tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38455657427166840942024-03-13T11:24:16.985-07:00your FACE is my blogThis blog is not the droids you're looking for.
The mostly true, extremely subjective stories of our lives as told from my perspective. And some other junk that I occasionally cook up.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-13250348790197440472014-02-28T08:13:00.001-08:002014-02-28T08:13:03.988-08:00A Series of Letters to My Past Self<i>Someone posted something about how tired the whole idea of
blogging "A letter to my 20 year-old self" has become. I didn't
understand at first, but the explanation was essentially that each one
of them tells that younger version...be strong, be confident, things
work out, hang in there. You can just cut the name and paste a new one
and you essentially have every letter every written in blog form. </i><br />
<i><br />She was right...Here are some letters I have written to my past selves from my current self, and the impact I think it would make on my life today.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1r_nAbriMRzPAH2CEdhhagZbxjr_MxqNADJdFa9adCmwhRBIg2L0ar35rWlMP3eik1BPhGtlksy_B8wirBk5iKCMXkGdNENdvX-afjAD8d7Dkf_5OZ-OuYDOyLNciPhicI1qAF603dw/s1600/320px-Par_avion_air_mail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1r_nAbriMRzPAH2CEdhhagZbxjr_MxqNADJdFa9adCmwhRBIg2L0ar35rWlMP3eik1BPhGtlksy_B8wirBk5iKCMXkGdNENdvX-afjAD8d7Dkf_5OZ-OuYDOyLNciPhicI1qAF603dw/s1600/320px-Par_avion_air_mail.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Par_avion_air_mail.JPG</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<u>A letter to my 20 year-old self from my 44 year-old self</u><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">Dear 20 year old Jim,</span></span><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$1:0" /><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$3:0" /><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$4:0">Hey...I
know it's unlikely between the booze and having sex that you've taken
much time to think about the consequences of your actions. And you know
what? Fuck it! It <i>totally</i> works out in the end! </span><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$5:0" /><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$7:0" /><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$8:0">Also, you
know how all those bleeding heart liberals you offend daily with your
ultraconservative rants about fiscal responsibility and capital
punishment and stuff? Well...you totally <i>become</i> one, you ass!!!
HAHAHAHAHA! What a douche.</span><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$9:0" /><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$11:0" /><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$12:0">Anyway,
one last thing. Don't worry about what a dick you are now. I know
sometimes it crosses your mind...DON'T LET IT!! You're totally awesome
in the future!!</span><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$13:0" /><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$15:0" /><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$16:0">Love,</span><br data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$17:0" /><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Future Jim</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><u>A letter to my 19 year-old self from my 44 year-old self </u></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Dear 19 year old Jim, </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Okay,
look, this is really really important. Next year you're going to get a
letter from me. Burn that thing. Burn it to ash. Never open it. It
is filled with lies. 20 year old Jim reads it and completely fucks up
our life. I have more illegitimate children than you have friends. My
liver is shot. I can't get a job because of my criminal record and
we're living with mom and dad. Don't meddle with time travel!</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Seriously, </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Future Jim</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><u>A letter to my 18 year-old self from my 44 year-old self </u></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Dear 18 year old Jim, </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">I
forgot what an insufferable know-it-all you were at 19. Jesus. Next
year you're going to get a letter that you are totally going to blow off
because you're all like..."Whatever man, 44 year old me went soft!"
And it totally messes up your life. I think you're more receptive to
listening to people at 18. I can't remember when you went so stubborn
and condescending...I think 19. Anyway...Don't take anymore letters
from future me. They're bad news, man. BAD. NEWS.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Love,</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Future Jim</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br /><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><u>A letter to my 12 year-old self from my 44 year-old self </u></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><u><br /></u></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Hey
buddy...I'm writing from the future. Things...things are tough right
now. I want you to remember this letter. Keep it with you always. I
want you to remember this because as someone in the future...I know what
happens if you don't. It's already happened here.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Here's what I need you to remember:</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">If
you open any more letters addressed to you from your future self you
will die instantly of Ebola. In about ten more years you'll be able to
look that up on the internet...nevermind what that is...look up Ebola in
ten years, eye-bleeding and shitting yourself to death. That all
happens if you open even one more letter from future me. <br /><br />Oh, and remember Microsoft. Buy Microsoft with your high school graduation money. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Love </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0"><span data-reactid=".58.1:3:1:$comment3920370463297_2986135:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.0:$comment-body.0.3.0.$end:0:$18:0">Future Jim</span></span></span></span></span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-58060612059559728102013-07-24T09:32:00.005-07:002013-07-24T09:52:27.825-07:00Near KissI bloomed late in life. I think I was always too gawky and gangly for girls to really give a shit about despite my mother telling me daily how handsome I looked. Somehow my mother's estimation of my physical beauty never translated into me beating swarms of screaming teenage girls away with sticks...that's not a euphemism.<br />
<br />
My first chance at an ACTUAL kiss...where there was going to be a tongue and everything probably wasn't until I was maybe in 8th grade. I'm a little sketchy on the timeline. I know you're supposed to remember your first kiss forever and always, but you'll understand in a minute why I don't.<br />
<br />
My friends and I were at a wedding reception at one of their cousin's houses. Two girls from out of town caught our eyes. Cathy and Diana. Cathy was a blonde, Diana was brunette...and they were "older girls"...like sophomores or something. I don't remember. OLD. I gravitated toward the brunette (as I always did and still do).<br />
<br />
We sneaked beer from the keg and were probably mildly tipsy. Cathy wanted a kiss. I felt like that hurt my chances with Diana...you know...kissing someone else in front of her...but I figured what the hell. My friends held up their jackets around us like some sort of modesty curtain and I moved in for the kill. Only I didn't really know what the fuck I was doing, went in too fast...and I bashed my teeth off her teeth. We both recoiled more from shock than pain and laughed in shared embarrassment.<br />
<br />
She was so apologetic. I knew it wasn't her fault, but I sorta let her take the blame, silently accepting her role and we played it off...and my friends and I were leaving anyway...and she just sort of dissolved into the fabric of my past (she would later materialize long enough to date me, but that's another story) and my window of opportunity slammed shut like jaws filled with cracked teeth.<br />
<br />
I remember being so pissed at myself. Back then I was one of only a couple boys in my class who had NOT "mashed" with a girl. I was just too nervous. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to fuck it up and look stupid. Not wanting to fuck up and look stupid has been one of the biggest banes of my existence.<br />
<br />
Anyway...I was just thinking about first kisses, and someone else's story of bonked teeth and it all came crashing back home...not so much my first kiss, but my first miss...right in the teeth.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-4706406013165896592013-06-21T07:47:00.004-07:002013-06-25T08:55:09.659-07:00My Job<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I wrote this about my job at a previous company a few years ago... </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I don't think
this is a revelation to anyone, but I'm a project manager for an equipment
supply company. Sometimes when people ask what I do, and I tell them, they say
that it sounds like a hard job, or complicated, or important. And it isn't. It
really really isn't.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My job here
at my present company. . . Brand X. . . can be (as explained to a curious
friend earlier) summarized as professional bullshitter and buckpasser.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Remember in
"Office Space" where the two Bobs are interviewing the older man, Tom
Smykowski about what he does for Initech? (and I'm not THAT big a dork, i'm
pulling the blank pieces of my memory back with the help of IMDB) He says,
"Well-well look. I already told you: I deal with the god damn customers so
the engineers don't have to. I have people skills; I am good at dealing with
people. Can't you understand that? What the hell is wrong with you
people?" That's me, sans pot-belly, male pattern baldness, and persecution
complex. (maybe a little persecution complex)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I can't pull
the rest of the quote, but from Tom Smykowski's description it becomes apparent
that he takes the specifications from the customer and delivers them to the
engineer, then when the engineer is done, he takes them back from the engineer
to the customer. . . you know, because of his people skills. That's what I do.
