It's 11PM Wed Nov 28th. I'm sick again because I took my daughter to a birthday party last weekend where one of the children was an Outbreak monkey in disguise. She had a runny nose on Monday and I knew something was up. I was praying that it was just the cold air. I knew she was sick when I put all her toys up and they stayed in the same spot all day long. If she were one of the X-Men, her mutant power would be the ability to take a cold and strengthen that shit so that by the time you catch it from her...it's smallpox. She's sick, but I'm sicker.
My wife got home around 6:30 and both of us were knocked out on the couch. The thing is, I don't remember even sitting down on the couch. I think I collapsed in the kitchen somewhere and my daughter carried me to the couch. My head hurts, throat hurts, fingernails hurt. I'm coughing and sneezing simultaneously so my lungs hurt. Right now I have on sweat pants, a hoodie and a hat. The heat is on 85 and I have a space heater on and I'm still cold, but have a fever.
So why am I still up then? I can give you 550 million reasons. Powerball. Talk all the shit you want about the lottery being for fools. I will gladly spend $2 on the off chance that I MIGHT win half a billion. I'm good when it comes to defying the odds. Hell, I'm the sperm that made it. Out of the estimated 280 million swimmers, I was the one smart enough to bring a jackhammer. If I don't win...meh, whatever. But if I do win...you can say goodbye to Mentalstorage.com, because I'm going into hiding. I know too many grimy people to stay visible.
But let me not reveal my secrets. Just know this: If there's no post tomorrow, be happy for me...or send some flowers to the "Outbreak" ward at GW Hospital.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Christmas '92
So let's pick up where yesterday's post left off. I picked the Christmas tree up, leaned it back against the wall, and straightened out the decorations. I Will Always Love You went off, and I gave up on finding Christmas music. Fast forward a few days and it's Christmas. I wake up at my mother's apartment where we have an actual (green) Christmas tree. The white one that I put up at my grandmother's house was so pitiful that my mother was compelled to go to Ames or Zares or whatever the place was called over on Rhode Island Avenue and we got a cheap tree.
I was ten, so the magic of Santa Claus was long since dead. I'm sure it came as a relief to my mother. Instead of me handing her thick envelopes with four or five page letters to mail to Santa detailing all of the things I did right that year and the presents I felt were reasonable compensations for my efforts, now she sat down with me at the kitchen table like some kind of proprietor of a fledgling small business. "Look, I don't have a whole lot of money. You give me a list of what you want. Want! Not what you think you're actually going to get. Write it in order of how bad you want it and put down how much it costs. I have about a hundred dollars to spend this year, so don't go crazy."
It wasn't something that she needed to say. The four of us were living in a one bedroom apartment in a sketchy neighborhood about a block from Trinidad near Benning Road. All I wanted for Christmas was a moving truck. Still, I swung for the fences and asked for a Super Nintendo, a Sega Genesis or a Neo Geo. She sent the list back. My union redrafted a list asking only for Ninja Turtles II: The Arcade Game for regular Nintendo.
So I ran to the tree that morning and there were dozens of gifts...all labeled for my one-year old sister. Beneath the pile was a box that I knew was probably a sweater or a hat and glove set from my grandmother (I was right) and some cheap, ugly Tiger Handheld LCD Game knockoff from Montgomery Wards. "Hurt" doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, but I didn't say anything. I tried to look grateful. I kept waiting around hoping that there was a big surprise somewhere. Nope. Over the next hour my mother seemed to develop an attitude that I could only guess was the result of my poorly hidden lack of appreciation for my presents.
I sat down to play Nintendo on my beat up 13 inch black and white television and she got mad. The living room was technically my room, because I used to sleep on the couch, but during the day it was everybody's room. It was apparently rude to play video games on the living room television on Christmas. That was another thing that always bothered me. My mother had a 20 inch color TV in her room. Back then 20 inches was huge, at least compared to my little TV which looked like an iPod screen compared to what's out now. You could turn her TV on and tune to a station and the show would just appear as if by some kind of witchcraft. Not my little pathetic thing.
