buy any, I had to use whatever ornaments and decorations that I could find in the basement. I had some gold and silver tinsel that was frayed or cut and had to be literally tied back together to fit around the whole tree. I couldn't find any hooks to put on the ornaments so that they'd hang, so I just sat them on the tree and hoped that they wouldn't fall. It was a fake tree so I just bent some of the branches upward. We had an old dusty, Chucky-looking Santa doll that my grandmother either got from a yard sale or a thrift store. I leaned him up against the tree. The tree itself leaned up against the wall because one of the legs was missing.
It was a sorry sight, but I tried to remain positive. I turned on the radio looking for Christmas music. There was a new song out for the holidays that I hadn't heard before, but after a few seconds it just made things worse. There I was, a ten year old boy in the house alone putting up the world's saddest tree by himself trying to bring some joy to the world (or at least the family). Instead of the Temptations' Silent Night or Hathaway's This Christmas, what did my ears hear for the first time?
If I
should stay
I would on-ly be in
your way.
So I'll go
but I know
I'll think of you every step of
the way
And I....
I just started balling. "Life sucks! Christmas sucks!" Just then God sent me a message:
The tree fell over.
And I
will always love you
Christmas was always confusing growing up. It was that magical time when Santa Claus brought me all the stuff that I wanted out of the store and none of the stuff that I asked the elves to build through meticulous drawings, diagrams and blueprints. Every year he delivered presents to my mother's house and my father's house instead of just leaving them at one location. And despite being an honor roll student throughout my childhood, Santa always seemed to have a dollar limit. Anything over $150 was absent from the tree. For a man whose elves could build anything and whose sleigh could go anywhere, he sure had limits.
Nothing was as confusing as the holiday spirit in my house. The best way to describe it is...well, as a spirit: Some lingering entity moaning about, trapped between one place and the next. Not really at peace, nor was it happy. It just existed, hoping to move on. It was Christmas '92 when things really got weird. For my birthday, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree. My birthday is in July, by the way. To commemorate turning 10 and my age having two digits instead of one, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree...in the Summer. An explanation would soon follow sometime around Thanksgiving.
My grandmother felt, in her own words, that since her children were unappreciative of her efforts that she was henceforth and forevermore canceling Thanksgiving in her house. She would no longer host it, cook for it or acknowledge it. There's more to the story, but too many relatives still alive to do it justice and live to tell about it. So let's just say that when my grandmother gets mad, the Earth trembles. So, Grandma P. Diddy Allen shut down the studio. She then went on to explain that she was also done with Christmas. She wasn't wasting her time putting up a tree, but if I wanted to do it then she wouldn't stop me, so the cheap, ugly white Christmas tree became mine.
The white Christmas tree got its start in our house sometime in '88 or '89. My grandmother saw a sale on trees and sent my grandfather to retrieve one from Hechinger's. He and I got inside his 1807 Plymouth and chugged down the street to Hechinger Mall leaving a trail of deathly smoke behind us. He didn't pay attention to the fact that there was a white tree on the box and my grandmother spent the next two hours reminding him of that. Flash forward three or four years and now the tree was handed down to me.
For a few days in December I asked my grandmother to put up the tree with me and she refused. My mother wasn't interested either. Aunts didn't seem to care and uncles lived too far away. My grandfather wasn't even an option as the tree brought back too many painful memories of my grandmother cursing him out. So on the evening of December _?_ 1992, I cleared a space for my tree, dragged it up from the basement and proceeded to put together what remains to this day to be the ugliest tree I have ever seen.
Because no one with a job was interested enough to buy any, I had to use whatever ornaments and decorations that I could find in the basement. I had some gold and silver tinsel that was frayed or cut and had to be literally tied back together to fit around the whole tree. I couldn't find any hooks to put on the ornaments so that they'd hang, so I just sat them on the tree and hoped that they wouldn't fall. It was a fake tree so I just bent some of the branches upward. We had an old dusty, Chucky-looking Santa doll that my grandmother either got from a yard sale or a thrift store. I leaned him up against the tree. The tree itself leaned up against the wall because one of the legs was missing.
It was a sorry sight, but I tried to remain positive. I turned on the radio looking for Christmas music. There was a new song out for the holidays that I hadn't heard before, but after a few seconds it just made things worse. There I was, a ten year old boy in the house alone putting up the world's saddest tree by himself trying to bring some joy to the world (or at least the family). Instead of the Temptations' Silent Night or Hathaway's This Christmas, what did my ears hear for the first time?
If I
should stay
I would on-ly be in
your way.
So I'll go
but I know
I'll think of you every step of
the way
And I....
I just started balling. "Life sucks! Christmas sucks!" Just then God sent me a message:
The tree fell over.
