I am a man. I just want to go ahead and throw that out there, because you may forget it by the end of this post. If there was a rat in my apartment right now, I'd catch it with my bare hands. If there was a snake in here, then he'd meet the same fate as the rat. If a man came in here and threatened my child, he'd wish he were that rat or snake. I am a man!!!
So don't go judging me because this New York City cockroach scared the hell out of me in here yesterday. My hood training is thorough. Check my resume. I know how to go over somebody's house, pretend I don't see the roaches, and then shake my clothes out as I'm leaving. That's called hood manners. But hood roaches and NYC cockroaches are two totally different things. One is an insect. The other is a mammal.
Anyway, I was in the bathroom mirror brushing my hair (because I'm bringing waves back) when I saw something run by in the background. It was like a horror movie and I reacted just the way I've always said I would act if I were in a horror movie: I balled up my fists and spun around ready to swing on whatever undead thing it turned out to be. But there was nothing there. I looked up at the ceiling in case "it" was hiding and then I looked down at the floor.
I have never seen a cockroach that big in my life. I thought it was a mouse. I seriously stood there dumbfounded for a second trying to process how any bug could get that big. It was at least 2 inches long, so stepping on it wasn't even an option. This thing would either create a huge mess that I had no interest in cleaning up or it would grab my foot and throw me across the room. Normally, the vacuum cleaner is my friend in this situation, but I have hardwoods in my new place. Buying a vacuum hasn't been a priority.
My only option was to go with chemical warfare. With antennae that big, it read my mind and took off running. The Usain Bolt of roaches teleported from the bathroom to the bedroom in about a second. I looked in the cabinet and immediately started kicking myself for buying those "natural" cleaning products that were on sale. This thing came from the ground so I'm certain that plant extracts aren't going to hurt it in the slightest. Luckily, I had some Clorox Cleanup which I assume is just bleach in a spray bottle.
I cornered it in the bedroom and gave it a spray. That $&@#*$&#!!! didn't even blink. Normal bugs run when you spray them with something. Even Raid makes them run for a second before giving up the ghost. This thing just stood there like Debo. "You want some of this old man?" "No!" It started walking (not running, walking) toward me with a very angry look in its eyes. I grabbed the broom and slapshot his ass across the room. This thing was so big I actually felt resistance as I hit it and even heard a thud when it hit the opposite wall.
At this point it was on its back and its underbelly was exposed. I saw it reaching for its gun, so I walked over and did my Jules impression. "And I will strike down upon thee with a great vengeance and furious anger those who would try to poison and destroy my brother. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." I didn't even realize that I was holding the spray bottle like it was a glock until midway through me emptying the clip.
Do you know that bastard was still alive? The bleach had no effect. I finally bit the bullet and realized that I was gonna have to pick it up. I did what I see people do on TV all the time. I took a cup that I had no intention of ever using again and put that on top of it. Naturally, Hulk-Roach was longer than the diameter of the cup, so it became a two-trip job to get him to the toilet. I slid some paper underneath and walked it to the watery grave. Even then I felt it fighting through the paper. It had heart. I'll give it that. You don't get to that size by being a punk, I guess.
I flushed about eight times just in case he decided to get itsy bitsy spider on me and climb back up to finish the fight later. So far, it's been quiet, or maybe that's just what it wants me to think.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Monday, March 4, 2013
Say It, Say It...SEGA!
[caption id="attachment_3220" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Guess what I'm not buying again[/caption]
Pictured above is Xbox 360 number 6. That's right. My SIXTH Xbox has died. No, I'm not balling outta control. Wile E. Coyote is the only person I can think of who would optimistically buy that many flawed products from the same company. No, my brand of stupidity is closer to the entry level. I outright purchased two of these things. How I ended up with six is a little complicated.
Basically, I bought the first one at launch and it died right after the warranty expired. What happened next is what Business Economics refers to as "The Sunk Cost Fallacy." It's where you throw money at something with the justification of "I've spent so much already." I had so many games by that point that it only made sense to buy another one. Right after doing that, Microsoft extended everyone's warranty after a barrage of complaints.
