Power Outage

No post today. My power is out thanks to a "routine" electrical panel maintenance initiative brought to you by the good folks at Pepco. It takes way too long to type on this tiny iPhone screen so we'll be doing this mich later today.

On the bright side, this beats the stereotypical reason for not having power...somebody lost their job.

On a more humorous note, my wife is now forced to go wash the rest of our clothes down at the river against the rocks. She mistimed the power outage so now our semiwashed clothes are sitting in the laundry rooms.

Moral of the story...I know everything.

The Lord's Prayer

Got some stuff going on right now. Very sad day. Don't wanna talk about it. Don't plan on writing about it anytime soon. Tomorrow isn't looking any better. So why I am here at eleven o clock at night staring at this computer? For some strange reason, this feels therapeutic. For an even stranger reason, Sister Act 2 just popped in my head. "If you wake up and all you think about is [writing] then you're supposed to be a [writer]." So here I am.

Here's a memory...

I was in Sunday School when I was about five or six. The teacher said that we were gonna learn the Lord's Prayer. I was the only one who didn't know it already which is probably proof that I was destined to go to hell. I read it out of the Bible while everyone else said it from memory.

To encourage me (or punish me, depending on how you look at it) the teacher signed me up to say it the next week in front of the church. I tried my best to memorize it, but I just couldn't. All week long, I looked at it and never made it past "who art in heaven." Everyone tried their best to help me learn it. It just wouldn't stick.

My grandmother hated to be embarrassed. She was the Joe Jackson of my church. You are NOT gonna get up there and embarrass me. She had this cadre of friends at church. I guess all old women have them. They're like a posse of senior citizens who have a reserved pew like the mafia and sit there whispering to one another as they talk trash about what's going on during the service.

Anyway, as a made-(wo)man of the senior citizen mafia, she couldn't have me mess up her chances of becoming Don one day. So what did she do? "You see this right here? I will give you this five dollars right now if you can recite that thing to me in the next ten minutes. Go sit over there on them steps and read it and come back."

Seven minutes later...
"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen."

With five fresh dollars in my pocket, I got up in front of that church with mic in hand and recited it like my name was Martin Luther King Jr and that podium was on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Believe me when I tell you....people cried.

I know it's not my usual brand of story, but considering what's going on today...it just felt like something I should write.

Placeholder

I have insomnia and have discovered the healing power of sleep aids. If you see this message then I'm still asleep. Be happy for me. It means that I'm not having a Fight Club moment and realizing that my daughter doesn't really exist and I've been starting all these fight clubs by myself. Check back after noon...unless the sleeping pills work too well.

Ms Independent

Ms Independent

Today we went for a walk. My daughter was driving me completely insane in the house, so I figured that I'd push her around in the stroller until she fell asleep. That's what it's come to now. My idea of peace is walking around DC with no particular destination like some kind of vagrant. Now remember a few posts ago when I explained why parents dote on their kids. They start off kinda slow, so you get excited when something remotely intelligent happens. Keep that in mind when I tell you this.

My daughter has gone "Skynet" on me. She's self aware. It used to be that I could put some clothes on her, throw on her shoes and stick in her in the stroller. That shit doesn't fly anymore. If you put her shoes on her BEFORE putting her in the stroller, then she assumes that we're all going for a walk (as in me AND her will be walking). Also important to note: Once you put some jeans on her, she expects that we're leaving the house shortly.

So, I put some jeans on her and she immediately dropped what she was doing, ran over to the TV and turned it off. I went to get the stroller and at that exact moment I realized that I left it in the trunk of the car. So you know what that means.
A) I'm putting shoes on her and she's going to go ballistic when we get to the car and I pull out the stroller.
B) I'm taking the jeans back off of her and canceling the whole outing and she's going ballistic. It's a lose-lose either way.

So I go with option A. We walk to the car, which once again is parked across the street from the playground. We argue the entire walk past the playground as I explain that we're not going today. We get to the car and I grab the stroller and she looks at me with these puppy dog eyes while whimpering out "Walk? Walk? Walk?" FINE! Okay, you can walk.

I decide to go to the grocery store which is a mile and a half away. I'm thinking to myself: There's no way she'll walk that far. She'll get tired and beg me to put her in the stroller. Fatigue from the walk will put her to sleep instantly, and then I can run back home and have at least two hours to myself.

Do you know that this little two year old girl walked the entire way like she trained with Dr King during the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Not only did she walk the whole way, she skipped, danced and did everything in her power to make what is usually a 20 minute walk take about an hour and a half. I was more stressed out when I got there than I was when I left the house. The whole point was to do the opposite of that.

Now there was a funny moment. We got about two blocks from the store when I think she did start to get tired, but being spiteful she refused to get in the stroller. Instead, she decided to sit down on the stairs in front of this house. I looked at her and said, "Come on, baby. We gotta go." She looks up at me, then looks down at her foot. She reached down and untied her shoe then said to me, "Tie the shoe." So I knelt down, tied her shoe and got up to walk away and she untied the other one. "Daddy, tie the shoe."

I tied the other one and started walking away. "I'm gonna leave you. You better come on. Bye." Do you know that she looked at me and said, "Goodbye Daddy. Be careful. I'll miss you!" Then she turned her head the other way and started looking at stuff in the yard like my leaving had no bearing on the rest of her day. I can't lie, I'm loving the independence. I still snatched her up and put her in the stroller.

Etymology

So I'm sitting down by the Potomac yesterday having what was probably the most relaxing day I've had in months. I mean I did absolutely nothing yesterday and it was wonderful. I went to Panera and read a book then I left to go down by the river to just chill and watch the boats go by. It was peaceful as hell until this grasshopper jumped on me and scared the hell out of me.

Laugh if you want, but I don't do bugs. If it had been a snake or a rat or something, I would've picked it up with my bare hands and tossed it somewhere. But a bug…nope. So anyway, I started thinking to myself...

Why do we call them grasshoppers? I'm not stupid. It makes sense. They hop around in the grass…grasshoppers. I'm just saying that when I look at an elephant I don't think, "Hey it's elephanting. That's why it's called an elephant." I know that words have different origins and The English language is lazy at times, but I just wonder at what point in the "assigning names to things" process did someone look at the ground, see a green thing jumping around and say…"That's a grasshopper."

There are two ways to look at it. Perhaps it was at the infancy of the "naming things" movement. It was a new craft and no one really had a handle on things so they were just keeping it simple. If that's the case then as they gained more experience their creativity evolved. It started slow with grasshopper and then they saw a cricket and were like "Shit, that thing hops too. Hmmm, what's that sound it's making? Sounds like it's cricking. Crick-et!" Soon they got the hang of it and started fancying things up…"Caterpillar!"