And I
will always love you
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Christmas Kicks Off
You wanna talk about irony? I spent the entire weekend looking for Christmas presents for a child who spent the entire weekend giving me reasons not to buy them. We went to a birthday party this weekend at the Playseum where my daughter auditioned for a Ritalin commercial. I don't understand. We took out three of her batteries before we left the house, but she still had enough juice to go tazmanian on us. The other 10-15 kids sat and painted nice and quiet. Stripe-Gremlin thought we were trying to put her in a strait jacket when it came time to put on the smock. Eventually I got it on her and she sat down to paint for twelve seconds before I saw that look in her eyes. Rather than ruin it for the other kids, I just took her back to the room with all of the toys. A few minutes later they came in the room to do story time.
You know, "I appreciate you" gets thrown around so much these days. When my wife says it, I kinda believe it. When I watch her struggle to keep Dizzy Devil still on the floor during story time...I believe it wholeheartedly. She looked back at me like I was supposed to lend some advice...share a trade secret of how I get her to sit still when I take her to story time. Not a chance in hell. She gave me the Bernie Mac look: "Summa ma bitch! Imma bust yo head to the white meat." I just smiled. I make it look too easy sometimes and the only way you'll respect the magician is if you fail horribly at duplicating his trick.
So anyway, after all of that was over, I went shopping to get Christmas out of the way. She's two, so I'm not going all out. She won't remember this anyway. When she can be scarred by the memories, then I'll put some effort into it, but for now a wrapped up empty toilet paper roll will do just fine. "Look baby, it's a telescope...and a microphone...and a drumstick." I got her two Angry Bird plush toys ($10), some used Dr Seuss books (12 books at $3 each), and a Minnie Mouse folding table set ($30). That lady that I married wants to get her a toy kitchen. I say we get her a step ladder and put it in the real kitchen.
(Note to self: Take pictures with Santa this year...or do what you did last year: Take pictures of Santa, but conveniently position her in the shot so that it looks like she's standing next to him like people do with the Eiffel Tower.
You know, "I appreciate you" gets thrown around so much these days. When my wife says it, I kinda believe it. When I watch her struggle to keep Dizzy Devil still on the floor during story time...I believe it wholeheartedly. She looked back at me like I was supposed to lend some advice...share a trade secret of how I get her to sit still when I take her to story time. Not a chance in hell. She gave me the Bernie Mac look: "Summa ma bitch! Imma bust yo head to the white meat." I just smiled. I make it look too easy sometimes and the only way you'll respect the magician is if you fail horribly at duplicating his trick.
So anyway, after all of that was over, I went shopping to get Christmas out of the way. She's two, so I'm not going all out. She won't remember this anyway. When she can be scarred by the memories, then I'll put some effort into it, but for now a wrapped up empty toilet paper roll will do just fine. "Look baby, it's a telescope...and a microphone...and a drumstick." I got her two Angry Bird plush toys ($10), some used Dr Seuss books (12 books at $3 each), and a Minnie Mouse folding table set ($30). That lady that I married wants to get her a toy kitchen. I say we get her a step ladder and put it in the real kitchen.
(Note to self: Take pictures with Santa this year...or do what you did last year: Take pictures of Santa, but conveniently position her in the shot so that it looks like she's standing next to him like people do with the Eiffel Tower.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Black Friday After Next
The concept of Black Friday confounds me. My family has never been big on holidays, especially Thanksgiving. We get together to eat, but the emotion that you see in movies or Folgers Coffee commercials is kinda phoned in when it comes to us. There's usually not enough gas left in the tank to hang out together the day after Thanksgiving, which is probably why I never heard of Black Friday until college.
This girl asked me what my plans were for Thanksgiving and Black Friday. I had the same pause in my brain that you get when someone uses a word that you don't know. The first thing that popped in my head was Good Friday. Maybe Black Friday was a Roman Catholic holiday. Perhaps it's the day that the first Bible scripture was written. Not wanting to sound stupid, I said, "Oh we go to church." I kinda liked the girl and would've said anything at that point.
When I got back to the room I "Altavista'd" Black Friday (Google wasn't popular yet). I liked my assumption better. I am too cheap to appreciate Black Friday. It's counterintuitive, I know. You'd think that I'd be first in line to buy something, but instead I find myself angry at the realization of just how much retailers markup their products. If you can sell me this TV for $150 today, then why in the hell were you trying to sell it to me for $500 last week?
I understand business, profit margins, marketing psychology and all of that. I know that you're only doing it to lure people in when you probably only have five in stock, but still...it's the principle of the thing. "It's principalities, Smokey." I'm not standing in line for hours just so that I can get inside and fight people for the right to hand you my money. Not while Amazon has the same deals online and I can do it from my house. lol
To those of you patient enough to do it...Happy Hunting. For the lazy, cheap and arrogant bastards like myself...Have another swim in your money bin.