I'm the bottle-neck in the system. I take the information and pass it along to
the people who actually know what to do with it, then once they're done, take
the information back to the customer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Sound
complicated? Then you weren't listening. I don't fucking do ANYthing. Not
REALLY.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Do you know
anything about baseball? You know the cut-off man? Long fly ball hit to deep
left center. . . man running from second. . . center fielder can't make the
throw to home, so he throws to the cut-off man, who in turn throws the ball
home. Well in the big leagues that makes sense, because the ballpark is
immense. . . but in little league?? Not so much. I had a great arm in little
league. I could basically hit anyone on the field from anywhere on the field.
I'm not saying that to brag, there were lots of kids like me. But they TEACH
you to hit the cut-off man in little league. So essentially a bunch of kids
that can't reliably throw or catch add an unnecessary step of an additional
throw-and-catch in an effort to get someone out. I am the superfluous little
league cut-off man. Throwing the ball to me instead of to home means one more
throw and catch in order to get the runner out. It introduces the possibility of
another error. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To stretch it
out one more mediocre analogy. . . i'm one more kid in the
"grapevine" game, where kid one whispers the message in kid two's ear
and so on until the last kid announces the message as he understood it and sees
if it's the same as the one that kid one whispered in kid two's ear. The
message is never right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I CAN do the
job a project manager is supposed to do. And it CAN be complicated. It CAN be
important. But that level of important complexity is not what Brand X requires of me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So if you
wonder what an 'important' project manager such as myself is doing here on Facebook, blogging, tweeting, etc .
. I'm working. At least in the capacity that Brand X requires of me.</span></div>
Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-45488294199387862252013-02-01T08:08:00.000-08:002013-02-01T08:27:25.077-08:00Why I'm Not a "Writer"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My wife, god
love her, thinks I'm capable of ANYTHING. ANY. THING.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Jim, if you
want to be a writer. . . you should do it. Jim, if you want to be an artist,
you should do it. Jim, if you want to be a brewer, you should do it. All of
which is SPECTACULARLY supportive, but not grounded necessarily in reality,
because I am not convinced of two things, the first of which is this: that she
is qualified to adequately judge my ability to write . . . or more accurately,
"be a writer". The second is that I myself am not qualified to
adequately judge my ability to write.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I HAVE some
experience in the field of failure, you see. Apart from writing (the
manifestation of which is almost solely this blog) I used to like to draw. When
I was a little boy I sketched everything and anything. As I got older, and
drawing pictures got less "cool" I slowly decreased the frequency of
my drawing. It trickled down to doodling until I eventually stopped even that,
but it had always been something that I'd enjoyed. And so when my friend Gino
and I were discussing drawing, I was very excited by the possibility that I
could draw for his company. Gino, you see, is a movie makeup artist. He sculpts
the fantastical creatures that I proposed hypothetically inventing in drawing
form. Gino had encouraged me to show him what I could do, because his makeup
and effects company (which does movie make up and effects for damn near any big
budget movie in industry that is not driven by CGI) was looking for a new
artist/designer. And it wasn't his fault I was excited. There were no false
hopes, he just asked if I felt I could draw up to the standard of, say, a comic
book illustrator. I felt I could. (have you SEEN comic book art lately?
Possibly I had not).</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My wife, god
love her, was CONVINCED it was my calling. It would have been AWESOME. I WOULD
have loved it. I started to get a little excited. Gino is blessed. He is a
talented artist who LOVES what he does. There are very few callings that I can
say I would be PASSIONATE about pursuing. . . but this was one. So i passed
some sketches off to Gino to review. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It took
longer than I expected. In hindsight, I suspect he was reluctant to relay bad
news. Gino is a PRINCE. A friendlier, more outgoing, more genuine person, you
will likely never meet. He essentially said, in the kindest of terms. . . these
aren't good enough. He constructively suggested that I take art classes to work
on my perspectives. . . something I've never done. . . and he was RIGHT to
suggest it. But I was disappointed nonetheless. VERY disappointed. I didn't cry
or get all mopey or anything, but it sunk like a cinder in snow inside my chest
and I essentially tried to ignore it back into nonexistence. I had it in my
head, you see, that I'd won the lottery. I'd already started to fantasize my
success. My calling!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So here I am.