On the other hand, it could've gone the other way. Maybe they started with fancy names like "Iguana" and eventually just got lazy. "Fuck it, I'm calling that a 'fly' because that's what it does." Somebody else was like, "But what about those things up in the tree?" Somebody slapped him and said, "they're birds!"
"But that doesn't make any sense! They fly too..." (Slapped in face again)
"I said…they're birds! Those are birds, and these are flies"
"Okay, so what are we, walks?"
(Slapped again!)

I'm guessing it went something like that.

Twilight...Hmph!

My wife is in the living room watching one of the Twilight movies. I don't know which one. It's the one where the girl is in love with the vampire and the werewolf at the same time and the werewolf wants to fight the vampire but they don't and then somebody wants to kill the girl but doesn't and then the girl wants to turn into a vampire but can't. Yeah, that one.

She said she wanted to look at something romantic. I don't know how Twilight fits into that. It's just a bunch of whiny ass people moping around despite having demigod powers. I suggested Titanic, which will always be my favorite romantic movie. It's hard to find a woman nowadays who'll jump out of a life boat and back onto a sinking ship to die with you. Although...if she'd stayed on the life boat, Leonardo DiCaprio probably would've found that hunk of wood after the ship sank and been able to get on by himself to survive.

But back to Twilight.... I can't get past the premise. I watched the first one because I thought it was an action/horror movie about a girl falling in love with a guy who turns out to be a vampire who tries to kill her for the rest of the movie. Kinda like a white version of Vampire in Brooklyn. Imagine my surprise.

Anyway, I couldn't get past the part about them being a family of vampires who travel from place to place every few years so that they can pass for high school students. Maybe I'm too logical, but I can't get past figuring out how that works. I have a kid who's about to start school next year. They want a birth certificate, social security card, utility bill, copy of my lease and immunization records to get her in the school. Some places are doing home visits to verify residency.

You expect me to believe that they just up and go somewhere else and get their 25 year old looking vampire kids into high school without any problems? How do you even get a job as a vampire? I would think that in this post 9/11 world where you need a urine sample just to get a library card that someone would notice that these people move every four years.

And then if I could play Joker for a second, "Why so serious?" The whole damned movie the guy is moping around because he's a vampire. And he's not even a real vampire. Sunlight doesn't kill them. Crosses and garlic don't do anything. I think I saw one of them praying so I'm guessing holy water is out. You are a real deal immortal and you're sad?

Do you know how many people in the world just died in the time it took for me to write this sentence? And not even from big stuff like gunshot wounds or floods. They died from little stuff like a paper cut that got infected.

People die because they're hungry and they happen to live in a place that doesn't specialize in food. You don't even need food to live. Hell, you don't need water. All you need is blood and not only are you okay, you're running through the forest jumping through trees. Blood is everywhere. You don't have to kill anybody. Just have a sip or two and keep it moving.

And what the hell is wrong with the girl who's the main character? I can understand why she wants to turn into a vampire. I'd sign up for that in heartbeat. You're telling me that I can walk the streets of DC at night and not worry about getting shot, stabbed or hit by a Metrobus? Sign me up! I just don't understand why she doesn't fix herself up first or something.

It's my understanding that you're stuck looking exactly the same once you turn. Well if that's the case then go fix yourself up first. Get in shape. Get some sun. Do a few squats or pushups or something. I'm not in the best shape right now. Don't think I wouldn't be doing some P90X or something for a few months and then turn into a vampire. Forever is  a long time to look 17. What clubs do you plan to be able to get into a hundred years from now?

And who in their right mind wants to do high school over and over and over for eternity? These are the dumbest vampires I've ever seen.

Flu Shot

I can't write much today. I have to conserve my energy for battle. Today my daughter gets a flu shot. Taking her to the doctor is almost like The Eliminator on American Gladiators, but harder. First, there's the treadmill at the beginning. That's where I have to run around the house trying to get her dressed. I'll distract her with the iPod and then sneak her clothes on her. She'll have to pee just as soon as we're about to walk out the door, so I'll have to go sit her on the toilet. If I'm lucky she won't maneuver herself into a weird position where she sprays all over the place (don't ask).

We'll get to the car and she'll throw a fit because the only spot I could find yesterday was in front of the playground. She's gonna think that's where we're going and when I open the car door all hell will break loose. I'll try to get her in the car without it looking like I'm kidnapping a child from said playground. We'll drive downtown and I'll play "Where's the Parking Space." I don't have any quarters, so I have to hope I find one of the meters that takes credit cards.

I'll take her out of the car and let her walk to the office that way she'll be slightly tired when the main event comes. But before the main event we'll stop at every manhole cover so that she can spell out "S-E-W-E-R" and "W-A-T-E-R" and of course "P-E-P-C-O." She yells these letters out to me like I'm slow. If I pass one she looks so sad at the missed opportunity to bring literacy to my savage race.

We'll get to the building, ascend the elevator and go into the office. They'll do the usual, "Wow she's gotten so big!" I'll sign in, while she begins to establish herself as the alpha-toddler in the waiting room. I'll try to keep her from walking up to baby carriers and trying to remove the faces of the babies inside. Other parents will allow their kids to cough and sneeze into the air prompting me to activate the imaginary forcefield that I choose to believe exists all the way in the corner where I'll move my daughter to. Then the nurse will come out.

She'll say my daughter's name instead of mine, as if she's actually going to respond. My daughter will follow me down the hall, while slowly piecing together the fragments of her goldfish memory from yesteryear. Around the time we get to the waiting room, her brain's loading screen will be at 75%. Since it's just a flu shot, they won't have me strip her down to her pull-up, so she won't quite know what's going on. That will soon change.

The nurse will return with a tray, a glove and the back-up nurse that my daughter now gets everytime it's shot-time ever since she went Incredible Hulk on us a year ago. Once my daughter sees the other nurse in scrubs, she'll have a Fight Club/Usual Suspects moment where, thanks to a ton of flashbacks, she'll realize exactly what's going on. She will scream at a decibel level that rivals the most expensive commercial grade surround sound systems.

The nurse will say, "Okay, you take the arms and hold them by her sides, the other nurse will take her legs and I will inject the shot." My daughter's pupils will dilate, her biceps will flex, and her body will levitate off the table. One of them will say, "I forgot how strong she is." They'll stick in the shot, my daughter will turn into Gozer and take the form of a Tazmanian Devil and will roll off the table.

"All done!" will be the battlecry for the two nurses to retreat to the safety of somewhere else and my daughter will look up at me from behind watery globes as if to say, "I trusted you with my life." Less than 30 seconds later, she will act as if nothing happened and ask to play with the wind chimes hanging from the ceiling. We will leave and pass several concerned and confused children in the waiting room who are all clinching their parents in terror as they try to figure out what happened in the other room. My daughter will say, "Goodbye!" to the girls at the front desk as if nothing happened.

I will suffer arm, shoulder and various pains in my lower abdominal from holding her down. So yeah...no post today.