Step 1: Turn on the TV
Step 2: Take the knob off the top and put it on the bottom to change the station
Step 3: Move the antenna
Step 4: Move it some more
Step 5: Walk away from the TV to see if the picture stays still
Step 6: Move the antenna again
Step 7: Adjust the vertical and horizontal knobs in the back
Step 8: Bang the top of the TV
Step 9: Just stand there with your hand touching the antenna until the next commercial
So, you know how it goes when you're mad as a kid. You can't speak your mind, at least not to the average black mother. I just sat there and "thought" things real hard. "She could go in her room and watch TV. Why do they need to be out here? Why can't I go in her room and plug up my Nintendo? Maybe I was switched at birth. Maybe my real family is rich and they're gonna come find me and when they do I'm gonna get a TV of my own and my own room." My mother interrupted with, "Fix your face! You roll your eyes at me again and Imma knock em out your head. Matter of fact, go take out the trash!"
So I went outside to take out the trash and I came back in and just sat in the kitchen imagining what my real rich family might be like. My mother appeared again. "What are you sitting in the kitchen for? Go clean up the living room!" I walk into the living room (cursing her out in my head) and I immediately moonwalk backwards towards the door. My TV was gone. In its place was a brand new Zenith 20 inch television with a remote control.
...
...
...
I didn't say anything for a good minute. I just stared at it. I knew it was a TV and I knew it was in my house. My brain just couldn't connect the dots. I looked back toward the kitchen and my mother was smiling, "Merry Christmas!" I still didn't get it. "So, am I getting your old television?" She looked at me, "No boy, it's yours." I lost my damned mind! I can't even find the words to describe the emotion. It had buttons! Like...no knobs. Just buttons! That was futuristic to me. A remote control!? Oh my God, the possibilities! I can be on the couch and change the channel at the same time. Oh my God! I can turn up the sound from over there by the window. Holy shit! I can hook my Nintendo up with the coaxial cable. I don't need that adapter with the two screws anymore! I'm one of the Jetsons! And when I turned it on...Man/Girl/Whoever you are out there...When I turned it on, it asked me to set the time. My TV could tell me what time it was! "I don't need a watch anymore!"
I cherished that thing for the next 16 years until that lady I married finally convinced me to give it away in 2008. "You have a flat screen now. Let it go!" Little does she know, I kept the remote.
I was ten, so the magic of Santa Claus was long since dead. I'm sure it came as a relief to my mother. Instead of me handing her thick envelopes with four or five page letters to mail to Santa detailing all of the things I did right that year and the presents I felt were reasonable compensations for my efforts, now she sat down with me at the kitchen table like some kind of proprietor of a fledgling small business. "Look, I don't have a whole lot of money. You give me a list of what you want. Want! Not what you think you're actually going to get. Write it in order of how bad you want it and put down how much it costs. I have about a hundred dollars to spend this year, so don't go crazy."
It wasn't something that she needed to say. The four of us were living in a one bedroom apartment in a sketchy neighborhood about a block from Trinidad near Benning Road. All I wanted for Christmas was a moving truck. Still, I swung for the fences and asked for a Super Nintendo, a Sega Genesis or a Neo Geo. She sent the list back. My union redrafted a list asking only for Ninja Turtles II: The Arcade Game for regular Nintendo.
So I ran to the tree that morning and there were dozens of gifts...all labeled for my one-year old sister. Beneath the pile was a box that I knew was probably a sweater or a hat and glove set from my grandmother (I was right) and some cheap, ugly Tiger Handheld LCD Game knockoff from Montgomery Wards. "Hurt" doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, but I didn't say anything. I tried to look grateful. I kept waiting around hoping that there was a big surprise somewhere. Nope. Over the next hour my mother seemed to develop an attitude that I could only guess was the result of my poorly hidden lack of appreciation for my presents.