This girl asked me what my plans were for Thanksgiving and Black Friday. I had the same pause in my brain that you get when someone uses a word that you don't know. The first thing that popped in my head was Good Friday. Maybe Black Friday was a Roman Catholic holiday. Perhaps it's the day that the first Bible scripture was written. Not wanting to sound stupid, I said, "Oh we go to church." I kinda liked the girl and would've said anything at that point.
When I got back to the room I "Altavista'd" Black Friday (Google wasn't popular yet). I liked my assumption better. I am too cheap to appreciate Black Friday. It's counterintuitive, I know. You'd think that I'd be first in line to buy something, but instead I find myself angry at the realization of just how much retailers markup their products. If you can sell me this TV for $150 today, then why in the hell were you trying to sell it to me for $500 last week?
I understand business, profit margins, marketing psychology and all of that. I know that you're only doing it to lure people in when you probably only have five in stock, but still...it's the principle of the thing. "It's principalities, Smokey." I'm not standing in line for hours just so that I can get inside and fight people for the right to hand you my money. Not while Amazon has the same deals online and I can do it from my house. lol
To those of you patient enough to do it...Happy Hunting. For the lazy, cheap and arrogant bastards like myself...Have another swim in your money bin.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Elmo's World
Kevin Clash resigned? How did I miss this yesterday? It is too tacky to make jokes about him, Elmo or pedophilia. I'll say this though...
What the hell is going to happen with Elmo? The people at Sesame Street are too smart to not have a line of succession already established. The minute the first person got shot for a Tickle Me Elmo they had five people auditioning to replace Kevin Clash one day. My question is will it work. Elmo is a god, Elmo's World is his televangelism and Sesame Place is the Vatican. Whoever takes that job better come correct. The first missed inflection or first-person slip up (Elmo never says "I") and heads are going to roll. I bought a Sesame Street book that came with an audio CD that was not voiced by Clash. My daughter looked at me like "Who the hell is this?" That thing is in a landfill now. I can see an army of toddlers descending on Sesame Place in Pennsylvania. That place is gonna look like Iraq in '03 with statues of Elmo toppling over.
I don't know what's going to happen, but if they're smart they'll just keep running the same reruns of Elmo's World like they've been doing.
What the hell is going to happen with Elmo? The people at Sesame Street are too smart to not have a line of succession already established. The minute the first person got shot for a Tickle Me Elmo they had five people auditioning to replace Kevin Clash one day. My question is will it work. Elmo is a god, Elmo's World is his televangelism and Sesame Place is the Vatican. Whoever takes that job better come correct. The first missed inflection or first-person slip up (Elmo never says "I") and heads are going to roll. I bought a Sesame Street book that came with an audio CD that was not voiced by Clash. My daughter looked at me like "Who the hell is this?" That thing is in a landfill now. I can see an army of toddlers descending on Sesame Place in Pennsylvania. That place is gonna look like Iraq in '03 with statues of Elmo toppling over.
I don't know what's going to happen, but if they're smart they'll just keep running the same reruns of Elmo's World like they've been doing.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Beating Free Zone
Not much to talk about today. Feeling kinda sick. The child got on my last nerve yesterday to the point that I had one of those headaches that I only hear about in Tylenol commercials. In reality, I've never seen someone have a headache that's so bad that they start rubbing their temples while looking constipated, but that's what I was doing yesterday. I'm old school. I'm from an era where whenever a kid does something that you don't like, you just yell at them until they stop. Half the time the kid doesn't know what you're talking about or why you're angry so they keep doing whatever it is that they're doing which causes you to either keep yelling or switch to asswhipping mode. That's where I'm from. That's not where I live now.
I live on the other side of Asswhipsylvania. Over here we're still waking up with night terrors from our own childhood beatings, so we're a little more cautious about breaking out the Hot Wheels tracks and extension cords. I'm thirty years old and I STILL remember the last two beatings that I got. There was the Thrilla in Manila of Summer 1986 and then the Rumble in the Jungle of Spring 1987. That's right. The last beating I got occurred when I was only four years old. Most "urban" children have at least one beating that took place in their teens. They look at me and say, "Oh you must have been spoiled because you didn't get a beating anytime after pre-kindergarten." Nope. Don't assume I was spoiled just because your parents were entry-level ass whippers. My grandmother mastered the craft and my mother was her apprentice. Obi-Wan and Anakin all day everyday.
I've written about this before I think, so there's no need to go into a long detailed story. The first one happened outside of a church. My grandmother was singing as part of the guest choir at a church and I was sitting in the audience standing up on a pew trying to climb out of the window because apparently I was bored. My grandmother came down out of the choir loft, walked me outside and beat the hell out of me with the same cat o' nine tails that they beat Jesus with at the crucifixion. And just like Jesus...I wept.