 

Pizza Pizza

Sleep deprived + ZQuil = Maybe ten minutes to write this post before I pass out. It's the love of the game that keeps me writing tonight. Plus I've gone from four daily readers to sixteen and you can't buy that kind of percentage growth. So Random Word Generator, what's today's post gonna be about?

Vomit?

They don't call you Random for nothing, huh? Let me think....................(Jeopardy music)............Got it! (And it's not graphic)

A friend of mine scored some free pizza back in high school by gaming the system. And by "friend," I don't secretly mean me. He ordered two half and half pizzas (half cheese/half something else) and when they got there he acted like they screwed up the order. He asked the delivery guy to wait while he called to complain and the manager let him keep them without paying as a gesture of good will. Before the guy could come back with the "right" ones, and get his money, my friend called and pretended it was taking too long and canceled the entire order. If he hadn't gotten locked up for something completely unrelated I think he would've done well in the subprime mortgage industry.

So anyway I dropped by his house and he was like, "Hey I got you a pizza." I ate, played Playstation and went home. I woke up in the middle of the night soaking in sweat with a fever of 104. I barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up. For the next two hours that's pretty much all I did. We have a 24 hour observation period in my house. If your symptoms (fever, vomiting, bleeding from a gunshot wound) persist longer than that, then you can go to the hospital. So I took the wonder drug, a teaspoon of baking soda and a cup of water, and that did absolutely nothing but make it worse.

By morning, my stomach settled and all I had left was the fever. I looked in the mirror and saw two busted blood vessels on my eyes. That happened once before and healed on its own, so I didn't think much of it. By the end of the day, the little splotches of blood were about the size of a pen tip. The next morning was a different story. They'd pretty much doubled in size. Dr House (my grandmother) decided to try a radical new treatment called "Just wait and let it heal on its own." The next day they'd doubled again. I decided to get a second opinion.

I won't say the name of my HMO, because they suck enough to sue me for telling the truth, but the earliest that they could see me was a week later. By then, both eyes were completely red. That's not an exaggeration. I started wearing sunglasses everywhere, because random strangers kept running up to me on the street as if I was unaware that I was having some kind of medical emergency. "Young man! Oh my God! Young man, your eyes are bleeding. You need to get to a hospital."

And because my HMO sucked so badly, the doctor took all of two minutes to diagnose my problem as (drum roll) allergies! I explained to him that this only started after I threw up and that it began as a tiny popped blood vessel that slowly grew over a week. He told me that it was just fall allergies and a coincidence. He gave me some cream that treats rashes and told me to apply some directly onto the surface of my eyeball. I am not making this up. That's when I figured out why my grandmother just skipped doctors altogether.

For the next two months I just walked around with sunglasses on waiting to go blind. I loved the look on people's faces when they'd tell me to take them off. "There's no sun in this class, take off those...Oh my God. Never mind. Are you okay?" I scored a few sympathy points telling girls that I didn't know how much longer I'd have my vision and that I should experience the beauty of life now.

Eventually it cleared up on its own. I still have two spots on my eyes where the original blood vessel popped. Occasionally someone will ask me what it is. "Oh, this is a reminder to never accept free pizza from someone."

And Then A Hero Comes Along

And now for today's completely random post...I'd like to talk about heroism. Inspired by this video I found online about first responders and people who intentionally put themselves in harm's way, I've decided to share a personal story of mine.

The year was 2002. I'd just been promoted to head slave at the movie theater and I hadn't had my new "supervisor" badge pinned to my chest more than fifteen minutes before destiny called. A woman walked up to the concession stand and asked one of my minions for the manager on duty. They radioed for me and I responded right away.

"How can I help you, ma'am?"
"I don't want to sound racist (why do people always lead with that?), but I just came out of my theater because four Muslim looking men just walked in."
I was thinking to myself, "You are doing a fantastic job of not sounding racist." I just gave her the "Okay?" look.
"I don't think they belong there."
Just as she said that, one of the guys walked out to go to the bathroom.
"Look, that's one of the Muslim guys right there!"
"Um, you do know that 'Muslim' isn't a race, right? I think the word you're looking for is Arab."
"Whatever! Don't you need to call someone? Do you have security here?"
"Ma'am, the man hasn't done anything. And he's not Arab, he's Black."
"How do you know that?"
I wanted to say, "Uh, all Black people have a database in their head. Kinda like ants recognizing other ants from the same colony." Instead, I just kinda looked down at my arms and hands as if to say, "Takes one to know one."

She didn't give up though. She told me that regardless of what race they were, I should still check them out. She went on to make some valid points: The theater she was in was showing Jonah, A VeggieTales Movie, which for those who don't know is a cartoon about anthropomorphic vegetables acting out the Biblical story of Jonah and the whale. I had to admit that it is kinda weird to see four grown Black men sitting on the front row of a movie like that sans children. Plus she told me that all four of them were wearing long black coats (it was about 80-85 degrees that day) and they had a big black duffel bag sitting on the floor in front of them. She said she was worried that they might have a gun or a bomb or something.

This was around the Fall of 2002, so the DC Sniper thing was going on, and it was a year after 9/11. I realized that even though her suspicions were based on racism, her concerns weren't unfounded. And that brings me back full circle to heroism.

I immediately called the manager of the theater:
"This is Ordale. Can you check out theater 6? A customer just came to the concession stand to report some suspicious guys in the front row with a large duffel bag that she says could be a bomb."
"Okay, well go check it out. Wait a minute. Why are you calling me on the phone? Is something wrong with your radio?"
"No, I think I'm out of range for the radio."
"Where are you?"
"I'm down the street inside the mall. I'm using the payphone next to the bathrooms. The lady said she thought there was a bomb, so I left. I'm just calling so you can go check it out."

I hung up the phone, walked to the car and drove off. I kept looking in the rear view mirror to see if there was any smoke rising in the distance. The next day, they wrote me up. And that's my tale of heroism. I knew that if there was actually a bomb in the building then I might be putting myself at risk by stopping at the payphone to warn the others, but I did it anyway. Of course I was about half a mile away when I did it, but it could've been a big bomb. You never know.

I wonder if they'll put my face on a stamp.

Parent's Pride

Today I'm going to explain why parents dote over their kids. Before I was sold down the river into parental slavery, I used avoid making eye contact with coworkers who had kids. When you're in management it's expected that you'll go cube to cube throughout the day making idle chit chat with your team. They call it being visible and accessible. I called it Russian Roulette.

"(Please don't talk to me about your kids today. Please don't talk to me about your kids today!)"
"Hey Ordale, here's a picture of my two month-old son touching his foot."
"..."
"He knew where his foot was. He's a genius."
"..."