I sat down to play Nintendo on my beat up 13 inch black and white television and she got mad. The living room was technically my room, because I used to sleep on the couch, but during the day it was everybody's room. It was apparently rude to play video games on the living room television on Christmas. That was another thing that always bothered me. My mother had a 20 inch color TV in her room. Back then 20 inches was huge, at least compared to my little TV which looked like an iPod screen compared to what's out now. You could turn her TV on and tune to a station and the show would just appear as if by some kind of witchcraft. Not my little pathetic thing.
Step 1: Turn on the TV
Step 2: Take the knob off the top and put it on the bottom to change the station
Step 3: Move the antenna
Step 4: Move it some more
Step 5: Walk away from the TV to see if the picture stays still
Step 6: Move the antenna again
Step 7: Adjust the vertical and horizontal knobs in the back
Step 8: Bang the top of the TV
Step 9: Just stand there with your hand touching the antenna until the next commercial
So, you know how it goes when you're mad as a kid. You can't speak your mind, at least not to the average black mother. I just sat there and "thought" things real hard. "She could go in her room and watch TV. Why do they need to be out here? Why can't I go in her room and plug up my Nintendo? Maybe I was switched at birth. Maybe my real family is rich and they're gonna come find me and when they do I'm gonna get a TV of my own and my own room." My mother interrupted with, "Fix your face! You roll your eyes at me again and Imma knock em out your head. Matter of fact, go take out the trash!"
So I went outside to take out the trash and I came back in and just sat in the kitchen imagining what my real rich family might be like. My mother appeared again. "What are you sitting in the kitchen for? Go clean up the living room!" I walk into the living room (cursing her out in my head) and I immediately moonwalk backwards towards the door. My TV was gone. In its place was a brand new Zenith 20 inch television with a remote control.
...
...
...
I didn't say anything for a good minute. I just stared at it. I knew it was a TV and I knew it was in my house. My brain just couldn't connect the dots. I looked back toward the kitchen and my mother was smiling, "Merry Christmas!" I still didn't get it. "So, am I getting your old television?" She looked at me, "No boy, it's yours." I lost my damned mind! I can't even find the words to describe the emotion. It had buttons! Like...no knobs. Just buttons! That was futuristic to me. A remote control!? Oh my God, the possibilities! I can be on the couch and change the channel at the same time. Oh my God! I can turn up the sound from over there by the window. Holy shit! I can hook my Nintendo up with the coaxial cable. I don't need that adapter with the two screws anymore! I'm one of the Jetsons! And when I turned it on...Man/Girl/Whoever you are out there...When I turned it on, it asked me to set the time. My TV could tell me what time it was! "I don't need a watch anymore!"
I cherished that thing for the next 16 years until that lady I married finally convinced me to give it away in 2008. "You have a flat screen now. Let it go!" Little does she know, I kept the remote.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Trim the Tree
Well for the first time in my life, I put up a Christmas tree in November instead of waiting until the last minute. Hold your applause, I have another announcement to share: For the first time ever, I put up lights on my window. (Thunderous Applause)
Christmas was always confusing growing up. It was that magical time when Santa Claus brought me all the stuff that I wanted out of the store and none of the stuff that I asked the elves to build through meticulous drawings, diagrams and blueprints. Every year he delivered presents to my mother's house and my father's house instead of just leaving them at one location. And despite being an honor roll student throughout my childhood, Santa always seemed to have a dollar limit. Anything over $150 was absent from the tree. For a man whose elves could build anything and whose sleigh could go anywhere, he sure had limits.
Nothing was as confusing as the holiday spirit in my house. The best way to describe it is...well, as a spirit: Some lingering entity moaning about, trapped between one place and the next. Not really at peace, nor was it happy. It just existed, hoping to move on. It was Christmas '92 when things really got weird. For my birthday, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree. My birthday is in July, by the way. To commemorate turning 10 and my age having two digits instead of one, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree...in the Summer. An explanation would soon follow sometime around Thanksgiving.