The next and final beating took place in Brooklyn. You haven't lived a full life until you've been beat down in Brooklyn. We were at my great-grandmother's house and my mother decided to go hang out with her cousins. I wanted to go, she said no and I don't know what the hell was wrong with me but the word "Why" came out of my mouth. "Why" is a curse word in black households. The next thing I knew she was taking the paddle ball that I was playing with and beating the hell out of me (while still maintaining a rhythm to keep paddling the ball). I screamed and hollered to the smooth percussion of my own beating. It was so bad, that just the memory of it stopped me from doing anything beating-worthy for the rest of my life.
So anyway, with all of that said, my daughter got on my last nerve and if I were my mother or grandmother, then she would probably be pulling Payless 'Highlights' women's shoe rubber out of her behind. Because I am not them, she lives to sit normally another day, while I have a blinding headache that's been going on for two straight days. What's so hard about laying down the hammer is that I can tell when she's acting out on purpose and when she's just emotional, frustrated or unaware that what she's doing is wrong. I just know. Nothing she did yesterday was 'demonic.' It was just her being a kid. Her job is to ask me to read Fox in Socks 54 times. My job is to not try and paper cut my wrists with the book.
It's okay. I'll be avenged one day. When I show up to her high school wearing combat boots, a tiara, a too-too and long fur coat and then walk around making sure that everyone knows I'm her father...she'll cry and ask why. I'm going to point to this day.
I live on the other side of Asswhipsylvania. Over here we're still waking up with night terrors from our own childhood beatings, so we're a little more cautious about breaking out the Hot Wheels tracks and extension cords. I'm thirty years old and I STILL remember the last two beatings that I got. There was the Thrilla in Manila of Summer 1986 and then the Rumble in the Jungle of Spring 1987. That's right. The last beating I got occurred when I was only four years old. Most "urban" children have at least one beating that took place in their teens. They look at me and say, "Oh you must have been spoiled because you didn't get a beating anytime after pre-kindergarten." Nope. Don't assume I was spoiled just because your parents were entry-level ass whippers. My grandmother mastered the craft and my mother was her apprentice. Obi-Wan and Anakin all day everyday.
I've written about this before I think, so there's no need to go into a long detailed story. The first one happened outside of a church. My grandmother was singing as part of the guest choir at a church and I was sitting in the audience standing up on a pew trying to climb out of the window because apparently I was bored. My grandmother came down out of the choir loft, walked me outside and beat the hell out of me with the same cat o' nine tails that they beat Jesus with at the crucifixion. And just like Jesus...I wept.
The next and final beating took place in Brooklyn. You haven't lived a full life until you've been beat down in Brooklyn. We were at my great-grandmother's house and my mother decided to go hang out with her cousins. I wanted to go, she said no and I don't know what the hell was wrong with me but the word "Why" came out of my mouth. "Why" is a curse word in black households. The next thing I knew she was taking the paddle ball that I was playing with and beating the hell out of me (while still maintaining a rhythm to keep paddling the ball). I screamed and hollered to the smooth percussion of my own beating. It was so bad, that just the memory of it stopped me from doing anything beating-worthy for the rest of my life.
So anyway, with all of that said, my daughter got on my last nerve and if I were my mother or grandmother, then she would probably be pulling Payless 'Highlights' women's shoe rubber out of her behind. Because I am not them, she lives to sit normally another day, while I have a blinding headache that's been going on for two straight days. What's so hard about laying down the hammer is that I can tell when she's acting out on purpose and when she's just emotional, frustrated or unaware that what she's doing is wrong. I just know. Nothing she did yesterday was 'demonic.' It was just her being a kid. Her job is to ask me to read Fox in Socks 54 times. My job is to not try and paper cut my wrists with the book.
It's okay. I'll be avenged one day. When I show up to her high school wearing combat boots, a tiara, a too-too and long fur coat and then walk around making sure that everyone knows I'm her father...she'll cry and ask why. I'm going to point to this day.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
And in Other News...
I'm sitting here reading the news and I gotta say that DC never fails to disappoint. I remember my first day of college. The breaking story was an overnight burglary at a furniture store. I remember thinking to myself, "That made the news?" The entire first week of school I listened to local residents caution me about how dangerous Durham, NC was. "Be careful out there. There are gangs in Durham." I used to respond with, "Really? That's it? DC is so bad, I expect pigeon or a squirrel to pull out a gun and shoot me one day."
So anyway let's see...
Stabbing at Woodley Park Metro. Two guys got jumped and robbed in Adams Morgan and instead of reporting it, they say that they followed the robbers to the subway and confronted them. The robbers pulled out a knife and stabbed the two guys, killing one of them. This goes to show that standing up for yourself in is the last thing you want to do in this city.
Speaking of robberies, somebody robbed a man at an ATM machine while the victim's four year old daughter was standing right there. No church in the wild, I guess. You would think that with a kid present that maybe someone's heart would grow two sizes too big and they'd leave you alone, but that's not the case in this place. Personally, I find that people (drivers mostly) see me and my daughter as moving targets that earn them bonus points should they successfully take us out.