I'm sure you've heard similar situations. Hell, if you found my blog through some lady at your job who claims to be married to me and keeps pictures of me on her desk (stalker), then I know you've heard similar stories. She probably goes around the office with a lyre singing ballads of my daughter's greatness. I promise you she's not crazy and here's why:

Objectively speaking...kids are kinda stupid at first. Now I know that offends some people, but that's because you're not thinking objectively. Your parental instincts and misguided sense of decency are causing you to be offended. Shake that off for a second. Remember when the baby was born and you had to put gloves on him? If you don't have kids you may not know what I'm talking about. Newborns sometimes go through sensory overload and involuntarily scratch and claw at their faces.

Now I'm not saying that there is a mental deficiency there. It's normal, it's natural, it's what new babies do. I get that. I'm just saying that right out of the gate you have to stop your child from turning himself into The Phantom of the Opera. And trying to stop them from maiming or killing themselves is a behavior that doesn't go away for years, but that's much later down the road. First...

They're boring as hell. You'll hear people tell you "They grow up so fast." That's hindsight talking. A year goes by fast, unless you're sitting in a prison cell. Then, it goes by reaaaally slow. I read the What to Expect book, but I must've skipped over some pages because I had it in my mind that my daughter would crawl around three months and start walking around six months. This wasn't me expecting to be advanced or anything, either. I just assumed that all babies operated on that timetable. My daughter was four months old before she could roll from her back to her stomach. So four months of my life were spent watching her stare at the ceiling and do the Stevie Wonder head movements side to side.

There is of course tummy time which is the inverse of what I mentioned above. Instead of the Stevie Wonder sway, you get the heroin addict head rock up and down. Occasionally they'll get your hopes up and pretend like they're gonna crawl to the toy that's a half inch out of their reach. Usually they reach and reach and then get distracted by the threads of carpet that their goldfish memory forgot they were laying on.

So yeah...go through all of this for a few months and you'll find yourself excited when the child finally does something that displays even the faintest sense of intelligence. I remember the day my daughter kicked off one of her socks while I was in the bathroom. You would've thought I missed the game winning Superbowl Hail Mary. I tried to recreate the moment a million times. "Okay, you were laying right here on the bassinet and the fan was oscillating to the right..."

Moments like that are the little bits of hope that keep you going. They let you know that the creature whose been living in your house and eating up your food will actually turn out to be a human. That's why parents are so excited when the most mundane events occur. Those moments are the equivalent of drowning and getting another full breath of air.

I got one today. She did everything from fall out in the store to throwing her shoes at me from the back of the car because I told her I forgot to bring a snack bag of potato chips. When we got home, I opened up the toy farm I bought earlier. She started playing and said:
"Cow! Yes, good job. This is cow! Mooooo!"
"Chicken! Yes, good job. Chicken bock, bock, bock!"
"Car (tractor) Vrooooom!"
Then she put the little man in the car and drove it into the barn.
"Close the door! (She closed it herself) Goodbye!"

It wasn't exactly a Mensa moment. I doubt they'll put up a statue in her honor because of it. But to me...After thinking about that same person laying in that same spot just a little over a year ago staring at the ceiling...My baby's a freaking genius!

Working Day and Night

I know that I'm supposed to continue the bill collector story, but I'm tired as hell. I've slept a total of six hours this weekend, so that's gonna have to wait. But I appreciate you, dear reader, too much to not share some aspect of brokedom with you. I just spent the last ten minutes drifting in and out of consciousness while I thought about all of the part time jobs I've had.

I have a friend whose mutant power is the ability to grow up in the projects and not work a part time job. Somehow he went straight to the corporate world. It's like watching David Blaine. I see it, but I don't understand how you did it. I was on an parenting forum and one of the topics was "When is it okay to discuss money and finances around the children." The consensus was junior high or high school. HA!!!

I learned about money the same way most poor people learn about it: "You got any Transformers money?" I NEVER (Capital N-E-V-E-R) went into the toy store and actually expected to leave with something. That didn't stop me from begging, but I didn't feel entitled to shit. I also didn't believe that I could earn anything. I was a straight A student for the majority of my life and no one EVER gave me something for getting good grades in school. If I even mentioned making the honor roll, all I heard was,"That's what you're supposed to do." When I overheard one of the slow kids in class saying that his mother gave him $5 for every D that he could turn into a C and $10 for every C that he turned into a B, I almost lost my goddamned mind.

"What do I have to turn my A's into? A fucking number? This is some bullshit!"

I applied for my first job when I was eleven. I didn't know anything about child labor laws. I walked down the street to the Blockbuster on Good Hope and Naylor Road and handed them an application. Those ignorant bastards took it like they were really going to consider me. For about a year I applied once a month and just assumed that they had picked someone more qualified.

I tried a lemonade stand in front of my grandmother's house. I sold one cup the whole day. It probably would've helped if it was actual lemonade and not a gallon of lemon drink. I didn't have ice or even a pitcher. I was just trying to sell it straight out of the jug.

I tried washing cars. I put up all of these signs around the neighborhood that I made by hand with construction paper and markers. I got a bucket, a rag and some Palmolive and stood in front of the house like a jackass all day one Saturday. Some guy paid me $5 to wash his car and his wife's car. Halfway through, my grandfather made me stop, because he said I was wasting up all of his water with the hose.

I even spent the better part of an evening making library cards and a small card catalog of all of my Disney Adventure magazines. I took those to school the next day and told the kids that they could pay me fifty cents to read them at lunch. They looked at me like I was a damned fool. One girl gave me a quarter out of pity.

With all of that said, you can understand how happy I was when I was finally old enough to work. Of course as soon as I got my first job I became responsible for buying my own clothes, deodorant, soap, bus tokens, hair cut and anything else besides rent and utilities. I was just happy to make my own money. I happily wore my little movie theater uniform to school. I was so happy to work that I started collecting jobs. In the two years between 11th and 12th grade I worked at the movies, the hospital, two ice cream shops, interned in a congressional office and did part time janitorial work at my school during the summer. Sometimes I was so tired from working so many jobs at the same time that I'd go to work in the wrong uniform. But you couldn't tell me nothing. I was employed!

College was even worse. I can't tell you anything that happened in pop culture in 2004 or 2005. Superbowl, NBA Finals, Grammys...nada. I was at work. My wife lost her job, so I dropped out of school and got two jobs. 40 hours a week at the bank in the day and 38 hours a week at Blockbuster in the evening. We saw each other during my 20 minute break every night. We lived down the street, so I'd rush home where she'd have dinner waiting. We'd squeeze a whole day's worth of time into 20 minutes: Listen to a song, fast forward through a TV show with her narrating along the way and sometimes even play a game of Wipeout against each other and then I'd go right back to work. As hectic as it was, I was grateful to be able to work and pay my bills.

More than anything, I'm glad I finally "got McDonald's money!"

Bill Collectors They Ring My Phone...

Someone was recently telling me how broke they were and cited not being able to buy the new iPhone as an example. Anonymous person, if you're reading this please come closer to the screen. That doesn't make you broke. I know broke. I studied it in undergrad and have the plaques on the wall to prove it. Some would call them credit reports, but I prefer to think of them as diplomas. I've graduated from middle class concerns. Not being able to buy a telephone doesn't necessarily make you broke. Getting a bill collector to pray for you over the phone...Now that makes you broke.