Again at the brink of a decision. . . try to write something? A book? Writing
is art/entertainment. If you can tell a story you can write. You don't HAVE to
know the mechanics. . . at least the mechanics aren't what make you a good
writer, the creation of a good story is. At least in my opinion. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Writing is
very personal to me. Very much "laying it out there". I take
criticism of my writing relatively poorly, though I think I'm objective enough
to recognize valid criticism (perhaps given enough time to calm down and
consider it rationally). You have only to look back a few months to some
criticism of my BLOG to realize how thin-skinned I can be. And that's just a
stupid little blog.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So some of
the <span style="font-size: small;">people</span> in my little
circle of friends, god bless them, think I'm capable of being a writer. I
would LOVE to be a writer. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">BUT</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There is a
part of me that is happy in my safe little "I could write if i WANTED
to" haven. That part doesn't want to cross the boundary into the "I
tried to write, but was told I didn't have what it took" realm. My writing
ability is currently limitless. I'm a fucking GENIUS and an OCEAN of untapped
potential.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">today. . . </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Tomorrow. . .
mediocre (or. . . worse, "bad") writer?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In "Of
Human Bondage" by Somerset Maugham the main character, Philip is studying
painting in Paris.
He's doing alright with it. He's poor though, and really needs guidance. He
finally approaches his instructor, I'm going to cut some of the paragraphs from
this little passage of the book, but leave in the applicable passages. . . </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"I'm
very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Don't
you know if you have talent?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"All my
friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are mistaken."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">*THIS is what
I'm afraid of. . . I think I DO have talent. . . but I'm aware I may be
mistaken.*</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"You
shall show me your work."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Now?"
cried Philip.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Why
not?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Philip had
nothing to say. He walked silently by the master's side. He felt horribly sick.
It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to see his things there and
then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare himself, to ask him if he
would mind coming at some future date or whether he might bring them to
Foinet's studio. He was trembling with anxiety. In his heart he hoped that
Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare smile would come into his face,
and he would shake Philip's hand and say: "Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You
have talent, real talent." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">*THAT, of
course, is my secret dream. Foinet then reviews Philips work. . . *</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"You
have very little private means?" he asked at last.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Very
little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his heart.
"Not enough to live on."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"You
have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance there is no
reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent painter. You would
find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well. I see
no talent in anything you have shown me. I see industry and intelligence. You
will never be anything but mediocre."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"I'm
very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can't thank you
enough."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Monsieur
Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and, stopping, put
his hand on Philip's shoulder.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"But if
you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in both hands and
try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but let me tell you this:
I would give all I have in the world if someone had given me that advice when I
was your age and I had taken it."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Philip looked
up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a smile, but his eyes
remained grave and sad.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"It is
cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. It does not
improve the temper."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I need a
Monsieur Foinet. Maybe need is too strong a word. I don't NEED it, but wouldn't
it be nice? I really enjoy writing the blogs. I'd LOVE to be able to parlay it
into something else. I'd love to write for a living, say. But I frankly don't
know that I'm qualified (talented enough). And I frankly don't know if the
people who say I am are qualified to determine that.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Gino provided
me with some guidance on the drawing end. He was not unkind. He never intimated
that I'd NEVER be able to draw for a living. . . he just said I wasn't
CURRENTLY able to do so. That was enough for me. I hadn't drawn for years, I
certainly was not going to redouble my efforts at reviving a mediocre skill for
no reason. Now I satisfy myself with a pencil sketch of something here or there
once a year or so. I love doing it, but it's for me or my friends or family,
because I don't feel comfortable sharing it with the public. It's hard to be
criticized for something you really put your time into. Something that came
from you. Something you created. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Anyway, it's
not as if I have a novel in my head to write if I decided to write a novel.
There's no story BURNING its way out of me. And maybe that's what decides it.
What's the point of FORCING the issue when you're 1) not convinced you're even
talented enough to do it, and 2) you have nothing to bring to the table. I
mean, the disappointment would be twice as bad if I actually put the time and
effort into hundreds of mediocre pages only to be rejected. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">One last
sidebar. . . </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And I know
I've said this before. . . I have tried my best to raise my kids not to
overlook things that seem fun just because they're afraid to look stupid. When
my kids are with me I attempt cartwheels and sing loudly and dance the electric
slide do all sorts of ridiculous things that are meant to show them, hey, look
how bad I suck at this, but it's fun as hell anyway, and who cares how ridiculous
it looks?? It hurts my heart when my oldest refuses to do something she might
like because she's afraid of getting teased. <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Afraid</span></span> to fail. The coolest people
I've ever met were the ones who just did what they wanted to do and didn't give
a shit WHO laughed. They did it because it was something they wanted to do,
something that they thought would be fun. THAT'S the lesson I try to teach my
kids. . . and I'm very much aware that it is that lesson I need to force myself
to learn.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The reason
for writing this:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">These
thoughts occur to me periodically, but typically at someone's prompting. I
added a friend recently who has been asking me (repeatedly) why I don't write.