In a nutshell, I bought two and those things died so many times within the extended warranty periods that a total of six made their way into my house. What you see in the picture is the chosen one. Number 6 made it to 2013. He beat the Mayans. And now he'll join his ancestors on Ebay where he'll be sold for parts. (He's an organ donor)
What I find strange is the realization that I don't really play video games anymore. I feel like I've let my childhood down. I'm 30 and I haven't made good on any of my promises. I was supposed to have nothing but Kool-Aid in my fridge, buy all of the Transformers that my mother said were too expensive, and buy the actual arcade machine for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since the one at the Rivertowne Theater kept taking my money. I've let myself down. Besides NBA 2K12, the newest game I have for this thing is from 2008.
Oh well, it too can find a hero's welcome on Ebay.
Guess what I'm not buying again[/caption]Pictured above is Xbox 360 number 6. That's right. My SIXTH Xbox has died. No, I'm not balling outta control. Wile E. Coyote is the only person I can think of who would optimistically buy that many flawed products from the same company. No, my brand of stupidity is closer to the entry level. I outright purchased two of these things. How I ended up with six is a little complicated.
Basically, I bought the first one at launch and it died right after the warranty expired. What happened next is what Business Economics refers to as "The Sunk Cost Fallacy." It's where you throw money at something with the justification of "I've spent so much already." I had so many games by that point that it only made sense to buy another one. Right after doing that, Microsoft extended everyone's warranty after a barrage of complaints.
In a nutshell, I bought two and those things died so many times within the extended warranty periods that a total of six made their way into my house. What you see in the picture is the chosen one. Number 6 made it to 2013. He beat the Mayans. And now he'll join his ancestors on Ebay where he'll be sold for parts. (He's an organ donor)
What I find strange is the realization that I don't really play video games anymore. I feel like I've let my childhood down. I'm 30 and I haven't made good on any of my promises. I was supposed to have nothing but Kool-Aid in my fridge, buy all of the Transformers that my mother said were too expensive, and buy the actual arcade machine for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since the one at the Rivertowne Theater kept taking my money. I've let myself down. Besides NBA 2K12, the newest game I have for this thing is from 2008.
Oh well, it too can find a hero's welcome on Ebay.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Arm & Hammer
(Knock on wood) I think the smallpox that I picked up at daycare is finally working its way out of my system. I'd like to thank my grandmother for giving me my mutant healing factor. Because of her I can be shot up to eighteen times point blank and still heal fully within two hours, provided I have some baking soda and a Rock Creek Ginger Ale.
What's funny is that the whole time I was sick I kept wondering how it is that I still have a stomach lining. As a kid I would get really sick once a year and there were always three remedies:
1) Go somewhere and sit down
2) Go lay down
3) Baking soda and ginger ale
That first one was a test, I think. The pre-existing condition that she always diagnosed me with was, "just want some attention." Headaches, sore throats and radiation poisoning was typically just me wanting somebody to pay me "some mind."
Number two was my grandmother's version of an x-ray or blood work. In regular medical settings when a doctor can't figure out what's wrong she'll send you for an x-ray to rule out some things. If I did, in fact, lay down and stay down then it was a good sign that I was actually sick. An hour of that would be followed by a check for a fever via my grandmother's hand to my forehead (no thermometers in my house). I would next be packaged freezer-style under about eight comforters so as to not spoil until she returned from her trip to the store.
The third and final remedy was the last resort. A nurse came by and asked about my advance directives before the procedure began. I said goodbye to my Teddy Ruxpin and made peace with the possibility that I would never find out what Dr Claw looked like on Inspector Gadget.
My grandmother reappeared in my room with butter knife, a box of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda, a cup of water and a green 16oz glass bottle of Rock Creek Ginger Ale. Then she went into her drug dealer mode. You ever see someone in a movie get a big shipment of cocaine? They always stab through the brick of cocaine with a knife and then taste some of it.Well, my grandmother would stick the butter knife down in the baking soda box and come up with WAY more than the 1 teaspoon recommended on the side of the box.