The year was 2004. I went through a Lemony Snicket's series of unfortunate events and found myself under the ire of bill collectors everywhere. I felt like I'd just won the lottery because so many people were calling and asking me for money. It started to look like Groundhog Day. The same thing happened over and over again. Just like Bill Murray's character, I started to feel like a god too. I could predict the future: "Gust of wind, car passes by, Visa calls Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays."

"Hi is this Ordale?"

Yes, this is Ordale and you're calling from Visa about my account, but before you can proceed you have to inform me that this is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose. You want to talk to me about the $958.43 that has been outstanding for four months. You're going to ask me what I want to do about this balance. Then you're going to end your script by telling me that you can accept check by phone.

I'm going to tell you that a job has not magically appeared since I last spoke with you two days ago and that even if one did manifest from thin air that there is no way I could work enough hours in just two days to pay that amount. I'll go on to say that even if I did find a magic job and I worked 48 hours in a row just to pay you and not my rent or anything else, then I'd still have to wait because most places pay bi-weekly and two days is only 12 days shy of bi-weekly.

You'll ask me in an absurdly casual manner if I can borrow the money from someone, perhaps a friend. I'll turn around and say that since I've spoken to you every two days for the last few weeks and you know so much about my personal affairs, that I consider us to be friends. I'll then ask you if I can borrow $958.43. One of us will hang up on the other.

Surprisingly, she hung up. But that still doesn't explain how I got one of them to pray for me. That's a long story. I'll share my dissertation on that Monday.

 

Nine

Nine Years

That's how long I've been married. When you get to nine years you earn the right to do away with those cliched posts about the person being your soul mate. You don't have to break out into a Dreamgirls number (When I first saw you, I said 'Oh my!' That's a dream. That's my dream.) Nope, I'm above all of that now. I'm gonna speak the truth.

I wanna believe that on the day I got married seven or eight hundred women all got a text message on their we-don't-exist-yet-iPhones that said "Ordale J Allen has exited the tournament." Truth be told, I wanna believe that somewhere on the other side of the country was an arena filled with eight or nine thousand women all staring up at a jumbotron screen to watch a closed caption feed of my wedding and that they all broke out into tears when I said I do.

Some caught the holy ghost like at church and the old women with the white blouses and little white hats had to come lock arms around them to keep them from holy ghosting over a rail and falling to the ground below. At the same time over at the Staples Center in LA it was standing room only as a stadium full of men watched the wedding and celebrated my exit as a sign that they no longer had to compete with me anymore. Ordinary, sub-par, tacky "balloon with the bear inside of it" Valentine Day gift buying men rejoiced all over the world. That's what I choose to believe. If you're shaking your head at the screen you can stop now. 1) I can't see you and 2) You don't know any more than I do whether that happened or not.

In any case, what I do know is that I stood up at the front of that church and watched my wife walk down the aisle crying the whole time. As she approached me and we turned to face the preacher I leaned over and whispered something very sweet, touching and personal. "Well goddamn, did you change your mind? What's the crying for? Expecting somebody else?" In classic Ordale's Wife fashion she immediately stopped crying, leaned over to me and whispered back, "Ever since the day I was born, I've been trained to serve you."

It was in that moment that I knew we were gonna be okay. As the preacher stood there reading something about marriage and fidelity and blah blah blah, we stood there whispering back and forth:
"Bark like a dog."
"Arf, arf, arf."
"A big dog."
"Woof, woof, woof, woof"
"Hop on one leg" (She just laughed at that one)
"Make a noise like an orangutan"

At that the preacher shot us an evil look like "How dare you!" By this point someone was singing a song and I leaned back over and whispered, "It would be funny as hell if she broke out into 'She's Your Queen to Be' right now." My wife laughed out loud, the preacher shooshed us and I just rolled my eyes like "This is my damned wedding. If I wanna do the little African dance from the movie right now there aint nothing you can do about it."

Nine years later...here we are. I only have one thing to say to my wife:
Who the hell told you to stop barking?

Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute

I wrote a post on Facebook to this girl I sorta met last night. Now I can't get this song out of my head:

Chorus:
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute

Harlots that are half-dressed
Harlot Power!!!

They're the world's most fearsome fighting team (Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute)
They're harlots that are half-dressed
and they're mean! (Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute)

When the evil 'Pimpin' attacks
These whoring girls don't cut em no slack

Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute

Harlots that are half dressed. Harlot Power!!!

___________
I know that was random. Here's my facebook post that inspired it.

Dear Black Girl That I Met Last Night,
I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday. Sometimes when fate puts two people in the same place, magic can happen. That's how I describe not running over you with my car when you decided to jaywalk across the street even though I had the light and then not speed up your pace when I obviously didn't see you because you were walking across a dark street dressed like a Thundercat on your way home from your job which I assume is either Black Power Ranger (It's morphin time!) or Teenage Mutant Ninja Lady of the Night. I felt like we shared something special last night, and no, it wasn't that heated exchange as you cursed me out like I did something wrong. The magic that I'm talking about can only be described as God's love. It was either that or the fear of going to prison that prevented me from reversing back down the street and running over you and your outstretched middle finger as you cursed me out while completely oblivious to the bus that was also about to hit you. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I felt it too. Til we meet again...Ordale.

A Simple Twist of Fate

I was sitting on the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial last night taking in the view of the "refurbished" Reflection Pool when I began eavesdropping on the conversation going on beside me. This guy was sitting on the stairs staring off into space when someone walked up him and said "Eric!?" It turns out that Eric was from out of town and the guy speaking to him was a former coworker.

Somehow they both took vacations at the same time to the same place and ended up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at about 9PM last night. The guy's wife walked up the stairs a few minutes later to meet her husband and yelled, "ERIC!!! Oh my God! The steps of the Lincoln Memorial must be where the fates converge." I turned my headphones back up after that, but her comment about fate and those steps reminded me of something.

A little over nine years ago, sometime in the Spring of '03, I was sitting on those exact same steps with a girl who I was feeling at the time. We sat there for well over an hour having a conversation about absolutely nothing. All I remember is trying to read her to see if there was any hint that she was feeling me too. I had broken up with my girlfriend a few months prior and was a little rusty at reading women.

I couldn't make heads or tails of it, so I decided to just let it go. What's interesting about this story is that much later I learned that she was interested in me after all. Very interested. She actually recounted that night and said that the only reason she sat out there so long with me was because she was working up the courage to say something to me. She also said that it didn't help that I left town the very next day, before we could talk again.