My grandmother felt, in her own words, that since her children were unappreciative of her efforts that she was henceforth and forevermore canceling Thanksgiving in her house. She would no longer host it, cook for it or acknowledge it. There's more to the story, but too many relatives still alive to do it justice and live to tell about it. So let's just say that when my grandmother gets mad, the Earth trembles. So, Grandma P. Diddy Allen shut down the studio. She then went on to explain that she was also done with Christmas. She wasn't wasting her time putting up a tree, but if I wanted to do it then she wouldn't stop me, so the cheap, ugly white Christmas tree became mine.
The white Christmas tree got its start in our house sometime in '88 or '89. My grandmother saw a sale on trees and sent my grandfather to retrieve one from Hechinger's. He and I got inside his 1807 Plymouth and chugged down the street to Hechinger Mall leaving a trail of deathly smoke behind us. He didn't pay attention to the fact that there was a white tree on the box and my grandmother spent the next two hours reminding him of that. Flash forward three or four years and now the tree was handed down to me.
For a few days in December I asked my grandmother to put up the tree with me and she refused. My mother wasn't interested either. Aunts didn't seem to care and uncles lived too far away. My grandfather wasn't even an option as the tree brought back too many painful memories of my grandmother cursing him out. So on the evening of December _?_ 1992, I cleared a space for my tree, dragged it up from the basement and proceeded to put together what remains to this day to be the ugliest tree I have ever seen.
Because no one with a job was interested enough to buy any, I had to use whatever ornaments and decorations that I could find in the basement. I had some gold and silver tinsel that was frayed or cut and had to be literally tied back together to fit around the whole tree. I couldn't find any hooks to put on the ornaments so that they'd hang, so I just sat them on the tree and hoped that they wouldn't fall. It was a fake tree so I just bent some of the branches upward. We had an old dusty, Chucky-looking Santa doll that my grandmother either got from a yard sale or a thrift store. I leaned him up against the tree. The tree itself leaned up against the wall because one of the legs was missing.
It was a sorry sight, but I tried to remain positive. I turned on the radio looking for Christmas music. There was a new song out for the holidays that I hadn't heard before, but after a few seconds it just made things worse. There I was, a ten year old boy in the house alone putting up the world's saddest tree by himself trying to bring some joy to the world (or at least the family). Instead of the Temptations' Silent Night or Hathaway's This Christmas, what did my ears hear for the first time?
If I
should stay
I would on-ly be in
your way.
So I'll go
but I know
I'll think of you every step of
the way
And I....
I just started balling. "Life sucks! Christmas sucks!" Just then God sent me a message:
The tree fell over.
And I
will always love you
Christmas was always confusing growing up. It was that magical time when Santa Claus brought me all the stuff that I wanted out of the store and none of the stuff that I asked the elves to build through meticulous drawings, diagrams and blueprints. Every year he delivered presents to my mother's house and my father's house instead of just leaving them at one location. And despite being an honor roll student throughout my childhood, Santa always seemed to have a dollar limit. Anything over $150 was absent from the tree. For a man whose elves could build anything and whose sleigh could go anywhere, he sure had limits.
Nothing was as confusing as the holiday spirit in my house. The best way to describe it is...well, as a spirit: Some lingering entity moaning about, trapped between one place and the next. Not really at peace, nor was it happy. It just existed, hoping to move on. It was Christmas '92 when things really got weird. For my birthday, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree. My birthday is in July, by the way. To commemorate turning 10 and my age having two digits instead of one, my grandmother gave me a Christmas tree...in the Summer. An explanation would soon follow sometime around Thanksgiving.
My grandmother felt, in her own words, that since her children were unappreciative of her efforts that she was henceforth and forevermore canceling Thanksgiving in her house. She would no longer host it, cook for it or acknowledge it. There's more to the story, but too many relatives still alive to do it justice and live to tell about it. So let's just say that when my grandmother gets mad, the Earth trembles. So, Grandma P. Diddy Allen shut down the studio. She then went on to explain that she was also done with Christmas. She wasn't wasting her time putting up a tree, but if I wanted to do it then she wouldn't stop me, so the cheap, ugly white Christmas tree became mine.