And so of course, I thought about it again. All the old reasons that more or
less boil down to fear of failure. And contrary to SOME people's opinions, my
ego is not nearly as big as I like to PRETEND it is.</span></span></div>
Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-23260605529503571352012-07-10T09:04:00.000-07:002012-07-10T09:05:40.311-07:00Envy<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />I wrote this three years ago, and am posting it because the subject matter came up in "comment conversation" on my other blog.<br />--------------<br />Envy <br /><br />This morning, while linking to my online bank account to correct a GIGO error in my automatic billpayer, I noticed a little-used link to the Pajiba review site. I couldn't think of any movies/books I was interested in, but it had been so long since I'd been there, I clicked the link.<br /><br />And goddamnit, there, large as life, was a review of Sarah Vowell's newest book "The Wordy Shipmates". Funny? Irreverent?? When the hell did this happen? I remember going to college honors english classes with Sarah Vowell at Montana State University and can tell you she was probably one of the most humorless people I'd ever met. <br /><br />I remember debating the merits of an author's argument in one of our assigned texts (the text itself is lost to my memory) with her during a classroom discussion where she was frustrated to tears. Or angered to them. Someone told me about it after class.<br /><br />So here is Sarah Vowell. . . geeky, awkward, Sarah Vowell transformed not just into a writer (my absolute dream "job") but a fucking GOOD writer. . . with positive NYTimes/Kirkus/Washington Post reviews, a syndicated gig on NPR radio, and magazine columns. And I'm envious. <br /><br />The ultimate revenge for Sarah Vowell (who I strongly suspect could not give two shits about getting revenge on me for something she doubtless has pushed from her memory or got over immediately following the class in question) is that she won. She's doing what I wish I was doing, and is doing it better than I could hope to do it. <br /><br />College was a long time ago and I certainly have my regrets, but it occurs to me that my regrets with regard to Sarah Vowell are not so much that I hurt a kid who was away from home and feeling lost and a little lonely. . . awkward and exposed by a verbal bully (ie, me) . . . but that I did all that to someone who's made good, gotten famous, is successful. . . <br /><br />I don't know. I think to myself, if I didn't know Sarah had gone on to much bigger and much better things, would I even give it a second thought? I flatter myself and upbringing by thinking I would to some extent. I mean, I can think of dozens of kids I bullied with my brain (hindsight being twenty-twenty, however, nobody with brains quite so big as hers) and made look silly or feel miserable that I DO feel bad about and do think about from time to time. But I don't know if I feel nearly as bad about any of them as I do about Sarah.<br /><br />And part of me thinks. . . I should reach out to her. . . apologize for the boy I was and congratulate her on her success, but I REALIZE that there's some part of me that's just doing it because she's famous. Like I want to be acknowledged indirectly as an influence in her life or something by REMINDING her about something I did that affected her (at the time). And because I can't be sure that it's not more about trying to get her to acknowledge that she remembers me from college. . . getting an ego stroke from a celebrity, so to speak. . . I'll never do it.<br /><br />Soooooo. . . Because this will never make it back to Sarah:<br /><br />Sarah, I hope you don't remember what a douche bag I was in college. I was (if you can believe it, dear reader) even more shallow then than I am now. I didn't see a cool, funny girl, who was shy and probably could have used an ally. I saw someone I could use to boost me up in the eyes of my classmates by making her look silly. I'm really sorry about that. You weren't the only one. I think what you're doing with your life is amazing. I wish I was talented/intelligent/broad enough to be doing it. I will be buying one of your books in the very near future. My daughter loves Violet from "The Incredibles", by the way. Good luck with your life and your career. <br /><br />Bitch. <br /><br />Okay okay. . . i'll leave that last part out. I'm envious.</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-81487430490262290432012-04-12T06:37:00.000-07:002012-04-12T08:23:02.161-07:00Diving a Bike<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Today Emma's gym class gets to swim in the pool. On the drive to school she told me they're going to teach them how to dive.<br /><br />"I think I already know how to dive, I just get nervous," she told me.<br /><br />"You do know how, and once you get comfortable with it you'll never be uncomfortable with it again. It's sorta like riding a bike, you know?"<br /><br />There was a long silence in the car.<br /><br />"I don't know how to ride a bike."<br /><br />When she said it, it startled a laugh out of me. "Yeah, bad analogy. Sorry about that."<br /><br />Parenting Fail</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-13729071978933779292012-03-26T07:18:00.002-07:002012-03-26T08:06:34.891-07:00My OWN Version of the Hunger Games<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The Hunger Games movie came out this weekend. Everyone
seems to have loved the book. I was "okay" with it. I've always been a fan of dystopian settings, or post-apocalyptic settings, so the book was right up my alley, and I know the author wants the romance to be drawn out over the course of the trilogy (I haven't read the second book yet) but it seemed to me that the main character, Katniss, was particularly . . . stupid. . . regarding relationships. I kept struggling to understand her responses to things and giving the author the benefit of the doubt that the character had been raised "cold" and in a friendless/emotionless environment. . . how COULD she understand what these other characters were trying to show her? But it got REALLY really hard and I found myself rolling my eyes at some of the characters' responses particularly near the end of the book. Anyway, this isn't a book review post. The movie came out, and it looks intriguing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Saturday my parents offered to come over and watch the kids so that Leslie and I could get out of the house and spend some time together. Last time I took her to a place she really likes, Cioppino, and she said she wanted me to pick this time. A new burger place opened up, and I didn't want to spend a boatload of money, so I suggested that. The place is called "Burgatory". We drove about fifteen minutes away and walked in and the hostess said, "It'll be a two hour and fifteen minute wait." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My wife thought she said "15 minute wait." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I turned to her and said, "Do you want to wait?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She looked at me like it was a no-brainer. . . "15 minutes? Yeah, of
