That impresses me. I'm always impressed by people who have the foresight and wherewithal to do this. For me, I get a charge if I remember to bring my lunch, so for me to try to be so organized that I'd remember to bring a toothbrush and toothpaste and then actually remember to use it daily.
That's dedication.
Of course I don't know if I could pull it off even if I did remember to do it. I mean, not unless I had a private bathroom. There's something about going into the public shitter, spreading out your brush, floss, and paste and having at it.
How in the hell would I rinse?
Have you seen some of the people that you're sharing your bathroom with lately? I mean really.
But, at the end of the day I'm still impressed.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Why I Hate Facebook
I realize that Facebook and all the other social networking sites of today are not going away soon and that I'm truly a dinosaur when I say it, but I hate Facebook. Now this is not to say that I don't understand the allure and even the usefulness of social networking sites like Facebook.
I get it.
Posting pictures or videos for far away loved ones has its place. Keeping folks updated with your goings-on has its place too. It's cheaper, easier, and more efficient to post a couple of "Tweets" to bring everyone up to speed than it is to sit and write a bunch of notes or make a bunch of calls.
I get it.
But what about all those folks that use all this social networking as a surrogate to reality?
You know the ones. The ones that somehow "re-connect" to old flames. Or how about the ones that spiral into the charade of being someone they're not. You know who I'm talking about...
The 41 year old mother of two that has an extra 25 pounds on her hips somehow becomes a 23 year old swinger that's into leather and 3 ways. Or how about the 38 year old t-ball coach with a beer gut and receding hairline that's pretending to be the 26 year old internet millionaire that has a summer home in Nice, winter condo in Vail and spends his down time in SoHo?
The tangible means nothing to them. All the energy they should be expending on cherishing and relishing what they have is instead wasted on something they don't.
But who's to say they can't have it? Too fat? Go get yourself on a treadmill and lay off the Dove bars. No spark in your marriage? Go plan a get-a-way weekend for your spouse. Take some initiative and plan the weekend, pack her bags, make a reservation and drop the kids off with Grandma for a couple of days. I guarantee if you "kidnap" her, sweep her away somewhere nice you'll remember why you fell in love in the first place.
Instead people go the easy way out and play the victim. Instead of blaming your partner because they do or don't act a way they once did why don't you sit down and figure out why? Instead of poring your imagination out into a MySpace profile why don't you pursue the things that you think would make you interesting?
I just don't get it.
Whatever you do, make it happen. Take the initiative.
All too often I see people wile the hours away at a keyboard wishing and wanting instead of taking an active role in their own life. It's sad.
I get it.
Posting pictures or videos for far away loved ones has its place. Keeping folks updated with your goings-on has its place too. It's cheaper, easier, and more efficient to post a couple of "Tweets" to bring everyone up to speed than it is to sit and write a bunch of notes or make a bunch of calls.
I get it.
But what about all those folks that use all this social networking as a surrogate to reality?
You know the ones. The ones that somehow "re-connect" to old flames. Or how about the ones that spiral into the charade of being someone they're not. You know who I'm talking about...
The 41 year old mother of two that has an extra 25 pounds on her hips somehow becomes a 23 year old swinger that's into leather and 3 ways. Or how about the 38 year old t-ball coach with a beer gut and receding hairline that's pretending to be the 26 year old internet millionaire that has a summer home in Nice, winter condo in Vail and spends his down time in SoHo?
The tangible means nothing to them. All the energy they should be expending on cherishing and relishing what they have is instead wasted on something they don't.
But who's to say they can't have it? Too fat? Go get yourself on a treadmill and lay off the Dove bars. No spark in your marriage? Go plan a get-a-way weekend for your spouse. Take some initiative and plan the weekend, pack her bags, make a reservation and drop the kids off with Grandma for a couple of days. I guarantee if you "kidnap" her, sweep her away somewhere nice you'll remember why you fell in love in the first place.
Instead people go the easy way out and play the victim. Instead of blaming your partner because they do or don't act a way they once did why don't you sit down and figure out why? Instead of poring your imagination out into a MySpace profile why don't you pursue the things that you think would make you interesting?
I just don't get it.
Whatever you do, make it happen. Take the initiative.
All too often I see people wile the hours away at a keyboard wishing and wanting instead of taking an active role in their own life. It's sad.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
PART I. Childhood Deliquency - We Really Weren't Bad Kids. Really.
So a bunch of us are sitting around today talking about our formative years and how life experiences may or may not have formed our personalities in a particular way.
And by formative years, I'm talking about the time when you were old enough to know better but still young enough to be stupid and turn a blind eye to what you should or shouldn't be doing. For me those years were right around 10-14 years old.
This was the age that dawned a new level of freedom and personal responsibility. I was old enough -at least in theory- where I didn't have to be under the constant watchful eye of my Mom or Grandmother. That age where it was OK to walk home from school, let yourself in the house and hang out until 5 o'clock when Mom got home. That was the theory anyway.
And in truth the theory worked. Most of the time anyway. But, there were times when my youthful stupidity got the best of me and something was almost guaranteed to happen.
Of course, I wasn't alone in this odyssey, I had two companions squarely at my side stumbling down this road of discovery almost every step of the way.
My buddy Nate was a small toe-headed kid that, like me, was being raised by his divorced Mom. They lived about a 15 minute walk away from my house, and even though Nate had a brother and sister they were much older and had long since moved out of the house. For all practical purposes he was an only child being raised by his Mom.
Nate and I shared a lot of the same interests. We liked sports, but we were average athletes at best. We liked to read, make plastic model kits, and were just being introduced to the wonders of Atari video games. We shared the same sense of humor often times finding comedy in others mishaps and misfortunes. Nate was the cerebral one of the group, and quickly established himself as the thinker of our group.