The white Christmas tree got its start in our house sometime in '88 or '89. My grandmother saw a sale on trees and sent my grandfather to retrieve one from Hechinger's. He and I got inside his 1807 Plymouth and chugged down the street to Hechinger Mall leaving a trail of deathly smoke behind us. He didn't pay attention to the fact that there was a white tree on the box and my grandmother spent the next two hours reminding him of that. Flash forward three or four years and now the tree was handed down to me.
For a few days in December I asked my grandmother to put up the tree with me and she refused. My mother wasn't interested either. Aunts didn't seem to care and uncles lived too far away. My grandfather wasn't even an option as the tree brought back too many painful memories of my grandmother cursing him out. So on the evening of December _?_ 1992, I cleared a space for my tree, dragged it up from the basement and proceeded to put together what remains to this day to be the ugliest tree I have ever seen.
Because no one with a job was interested enough to buy any, I had to use whatever ornaments and decorations that I could find in the basement. I had some gold and silver tinsel that was frayed or cut and had to be literally tied back together to fit around the whole tree. I couldn't find any hooks to put on the ornaments so that they'd hang, so I just sat them on the tree and hoped that they wouldn't fall. It was a fake tree so I just bent some of the branches upward. We had an old dusty, Chucky-looking Santa doll that my grandmother either got from a yard sale or a thrift store. I leaned him up against the tree. The tree itself leaned up against the wall because one of the legs was missing.
It was a sorry sight, but I tried to remain positive. I turned on the radio looking for Christmas music. There was a new song out for the holidays that I hadn't heard before, but after a few seconds it just made things worse. There I was, a ten year old boy in the house alone putting up the world's saddest tree by himself trying to bring some joy to the world (or at least the family). Instead of the Temptations' Silent Night or Hathaway's This Christmas, what did my ears hear for the first time?
If I
should stay
I would on-ly be in
your way.
So I'll go
but I know
I'll think of you every step of
the way
And I....
I just started balling. "Life sucks! Christmas sucks!" Just then God sent me a message:
The tree fell over.
And I
will always love you
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Christmas Kicks Off
You wanna talk about irony? I spent the entire weekend looking for Christmas presents for a child who spent the entire weekend giving me reasons not to buy them. We went to a birthday party this weekend at the Playseum where my daughter auditioned for a Ritalin commercial. I don't understand. We took out three of her batteries before we left the house, but she still had enough juice to go tazmanian on us. The other 10-15 kids sat and painted nice and quiet. Stripe-Gremlin thought we were trying to put her in a strait jacket when it came time to put on the smock. Eventually I got it on her and she sat down to paint for twelve seconds before I saw that look in her eyes. Rather than ruin it for the other kids, I just took her back to the room with all of the toys. A few minutes later they came in the room to do story time.
You know, "I appreciate you" gets thrown around so much these days. When my wife says it, I kinda believe it. When I watch her struggle to keep Dizzy Devil still on the floor during story time...I believe it wholeheartedly. She looked back at me like I was supposed to lend some advice...share a trade secret of how I get her to sit still when I take her to story time. Not a chance in hell. She gave me the Bernie Mac look: "Summa ma bitch! Imma bust yo head to the white meat." I just smiled. I make it look too easy sometimes and the only way you'll respect the magician is if you fail horribly at duplicating his trick.
So anyway, after all of that was over, I went shopping to get Christmas out of the way. She's two, so I'm not going all out. She won't remember this anyway. When she can be scarred by the memories, then I'll put some effort into it, but for now a wrapped up empty toilet paper roll will do just fine. "Look baby, it's a telescope...and a microphone...and a drumstick." I got her two Angry Bird plush toys ($10), some used Dr Seuss books (12 books at $3 each), and a Minnie Mouse folding table set ($30). That lady that I married wants to get her a toy kitchen. I say we get her a step ladder and put it in the real kitchen.