On a lighter note, a new study shows that eating fish out of the Anacostia River is a really bad idea. Not sure who in their right mind would eat anything that comes out of there, but it's good to know. For those unfamiliar with the Anacostia River, it's a moving body of liquid...I guess you can technically call it water. It doubles as the runoff for our storm water and sewage overflows. So basically whenever it rains for more than ten minutes our sewers back up and all of that "stuff" feeds into the river. I don't think people catch fish so much as maybe the fish are willing to take their chances on land and thus see baited hooks as a better alternative to staying in there. If you've caught and eaten a fish from there and are still alive, I invite you to drop me a line. You don't have to comment on this site. Just use whatever telepathic powers you've gained since consumption and send the message to me using your mind.
I'm done reading the news for today. That's just the first three articles I saw. I'll save the rest for tomorrow.
So anyway let's see...
Stabbing at Woodley Park Metro. Two guys got jumped and robbed in Adams Morgan and instead of reporting it, they say that they followed the robbers to the subway and confronted them. The robbers pulled out a knife and stabbed the two guys, killing one of them. This goes to show that standing up for yourself in is the last thing you want to do in this city.
Speaking of robberies, somebody robbed a man at an ATM machine while the victim's four year old daughter was standing right there. No church in the wild, I guess. You would think that with a kid present that maybe someone's heart would grow two sizes too big and they'd leave you alone, but that's not the case in this place. Personally, I find that people (drivers mostly) see me and my daughter as moving targets that earn them bonus points should they successfully take us out.
On a lighter note, a new study shows that eating fish out of the Anacostia River is a really bad idea. Not sure who in their right mind would eat anything that comes out of there, but it's good to know. For those unfamiliar with the Anacostia River, it's a moving body of liquid...I guess you can technically call it water. It doubles as the runoff for our storm water and sewage overflows. So basically whenever it rains for more than ten minutes our sewers back up and all of that "stuff" feeds into the river. I don't think people catch fish so much as maybe the fish are willing to take their chances on land and thus see baited hooks as a better alternative to staying in there. If you've caught and eaten a fish from there and are still alive, I invite you to drop me a line. You don't have to comment on this site. Just use whatever telepathic powers you've gained since consumption and send the message to me using your mind.
I'm done reading the news for today. That's just the first three articles I saw. I'll save the rest for tomorrow.
Friday, November 16, 2012
4:59AM
It is 6:07 Friday morning. I'm running away. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm gonna sleep when I get there. You can't make this shit up. First off, the "child" (and I use that term loosely) woke up Thursday morning around 9 AM. The only reason she woke up at 9 is because she went to sleep around midnight the night before (don't ask). So she woke up at 9. We began our broadcast day with some breakfast and a few songs for morning devotion: "I pledge allegiance to my daddy, the coolest mofo in America, and to his Republic, which isn't likely to stand. One daddy and a mommy, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Sometime after that we watched the Clockwork Orange shows on Disney Junior and then we went on our field trip down to the National Mall. I let her run free from the Tidal Basin all the way to the WWII memorial. We did a few laps around the Washington Monument and then ran up to the American History Museum where we looked at the big trains down in the basement and sat in the replica of the Chicago 'L' for a while watching the little movie on the wall. Then we ran all the way back to the car.
Two hours of that was enough to make me tired, but I'm old compared to her. She got home and ran around the house like the Tazmanian Devil that she is and pulled every doll, toy and mega block from its place and methodically laid them out on the floor like the little sharp pointy landmines that they are. Then she ate about $20 worth of groceries and bounced around the house some more. Other stuff happened that isn't interesting enough to write about, but was loud or destructive enough to etch across my soul and around eight o'clock when the normal two year olds of the world were winding down to go to bed, she was crushing up some No-Doz into a powder, spreading it out in a line on a mirror and snorting it through rolled up play money.
10PM came and went and she was still wide awake. The natural assumption is that she had a bunch of sugar or something throughout the day. Nope. She doesn't like sweets. Not cookies, not candy, not juice, not anything that would explain this nonstop energy that she has. She didn't have a long nap during the day. In fact, she didn't have a nap at all. She was up from 9AM until 1AM...taunting me. She's like Puffy. When she was a baby she used to hum, "I thought I told you that we won't stop, I thought I told you that we won't stop."
So anyway, around 1AM she figured that most of the clubs were closing and there was nothing else she could get into, so she went to sleep. Just to fuck with me, my wife gave me this false hope..."Since she went to sleep so late, you can probably bank on sleeping in tomorrow. There's no way she's gonna get up early." The devil is a liar.