My other buddy Magoo was about as opposite from Nate as you could get. Tall, lanky with a dark head of hair Magoo had eight brothers and sisters. He shared a room with two other siblings and as the "baby" he often slipped under the radar with his parents. As long as Magoo didn't commit random acts of arson or felonious assault he was pretty much free to do as he pleased.
Unlike Nate and me, Magoo was a pretty good athlete. He was fast, had a good jump shot and played a mean first base on our little league baseball team. He lived about five minutes away from my house and was kind of in the opposite direction of Nate's house. Magoo was a man of action, he didn't want to get too caught up in the details, he was more interested in making things happen. A well thought out plan was a nicety not a necessity for him.
My house was more or less our ground zero simply by the fact that I was centrally located. My house was the epicenter from which most activities sprang. I had my own room and a swimming pool in the back yard and the best part of my houses location was the vast expanse of undeveloped land that laid directly across the street. It was a city address with a bit of a country feel. Of the three of us, I was the catalyst. I was after adventure and I made sure that both Nate and Magoo were focused on finding it. Sitting around doing the same thing day after day did not appeal to me.
As the only child, it was easy to say I was spoiled in that I had just about anything a kid could want. That said, my folks did a good job of keeping me grounded which prevented me from developing a truly spoiled attitude and demeanor. My Dad was very good at making me work for what I wanted so I'd develop an appreciation for what I had. For the most part I think it worked.
So it was with these two friends that I tackled most of my pre-adolescent days. Each of us brought something different to the table and somehow we managed to get into enough trouble to make things interesting, but not so much that we ended up at Juvenile Hall.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
A guilty pleasure
"She" was an avid reader. There were books all over the house. Upstairs. Downstairs. In the car. Under the sofa. It didn't matter they were everywhere. Boxes of books. Old. New. Fiction. Non-fiction.
It didn't matter.
There were books that were in pristine condition and some that had the first 40 or so pages missing. It just didn't matter. They were everywhere and "she" bought them all the time.
As it was, I should have had a portion of my paycheck forwarded directly to Amazon.com because trust me when I tell you they were getting plenty of business thrown their way.
So here we are, almost 3 years removed from that episode and while most of the books have departed from my ownership I still have some. And when you have "some" from a collection like hers you still have a lot.
So, as they say; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Just as we return to the earth so to shall the books that came in from Amazon.com. Every one that I have of "hers" is up for sale. And every time I sell one, even if it's only for $3 bucks I get a big sh*t eating grin on my face.
Childish? You bet.
Vindictive? As all hell.
Satisfying? More than words can say.
It didn't matter.
There were books that were in pristine condition and some that had the first 40 or so pages missing. It just didn't matter. They were everywhere and "she" bought them all the time.
As it was, I should have had a portion of my paycheck forwarded directly to Amazon.com because trust me when I tell you they were getting plenty of business thrown their way.
So here we are, almost 3 years removed from that episode and while most of the books have departed from my ownership I still have some. And when you have "some" from a collection like hers you still have a lot.
So, as they say; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Just as we return to the earth so to shall the books that came in from Amazon.com. Every one that I have of "hers" is up for sale. And every time I sell one, even if it's only for $3 bucks I get a big sh*t eating grin on my face.
Childish? You bet.
Vindictive? As all hell.
Satisfying? More than words can say.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Grill & The Magic of WD40.
We recently moved to a new condo (literally right across the parking lot from our old place), but as short a distance as it was it was like moving into a different world.
3 floors. Everyone gets a room. Riverfront complete with a small waterfall. Two decks, one up and one down and all right there on the river. Windows everywhere to soak in the view, sound, and breeze of the river. I finally got some outdoor living back and oh my God how I missed it.
So it was a week of packing, moving, unpacking, cleaning and we took advantage of the deck by eating dinner on it nightly. But there's something amiss when you're sitting on the deck eating take-out pizza. Sure you get the whole great outdoors thing going, but the missing element was clearly the grill.
So Monday night I finally get to the point where I'm going to fire up the charcoal and grill a couple of hamburgers. After I wheel the grill in from the garage (only to have the wheel and lid fall off three times because of a loose nut) I get the thing settled on the deck right next to the patio furniture.
Now we're talking.
That was until I realized that while I had plenty of charcoal, I had precious little lighter fluid to get the party started. I tried everything. Wadded paper. Cardboard. Paper towel soaked in cooking oil (just like the environmentally friendly bag of charcoal told me to do). Nothing.
Well I shouldn't say nothing, because I had plenty of smoke. I even went so far as to pour a 1/4 cup of rum on some of the coals to no avail. Oh, and we won't be doing that again because that's just an abuse of rum.
The hour was getting late and my wife was taking a great amount of perverse enjoyment from this. Then it hit me, what if I shot a little WD40 on a paper towel and built a little charcoal pyramid around it would that work?
Your DAMN right it would.
Two quick squirts, a little charcoal and P-O-O-F we got fire.
And damn those burgers were good. I don't know what it is about an outdoor grill but wholly cow it was like heaven on a bun.
3 floors. Everyone gets a room. Riverfront complete with a small waterfall. Two decks, one up and one down and all right there on the river. Windows everywhere to soak in the view, sound, and breeze of the river. I finally got some outdoor living back and oh my God how I missed it.
So it was a week of packing, moving, unpacking, cleaning and we took advantage of the deck by eating dinner on it nightly. But there's something amiss when you're sitting on the deck eating take-out pizza. Sure you get the whole great outdoors thing going, but the missing element was clearly the grill.