She also paid no mind to the explicit instructions that said it should be fully dissolved in a glass of water. She handed me the knife and made me eat all of it at once. Next I had to wash it down with some water and chase it with some ginger ale. For those who don't know, Rock Creek is a soda brand here in DC. It is the strongest soda on earth. If you poured some on a wooden floor, the floor would burst into flames. Ginger Ale is already strong and bitter, but imagine it with whatever hell-level carbonation that they use in Rock Creek sodas.
The timer was then set for about 7 minutes, after which anything that wasn't nailed down inside of me found a way out. The best way to cure an upset stomach is to just start fresh with a new stomach lining, esophagus, intestinal walls, etc. Later, once my body started building a new stomach, she'd give me some of that chicken noodle soup, a cup of hot tea and a "victory" Coca-Cola.
To this day, I don't know if it's because of her remedy or just my body's fear of ever getting sick in her presence, but I've had a really strong immune system. Once a year I get sick as soon as I even think about baking soda, I start to feel better.
What's funny is that the whole time I was sick I kept wondering how it is that I still have a stomach lining. As a kid I would get really sick once a year and there were always three remedies:
1) Go somewhere and sit down
2) Go lay down
3) Baking soda and ginger ale
That first one was a test, I think. The pre-existing condition that she always diagnosed me with was, "just want some attention." Headaches, sore throats and radiation poisoning was typically just me wanting somebody to pay me "some mind."
Number two was my grandmother's version of an x-ray or blood work. In regular medical settings when a doctor can't figure out what's wrong she'll send you for an x-ray to rule out some things. If I did, in fact, lay down and stay down then it was a good sign that I was actually sick. An hour of that would be followed by a check for a fever via my grandmother's hand to my forehead (no thermometers in my house). I would next be packaged freezer-style under about eight comforters so as to not spoil until she returned from her trip to the store.
The third and final remedy was the last resort. A nurse came by and asked about my advance directives before the procedure began. I said goodbye to my Teddy Ruxpin and made peace with the possibility that I would never find out what Dr Claw looked like on Inspector Gadget.
My grandmother reappeared in my room with butter knife, a box of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda, a cup of water and a green 16oz glass bottle of Rock Creek Ginger Ale. Then she went into her drug dealer mode. You ever see someone in a movie get a big shipment of cocaine? They always stab through the brick of cocaine with a knife and then taste some of it.Well, my grandmother would stick the butter knife down in the baking soda box and come up with WAY more than the 1 teaspoon recommended on the side of the box.
She also paid no mind to the explicit instructions that said it should be fully dissolved in a glass of water. She handed me the knife and made me eat all of it at once. Next I had to wash it down with some water and chase it with some ginger ale. For those who don't know, Rock Creek is a soda brand here in DC. It is the strongest soda on earth. If you poured some on a wooden floor, the floor would burst into flames. Ginger Ale is already strong and bitter, but imagine it with whatever hell-level carbonation that they use in Rock Creek sodas.
The timer was then set for about 7 minutes, after which anything that wasn't nailed down inside of me found a way out. The best way to cure an upset stomach is to just start fresh with a new stomach lining, esophagus, intestinal walls, etc. Later, once my body started building a new stomach, she'd give me some of that chicken noodle soup, a cup of hot tea and a "victory" Coca-Cola.
To this day, I don't know if it's because of her remedy or just my body's fear of ever getting sick in her presence, but I've had a really strong immune system. Once a year I get sick as soon as I even think about baking soda, I start to feel better.
Friday, March 1, 2013
I Want to Know What Love Is. I Want You to Show Me
I heard an old song today. It went like this:
I want to know what love is. I want you to show me.