4:59AM--I was dreaming that I was asleep. That's how tired I am these days. When other men are dreaming about God knows what (or who), I'm dreaming that I'm laying in a king-sized bed in a quiet soundproof room. So anyway at 4:59 my dream is brought to a halt by what I assume is the song that plays on the elevator ride down to hell:
"We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship, zooming through the sky. Little Einsteins!"
My daughter has an Eastern European Immigrant's grasp of the English language EXCEPT when it comes to one of those damned cartoons. Then, all of a sudden, she's an audio CD of Webster's Dictionary. At 4:59 and zero seconds she was standing in front of our bed singing that song. "We're going on a mission. Start the countdown! Five, four, three, two one!" (I'm thinking to myself, "If this isn't a dream, you're going on a mission to an adoption agency.")
If you read my posts often then you know that I have serious problems with insomnia. If I wake up, I'm up. My wife can go to sleep running up a mountain, so don't think I'm insensitive in this case, but while trying to keep my eyes closed and not wake up completely, I started kicking my wife. "Get up. She needs you. Where's your maternal instinct to protect? She's about to be placed into foster care. Save her!" My wife rolls over like she doesn't hear shit. My daughter starts lifting my eyelids. "We need you! Little Einstens, YEAH!"
At 5:01 AM and twelve seconds, I got up and kept repeating to myself "She's just a baby. She's just a baby." I walked her to the bathroom. She went. I tried to explain to her that it was 5 in the morning and that she'd only slept for four hours, but she wouldn't go back to sleep. So for the last hour or so we've been watching Little Einsteins and eating Cheerios. I've been keeping myself entertained with the thought of either running away or building a tree out of Mega Blocks and hanging myself from it.
...sigh
Sometime after that we watched the Clockwork Orange shows on Disney Junior and then we went on our field trip down to the National Mall. I let her run free from the Tidal Basin all the way to the WWII memorial. We did a few laps around the Washington Monument and then ran up to the American History Museum where we looked at the big trains down in the basement and sat in the replica of the Chicago 'L' for a while watching the little movie on the wall. Then we ran all the way back to the car.
Two hours of that was enough to make me tired, but I'm old compared to her. She got home and ran around the house like the Tazmanian Devil that she is and pulled every doll, toy and mega block from its place and methodically laid them out on the floor like the little sharp pointy landmines that they are. Then she ate about $20 worth of groceries and bounced around the house some more. Other stuff happened that isn't interesting enough to write about, but was loud or destructive enough to etch across my soul and around eight o'clock when the normal two year olds of the world were winding down to go to bed, she was crushing up some No-Doz into a powder, spreading it out in a line on a mirror and snorting it through rolled up play money.
10PM came and went and she was still wide awake. The natural assumption is that she had a bunch of sugar or something throughout the day. Nope. She doesn't like sweets. Not cookies, not candy, not juice, not anything that would explain this nonstop energy that she has. She didn't have a long nap during the day. In fact, she didn't have a nap at all. She was up from 9AM until 1AM...taunting me. She's like Puffy. When she was a baby she used to hum, "I thought I told you that we won't stop, I thought I told you that we won't stop."
So anyway, around 1AM she figured that most of the clubs were closing and there was nothing else she could get into, so she went to sleep. Just to fuck with me, my wife gave me this false hope..."Since she went to sleep so late, you can probably bank on sleeping in tomorrow. There's no way she's gonna get up early." The devil is a liar.
4:59AM--I was dreaming that I was asleep. That's how tired I am these days. When other men are dreaming about God knows what (or who), I'm dreaming that I'm laying in a king-sized bed in a quiet soundproof room. So anyway at 4:59 my dream is brought to a halt by what I assume is the song that plays on the elevator ride down to hell:
"We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship, zooming through the sky. Little Einsteins!"
My daughter has an Eastern European Immigrant's grasp of the English language EXCEPT when it comes to one of those damned cartoons. Then, all of a sudden, she's an audio CD of Webster's Dictionary. At 4:59 and zero seconds she was standing in front of our bed singing that song. "We're going on a mission. Start the countdown! Five, four, three, two one!" (I'm thinking to myself, "If this isn't a dream, you're going on a mission to an adoption agency.")
If you read my posts often then you know that I have serious problems with insomnia. If I wake up, I'm up. My wife can go to sleep running up a mountain, so don't think I'm insensitive in this case, but while trying to keep my eyes closed and not wake up completely, I started kicking my wife. "Get up. She needs you. Where's your maternal instinct to protect? She's about to be placed into foster care. Save her!" My wife rolls over like she doesn't hear shit. My daughter starts lifting my eyelids. "We need you! Little Einstens, YEAH!"
At 5:01 AM and twelve seconds, I got up and kept repeating to myself "She's just a baby. She's just a baby." I walked her to the bathroom. She went. I tried to explain to her that it was 5 in the morning and that she'd only slept for four hours, but she wouldn't go back to sleep. So for the last hour or so we've been watching Little Einsteins and eating Cheerios. I've been keeping myself entertained with the thought of either running away or building a tree out of Mega Blocks and hanging myself from it.