So Monday night I finally get to the point where I'm going to fire up the charcoal and grill a couple of hamburgers. After I wheel the grill in from the garage (only to have the wheel and lid fall off three times because of a loose nut) I get the thing settled on the deck right next to the patio furniture.
Now we're talking.
That was until I realized that while I had plenty of charcoal, I had precious little lighter fluid to get the party started. I tried everything. Wadded paper. Cardboard. Paper towel soaked in cooking oil (just like the environmentally friendly bag of charcoal told me to do). Nothing.
Well I shouldn't say nothing, because I had plenty of smoke. I even went so far as to pour a 1/4 cup of rum on some of the coals to no avail. Oh, and we won't be doing that again because that's just an abuse of rum.
The hour was getting late and my wife was taking a great amount of perverse enjoyment from this. Then it hit me, what if I shot a little WD40 on a paper towel and built a little charcoal pyramid around it would that work?
Your DAMN right it would.
Two quick squirts, a little charcoal and P-O-O-F we got fire.
And damn those burgers were good. I don't know what it is about an outdoor grill but wholly cow it was like heaven on a bun.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
There are lots of proud moments....
It's just that some stick out a little bit more than others, and this was one of those.
When my son was a baby, and I was a new father, I often times laid with him thinking about what he would be like. Would he be tall? Would he be athletically gifted? Would he be brilliant? What would his favorite color be? What would he like to do?
Like most new father's I think I unintentionally (or maybe subconsciously?) began to superimpose my hopes and dreams for my life onto him. Would I someday see him rounding third at Fenway after hitting the winning homerun in Game 7? Would he be a fighter pilot? Would he be a famous scientist?
I was bound and determined to make sure that he experienced a wide variety of things. Swimming, karate, basketball, baseball, tennis, and even skateboarding were all made available to him to little or no avail. I was getting nervous that I somehow wasn't doing my job as his Dad. Was I showing him the right things? Was he going to become some type of recluse?
Then as the year's went by I began to see him take his own form and show me who "he" was, and I've loved every minute of it.
He wasn't any of the things that I had superimposed on him, instead he was a young boy that was incredibly smart and well read. He was shy and liked the color green. He loved to write and draw fantasy comics and he even fancied himself as a bit of a politician (even going as John McCain for Halloween). He has little interest in team sports, but he would often ask me about flying.
And then the lightbulb went off.
So for Christmas last year I bought him an introductory flight lesson and thought I had hit the mother lode. I thought for sure he would be excited.
That is until he opened the gift and looked at it with just a slight bit of interest and excitement. I thought it was a dud.
The winter turned to spring and the spring to early summer with barely any mention of the flight lesson until one day in late May he said: "You know Dad, I still have that flight lesson that I'm really excited to take. When do you think we could go?".
He didn't have to ask twice.
And "go" we did.
This was a day that I will remember for a very long time. It was a mixture of pride and nervousness. Hope and anticipation.
He flew on his own without me with him, and it was a day that taught me so very much about life. About kids. About being a good parent.
I never set foot in that aircraft, but I flew right along with him.
To see him take that step, to conquer his fear and his nerves was a wonderful journey for us both. He may never fly again, and that is just fine by me because no matter what the outcome it taught us both that trying something -even if it's something you never thought you'd do- is one of the biggest steps you can take in life.
Good on ya' dude. I'm proud of you and who you are. I love you.
Monday, May 18, 2009
A Legacy...
So I went to Ted's 60th birthday this weekend and it really got me to thinking about the legacy you leave with your children.
I draw a lot of parallels to Ted, his family life, and his divorce. 2 kids, a flaky "Ex" that operates solely with her own agenda in mind, financially and emotionally ruinous, he was the worker she was the -ahem- "caregiver", she got bored and started to look for excitement with other men. You get the picture.
Now I realize that this situation is in no way unique, there's a ton of men out there going "Really that happened to you to...". But, any time you get something that familiar this close in the family you have to take notice.
What hit me though was how much his two girls love him in the most geniune and sincere way. This isn't a "Paris Hilton Loves Her Daddy's Wallet" love. Or an "Amy Winehouse Loves Her Daddy Because He Let's Her Behave Like an Ass and Blames It on Everyone Else" love.
This is a true, honest love for a man with steadfast values, an honest heart and modest means.
It's not flashy. It's not permissive. It's not based on materialistic motive or intent. It is just the most wonderful example of two young women that have formed a bond of love, trust, and understanding between each of them. It was a joy to behold.
As we stood there watching his tribute DVD with a retrospective of 60-some-odd years of life it became readily apparent that he built his life around these girls. He tended his garden diligently and dutifully and the results are breathtaking. Love blossomed like no other, if ever there was a blue-ribbon example this was it.
Thank you Ted.
Thanks for showing me that even though life doesn't unfold like you want it. Even though the bumps you expect turn out to be craters the size of the moon at times, you can still make a wonderful and worthwhile journey. Watching you Saturday brought that into focus, and I thank all of you for letting me share in it.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cheap Light Tent for Macro Photography
OK, first a rant.
I've always wanted a "real" light tent to help me take macro and product shots (mainly for my eBay auctions) but everytime I convince myself to buy one I go online and find these things run $50 bucks (for a cheapie) and up (for a not so cheapie).
And then I get pissed because all they really are are a box with some fabric, maybe a collapsible metal frame and a couple of table lamps. I mean, are you kidding me? The boxes look like they have all of $1.29 worth of material and the lamps look like $2.99 bargain bin items.
I get the capitalism thing. I don't expect them not to make a profit, but do you have to bend me over so blatantly?