I can tell you what love is. Love is walking to your car from the mall with a stroller and asking your two year old if she has to use the bathroom only to hear crickets chirping, and then, as you're strapping her into the carseat, you feel a slight moisture on her pants, which then prompts you to ask again only to get a complete 180 of an answer in the form of a scream of "Potty Time, Let's Go!!!" that forces you to think quickly on your feet, by which you psych the child out by laughing and making her think that your full speed sprint through the parking lot and back into Macy's is some form of game, one that includes knocking an old woman out of the way at the first counter that you see and asking the clerk "Where is your bathroom" as your child joins in the fun and starts passing gas audibly loud while yelling "Potty!" which lends authenticity to your plea for assistance and garners the sympathy and forgiveness of the elderly woman whom you nearly knocked to the ground as you scurry along to the bathroom which the clerk failed mention was a women's restroom which would help your two year old if she wasn't two, but unfortunately she is, so you have to make a quick decision of whether or not to try and find the men's room or violate several ethical norms by yelling "Man coming in with two year old who has to pee and can't hold it!" which you wouldn't expect to be met with such a calm response as, "Well, there's two women in here," and even after you say, "Well I'll keep my eyes closed" they don't run out screaming, instead choosing to just continue about their business and so you plop your kid down on the first toilet you see not really noticing until after you leave that the women's room had a lounge chair in it where the urinals would normally be in a men's room, which is odd, but whatever, and you leave out of the bathroom after your child finishes dispensing what seemed like a gallon's worth of fluid and you go home and think to yourself, "She'll never remember this" and then you hear a song saying, "I want to know what love is. I want you to show me" and then you remember what you just did and you say, "I guess that's what love is."
I want to know what love is. I want you to show me.
I can tell you what love is. Love is walking to your car from the mall with a stroller and asking your two year old if she has to use the bathroom only to hear crickets chirping, and then, as you're strapping her into the carseat, you feel a slight moisture on her pants, which then prompts you to ask again only to get a complete 180 of an answer in the form of a scream of "Potty Time, Let's Go!!!" that forces you to think quickly on your feet, by which you psych the child out by laughing and making her think that your full speed sprint through the parking lot and back into Macy's is some form of game, one that includes knocking an old woman out of the way at the first counter that you see and asking the clerk "Where is your bathroom" as your child joins in the fun and starts passing gas audibly loud while yelling "Potty!" which lends authenticity to your plea for assistance and garners the sympathy and forgiveness of the elderly woman whom you nearly knocked to the ground as you scurry along to the bathroom which the clerk failed mention was a women's restroom which would help your two year old if she wasn't two, but unfortunately she is, so you have to make a quick decision of whether or not to try and find the men's room or violate several ethical norms by yelling "Man coming in with two year old who has to pee and can't hold it!" which you wouldn't expect to be met with such a calm response as, "Well, there's two women in here," and even after you say, "Well I'll keep my eyes closed" they don't run out screaming, instead choosing to just continue about their business and so you plop your kid down on the first toilet you see not really noticing until after you leave that the women's room had a lounge chair in it where the urinals would normally be in a men's room, which is odd, but whatever, and you leave out of the bathroom after your child finishes dispensing what seemed like a gallon's worth of fluid and you go home and think to yourself, "She'll never remember this" and then you hear a song saying, "I want to know what love is. I want you to show me" and then you remember what you just did and you say, "I guess that's what love is."
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Biological Warfare
Day 4 of The Battle at Daycare
I'm wounded and slowly bleeding out. Though the medic says it's just a bad cold, it sure as hell feels like dying to me. I was warned about going into that place unprepared. Why didn't I listen? Was it pride or just sheer stupidity? I'll never know. If this is to be my last entry, then please, Dear Reader, tell my daughter that I love her and tell Scarlett that I do give a damn.
I've long suspected that daycares are where the government tests its new diseases. Playdough could very well just be anthrax mixed with water. I don't know. I do know that the one where my daughter goes is like a holding pen for Resident Evil or Dawn of the Dead. As far as I can surmise, I was bitten on Monday. Little Timmy or whatever his name used to be before the change came up to me that morning. I didn't think anything of it. So caught up in the emotion of my daughter's first day, I let my guard down.
Rule Number One: Don't Get Personal
Timmy came up to me and he looked at me with those big watery globes and said, "Hi!" When in Rome... I spoke back. "Hi, child I don't know." He continued, "Hi!" Timmy is a man of few words. That went on for about a minute and as I turned to walk away, I heard him cough. He must have bitten me sometime during our initial exchange. I didn't feel it. The best poisons go unnoticed. I was a dead man before I walked out of that place.