(Note to self: Take pictures with Santa this year...or do what you did last year: Take pictures of Santa, but conveniently position her in the shot so that it looks like she's standing next to him like people do with the Eiffel Tower.
You know, "I appreciate you" gets thrown around so much these days. When my wife says it, I kinda believe it. When I watch her struggle to keep Dizzy Devil still on the floor during story time...I believe it wholeheartedly. She looked back at me like I was supposed to lend some advice...share a trade secret of how I get her to sit still when I take her to story time. Not a chance in hell. She gave me the Bernie Mac look: "Summa ma bitch! Imma bust yo head to the white meat." I just smiled. I make it look too easy sometimes and the only way you'll respect the magician is if you fail horribly at duplicating his trick.
So anyway, after all of that was over, I went shopping to get Christmas out of the way. She's two, so I'm not going all out. She won't remember this anyway. When she can be scarred by the memories, then I'll put some effort into it, but for now a wrapped up empty toilet paper roll will do just fine. "Look baby, it's a telescope...and a microphone...and a drumstick." I got her two Angry Bird plush toys ($10), some used Dr Seuss books (12 books at $3 each), and a Minnie Mouse folding table set ($30). That lady that I married wants to get her a toy kitchen. I say we get her a step ladder and put it in the real kitchen.
(Note to self: Take pictures with Santa this year...or do what you did last year: Take pictures of Santa, but conveniently position her in the shot so that it looks like she's standing next to him like people do with the Eiffel Tower.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Black Friday After Next
The concept of Black Friday confounds me. My family has never been big on holidays, especially Thanksgiving. We get together to eat, but the emotion that you see in movies or Folgers Coffee commercials is kinda phoned in when it comes to us. There's usually not enough gas left in the tank to hang out together the day after Thanksgiving, which is probably why I never heard of Black Friday until college.
This girl asked me what my plans were for Thanksgiving and Black Friday. I had the same pause in my brain that you get when someone uses a word that you don't know. The first thing that popped in my head was Good Friday. Maybe Black Friday was a Roman Catholic holiday. Perhaps it's the day that the first Bible scripture was written. Not wanting to sound stupid, I said, "Oh we go to church." I kinda liked the girl and would've said anything at that point.
When I got back to the room I "Altavista'd" Black Friday (Google wasn't popular yet). I liked my assumption better. I am too cheap to appreciate Black Friday. It's counterintuitive, I know. You'd think that I'd be first in line to buy something, but instead I find myself angry at the realization of just how much retailers markup their products. If you can sell me this TV for $150 today, then why in the hell were you trying to sell it to me for $500 last week?
I understand business, profit margins, marketing psychology and all of that. I know that you're only doing it to lure people in when you probably only have five in stock, but still...it's the principle of the thing. "It's principalities, Smokey." I'm not standing in line for hours just so that I can get inside and fight people for the right to hand you my money. Not while Amazon has the same deals online and I can do it from my house. lol
To those of you patient enough to do it...Happy Hunting. For the lazy, cheap and arrogant bastards like myself...Have another swim in your money bin.
This girl asked me what my plans were for Thanksgiving and Black Friday. I had the same pause in my brain that you get when someone uses a word that you don't know. The first thing that popped in my head was Good Friday. Maybe Black Friday was a Roman Catholic holiday. Perhaps it's the day that the first Bible scripture was written. Not wanting to sound stupid, I said, "Oh we go to church." I kinda liked the girl and would've said anything at that point.
When I got back to the room I "Altavista'd" Black Friday (Google wasn't popular yet). I liked my assumption better. I am too cheap to appreciate Black Friday. It's counterintuitive, I know. You'd think that I'd be first in line to buy something, but instead I find myself angry at the realization of just how much retailers markup their products. If you can sell me this TV for $150 today, then why in the hell were you trying to sell it to me for $500 last week?