...sigh
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Nyquil Will Help You Get Your Zzz's
I hope to post something 'real' tomorrow (it's 11PM Wednesday) but I just took some Zzzquil and I'm looking forward to seeing my mistress (sleep) tonight. I haven't slept in like three days. I don't wanna get an actual prescription for Ambien because I remember what those lunatics were like when they'd call me on the (Health Insurance Company) phones. "You people declined my prescription for Ambien. I can't sleep without it. I'm gonna kill your entire family!" I don't want to become that. Those people were just a step below the Viagra men. "Why can't I get 30 pills?" Because it was originally a heart attack drug and it might kill you. "Well I'm willing to take that risk! I'm gonna kill your whole family!" To avoid becoming a druggie I try to spread my Zzzquil habit out so that my body doesn't get hip and develop a tolerance for it.
So anyway, that's what's going on in my world. I feel the need to explain myself because I am now at like 20 regular readers. Not exactly enough to throw up ads and retire off the revenue stream, but it's more than the two I used to have a year ago. I'm *this* close to blowing up.
A.D.D. Moment...
Did Mitt Romney just come across my television screen and say that Obama won because he gave 'gifts' to his voters? Why Mitt? You were doing so well with the classy disappearance from public view. I actually respected you for that. Per a brief scanning of a CNN article, apparently R-Money made a call to his top donors this morning thanking them for their support and explaining that Obama won because he offered incentives that equate to real money aka gifts. Example: Obamacare. He says that for some people that is adds up to a $10,000 gift.
Healthcare is a gift now? What the fuck is being sick? A blessing in disguise? Dude, I've been in the hospital a few times. I had almost a $200k bill for heart surgery. At no point did I equate my deductible with a birthday present. I get what you're saying...it's a financial burden lifted and subsidized by the government and thus you see it as a gift. Wow. Okay. You need to answer some phones at a health insurance company.
What else did he say? (Scanning...) You raised $900 million? Daaaamn! He said that he feels special because he only expected about half a million. You know who I feel bad for? Those little kids I see in front of Dick's Sporting Goods trying to raise money to buy cheerleading uniforms to go to Regionals. Tell rich people you're gonna make them even more money and you get almost a billion dollars. Stand in the hot ass sun selling nasty melted chocolate bars and you get $43. Wow.
It's a strange world we live in. You give a billion dollars to help someone else get a job. Imagine if every time you logged into Monster.com somebody handed you a check for $50.
So anyway, that's what's going on in my world. I feel the need to explain myself because I am now at like 20 regular readers. Not exactly enough to throw up ads and retire off the revenue stream, but it's more than the two I used to have a year ago. I'm *this* close to blowing up.
A.D.D. Moment...
Did Mitt Romney just come across my television screen and say that Obama won because he gave 'gifts' to his voters? Why Mitt? You were doing so well with the classy disappearance from public view. I actually respected you for that. Per a brief scanning of a CNN article, apparently R-Money made a call to his top donors this morning thanking them for their support and explaining that Obama won because he offered incentives that equate to real money aka gifts. Example: Obamacare. He says that for some people that is adds up to a $10,000 gift.
Healthcare is a gift now? What the fuck is being sick? A blessing in disguise? Dude, I've been in the hospital a few times. I had almost a $200k bill for heart surgery. At no point did I equate my deductible with a birthday present. I get what you're saying...it's a financial burden lifted and subsidized by the government and thus you see it as a gift. Wow. Okay. You need to answer some phones at a health insurance company.
What else did he say? (Scanning...) You raised $900 million? Daaaamn! He said that he feels special because he only expected about half a million. You know who I feel bad for? Those little kids I see in front of Dick's Sporting Goods trying to raise money to buy cheerleading uniforms to go to Regionals. Tell rich people you're gonna make them even more money and you get almost a billion dollars. Stand in the hot ass sun selling nasty melted chocolate bars and you get $43. Wow.
It's a strange world we live in. You give a billion dollars to help someone else get a job. Imagine if every time you logged into Monster.com somebody handed you a check for $50.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Say It Ain't So, Elmo
Damn. On the same day that I post my rant about Sesame Street taking advantage of me with their live performance prices a report comes out that Kevin Clash (Elmo) is taking a leave of absence following allegations that he had a relationship with a 16 year old boy. The accuser is now 23, and apparently Clash doesn't deny their relationship, but he insists that nothing happened until the boy was of legal age.
I don't know if it's true or not, but why put yourself in that situation in the first place? I had a teacher in school that everyone suspected of sleeping with his students. There was no proof that he was doing that, but he came into my theater one day on a date with one who'd just graduated. Again, why put yourself in that situation?