So where is this story going? Well, that night my ex-girlfriend called me to see if I wanted a ride back to NC. We were trying to do the "we can still be friends" thing, so she asked me if I wanted a ride back and we could go see the second Matrix movie that was opening the next night. Since I thought that the spark between me and the other girl was one-sided, I said what the hell and went back to NC the next day. Me and my ex went to the movies (only as friends) and I went home.

Later that night, just as I was about to fall asleep, my phone rang. On the other end of the phone was a girl who asked me for my number about a month after I broke up with my ex. She never called me in that time and I forgot all about her. She told me that she was going through her stuff and found my number. She assumed that I had gone home for the summer, but she was bored and figured it was worth a try.

We ended up talking on the phone for the next five hours about...everything. It seemed like every five minutes one of us would say, "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I don't even know you." Childhoods, families, sad Oprah-worthy stories, favorite foods, what kind of perm she used...everything! It was one of those conversations that you don't want to end. So we didn't. Tomorrow's our ninth wedding anniversary and the conversation is still going strong.

Every time I go to The Lincoln Memorial I can't help wondering what would've happened if I had just told that girl how I felt or vice versa. I know it wouldn't have lasted a month, but it would've lasted long enough to keep me from going back to NC the next day. Either my wife wouldn't have called back, or, when she did call, I would've politely told her that I was in a relationship and that would've been the end of that.

It adds a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Some things are best left unsaid."

9/11 B-Side

No one will ever forget where they were eleven years ago and for that reason, I'm not going to do the typical 9/11 post. It's not my intention to make light of it or to disregard the loss of life, but there's nothing I can say that will live up to your own memory of it. And even if I could, it's not my place to transplant your memory of it with some darker more sullen account. So instead I'm providing my B-Side memory. At the very least, you'll get yet another example of why my family and friends are "different."

I turned on the news in my dorm and it took me a minute to process what was going on. Then I read the crawl at the bottom of the screen: "BOMBS FOUND IN FEDERAL BUILDINGS. EXPLOSIONS REPORTED IN DC BUILDINGS." Half of the people in DC work for the government and my family was no exception. I grabbed the phone and my calling card and called my grandmother. No answer. Then I called my mother. No answer. Aunts. Nope. The phone either rang endlessly or went to voicemail.

I started chatting with the people on my AOL Buddy List (remember those?) and apparently I was the only person who could get through to DC at all. Everyone else got the "all circuits busy" message. After five minutes I finally got an answer from my grandmother.

Her: Hello?
Me: ARE YALL ALIVE? IS EVERYTHING OKAY? I SAW THE NEWS!
Her: Yeah, I just came from round the corner to the store. I had to pick up some cigarettes.
Me: Oookay. Is everything okay? Have you heard from my mother and Aunt ____?
Her: Oh well they let all of them out of work early.<My mother> just came by here not too long ago with <my stepfather> on those bicycles of theirs. They said they were going down to Anacostia Park. They'll take any excuse to get outta work. They talking about cooking out later.
Me: ...
Her: I wish I would go all the way down there on some bicycle. Shit.
Me: Well what about <my 9 year old sister>? Is she okay?
Her: I reckon. She still at school.
Me: Are y'all going to get her!?
Her: What for? They said to just leave them in school because they don't want people crowding up the streets.
Me: But the school is right across the street.
Her: Child, she'll be fine until 3 o'clock. If they call me and tell me to get her early, I will. Otherwise I'm leaving her right there.
Me: ...
Her: Call me back later, this old phone is beeping. I think somebody's on the other line.
Me: Wait, I'm trying to get a bus so that I can come home.
Her: Why?
Me: In case something else happens. I'd rather be home.
Her: I don't know what the hell for. If they blow something up, it'll be up here. Ain't nobody thinking about North Carolina.
Me: But all of y'all are up there.
Her: You better keep your behind down there. Them people aint gonna do nothing, but even if they do you'll be the only living person left from our family. You better keep your ass down there so you can get that insurance money (laughs).
Me: ...
Her: Anyway, somebody on the other line. Call me back.

So after that, I went back to instant messenger to announce that my family was alive and completely apathetic. People started asking me to call their parents since I seemed to have the lucky calling card. I called five people before my card ran out of money. Not one person seemed to care.

The general consensus was that whoever did it was doing it to scare "them White people" and that they "know better than to bring that shit over to Southeast." I still went home the next day. I caught a Greyhound from Durham to DC and everyone sat silently as we passed the Pentagon. The streets were deserted and paper was everywhere from people just abandoning their stuff and evacuating downtown.

What did my family do the next morning? We had a cookout for my sister's 10th birthday. An independent news crew came by and asked to interview us. The lady said that she was filming for a French news station. They wanted to get local residents' reactions. She asked if we were having a party as an act of defiance to the terrorists. So badly I wanted to say, "No, they're just being true niggas right now."

Instead I said, "Yes, ma'am. We will not let them win the emotional battle over us."

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Yesterday was my first day at my new job as a Redskins fan. It went better than I expected. They won, so that's something. A lot of my friends are baffled. "How could you go from the Cowboys to...that?" It's long story, but to put it simply: I got tired of losing. My entire twenties came and went without me wearing a Cowboys hat or jersey after December. That's just sad. I figure that if I'm gonna lose, at least I can do it with my home team. The better question is how did I become a Cowboys fan in the first place.

I've spent the better portion of my life trying to play catch up. Looking back at my childhood, it's remarkable that I wasn't a social leper. The first time I ever heard Purple Rain was when Prince played the Super Bowl. First time I ever saw Thriller? My senior year of high school which was in 2000! I didn't grow up with a bunch of religious nuts who shunned society. Quite the contrary, I think their sinning was the reason they didn't have time to expose me to stuff that normal kids see early in life.

Up until the seventh grade, I had no idea what the rules of football were. I used to play throwback with the kids in the neighborhood, but that was just all of us standing in a crowd waiting for one kid to throw the ball. One of us caught it and the other kids tried to slam his head into the concrete. Up until I was 12 I actually thought the goal of football was this:
One team kicks the ball to the other. They throw it back and forth to one another as many times as it takes until they get halfway across the field and then one of them tries to kick it through the goal post. Basically, I thought a field goal was a touchdown, and I had no concept of downs.

Don't laugh at me and don't you dare cry for me Argentina. The truth is...there were no male role models around. Nobody in my family was home enough to watch football, let alone explain it to me. I was usually home alone on Sundays so I'd just watch tapes of cartoons or play video games. And no, I never had Tecmo Bowl or Madden. My first football game was NFL '94 and I got that used in 96.

So what does this have to do with becoming a Cowboys fan? Well, I only remember my family watching football together three times before 7th grade: Superbowl XXII and XXVI. That's when the Redskins went. There was one other time that I remember: Super Bowl XXVII. That was January 31, 1993. By some strange happenstance a few family members showed up at our apartment to watch the game. I think it was because Michael Jackson was doing the halftime show. Someone asked me who I was going for, because they wanted to bet. I picked the Cowboys because I liked their colors. That's it. I knew nothing about them. They won, and I got five bucks. The next year they repeated the Super Bowl against the Bills, I stuck with them and they won again.