I understand business, profit margins, marketing psychology and all of that. I know that you're only doing it to lure people in when you probably only have five in stock, but still...it's the principle of the thing. "It's principalities, Smokey." I'm not standing in line for hours just so that I can get inside and fight people for the right to hand you my money. Not while Amazon has the same deals online and I can do it from my house. lol
To those of you patient enough to do it...Happy Hunting. For the lazy, cheap and arrogant bastards like myself...Have another swim in your money bin.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Elmo's World
Kevin Clash resigned? How did I miss this yesterday? It is too tacky to make jokes about him, Elmo or pedophilia. I'll say this though...
What the hell is going to happen with Elmo? The people at Sesame Street are too smart to not have a line of succession already established. The minute the first person got shot for a Tickle Me Elmo they had five people auditioning to replace Kevin Clash one day. My question is will it work. Elmo is a god, Elmo's World is his televangelism and Sesame Place is the Vatican. Whoever takes that job better come correct. The first missed inflection or first-person slip up (Elmo never says "I") and heads are going to roll. I bought a Sesame Street book that came with an audio CD that was not voiced by Clash. My daughter looked at me like "Who the hell is this?" That thing is in a landfill now. I can see an army of toddlers descending on Sesame Place in Pennsylvania. That place is gonna look like Iraq in '03 with statues of Elmo toppling over.
I don't know what's going to happen, but if they're smart they'll just keep running the same reruns of Elmo's World like they've been doing.
What the hell is going to happen with Elmo? The people at Sesame Street are too smart to not have a line of succession already established. The minute the first person got shot for a Tickle Me Elmo they had five people auditioning to replace Kevin Clash one day. My question is will it work. Elmo is a god, Elmo's World is his televangelism and Sesame Place is the Vatican. Whoever takes that job better come correct. The first missed inflection or first-person slip up (Elmo never says "I") and heads are going to roll. I bought a Sesame Street book that came with an audio CD that was not voiced by Clash. My daughter looked at me like "Who the hell is this?" That thing is in a landfill now. I can see an army of toddlers descending on Sesame Place in Pennsylvania. That place is gonna look like Iraq in '03 with statues of Elmo toppling over.
I don't know what's going to happen, but if they're smart they'll just keep running the same reruns of Elmo's World like they've been doing.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Beating Free Zone
Not much to talk about today. Feeling kinda sick. The child got on my last nerve yesterday to the point that I had one of those headaches that I only hear about in Tylenol commercials. In reality, I've never seen someone have a headache that's so bad that they start rubbing their temples while looking constipated, but that's what I was doing yesterday. I'm old school. I'm from an era where whenever a kid does something that you don't like, you just yell at them until they stop. Half the time the kid doesn't know what you're talking about or why you're angry so they keep doing whatever it is that they're doing which causes you to either keep yelling or switch to asswhipping mode. That's where I'm from. That's not where I live now.
I live on the other side of Asswhipsylvania. Over here we're still waking up with night terrors from our own childhood beatings, so we're a little more cautious about breaking out the Hot Wheels tracks and extension cords. I'm thirty years old and I STILL remember the last two beatings that I got. There was the Thrilla in Manila of Summer 1986 and then the Rumble in the Jungle of Spring 1987. That's right. The last beating I got occurred when I was only four years old. Most "urban" children have at least one beating that took place in their teens. They look at me and say, "Oh you must have been spoiled because you didn't get a beating anytime after pre-kindergarten." Nope. Don't assume I was spoiled just because your parents were entry-level ass whippers. My grandmother mastered the craft and my mother was her apprentice. Obi-Wan and Anakin all day everyday.
I've written about this before I think, so there's no need to go into a long detailed story. The first one happened outside of a church. My grandmother was singing as part of the guest choir at a church and I was sitting in the audience standing up on a pew trying to climb out of the window because apparently I was bored. My grandmother came down out of the choir loft, walked me outside and beat the hell out of me with the same cat o' nine tails that they beat Jesus with at the crucifixion. And just like Jesus...I wept.