It's stuff like this that makes me nervous whenever little kids come around and show some type of interest in me. I don't mean in a sexual way, but just period. I'm silly and I've always been good with kids. Perhaps it stems from my being the family babysitter starting around six or seven years old, but for whatever reason kids always seem to find me entertaining. Unfortunately, there are too many pedophiles in the world and I refuse to be mistaken as being one.
Kids on the playground try to play with me and my daughter because I'm an enigma to them. Half the nannies sit around talking to one another while the kids eat the sand in the sandbox. If their real parents are there then they sit around on their phones doing work. Kids see me army crawling down the slide behind my daughter or hanging upside down off the monkey bars and they quickly gravitate towards the fun guy...and I quickly fling their little asses right back out of our orbit.
"Mister, can you put me on the monkey bars too?"
"Absolutely not. Go find your real parents."
"Can I play with you guys?"
"In this little toy house with me, a grown man, that's just out of sight of your father? Hell no. Go finish licking leaves or whatever it is that you were doing."
Maybe it's paranoia or overreacting, but if Michael Jackson had been half as paranoid then things would've gone completely different for him. If I were famous and it was a kid's dying wish to meet me, then I'd meet him at a Popeyes or something, buy him a two-piece and throw in an extra biscuit. That's it. We're not climbing trees together and you're sure as hell not spending the night at my house. I don't care if your family was homeless. I'd visit you at the shelter and the press could take pictures of me presenting you guys with a space heater.
You won't catch me slipping.
I don't know if it's true or not, but why put yourself in that situation in the first place? I had a teacher in school that everyone suspected of sleeping with his students. There was no proof that he was doing that, but he came into my theater one day on a date with one who'd just graduated. Again, why put yourself in that situation?
It's stuff like this that makes me nervous whenever little kids come around and show some type of interest in me. I don't mean in a sexual way, but just period. I'm silly and I've always been good with kids. Perhaps it stems from my being the family babysitter starting around six or seven years old, but for whatever reason kids always seem to find me entertaining. Unfortunately, there are too many pedophiles in the world and I refuse to be mistaken as being one.
Kids on the playground try to play with me and my daughter because I'm an enigma to them. Half the nannies sit around talking to one another while the kids eat the sand in the sandbox. If their real parents are there then they sit around on their phones doing work. Kids see me army crawling down the slide behind my daughter or hanging upside down off the monkey bars and they quickly gravitate towards the fun guy...and I quickly fling their little asses right back out of our orbit.
"Mister, can you put me on the monkey bars too?"
"Absolutely not. Go find your real parents."
"Can I play with you guys?"
"In this little toy house with me, a grown man, that's just out of sight of your father? Hell no. Go finish licking leaves or whatever it is that you were doing."
Maybe it's paranoia or overreacting, but if Michael Jackson had been half as paranoid then things would've gone completely different for him. If I were famous and it was a kid's dying wish to meet me, then I'd meet him at a Popeyes or something, buy him a two-piece and throw in an extra biscuit. That's it. We're not climbing trees together and you're sure as hell not spending the night at my house. I don't care if your family was homeless. I'd visit you at the shelter and the press could take pictures of me presenting you guys with a space heater.
You won't catch me slipping.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Dear Big Bird
As a stay at home parent in a downtrodden economy I'd like to say, on behalf of all broke people everywhere, Elmo, Big Bird and any of those other people at Sesame Street Live can kiss my ass! $90 for floor seats? Not total, but $90 each! Really? Talk about forgetting where the hell you came from. Didn't you muppets start on PBS akaPublic Broadcasting Service?As far as I'm concerned, every building on Sesame Street is public housing aka the projects. How dare you project dwelling bastards ask me for $90 when I've given so much to keep the lights running on Sesame Street. I bet if Mitt Romney had won you would've been humble and come up here with some sensible prices.
For $90 my daughter deserves more than just a folding chair down on the floor. She deserves to ride into the arena on a snuffalupolous' back and then sit in an arm chair stuffed with 100% Big Bird down feathers. She better get a free autographed program and the last page better have a map that tells me how to get...how to get to Sesame Street.
Since that's not what we're gonna get, we're not going. I refuse to pay you that much for floor seats and anything cheaper will probably require us to look up at the screen to know what's going on. If I wanted to watch Sesame Street on a screen I'd stay home and do it for free.
For $90 my daughter deserves more than just a folding chair down on the floor. She deserves to ride into the arena on a snuffalupolous' back and then sit in an arm chair stuffed with 100% Big Bird down feathers. She better get a free autographed program and the last page better have a map that tells me how to get...how to get to Sesame Street.
Since that's not what we're gonna get, we're not going. I refuse to pay you that much for floor seats and anything cheaper will probably require us to look up at the screen to know what's going on. If I wanted to watch Sesame Street on a screen I'd stay home and do it for free.
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