So, rant off. That's when I decided to make my own.
The Criteria: A) Cheap B) Sturdy C) Collapsible D) Work as Intended
Do a search on the internet and you'll find plans for these all over the place so pick one that's best for you. This is just mine.
I made the following out of items found at IKEA for under $20 and I think it works pretty well.
The Goods:
1. Skubb Laundry Bag ($8.99) http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/90116510
2. (2) Morker Lights ($4.99 x 2) http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/10057642
3. 4 Incandescent Light Bulbs -(.$.79) http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/50148693
I've always wanted a "real" light tent to help me take macro and product shots (mainly for my eBay auctions) but everytime I convince myself to buy one I go online and find these things run $50 bucks (for a cheapie) and up (for a not so cheapie).
And then I get pissed because all they really are are a box with some fabric, maybe a collapsible metal frame and a couple of table lamps. I mean, are you kidding me? The boxes look like they have all of $1.29 worth of material and the lamps look like $2.99 bargain bin items.
I get the capitalism thing. I don't expect them not to make a profit, but do you have to bend me over so blatantly?
So, rant off. That's when I decided to make my own.
The Criteria: A) Cheap B) Sturdy C) Collapsible D) Work as Intended
Do a search on the internet and you'll find plans for these all over the place so pick one that's best for you. This is just mine.
I made the following out of items found at IKEA for under $20 and I think it works pretty well.
The Goods:
1. Skubb Laundry Bag ($8.99) http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/90116510
2. (2) Morker Lights ($4.99 x 2) http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/10057642
3. 4 Incandescent Light Bulbs -(.$.79) http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/50148693
The Tally = $19.77So why do I like it?
Well I'm an apartment dweller so I'm short on space and this kit will tuck in a shoebox under the bed with no issues.
It's not the biggest softbox in the world, and it's a bit of an odd shape but at the end of the day, for the shots that I take it works terrific.
I like these IKEA lights not only because they're cheap, but because they are very adjustable and they hold their position (IMO) better than most gooseneck style lamps.
I like these IKEA lights not only because they're cheap, but because they are very adjustable and they hold their position (IMO) better than most gooseneck style lamps.
THE RESULTS:
So embrace you inner cheapskate and get yourself outfitted.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Sad News...
Well it's been a bit since my last update.
Some sad news these past few days with the passing of my Uncle Bob (affectionately known as "Uncle") on 3/7. He was a lot of things to a lot of people. Good. Complex. Loving. Charitable. Stubborn. Righteous. Resolute.
He was my Dad's older brother and of course with his passing I start to wonder (and worry) about my Dad. He's 6 years his junior but frankly my Dad looks and acts older than Uncle did. Uncle was always into something. Golf. Painting. Running. Church. Gardening (man could he garden). I wish my Dad had the same pallet of interest because I think it would keep him young.
I stood at the funeral and watched my three cousins sob. And while it made me sad to see them so upset, it also made me happy because it told me that Uncle was important to them.
He made a big difference in their lives.
He made an impact.He mattered.
You don't cry like that over someone that doesn't matter.
I realized then that that's what I want when I die. I want the room to be wall-to-wall wailing and then I want everyone to go to a really good pub (like O'Connors or Federal Jack's or The Up Country Saloon) and I want them to stand around arm-in-arm drinking Newcastle's and laughing. I want them to start every sentence with "Do you remember the time...." or "Boy he really loved...." and I want their to be more laughter. I want the hostess to have to come over and ask everyone to quiet down.
And when the ale runs dry, and the laughter stops and everyone is spilling onto the street and saying their goodbyes I want folks to smile and remember me as someone that mattered.
I think that's all I can really ask for out of my life.
God Bless You Uncle. You were a complicated man that mattered. You weren't always easy to figure out or agree with, but you were someone that mattered. Good on ya'.
Some sad news these past few days with the passing of my Uncle Bob (affectionately known as "Uncle") on 3/7. He was a lot of things to a lot of people. Good. Complex. Loving. Charitable. Stubborn. Righteous. Resolute.
He was my Dad's older brother and of course with his passing I start to wonder (and worry) about my Dad. He's 6 years his junior but frankly my Dad looks and acts older than Uncle did. Uncle was always into something. Golf. Painting. Running. Church. Gardening (man could he garden). I wish my Dad had the same pallet of interest because I think it would keep him young.
I stood at the funeral and watched my three cousins sob. And while it made me sad to see them so upset, it also made me happy because it told me that Uncle was important to them.
He made a big difference in their lives.
He made an impact.He mattered.
You don't cry like that over someone that doesn't matter.
I realized then that that's what I want when I die. I want the room to be wall-to-wall wailing and then I want everyone to go to a really good pub (like O'Connors or Federal Jack's or The Up Country Saloon) and I want them to stand around arm-in-arm drinking Newcastle's and laughing. I want them to start every sentence with "Do you remember the time...." or "Boy he really loved...." and I want their to be more laughter. I want the hostess to have to come over and ask everyone to quiet down.
And when the ale runs dry, and the laughter stops and everyone is spilling onto the street and saying their goodbyes I want folks to smile and remember me as someone that mattered.
I think that's all I can really ask for out of my life.
God Bless You Uncle. You were a complicated man that mattered. You weren't always easy to figure out or agree with, but you were someone that mattered. Good on ya'.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Cool Photography Game....
Leave it to Google, and no I'm not on their payroll.
As I've written before they have one of the best free image editors (I think anyway) in Picasa and they also have this silly little game that is extremely addicting.
You get 5 random pictures that you have to try to guess the location by placing a marker on a world globe. Once you guess the software tells you exactly where the picture was taken. The closer your guess is to the right answer the more points you get.