course we'll wait." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"TWO HOURS and 15 minutes!" I told her, and we immediately left.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">We drove to a place in Lawrenceville (suburb of Pittsburgh) called Alchemy N Ale. Alchemy N Ale is this place that she and I have now visited three times. I want to fall in love with it, but it fears commitment, apparently. They can't help but fuck something up every visit. Before we ordered I asked the waiter, "Are you out of anything?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The previous visits' sins had all been "we're out of that-related". The cardinal sin came when my wife's meal was delivered to the table and the waiter chose THAT MOMENT to inform me that they were out of what I had ordered a half hour before, so I had to order while my wife was eating. It was not a good "restaurant" moment. So in response to my question, the waiter answered, "No." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My wife ordered a steak and glass of wine, I ordered "frito pie" (I'm a class act) and a Railyard Ale. A few minutes later the waiter returned and informed us they were out of the green beans that the steak came with, and were out of Railyard. It's like the management of the restaurant is mocking me; daring me never to come back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">We had a drink each and
then appetizers and dinner and left to go to a friend's bar because by that point the bartender no longer knew how to make a drink I'd ordered the previous two visits and we were just over the whole "experience". We had driven half
way to the bar and I looked at the clock and said, "In fifteen more minutes we
can get our table at Burgatory." I was bummed because I really wanted to try it, and obviously the Alchemy N Ale experience had not dulled the pain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So, that was Saturday. This morning my wife called me
and said that the radio was talking about how "any restaurant located near a movie theater had a two-hour wait
because of the Hunger Games premiere." (see, The Hunger Games thing linked back, it wasn't a TOTAL nonsequitur). This was good news because I'd sort of written off Burgatory because I don't care HOW awesome a fucking hamburger is. . . I'm not waiting two hours and
fifteen minutes just to sit at a table for the privilege of ORDERING the fucking thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So anyway. . . Sometime soon. . . BURGATORY!!! In other news. . . Alchemy N Ale: Dead to me.</span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-12070872799205425052012-03-02T11:08:00.000-08:002012-03-02T11:43:33.712-08:00Commenting a Blog Post WITH a Blog Post<span style="font-size: large;">If you don't know Amy, probably you should "meet" her. And not in the creepy way that Amy's dad thinks (probably rightly) that you want to meet her, but in the friendly, blogging community way that <b><i>AMY</i></b> thinks you want to meet her.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She writes a great blog over at <a href="http://lucysfootball.com/">Lucy's Football</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This is my comment on <a href="http://lucysfootball.com/2012/03/02/the-nephew-well-on-his-way-to-becoming-the-best-ultimate-fighter-thats-ever-been/">her most recent post</a>. . . purportedly about her nephew, but like most of Amy's entertaining/informative blogs, about lots of many things some of which may or may not be related to each other, linked together not by logic or sequence, but by words like "ZOMG" and "YOU GUYS!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's important reading, regardless:</span><br />
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<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-18846336762971204122012-03-01T07:20:00.003-08:002012-03-02T07:00:51.731-08:00Punctuation in Writing<span style="font-size: large;">There was a twitter discussion about triffids/orchids/zucchini taking over the world this morning. Then there was some confusion, which made me think of this. Not that our discussion had anything to do with confusion about hyphens or punctuation or the difference between panel A vs. panel B. . . but <a href="http://deborahjackson.blogspot.com/">Deb</a> said something about getting coffee to keep up with the man-eating zucchini discussion, and <a href="http://jackstrawlane.com/">Kat</a> agreed it was necessary. . . so I offered to draw a cartoon to help clarify something regarding zucchini.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is what occurred to me. </span></div>
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<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-35276573523987111992012-02-27T10:19:00.001-08:002012-02-27T11:10:17.572-08:00Disturbing Dog Whispers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My father came over to drink a few beers and hang out while our wives went to a wine-tasting. The evening had started to wind down. I had put both kids to bed, and we'd polished off a couple beers, and a bowl of popcorn between us. As I surfed the channels looking for something A) mutually interesting, or at least B) harmless, I happened across "The Dog Whisperer". Oh Caesar, your latin dog handlery captures me so! I told my father that I'd once put The Dog Whisperer on for two hours and found myself unable to stop watching. I hadn't watched it since, so I put it on in the background while we talked and got us each another beer. <br /><br />The show was entitled "Chihuahuas from Hell" and covered several difficult chihuahuas that Caesar fixed up. During the course of the program, it became apparent to me that my father had ZERO tolerance for yip dogs. We talked a little about our personal experiences with dogs in general. . . bites received. . . and so forth. My father was a phone man before he retired, and was often called into the houses of customers experiencing phone trouble, or to wire a phone jack. Often, apparently, these people let their dogs roam free and, in some cases, terrorize "the help". <br /><br />My father relayed to me the story of a coworker of his who entered a house to repair a woman's phone. She allowed her Chihuahua to roam free while he did this. Over the course of the 20-minute repair the dog sat at his elbow and barked without ceasing. It barked. And barked. It was unrelenting. The man in question, in frustration, finally snapped, turned to the dog and whacked it on the head with the handle of his screwdriver to shut it up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">There is that moment when you've passed the point of no return; when you've made a bad decision and it is just a split second beyond your grasp. You can, for example, feel the screwdriver in your grip, the head of it rebounding in your hand at the jarring thump and you think, "Nonono. . . stop it just short. . ." but it already happened; it's already too late. And you know the decision you made/reaction you had was a stupid one. And your fortune rests entirely upon luck. I've been in that position a few times in my life. The words left my mouth, the foot hit the accelerator, the bullet left the rifle, whatever the decision, you are committed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The dog did shut up. It fell to the floor, stone dead. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And the man, not knowing what to do with the dog, and perhaps sensing his own imminent termination, at least from Mountain Bell (at the time), slid the dog's corpse under the woman's couch with the toe of his work boot and finished his repair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />First of all, putting myself in his place, I'm sure I would never have smacked the dog on the skull with my screwdriver. . . sure of it. . . despite the fact that you never really <i><b>know</b></i> what you'd do if you had a chihuahua at your elbow barking uninterrupted for 20 minutes. . . I have a sense of myself and my disposition, and I'm sure I would not have whacked some lady's dog in the zipper, killing it. No, knowing what I know of myself, I'd have approached the woman and politely told her the dog's barking was making it impossible for me to focus on the task at hand, and could she please remove it, or I would come back another day to fix her phone. <br /><br />Despite knowing this, I put myself in the man's place and wondered. . . once the blow was struck, the die cast. . . what would I do? And, despite the fact that what <b><i>he</i></b> did was repugnant, once the blow was struck, I think probably I'd have slid the dog under the couch too. I mean, he was at the very <b><i>least</i></b> going to be fired. At the least. Approaching the woman and telling her what I'd done to her beloved pet I don't believe would have made her think. . . "Awww, what an honest man! Well, mistakes happen. Thanks for being upfront with me."<br /><br />So I <b><i>think</i></b> I'd have slid the dog under the couch and gotten the hell out of there as quickly as possible doing my best to arouse the least suspicion. <br /><br />Two weeks later the woman called back and asked the man if her dog had been acting strangely. He told her no, that he was a little lethargic, but that's all. He asked her why. She told him that she had just found him under the couch dead. <br /><br />What must that discovery have been like? It took two weeks to find a dead Chihuahua in her house? "Honey, what's that smell?" and "Where do you suppose Fifi ran off to?" must have been popular questions in those weeks. The man in question was not fired (as he was never found out), but for the dog/pet lovers in the audience, let's say, to satisfy your sense of justice, or to at least placate it a little, that the man dedicated his life to helping abused animals, donating to NSPCA, becoming an active member of PETA, and adopting homeless animals wherever he found them. <br /><br />He did not, but maybe that makes the story seem less awful. </span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-23632716899016973832012-02-09T09:41:00.000-08:002012-06-14T11:22:30.601-07:00I Done Been Tagged: Re-Re-UpdatedLongest blog EVER<br />
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Jaime at <a href="http://itssofuzzy.blogspot.com/">It's So Fuzzy</a> tagged me in a blog she wrote responding to a blog someone ELSE wrote tagging her. In the blogosphere this is called a goddamn chain letter. But I'm answering it, because Jaime is really nice and also because if I don't answer then a piano will fall on my head or my house will burn down or something, because that's the nature of chain letters.<br />
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She actually tagged my other blog, but there will be swearing involved here, and the elderly read that other blog (my mother and father, and in-laws for example) and although I swear there. . . this will be more concentrated. They haven't built up enough immunity to my swearing that they could handle this dose.<br />
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<strike>So, without further adieu, Jaime's questions for me (and 9 other lucky recipients): </strike> And then, in the midst of making my answers. . . Jennifer at <a href="http://www.justjenniferblog.com/">Just Jennifer</a> tagged me with HER questions which, of course, couldn't POSSIBLY be the same questions. This will be the longest tag meme blog post EVER!!!<br />
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Jaime's Questions:<br />
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1) If you had the choice to know when you were going to die or not to know, what would you choose?<br />
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I don't wanna know. Jesus, I get nervous enough just preparing for a meeting I know is coming up. . . how much worse would my death be. I mean, on the plus side, maybe I'd get my shit prepared. . . start cramming for the final, if you will. But let's face it, those people are insufferable assholes. So yeah, just. . . kill me, universe, but don't tell me about it.<br />
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2) What is the one food you could not live without eating ever again?</div>
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This is an important question with far-reaching ramifications. While I love sushi, lobster, chinese food, etc. . . I can see myself living a long and relatively happy life never eating any of them again. But could I exist in a world without pizza? I . . . I just don't know. The importance of this question leaps out at you when you observe the worst case scenario. . . apocalypse. I'm the last man alive. In this scenario, what food would I actually NOT be able to make myself? Pizza. I don't know how to fucking mill flour. I don't know how to make cheese. I'm not the goddamn professor from Gilligan's Island, but even if I figured out how to gin up a pizza oven. . . I'm shy two enormous ingredients before we even begin to talk "yeast". My point is. . . If I can't live without pizza. . . and I'm living in a world without it. . . I could save myself a lot of suffering by just ending it all. (alternatively, I could learn to mill flour, culture yeast, and make cheese. . . so yeah, death).</div>
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3) Where is the one place you most want to visit on the planet and why? </div>
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A flour mill, so I don't have to die at the apocalypse.</div>
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4) How many times a day do you say a swear word? </div>
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5) What is the most absurd phobia you have and why?.</div>
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I fear the apocalypse. Because I don't know how to create a pizza in the wild.</div>
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Honestly though. . . roller coasters/amusement park rides. I rode the lamest most ridiculous roller coaster at Kennywood (local amusement park) after years of badgering by my wife. It was the roller coaster that toddlers learn on. At the end of the ride, my wife had to pry my fingers from the little car we were in. She said, "I'll never force you to ride again." Children were pointing at me and laughing.</div>
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6) If all A’s are B’s. Not B, therefore not A. How does this relate to the greatness of cheese? They are unrelated. A = B, Cheese = Greatness. It is assumed that A not equal Cheese, therefore B not equal to Cheese because if A=Cheese, then NOT A. . . then Cheese would NOT equal greatness, which is absurd. B and A have no impact on Cheese = Greatness. </div>
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7) If you could go back in time and undo one event, what would it be and why?</div>
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DON'T EAT THE APPLE, EVE!!! DON'T DO IT!!!!</div>
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8) A frat boy, a cougar and a priest all walk into a bar. Which do you make fun of first?</div>
<div>
As a former frat boy (we prefer the term "fraternity man") I wouldn't mock him. Cougars have claws. So we'll go with the priest. What the hell's he doing in the bar anyway? I would totally try to get him to eat a slice of bread in less than 30 seconds for a pitcher of beer. Seems easy, doesn't it, Father?? Pray for guidance, bitch, you owe me a pitcher!</div>
<div>
<br />
9) Fried or deep fried? </div>
<div>
I like my food like I like my women. . . deep. . . and um. . . fried. That analogy doesn't really work does it?</div>