And that boys and girls is how I became a Cowboys fan...Because there was money in it. Now I've moved on (Now watch, they're gonna win this year just to spite me).

The moral of today's story: Little boys need someone to teach them about sports. You don't even wanna know what I thought about basketball. I'll give you a snippet: I thought free throws were just something you did every few minutes.

Freedom Fighter

I was talking to someone today who gave me a Cliffnotes version of her life story and it answered pretty much all the questions I had about her. To call her outspoken would be one hell of an understatement. She's one of those people, whose outfit just seems incomplete without a machete or a rapier sword or at least a Captain Caveman club that could be used to aid in her quest to change the world. I'm a studier of people. I like to know what makes them tick, which is probably why I prefer biographies over fiction. I find her very intriguing and it made think about myself.

For the longest time I thought that I would become some kind of freedom fighter. Most people have a circuit breaker inside that prevents them from jumping up and saying whatever comes to mind when they get mad. Until maybe five years ago, I didn't have that. Then one day me and three of my friends eased on down the road and The Wiz hooked me up with a filter, a circuit breaker and a calm button. But, I wonder why I changed. Better yet, how did I even get to the "revolutionary" phase in the first place?

I think it started with my third grade teacher. Prior to joining her class I was fairly quiet and timid. I talked about as much as any other little kid, but authority figures scared me. Then I got in her class and things changed. It would take a full orchestra with a spotlight on the string section (mainly the violins) to tell that story in detail. I've tried to write it in the past and it always comes out to about 2000 words. I won't do that to you today. Instead, I'll just summarize.

She was the first teacher to ever tell me I wasn't going to grow up to be shit. She was the first person, period, to break down the math: My mother's age - my age = You were a teenage pregnancy and a mistake. She flat out told me that in front of the whole class, all because she caught me talking while she was teaching. Every other day she'd find a few of us to single out and tell us that we would probably be dead before eighteen. And I was an A student, so go figure.

By the middle of the year I'd developed chronic depression. I started having to see the new in-school counselor twice a week around the time that I tried to stab myself in the chest with a butter knife (I was eight. Leave me alone!). I actually would've repeated her class were it not for some quick thinking on my part. She started giving me F's and D's on everything, but not letting me take the papers home. She said it was my word against her's. So one day I just stole them and bolted out of the class to the office and asked the principal to look at them. I didn't fail a damned thing. When confronted, she told him and my grandmother that she did it to teach me humility. From that point people started to pay attention to my "crazy exaggerations" about the things she was doing.

By that point, I'd lost faith in all adults. They either thought I was making shit up or they told me that because she was tenured they couldn't just fire her. "Just hang in there" was what I kept hearing. Apparently she had agreed to retire once she hit her 30 year mark and locked in her pension. Riiiight. From that day forward, whenever she opened her mouth to say something out of line to me, I cursed her ass out. At first I was still timid and scared inside, so it came out a little shaky. After a while, it became second nature.

"No, I'm not stupid. I'm very smart. You're stupid for thinking that I'm stupid." (Not my best line, but, again, I was eight.) She seemed to enjoy it. "If you can take it, I can dish it!" she said. "Well dish on!" We went at it everyday from that point and I'd like to say that I was better for it, but I wasn't. All those spats did was build up a barrier or a defense mechanism that I'd use for the next 10-15 years of my life. Everytime I felt like someone was about to take advantage of me, put me down or abuse their power...Out sprung Angry Ordale: Freedom fighter to the stars!

Unlike the friend I mentioned earlier, I don't think I had a valid cause to fight. I was just fighting on behalf of the little boy I used to be. When you get knocked down a lot growing up, you learn to lash out (even irrationally) at the slightest thing. You basically start killing mosquitoes with cannon balls. I'm over it now. I moved on, I'm calm and I pretty much seem like a total stranger to the folks who knew me back in the day. But I wonder...with so much experience fighting for one cause or another (made up or real), should I just let it all die? Can I apply it to something? I have sharp tongue, a rapier wit and I'm very empathetic and affable despite my gruff demeanor.

What's the going rate for a retired political mercenary?

What You'll Really Learn In College 09/02 by One Mic Stand with SimplyNay | Blog Talk Radio

What You'll Really Learn In College 09/02 by One Mic Stand with SimplyNay | Blog Talk Radio.

King Clinton

I didn't get to write this yesterday because the Zquil worked too well, but I just wanna say that it's always a pleasure to see the King Bill Clinton on TV. I would vote him into a third term if it were possible. Perhaps I'm endeared to him because I grew up with him as president from age ten to eighteen.

Growing up in DC, you never knew when you might run into him. I remember going to McDonald's one day only to hear that he'd just been there about thirty minutes earlier. That was back when he used to jog around the city. He always seemed sincere to me. I'd like to think that I'm good at reading people and seeing through bullshit. I met him once. Either he's sincere or he's a Sith Lord when it comes to fronting.

In the eighth grade I wrote a little essay for something called The Smoke-Free Class of 2000. I did it just to get out of doing real schoolwork. I talked about how Joe Camel was a lure to trick me into buying lung cancer. The essay was good enough for my teacher to tell me that I was gonna be on Nickelodeon with President Clinton to talk about that very issue. I already thought I was the shit back then, so that just put my ego in the stratosphere. I went around telling everybody how Bill Clinton asked for me directly and that it was just gonna be me in him sitting on a couch like Arsenio in front of a live studio audience.

Nope.

Apparently I was gonna be one of about fifteen kids, it was gonna be taped and politicians do photo ops like that all the time. No matter, I was still excited. Not even the Guantanamo Bay style security could get me down. They didn't even tell us where we were going. The permission slip just said, "Undisclosed Location." We ended up at some building downtown and, although they said we were getting the lite treatment because we were kids, I had a better experience with security going to visit people in prison.

"Pee now, because if you leave this room we're gonna search you again."
"I can't guarantee that we'll let you back in the room if you leave to use the bathroom."
"We can't tell you when he's coming. It's a matter of national security. No, we can't guarantee you'll be done by the time school let's out. No, you can't call your parents to tell them you may be late."
"POTUS is in the building. From this point forward do not go put your hands into your pockets or behind your back. Don't make any sudden movements and do not advance towards him unless he asks you to."

I really wanted to ask, "Have y'all shot children before, because you seem really comfortable saying these things to us."

So right before my moment of fame and glory arrived, the producer comes up and tells me and another kid that they've cut the number of kids down by two. We wouldn't get to be on camera with him, "But you get an even better job. You get to be an alternate! That means you get to watch!"
Me: "Ooooh Ahhh"
Her: But watch from all the way over there behind those security checkpoints.