The next and final beating took place in Brooklyn. You haven't lived a full life until you've been beat down in Brooklyn. We were at my great-grandmother's house and my mother decided to go hang out with her cousins. I wanted to go, she said no and I don't know what the hell was wrong with me but the word "Why" came out of my mouth. "Why" is a curse word in black households. The next thing I knew she was taking the paddle ball that I was playing with and beating the hell out of me (while still maintaining a rhythm to keep paddling the ball). I screamed and hollered to the smooth percussion of my own beating. It was so bad, that just the memory of it stopped me from doing anything beating-worthy for the rest of my life.
So anyway, with all of that said, my daughter got on my last nerve and if I were my mother or grandmother, then she would probably be pulling Payless 'Highlights' women's shoe rubber out of her behind. Because I am not them, she lives to sit normally another day, while I have a blinding headache that's been going on for two straight days. What's so hard about laying down the hammer is that I can tell when she's acting out on purpose and when she's just emotional, frustrated or unaware that what she's doing is wrong. I just know. Nothing she did yesterday was 'demonic.' It was just her being a kid. Her job is to ask me to read Fox in Socks 54 times. My job is to not try and paper cut my wrists with the book.
It's okay. I'll be avenged one day. When I show up to her high school wearing combat boots, a tiara, a too-too and long fur coat and then walk around making sure that everyone knows I'm her father...she'll cry and ask why. I'm going to point to this day.
I live on the other side of Asswhipsylvania. Over here we're still waking up with night terrors from our own childhood beatings, so we're a little more cautious about breaking out the Hot Wheels tracks and extension cords. I'm thirty years old and I STILL remember the last two beatings that I got. There was the Thrilla in Manila of Summer 1986 and then the Rumble in the Jungle of Spring 1987. That's right. The last beating I got occurred when I was only four years old. Most "urban" children have at least one beating that took place in their teens. They look at me and say, "Oh you must have been spoiled because you didn't get a beating anytime after pre-kindergarten." Nope. Don't assume I was spoiled just because your parents were entry-level ass whippers. My grandmother mastered the craft and my mother was her apprentice. Obi-Wan and Anakin all day everyday.
I've written about this before I think, so there's no need to go into a long detailed story. The first one happened outside of a church. My grandmother was singing as part of the guest choir at a church and I was sitting in the audience standing up on a pew trying to climb out of the window because apparently I was bored. My grandmother came down out of the choir loft, walked me outside and beat the hell out of me with the same cat o' nine tails that they beat Jesus with at the crucifixion. And just like Jesus...I wept.
The next and final beating took place in Brooklyn. You haven't lived a full life until you've been beat down in Brooklyn. We were at my great-grandmother's house and my mother decided to go hang out with her cousins. I wanted to go, she said no and I don't know what the hell was wrong with me but the word "Why" came out of my mouth. "Why" is a curse word in black households. The next thing I knew she was taking the paddle ball that I was playing with and beating the hell out of me (while still maintaining a rhythm to keep paddling the ball). I screamed and hollered to the smooth percussion of my own beating. It was so bad, that just the memory of it stopped me from doing anything beating-worthy for the rest of my life.
So anyway, with all of that said, my daughter got on my last nerve and if I were my mother or grandmother, then she would probably be pulling Payless 'Highlights' women's shoe rubber out of her behind. Because I am not them, she lives to sit normally another day, while I have a blinding headache that's been going on for two straight days. What's so hard about laying down the hammer is that I can tell when she's acting out on purpose and when she's just emotional, frustrated or unaware that what she's doing is wrong. I just know. Nothing she did yesterday was 'demonic.' It was just her being a kid. Her job is to ask me to read Fox in Socks 54 times. My job is to not try and paper cut my wrists with the book.
It's okay. I'll be avenged one day. When I show up to her high school wearing combat boots, a tiara, a too-too and long fur coat and then walk around making sure that everyone knows I'm her father...she'll cry and ask why. I'm going to point to this day.
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