Tuesday I felt a little sick. Yesterday I felt like hell. Today, I realize that yesterday was a walk through heaven on my way to today's hell. Symptoms? Everything except my left knee, third toe on my right foot and the vein that runs down the inside of my left arm near my thumb hurts. I've been trying to squint because the force of my eyelids blinking sends a shock wave through my head.
There's so much more to say, but the vertebra directly next to bottommost rib is starting to hurt worse than the others. I slept 12 hours last night then woke up for two this morning, before sleeping another three. I've been up for an hour and feel like I need another eight hour nap. I'm down somewhere in Ward 3. Send Gatorade!
I'm wounded and slowly bleeding out. Though the medic says it's just a bad cold, it sure as hell feels like dying to me. I was warned about going into that place unprepared. Why didn't I listen? Was it pride or just sheer stupidity? I'll never know. If this is to be my last entry, then please, Dear Reader, tell my daughter that I love her and tell Scarlett that I do give a damn.
I've long suspected that daycares are where the government tests its new diseases. Playdough could very well just be anthrax mixed with water. I don't know. I do know that the one where my daughter goes is like a holding pen for Resident Evil or Dawn of the Dead. As far as I can surmise, I was bitten on Monday. Little Timmy or whatever his name used to be before the change came up to me that morning. I didn't think anything of it. So caught up in the emotion of my daughter's first day, I let my guard down.
Rule Number One: Don't Get Personal
Timmy came up to me and he looked at me with those big watery globes and said, "Hi!" When in Rome... I spoke back. "Hi, child I don't know." He continued, "Hi!" Timmy is a man of few words. That went on for about a minute and as I turned to walk away, I heard him cough. He must have bitten me sometime during our initial exchange. I didn't feel it. The best poisons go unnoticed. I was a dead man before I walked out of that place.
Tuesday I felt a little sick. Yesterday I felt like hell. Today, I realize that yesterday was a walk through heaven on my way to today's hell. Symptoms? Everything except my left knee, third toe on my right foot and the vein that runs down the inside of my left arm near my thumb hurts. I've been trying to squint because the force of my eyelids blinking sends a shock wave through my head.
There's so much more to say, but the vertebra directly next to bottommost rib is starting to hurt worse than the others. I slept 12 hours last night then woke up for two this morning, before sleeping another three. I've been up for an hour and feel like I need another eight hour nap. I'm down somewhere in Ward 3. Send Gatorade!
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Movin' On Up
Well, Black History Month is drawing to a close. What did you do to celebrate it? Me? I integrated an apartment complex. Sure, it's not a lunch counter at Woolworth, but all of the good ones are taken.
It all started back at the beginning of the month. I was sitting in my old apartment wondering what I'd been doing with my life, when the idea hit me:
It all started back at the beginning of the month. I was sitting in my old apartment wondering what I'd been doing with my life, when the idea hit me:
"I want to get my face on an elementary school wall every February!"
I knew what I had to do. I moved out. My old place was nice, but there was probably one black person on every floor. I wasn't gonna make history there. No, I had to move somewhere else. Somewhere where my hue was needed. Now, traditional logic would assume that moving three blocks down the street wouldn't really make much of a difference, but DC defies all logic.
I signed a lease on Saturday and moved in right away. That following Monday I learned that we had a doorman who worked on the weekdays. Talk about "We Shall Overcome." I'm still coming to terms with having central air, and now I have someone to open the door for me? Soon there will be rose bearers. But I ran into a little snag. I walked up to the door and the doorman didn't open it. Somehow I figured out how to transition from inside the lobby to outside the lobby without his assistance, but the whole experience was disappointing. Maybe his mind was somewhere else and he didn't see me.
Then, I came back home. This time I was carrying groceries and walking about 50 feet behind a random white lady. He opened the door for her and when I got to the door...nothing. I used my key fob and let myself in. Interesting. So later that evening I went out and came back to find the doorman gone for the evening. The concierge was at the front desk, but instead of being buzzed in like she'd done all of the people who walked up before me, I heard a pop. "Can I help you?"
Now part of me wanted to say, "Didn't you just see me leave? I'm standing in front of a locked door. You're sitting in front of a button that opens said locked door. What do you think you could do in this situation to help me? Huh?" I didn't say that though. Dr. King didn't get anywhere by being sarcastic, but I was fresh out of speeches. I let myself in, walked over to the desk and gave her the "Michael Jackson at the Super Bowl" long stare. Like Mike, I didn't say a word. I just stood there and stared.