<div>
<br />
10) Who are some blogs you would recommend we read cuz you think they are hilarious/awesome/inspiring/etc?</div>
<div>
The answer to this. . . after the break. Okay, I just wanted to say that. I'll tag a few people and that will be my answer to this question. After I answer Jennifer's questions!<br />
<br />
Jennifer's Questions:<br />
<br />
1. When you're in a bad mood, what will, without fail, always cheer you up? </div>
<div>
Sorry, this is going to be all lame and dad-like, but the giggles and laughter of my children can lift my spirits at all times. They're ridiculous little joy machines pumping out good feelings and rainbows when they're not in trouble.</div>
<div>
<br />
2. What would your dream house look like?</div>
<div>
First of all, it would have an entire room underwater. . . like this:</div>
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeoOiC1QtERnYxV9Cvi1USJAG726U2qmwFnw7Ls70WyUZfdilPWUT85UkpPOOKDWorvfHUGq3wxDwRH67BP4RQdWbKn6t38u3Xo3aZygKNTKoNnEHMEWlTgF1YwUa3Kjlfegydel5liCo/s320/235524255482173824_v8hzPCMy_f.jpg" /> maybe not that exact room, but ever since I was a kid I dreamed about having 1) an underwater room, or even a whole series of rooms underwater, and also an upside down room. I mean, as long as it's a "dream". . . that means I have "dream money" right? <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6GumWzv0HpnU9VM-hzYQVRGytaJvlKMHwLPW-eLWEbkCxGc4Pqq1eFcb6eoLxXOqx15x2DSuzkJAN91L8ebhM9IYvZ7PRYQn4Y9MbUpowCkmcsBs6TyGmBvti3lU-9msycpqJ6pDZf0/s320/The-House-Upside-Down-dining-room-1024x676.jpg" />Anyway. . . I could go on, but what's the point. I'd also like an underwater room that's not a SUBMERGED underwater room, just a room that's underwater, like this:<br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMqoeFAXjAUZsb4f-K67iHX6h-qOXmLukIHBJ9ncTBhHlcImRm3q49PdjaCiouYnt7tgEUa4K5pD2qVBcjIWYrnnZFFWscZquZkDATvOPgKIdFOylKyCnweFBnjnGqv3b0M5kgw2kDbs/s1600/underwater-hotel-fiji-room-view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMqoeFAXjAUZsb4f-K67iHX6h-qOXmLukIHBJ9ncTBhHlcImRm3q49PdjaCiouYnt7tgEUa4K5pD2qVBcjIWYrnnZFFWscZquZkDATvOPgKIdFOylKyCnweFBnjnGqv3b0M5kgw2kDbs/s320/underwater-hotel-fiji-room-view.jpg" /></a>There are so many other things that I'd like in my dream house. . . for starters, it should be a castle, but warmer, and I don't want straw floors. There should be an ENORMOUS library filled with books, like the one in Beauty and the Beast, or this: <br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6HlRRFO3Bi0gGo7m23OKHMAlap1W_tMOe8koPDGyNEkLgXnYnBMMIAhh6UXBpWXnM2C9SFItTuGxw_1WzyiG78mfV_ewcGQBLjADLfFK421E91iCopnMY_Dy-xFGwr49r8l2cSuBS18/s1600/library.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6HlRRFO3Bi0gGo7m23OKHMAlap1W_tMOe8koPDGyNEkLgXnYnBMMIAhh6UXBpWXnM2C9SFItTuGxw_1WzyiG78mfV_ewcGQBLjADLfFK421E91iCopnMY_Dy-xFGwr49r8l2cSuBS18/s1600/library.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
And of course an awesome reading nook, like maybe a cupola or sun room or something that you have to climb stairs to reach that is completely surrounded by windows and sunlight and the chairs are a cushioned bench where that wraps around it, and there's a trap door and you can lock it from inside the room so people downstairs can't get in. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, and also it should have a safe room with lots of monitors and machines that go "PING" and I should be able to push a button and metal shutters will cover the windows and machine gun turrets will pop out so I can defend my family, because this is totally on my own private island, and . . . hello PIRATES!! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Possibly I got a little carried away answering this one.</div>
<div>
<div>
<br />
3. Obviously you love blogging, but is there anything about it you don't like? Be honest.</div>
<div>
Hm. I don't like not getting comments. I don't like when I comment and don't get replies. But apart from that, it fits me pretty well.</div>
<div>
<br />
4. What do you think your life would look like if you had made a different decision than the one that led you to where you are today?</div>
<div>
Let's see. I'd be lonely and a bit depressed and have lots of money, but no love.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
5. What would your death row last meal be?</div>
<div>
Hm. Sushi's my favorite. I'd have the guy from Umi come over and whip up his special 7 course tasting. . . fantastic!</div>
<div>
<br />
6. Facebook or Twitter? Why?</div>
<div>
Really didn't like facebook. After two years I deleted it. My real world friends weren't really using it to communicate. . . just. . . collect old friends. Everyone had a big collection of friends and none of them talked to each other. Twitter is much more friendly. I need the instant gratification, I guess.</div>
<div>
<br />
7. Coke or Pepsi? Why?</div>
<div>
Pepsi. It's always been pepsi. it's like if you're born in Saudi Arabia, and your parents are Muslim, you're probably Muslim. If you're born in Alabama and your parents are baptist, you're probably Baptist. Same thing with Coke and Pepsi. I was born in Montana to a pair of Pepsi drinkers. Coke tastes funny to me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
8. Name something you don't think you've ever blogged about.</div>
<div>
Pfft. . . I've never ever blogged about soooo many things. But in general I shy away from topics that are too polarizing: politics, religion. I'm not afraid of them. . . I just like to keep things light. </div>
<div>
<br />
9. Besides where you currently live, where else do you think you'd like to live?</div>
<div>
Near the ocean, near the mountains, in the tropics. Insert me anywhere. . . I'd be happy. I'd love to live in Europe, all that rich history. . . I'd love to live in Fiji right on the lagoon. . . aqua blue water lapping the shores. . . or in Montana in the shadow of a mountain, skiing in the winter, hiking in the summer. I love how green Pennsylvania is. . . but I could find home about anywhere except maybe the plains.</div>
<div>
<br />
10. Not considering kids or money or anything practical, what car would you like to own?</div>
<div>
I like cars with gadgets. So maybe that car Roger Moore drove in "The Spy Who Loved Me". . . update with GPS and Internet and other gadgets for modern day use, of course.</div>
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLB2le9BmwpLgeFbsBQ0hyphenhyphenzHFHbdZ-skEn8ss7QBG38-RVn-kGTC1lJGc8CD8FPp4YretDeEoxmfDuW6J4bDoc9gBgHFjG8DF0NFLlwi8rjofOm-DxzmSH_XyHDFYm-e1ZrdsqYqwjfHA/s320/BondPA1402_468x342.jpg" /><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
11. What is your customary order at Starbucks?</div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
During the winter months, it's the pumpkin spice latte. . . all other times it's Caffe Americano. Size varies.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then. . . AND THEN she says I have to post 11 things about myself. This meme is PAINFUL so I'm only posting five. What are you going to do about it, Jen? Huh? Call the meme police???:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. I'm agnostic, the fence-sitting 'religion'</div>
<div>
2. I'm allergic to cats and dogs. I love them. . . just can't have them.</div>
<div>
3. Every male on my father's side of the family has a cowlick on the right side of his forehead. It's like a family trait. </div>
<div>
4. I'm a fearful flyer</div>
<div>