Simple and easy to play but tough to be good at.
Sure there are some "gimmes" (like you see the writing on a highway sign written in Chinese); but there are more than a number of ones that you look at and say "WTF?".
My best score was 2212 (and yes it was mostly luck and a couple of pictures of a pineapple plant).
Click here to check it out.
As I've written before they have one of the best free image editors (I think anyway) in Picasa and they also have this silly little game that is extremely addicting.
You get 5 random pictures that you have to try to guess the location by placing a marker on a world globe. Once you guess the software tells you exactly where the picture was taken. The closer your guess is to the right answer the more points you get.
Simple and easy to play but tough to be good at.
Sure there are some "gimmes" (like you see the writing on a highway sign written in Chinese); but there are more than a number of ones that you look at and say "WTF?".
My best score was 2212 (and yes it was mostly luck and a couple of pictures of a pineapple plant).
Click here to check it out.
Why we hate her....
So "Lizzy's" been cheering for the JV basketball squad all year. Cute uniform, cute routines, happy smiles, confidence building. Everything you want your 10 year old to feel.
So the end of the season is near and the squad is offering mementos of the season by having an "official" cheering picture taken and then you are free to indulge your young progeny's ego by getting their picture on every possible conveyance known to man.
Picture on a mug. Picture on a sport bottle. Picture on a blanket. Picture on a porcelain bidet (ok, maybe not). Picture package with a bunch of different sizes. Picture. Picture. Picture.
You get the picture (I love a good pun, don't you?).
So of course we find out a day late and a dollar short that she has to have all the orders in by Wednesday (which gives us all of 2 days to order the stuff). This is standard operating procedure for them. Lizzy does her best to remember, but she's 10. You'd think that she'd get a little boost from her -ahem- Mother in making sure this stuff get's communicated.
It just doesn't happen.
So, we get the notice late and never fear because her -ahem- Mother will pay for whatever I order with the understanding that I'll pay her back the next day when I get the kids. 24 hours later.
Liz is happy. She gets some mementos from her cheering squad and I'm sure she's happy with the thought that, yes in fact her -ahem- Mother will in fact see her in her cheering uniform doing cheers. Maybe not live in the flesh, because God forbid she'd have to get off her dead ass and make an effort, but at least in picture form so she could see that yes her daughter did well.
This of course changed when I got this text message at 3:00pm on Tuesday (a day before the order is due):
"Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I will not be able to pay for Liz's cheering pictures. If you still want them you can buy by credit card. Liz has the information."
Of course this causes Liz to freak out because now she's thinking no-one is going to get to see her and she's not going to have a sport bottle with her picture on it. When you're 10 this stuff really matters, and come to think of it when you're 42 it really matters too.
This from the woman that has a -ahem- "job" that pays her $300 per week to do ABSOLUTELY nothing but make sure those two kids don't light themselves on fire, play with caustic chemicals, or eat anything near nutritious (why cook when Papa Gino's makes such great garlic bread? Garlic's a vegetable right...).
There's a special hot pointy rock in Hell waiting for her and it gives me such satisfaction knowing that.
So the end of the season is near and the squad is offering mementos of the season by having an "official" cheering picture taken and then you are free to indulge your young progeny's ego by getting their picture on every possible conveyance known to man.
Picture on a mug. Picture on a sport bottle. Picture on a blanket. Picture on a porcelain bidet (ok, maybe not). Picture package with a bunch of different sizes. Picture. Picture. Picture.
You get the picture (I love a good pun, don't you?).
So of course we find out a day late and a dollar short that she has to have all the orders in by Wednesday (which gives us all of 2 days to order the stuff). This is standard operating procedure for them. Lizzy does her best to remember, but she's 10. You'd think that she'd get a little boost from her -ahem- Mother in making sure this stuff get's communicated.
It just doesn't happen.
So, we get the notice late and never fear because her -ahem- Mother will pay for whatever I order with the understanding that I'll pay her back the next day when I get the kids. 24 hours later.
Liz is happy. She gets some mementos from her cheering squad and I'm sure she's happy with the thought that, yes in fact her -ahem- Mother will in fact see her in her cheering uniform doing cheers. Maybe not live in the flesh, because God forbid she'd have to get off her dead ass and make an effort, but at least in picture form so she could see that yes her daughter did well.
This of course changed when I got this text message at 3:00pm on Tuesday (a day before the order is due):
"Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I will not be able to pay for Liz's cheering pictures. If you still want them you can buy by credit card. Liz has the information."
Of course this causes Liz to freak out because now she's thinking no-one is going to get to see her and she's not going to have a sport bottle with her picture on it. When you're 10 this stuff really matters, and come to think of it when you're 42 it really matters too.
This from the woman that has a -ahem- "job" that pays her $300 per week to do ABSOLUTELY nothing but make sure those two kids don't light themselves on fire, play with caustic chemicals, or eat anything near nutritious (why cook when Papa Gino's makes such great garlic bread? Garlic's a vegetable right...).
There's a special hot pointy rock in Hell waiting for her and it gives me such satisfaction knowing that.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Routine
So I'm becoming my parents. I see this and I admit this. This is not some 20 or 30-something rant about life transition and the loss of my youth. I'm old enough to be past that. All this is is a little reminder that yes, I've become my parents in many ways. And that's not a bad thing.
So I remember as a kid that every morning had it's routine. Time schedule. Order of operations. The works.
You never ate before you showered. You never showered before you made your bed. That kind of thing. There was harmony and flow.
So I have that now in my current incarnation of 42 years.
Alarm @ 6:10.
Smack that damn "snoozy bar" for 3 times.