So there I sat eating cold pizza and warm Sprite while I watched the other (inferior) children steal my glory. And about two feet away from me stood Secret Service Guy #14 watching my every move (and chew) as if I was gonna go MacGuyver on them and rig together a hand grenade out of a half empty Sprite can and a pizza crust.

When it was over the producer told me and the other kid that we could go up to the set and have a quick Q&A with him and the other (not nearly as cute) kids. Some little bastard dominated the conversation, so I couldn't get a word in. I sat there trying not to show how sad and disappointed I was, and then I heard, "What do you think, Ordale? You haven't had a chance to speak yet."

First off, I didn't get a chance to introduce myself to this man. He read my name tag and got my name right on the first try. That NEVER happens. There are people in my immediate family who still pronounce it wrong. The leader of the free world, William Jefferson Clinton, just said my name and said it correctly! Inside, I was jumping up and down like one of those girls at a Michael Jackson concert. I kept it cool though.

No sooner than I got a sentence out, that little bastard chimed in with his two cents and cut me off. Normally, I would've cursed his ass out, but I was in front of the President, so I ceded the floor. And then..."I'm sorry (insert little bastard's name), but I really wanna let Ordale finish. He's been sitting over there so patiently and you and I have already had a chance to talk for while. Let's let him finish his thought." My mouth was wide open. THANK YOU, BILL CLINTON!!!

It sounds corny, but I honestly got the feeling that he cared about what I had to say. Realistically, there was nothing profound coming out of my mouth. I couldn't influence policy. Hell, it would be five years before I'd be old enough to vote. The cameras had stopped rolling long before I walked up to him. There was nothing in it for him, but for two minutes he sat there and talked to me. It wasn't a one sided thing either. He didn't let me give my spiel and then follow up with an "uh-huh, next person." We actually had a real conversation. Then it was over and he had to go. He put his arm on my shoulder, shook my hand and said "It was really nice to meet you. You take care."

In reality the Secret Service whisked him away, but in my mind...He walked to the nearest window, pulled his cape out of his suit and flew back to the White House.

Placeholder Post

If you're reading this post then it means one of two things:
A) That new Zquil really worked better than I thought and I didn't get up in time to actually write a blog post.
B) That new Zquil worked too well and someone needs to call an ambulance.

In either case, I'm getting sleep that I deserve. I slept for two hours last night because my daughter is now 98% potty trained and woke up two hours after I fell asleep screaming "Potty!" I'm a heavy sleeper except when it comes to her. A fire truck could run through here and I wouldn't hear it. She goes too long without inhaling in her sleep and I wake up completely.

Once I'm up, I'm up. I can't go back to sleep. So I have been running on two hours sleep all day. The crappy thing is that when I have one of those "didn't sleep" nights, I can't go to sleep the following night at all. I'll just lay there miserable for hours on end. Enter: Nyquil and their new Zquil. Supposedly it's gonna put me to sleep without making my liver metabolize cold medicine too. Here's hoping.
If you're not reading this, then...

Home-Lunched

I think I've been living a lie. For as long as I can remember, I've taken comfort in the thought that, when it came to school, I was a good kid. I was never suspended, I never started fights and I never defiled school property. If you pretend that high school didn't happen, I was an A student all of my life and won more awards than anyone else I knew. Back in 1990 parents were lining up around the block at area hospitals trying to return and exchange their kids for a model like me. At least that's what I remember.

Now that I have a kid of my own I've been doing my "overanalyzing" thing. I'm very meticulous when it comes to things and I treat parenting like a business strategy. As we speak (or should I say, as you read) there's a board meeting going on inside my head regarding the school clothes budget for the fiscal year 2013. The image consultant is pleading her case to the boys from Accounting. I'll release the minutes from that meeting at a later date, but the point is that I think a lot about my daughter's future and sometimes I use my own childhood as a reference point.

I always operated under the assumption that I used to be, currently am and will always be awesome, but I'm starting to have some doubts. Actually, I'm starting to think that maybe there are two kinds of bad kids: Future criminals and future politicians. The former is self explanatory, but the latter can be described as those who are highly intelligent, look good on paper and run their mouths way too much, often to their own detriment. Yeah, I think that was me. A lot of examples come to mind, but I'll share one with you:

In third grade my principal called my mother to ask if she was okay with the idea of me going home for lunch. My grandmother lived up the street and was home during the day, so he felt that it would benefit all parties if I no longer ate with the general population. Confused? Let's backtrack for a second.

Everyone ate lunch at the same time and often times that place would get loud. The principal would come in with his megaphone and tell us to quiet down or else he was canceling recess. If we didn't quiet down he'd tell us to immediately stop eating, line up single-file and we had to stand there in silence for the remainder of the lunch period. If this happened during the first five minutes, then we stood there for the next 55 minutes until lunch was over.

I don't know where or how I got a copy of the DCPS school code, but I went to school the next day and convinced people in my class that it was against the law for them to deny us a certain amount of time to eat. I tried to lead a mini sit-in whereby we all would refuse to stop eating and stand up. This, of course, did not go well. It was my first civil rights protest, so we were easily defeated, but deep in my heart I true believed that we would overcome...someday. And that day was gonna be the next day...or so I thought.

The school code said something about not striking children, so when the lunch monitor raised her yard stick at another kid as part of her idle threat to "sit down or else," the little Black Panther in me jumped to his aid to apprise him of his rights. She could not under any circumstance strike him and if she "jacked him up" his mother could press charges for assault and sue the school. "Let her hit you. You gonna own this joint!" My oppressors sent me to the office again.

They tried to silence me and destroy my credibility by punishing everyone else. "Since Ordale can't keep his mouth shut, all of you are going to have to stand up today. Everybody thank Ordale." As everyone started grumbling, my inner union leader came to life: "See! They know I'm telling the truth. That's why they don't wanna let me talk. They can't treat us like this. This is illegal." I'm not sure how much of this was audible to the other kids, as I was saying it while being led back to the office.

By the end of the week I'd threatened to call the board of education for about ten different things, but I think the final straw was when I convinced some people to pretend to be dizzy and complain of thirst so that they'd have to let us outside where there was fresh air or at least let us out of line to go to the water fountain. There was a mole in our camp and I ended up in the office yet again. The principal didn't say two words to me, he just picked up the phone and called my mother at work.

He told her that he'd be sending liability waiver forms home with me and for me to bring them back the next day. My goal was to get us unconditional outdoor recess, but I landed myself an even better deal. Starting that Monday I was to leave the building at noon and not return until 1PM. They made the crossing guard come back for just that hour and she'd just stand there shaking her head in disgust as I crossed the street and walked up the block to my grandmother's house.

Half the time my grandmother wasn't home, so I'd make myself a fried bologna sandwich and some oodles of noodles. Then, I'd play Nintendo for an hour before heading back to finish the rest of my day. This went on from third grade until I graduated sixth grade. I used to think I was a baby MLK or Malcolm X. Now I realize I was more like The Joker...an instrument of chaos.