She blinked first. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you lived here." I introduced myself, told her it was okay and went on about my business. The next day I introduced myself to the doorman and shook his hand. I haven't had a problem since. Now, I'm waiting for my rose bearers.
[Editor's Note: I've been here a month. Still haven't seen another black person yet. My Black History Postage Stamp is just one integration away."
Monday, February 25, 2013
I'm Just A Poor Boy, Nobody Loves Me
So yesterday was D-Day. We stormed the beach at daycare. The events of the day fall into two categories: What I expected and What Happened.
I ask how things went. Did she cry a lot? "She didn't cry at all, actually." Did she have a hard time adjusting to you taking her to the bathroom? "Not at all. She told me when she had to go and she went by herself." That's...good. "Yeah, she seemed to have a lot of fun here and was running around pretty much all day, except for that nap earlier."
Scene One: Drop-off
What I Expected
Walk in to find all of the kids singing a song or something. My daughter would be nervous at first, probably clinging to me for protection. We would stay there for about an hour to ease her into the daycare process. She would scream and holler as we tried to leave. I'd muster up the will to leave her there.
What Happened
Walked in to find the kids eating breakfast. All of them looked like hobbits next to my human growth hormone-sponsored daughter. She went straight to playing with the toys and ignored the presence of all of the children. She cried only when I tried to get her to eat. The teacher suggested we just let her play. I took off my coat in preparation for the long haul. Three minutes later, I picked it back up to leave at the teacher's subtle suggestion. Attempts to tell my daughter goodbye were met with indifference as she played with the toys and other "not-hungry" children.
Scene Two: Midday Check-In
What I Expected
A call around noon to the daycare would reveal my daughter's immediate sadness at the realization that mommy and daddy were gone. Guilt would creep in because I didn't say goodbye. The teacher would tell us things she planned to do to keep her calm throughout the day. I might possibly be able to hear my daughter crying inconsolably in the background.
What Happened
"She's asleep. We went out to play and she came back and said that she wanted to take a nap. It was about 30 minutes earlier than we usually put them down, but since it's her first day, we let her take a nap."
Scene Three: Pick Up
What I Expected
I was going to pick her up early. Surely, being left in new surroundings for seven hours has taken its toll. She's sitting in a corner somewhere wondering if we've abandoned her. She hasn't played much all day. The teachers will tell me things to do tomorrow to make it easier on her. They'll tell me that she cried a few times, but if I'm lucky they will say that they were able to distract her most of the time. She'll run into my arms the minute that she sees me come through the door. She won't let go. My heart will break at the thought of her having to go through all of it again tomorrow.
What Happened
I walk in and see her, but her back is to me. I speak to the teacher, but my daughter doesn't immediately recognize my voice. I call out to her and brace myself for the impact of her 37 lb, 3 foot 2 inch frame running full speed into me. I wait for it. She looks at me... and turns back around to resume playing with a toy grasshopper. The teacher frowns at me and tells me that it's okay. Her pity hurts.
I ask how things went. Did she cry a lot? "She didn't cry at all, actually." Did she have a hard time adjusting to you taking her to the bathroom? "Not at all. She told me when she had to go and she went by herself." That's...good. "Yeah, she seemed to have a lot of fun here and was running around pretty much all day, except for that nap earlier."
It is in this moment that I look down to see my daughter standing beside me with a giant magnifying glass and peering through it at my hand a la Sherlock Holmes as if she's examining me. "Time to go sweetheart." She runs away. "We'll be back tomorrow." She puts up a fight. The teacher (you know, the woman she just met today) says, "You'll be back tomorrow. Don't worry." My daughter just calms down like her word is bond.
As we're leaving, my daughter (the one who hardly ever talks to strangers...or family members...or even me) says, "Okay, bye guys. See you later. Goodbye!" and waves! She looks at me and says, "Okay, let's go."
In my head, I hear Stewie Griffin..."Who the hell do you think you are?"
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