Done right this gets my ass out of bed for 6:30.
I'm up 1st. Always. My lovely is a night owl, she happily prattles on well into the 11 o'clock news.
I'm semi-comatose by 10pm.
So I'm always up 1st. Always.
I go to the bathroom and do my "Three S's" and for those of you who don't know what they are well go ask someone. Guys know what they are.
I primp and fuss for 3 minutes and then I'm out. Fresh as a daisy.
I always kiss my lovely good morning, usually on the cheek or high on her arm.
She always jumps and jerks like I've just poked her with an electric cattle prod.
I'm romantic. She's vigilant. Always on the lookout for potential bodily harm is she.
I get my small bowl of cereal, jump on the PC, check headlines, weather, sports (yes, that order).
I make lunch and do the dishes.
She drags out of bed and gets in the shower while I usually dress.
Boring isn't it.
I agree.
But lately, my lovely seems to feel the need to shower while I shave and thus injecting herself into my morning routine. She's up wandering around, on the computer, digging around the kitchen.
It's goddamn pandemonium if you ask me.
That's OK, she's pretty sweet. I'll keep her.
So I remember as a kid that every morning had it's routine. Time schedule. Order of operations. The works.
You never ate before you showered. You never showered before you made your bed. That kind of thing. There was harmony and flow.
So I have that now in my current incarnation of 42 years.
Alarm @ 6:10.
Smack that damn "snoozy bar" for 3 times.
Done right this gets my ass out of bed for 6:30.
I'm up 1st. Always. My lovely is a night owl, she happily prattles on well into the 11 o'clock news.
I'm semi-comatose by 10pm.
So I'm always up 1st. Always.
I go to the bathroom and do my "Three S's" and for those of you who don't know what they are well go ask someone. Guys know what they are.
I primp and fuss for 3 minutes and then I'm out. Fresh as a daisy.
I always kiss my lovely good morning, usually on the cheek or high on her arm.
She always jumps and jerks like I've just poked her with an electric cattle prod.
I'm romantic. She's vigilant. Always on the lookout for potential bodily harm is she.
I get my small bowl of cereal, jump on the PC, check headlines, weather, sports (yes, that order).
I make lunch and do the dishes.
She drags out of bed and gets in the shower while I usually dress.
Boring isn't it.
I agree.
But lately, my lovely seems to feel the need to shower while I shave and thus injecting herself into my morning routine. She's up wandering around, on the computer, digging around the kitchen.
It's goddamn pandemonium if you ask me.
That's OK, she's pretty sweet. I'll keep her.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Window & The Loogie Man
I work in a large manufacturing/office facility that is in relatively good shape. I have the benefit of having a large window that runs the length of the building right outside my office.
Being able to look outside, even if it's for a minute, is a simple treat that we sometimes take for granted. This window is somewhat unique in that it's about 4 feet off the ground and about 3 feet high with a large windowsill that runs the entire length of it.
The windowsill is prime real estate here. It's deep (maybe 18 inches) and it allows you to stand up and put a cup of coffee or paper plate with a snack on it so you can sit and watch the world go by while you're having your break. It's almost like a high top in a bar. You know, the ones that are the perfect height for leaning and drinking and slobbering.
So every day @ 9:30am the folks that aren't as lucky as me come over to have their snack and drink their coffee. I'm all for it. Except there's this on guy who comes over and I swear he thinks he's in the men's room.
I call him "Loogie Man".
He burps.
He farts.
He coughs.
He hocks up loogies (I don't think he spits them but he works 'em up really well).
He makes this sound that sounds like he's trying to blow his nose by plugging up one nostril and blowing for all he's worth. "Snyah, snyah, snyah".
All the while he's drinking his coffee and eating his muffin.
And you know, I'm no prude, but please, just once go to the bathroom before you get your snack. Please. We're begging you.
Being able to look outside, even if it's for a minute, is a simple treat that we sometimes take for granted. This window is somewhat unique in that it's about 4 feet off the ground and about 3 feet high with a large windowsill that runs the entire length of it.
The windowsill is prime real estate here. It's deep (maybe 18 inches) and it allows you to stand up and put a cup of coffee or paper plate with a snack on it so you can sit and watch the world go by while you're having your break. It's almost like a high top in a bar. You know, the ones that are the perfect height for leaning and drinking and slobbering.
So every day @ 9:30am the folks that aren't as lucky as me come over to have their snack and drink their coffee. I'm all for it. Except there's this on guy who comes over and I swear he thinks he's in the men's room.
I call him "Loogie Man".
He burps.
He farts.
He coughs.
He hocks up loogies (I don't think he spits them but he works 'em up really well).
He makes this sound that sounds like he's trying to blow his nose by plugging up one nostril and blowing for all he's worth. "Snyah, snyah, snyah".
All the while he's drinking his coffee and eating his muffin.
And you know, I'm no prude, but please, just once go to the bathroom before you get your snack. Please. We're begging you.
Monday, February 2, 2009
How to lose $12 and destroy your kids self esteem.
You remember the old TV series "Dragnet" where they always made that official sounding disclaimer: "The names have been changed to protect the innocent."?
Well welcome to my blog. Those of you who know me, know who I am and who I'm talking about. Those of you who don't, well I'm going "Dragnet" on you because I don't want to listen to my ex-wife and her lousy lawyer try to whip up an endless torrent of "Cease and Desist" orders every time I put finger to keyboard.
So here's a classic example of what I dealt with for 13+ years of marriage:
So as is usual on Sunday nights I always get a good night call after I drop the kids off. The irony is that they've spent 2+ days with us and still like to call that same night just to talk. Compare that with their behavior when they're with us (school breaks, weekends, summer, etc.) and they never (and I mean N-E-V-E-R) want to pick-up the phone to call their -ahem- Mother I find it just dripping in irony.
So I get the call last night and ask my daughter (let's call her "Liz") how her night was. "Not good.", she informs me.
"Why? What happened?"
"Well we were driving home after you dropped us off and Mom had to stop for gas because she was on empty. So we stopped into Cumberland Farms and she gave Steve (my son) her last $12 so he could bring it in to the cashier and get the pump turned on."
"So he goes in and asks the man "Can I have $12 on pump number 3", gives him the money and then goes to the bathroom. As he's walking back out to the car, Mom's standing there waiting for the pump to come on and asking Steve if he gave the attendant the money. He says yes, $12 on pump #3."
"Well there was only one problem. Our car was parked on pump #4 and their was a different car on #3. Whoever that guy on #3 was, well he just got $12 worth of free gas."
Now I'm on the other end of the phone trying not to laugh because this is a classic case of her being her. I had all I could do to keep a straight face.
"So then what happened?"
"Well, Mom flipped out because she only had $12 and no other cash or credit cards. So she starts yelling at Steve to go get the man to change the pump number and restart the pump. By the time he got back in to the store the guy on #3 had already pumped his gas and driven off and the station attendant wouldn't restart the pump. Mom was out her last $12, had no gas and was freaking out that she was going to run out."
"So what did she do?"
"Well she started yelling at Steve for his mistake and he began to get upset so I told her that she should have brought the money in herself, and then she started yelling at me to mind my own business. Then she picked up her cell phone and started calling everyone to tell them she was afraid she was going to run out of gas and didn't know what to do.
She called Stu (her new husband) to tell him that she was going to run out of gas, but there was nothing he could do because he was at work. So she called Grammy to tell her, and Grammy told her to just drive as far as she could and if she ran out she ran out, and then she'd have to call the auto club."
"Did you make it home OK?"
"Yah, after all her drama she managed to make it home OK and she made us run in the house to get the emergency $10 so she could go to the station down the road.".
So there you go, a microcosm of life with my ex. Too lazy to do anything for herself. Too broke to even have an extra $10 for gas (oh, and don't feel too bad she get's well over $1,200 a month in support not to mention a full-time job). Too helpless to put her big girl pants on and deal with it and too self-pitying to see it as everyone elses responsibility to take care of her problems.
When you're own Mother tells you to keep driving and call the auto club when you finally run out of gas, I think you get a good idea that this isn't the first time this type of thing has happened.
Well welcome to my blog. Those of you who know me, know who I am and who I'm talking about. Those of you who don't, well I'm going "Dragnet" on you because I don't want to listen to my ex-wife and her lousy lawyer try to whip up an endless torrent of "Cease and Desist" orders every time I put finger to keyboard.
So here's a classic example of what I dealt with for 13+ years of marriage:
So as is usual on Sunday nights I always get a good night call after I drop the kids off. The irony is that they've spent 2+ days with us and still like to call that same night just to talk. Compare that with their behavior when they're with us (school breaks, weekends, summer, etc.) and they never (and I mean N-E-V-E-R) want to pick-up the phone to call their -ahem- Mother I find it just dripping in irony.
So I get the call last night and ask my daughter (let's call her "Liz") how her night was. "Not good.", she informs me.
"Why? What happened?"
"Well we were driving home after you dropped us off and Mom had to stop for gas because she was on empty. So we stopped into Cumberland Farms and she gave Steve (my son) her last $12 so he could bring it in to the cashier and get the pump turned on."
"So he goes in and asks the man "Can I have $12 on pump number 3", gives him the money and then goes to the bathroom. As he's walking back out to the car, Mom's standing there waiting for the pump to come on and asking Steve if he gave the attendant the money. He says yes, $12 on pump #3."
"Well there was only one problem. Our car was parked on pump #4 and their was a different car on #3. Whoever that guy on #3 was, well he just got $12 worth of free gas."
Now I'm on the other end of the phone trying not to laugh because this is a classic case of her being her. I had all I could do to keep a straight face.
"So then what happened?"
"Well, Mom flipped out because she only had $12 and no other cash or credit cards. So she starts yelling at Steve to go get the man to change the pump number and restart the pump. By the time he got back in to the store the guy on #3 had already pumped his gas and driven off and the station attendant wouldn't restart the pump. Mom was out her last $12, had no gas and was freaking out that she was going to run out."
"So what did she do?"
"Well she started yelling at Steve for his mistake and he began to get upset so I told her that she should have brought the money in herself, and then she started yelling at me to mind my own business. Then she picked up her cell phone and started calling everyone to tell them she was afraid she was going to run out of gas and didn't know what to do.
She called Stu (her new husband) to tell him that she was going to run out of gas, but there was nothing he could do because he was at work. So she called Grammy to tell her, and Grammy told her to just drive as far as she could and if she ran out she ran out, and then she'd have to call the auto club."
"Did you make it home OK?"
"Yah, after all her drama she managed to make it home OK and she made us run in the house to get the emergency $10 so she could go to the station down the road.".
So there you go, a microcosm of life with my ex. Too lazy to do anything for herself. Too broke to even have an extra $10 for gas (oh, and don't feel too bad she get's well over $1,200 a month in support not to mention a full-time job). Too helpless to put her big girl pants on and deal with it and too self-pitying to see it as everyone elses responsibility to take care of her problems.
When you're own Mother tells you to keep driving and call the auto club when you finally run out of gas, I think you get a good idea that this isn't the first time this type of thing has happened.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Picture Management Software - Picasa
OK - so I take a lot of pictures. Most of them are crappy, but the beauty of digital is that you can keep firing away while occasionally peeking at the screen (a.k.a "chimping") to find the best of the bunch.
Like my old shoeboxes full of 4x6 and negatives of old I always struggle to keep my arms around the every growing library of files. I struggle letting even the bad ones go, never mind the marginal ones so having a program to help catalog and share these files is key.
The simple, cheapest, and I'd argue best tool I've found is Picasa (get it here if you like). Now there are other more full featured picture editors (Photoshop, Paint Shop Pro, etc.) and other library managers (Aperture, Photoshop Elements, etc.) that may offer more features and greater flexibility, but for the price (FREE!) and the level of features that it offers Picasa is really tough to beat.
A simple download and once it starts it automatically begins to catalogue your shots. I can't recommend it enough, and no I'm not on Google's payroll (although I wish I was). Take some time on a rainy Saturday afternoon and go through the video tutorials and you will begin to see not only how feature reach this program is but how easy it is to work with.
Now shut-up and shoot.
Like my old shoeboxes full of 4x6 and negatives of old I always struggle to keep my arms around the every growing library of files. I struggle letting even the bad ones go, never mind the marginal ones so having a program to help catalog and share these files is key.
The simple, cheapest, and I'd argue best tool I've found is Picasa (get it here if you like). Now there are other more full featured picture editors (Photoshop, Paint Shop Pro, etc.) and other library managers (Aperture, Photoshop Elements, etc.) that may offer more features and greater flexibility, but for the price (FREE!) and the level of features that it offers Picasa is really tough to beat.
A simple download and once it starts it automatically begins to catalogue your shots. I can't recommend it enough, and no I'm not on Google's payroll (although I wish I was). Take some time on a rainy Saturday afternoon and go through the video tutorials and you will begin to see not only how feature reach this program is but how easy it is to work with.
Now shut-up and shoot.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Personal Freedoms vs. Kid Names
You know, I can't make this stuff up. If you read the attached article it really makes you scratch your head (makes me laugh as well, but in a twisted way).
On the one hand you're amazed that there are actually people like this out there that think naming their kids these crazy ass names won't somehow hinder them later on in life.
Wouldn't you love to be a fly on the wall when they're sitting there for an interview: "So Joybubbles / Hitler / ToeJam" (take your pick); why have you decided to join our team?".
Can you imagine?
You're pretty much at your parents whim when it comes to names, hair color, and any other determining feature; but as a parent don't you owe it to your kid to at least give them a fair shake with a name that at least gets them in the door?
This story makes me laugh because I picture this whole scenario in my head from the time the kid was born up to his adult hood. It would go something like this:
I mean, sure he's got tattoos all over his neck, but which one of us hasn't gone out on a drunken dare and got a tattoo on our neck or scrotum. And can't you see the love in his Momma's eyes just saying "I love you little Adolf Hitler".
Isn't it safe to say that as a parent we all have secretly wanted to coo that familiar refrain to our newborn son as you put him to bed:
"Rock-a-bye-Hitler in the pill box
When the bombs come the box it will rock
While the box rocks the roof it will fall
And down will go Hitler swastika and all..."
Then in the later years you can only imagine hearing these special words. "Now batting for the Boston Red Sox. The centerfielder #99. Hitler. Adolf Hitler."
Who wouldn't want to hear that broadcast over the loudspeaker at Fenway Park?
Are these people for real?
On the one hand you're amazed that there are actually people like this out there that think naming their kids these crazy ass names won't somehow hinder them later on in life.
Wouldn't you love to be a fly on the wall when they're sitting there for an interview: "So Joybubbles / Hitler / ToeJam" (take your pick); why have you decided to join our team?".
Can you imagine?
You're pretty much at your parents whim when it comes to names, hair color, and any other determining feature; but as a parent don't you owe it to your kid to at least give them a fair shake with a name that at least gets them in the door?
This story makes me laugh because I picture this whole scenario in my head from the time the kid was born up to his adult hood. It would go something like this:
I mean, sure he's got tattoos all over his neck, but which one of us hasn't gone out on a drunken dare and got a tattoo on our neck or scrotum. And can't you see the love in his Momma's eyes just saying "I love you little Adolf Hitler".
Isn't it safe to say that as a parent we all have secretly wanted to coo that familiar refrain to our newborn son as you put him to bed:
"Rock-a-bye-Hitler in the pill box
When the bombs come the box it will rock
While the box rocks the roof it will fall
And down will go Hitler swastika and all..."
Then in the later years you can only imagine hearing these special words. "Now batting for the Boston Red Sox. The centerfielder #99. Hitler. Adolf Hitler."
Who wouldn't want to hear that broadcast over the loudspeaker at Fenway Park?
Are these people for real?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Why didn't I do this sooner?
Fear of failure is why.
In my mind I had this perfect picture of this well defined blog that would absolutely enthrall the masses with it's wittiness and topicality.
It was beautiful and at the same time it all seemed too big and I ran from it.
Well, no more.
I'm going to post stuff up that is on my mind. Sometimes it will be insightful and other times it will be meaningless. But that's O-K, I'm going to enjoy myself and if you get a giggle or two out of it all the better. And if not, you can bite me.
In my mind I had this perfect picture of this well defined blog that would absolutely enthrall the masses with it's wittiness and topicality.
It was beautiful and at the same time it all seemed too big and I ran from it.
Well, no more.
I'm going to post stuff up that is on my mind. Sometimes it will be insightful and other times it will be meaningless. But that's O-K, I'm going to enjoy myself and if you get a giggle or two out of it all the better. And if not, you can bite me.
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