5. Other. . . things.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Okay. . . and who to tag. . . who to tag. . . </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tag nobody. BUT. . . I'll name a few bloggers I enjoy reading (whether they know it or not) who don't seem to be in the same blogger groups I am (namely, primarily special needs or parents blogging). For this post I'll pick "Book Blogs"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(In no particular order)</div>
<div>
1. <a href="http://lucysfootball.com/">Lucy's Football</a>: Amy's site isn't strictly speaking a "book blog", but she covers books, theater, slice of life. . . she's like the fun smart girl you were friends with in college who never stopped talking and never ran out of energy. That's how she writes. . . funny and literate and energetic. She's also amazingly supportive of the blogs she reads and her tweeps.</div>
<div>
2. <a href="http://insatiablebooksluts.wordpress.com/">Insatiable Book Sluts</a>: I haven't fully explored this site yet. . . but it's all about books and writing and what makes good books good and what makes bad books bad. . . and fun stuff like what literary characters you'd like to punch in the face. Amy introduced me. . . there are multiple contributors, and to be honest, I never know who I'm talking to when I comment, but mostly I think it's greengeekgirl on twitter. Good people one and all, regardless.</div>
<div>
3. <a href="http://deborahjackson.blogspot.com/">Deborah Jackson's Blog:</a> You know, for a fiction author she has like THE least imaginative blog title EVER. But she's an author. She auths. I haven't read her books (yet) but I enjoy her blog. She's doesn't post a lot to it, but I like reading her posts when she does. She's also amazingly supportive of friends' blog posts on twitter and retweets the hell out of me all the time without me even having to bully her.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
oh my god. . . i feel so drained. <br />
<br />
But. . . THEN JACQUI at <a href="http://chicktuition.com/">Chicktuition</a> tagged me! And so let me take a minute to say something. It IS flattering to be tagged. I actually like being tagged a little. People are thinking of me, and that makes me happy. So even though I bitch about having to answer the ridiculous questions, I think in my heart of hearts I'd rather answer them, then never get asked. I'm still going to bitch about it though.<br />
<br />
<br />
1. What is one thing people might be surprised to learn about you?<br />
Hmm. I don't know if people know I graduated with a degree in Chemical Engineering. I think they'd find it surprising because I seem like such a dumbass and Chem E's are typically bright.<br />
<br />
2. Which three movies would you want with you if you were stranded on a desert island? <br />
I'd have to go with Grosse Pointe Blank, The Madness of King George, and O' Brother Where Art Thou? Or porn.<br />
<br />
3. Which three books would you want with you if you were stranded on a desert island?<br />
If I was stranded on a desert island there'd be no reason not to slog through Ulysses. So one book would be that, for sure. I mean, I could probably reread it a few times and "get" it. Then maybe a couple favorites. . . To Kill a Mockingbird, The Road, or maybe something lighter. . . Harry Potter, Game of Thrones. Go with the classics. I'd hate to die alone AND ignorant.<br />
<br />
4. If you could only eat one food for a whole week…what would it be? <br />
Chinese food. I could (and have) eaten Chinese food five out of 7 days of the week. Love it.<br />
<br />
5. If your life was a reality show…what would the name of the show be?<br />
"According to Jim" or alternatively "Jesus Christ this Show is Boring"<br />
<br />
6. Name one thing you hope to accomplish this year.<br />
Losing 15 pounds is in my sights right now. . . so I'll say write a book. or continue writing it. I started one for Emma two years ago and stopped after about 100 pages. . . seeing the end in sight about 600 pages away seemed daunting.<br />
<br />
7. What is the funniest movie you’ve ever seen?<br />
Well. . . it's relative. I watched Yellowbeard in junior high and thought it was THE FUNNIEST MOVIE EVER!!! Then I got to college and was dating this upper classman who liked Mel Brooks. I said, "You have got to see this movie. HILARIOUS" It was awful. She thought I was a dumbass after that. I love me some Monty Python's "Holy Grail". It's been a while since I've seen it, but some of it really makes me laugh.<br />
<br />
8. If your relationship was a movie…what would it be called?<br />
"Best Friends"<br />
<br />
9. Shower or bath?<br />
shower<br />
<br />
10. Describe your perfect day.<br />
This makes me think of the sponge bob song "Best Day Ever". Lots to describe here. How about this. No expectations, no plans. The kids are happy and well-behaved. . . not bored, not getting into anything. I have an hour or so to myself to read a little, guilt free, a little time to write or to work out, then some play time with the kids. . . on a winter day out in the snow, sledding with them, or building a snowman, then a nice dinner with the family, maybe a movie and popcorn, and the rest of the evening with my wife.<br />
<br />
11. Who is your favorite character in a movie? Why?<br />
Immediately all these movies swarm in and out of my head. Very hard to pick. I don't know that I have a "favorite" anything. But I love Martin Blank in Grosse Pointe Blank. Just a guy searching for answers who kicks ass, is in a hopeless love relationship, and has great dialog.<br />
<br />
And then I was done. And I breathed a sigh of relief because I'd answered all the crazy, ridiculous, random questions that anyone could think of. . . for that particular day. Because on the following day (today), Roxanne at <a href="http://www.unintentionally-brilliant.com/">Unintentionally-Brilliant</a> tagged me with THESE gems:<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Why the hell did your parents give you that name? <br />
Because I wasn't born a girl. My parents told me they fully intended to name me Jennifer if I'd been born female. James was apparently in second place. My middle name, Adam, came from my mother's first husband's father. . . no relation. For years I thought I'd been named after my great grandfather (Adam) only to find out. . . maybe two years ago (when he passed away) that it came from the father of a guy my mom divorced before marrying my dad. I guess he was a pretty good guy. I met him once. He seemed nice.<br />
<br />
2. Is there a song with your name in it that everyone sings as if you’ve never heard the song before? Is it sung by Sting? What about Ewan Macgregor? That’s what I thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
You Don't Mess Around With Jim by Jim Croce<br />
Are You Jimmy Ray - by Jimmy Ray<br />
Jimmy Loves Mary-Anne by The Looking Glass<br />
Go Jimmy Go by Jimmy Clanton<br />
Jimmy Mack by Martha Reeves & The Vandellas<br />
I Wanna Love Him So Bad by The Jelly Beans....<br />
Contains the line "I know his name, his name Is "Jim". I can't be blamed for loving him".<br />
Jim Dandy by Laverne Baker<br />
Jim Dandy by Black Oak Arkansas (same song) (1974)<br />
Oh Jim by Lou Reed<br />
Jim (sung by Billie Holiday)<br />
(Thank you Wiki Answers)<br />
<br />
Nobody sings to me. <br />
<br />
<br />
3. What was your first job? Why did you ever leave?<br />
My first job EVER was mowing the lawn where my dad worked. Why did I leave? Because I turned 13. . . you can't mow lawns forever you know. <br />
<br />
4. Have you bought a copy of Barcode yet? Why the hell not?<br />
I. . . I haven't. There are several good reasons why I have not bought my copy of Barcode yet:<br />
a) I've never heard of it<br />
b) I have a reading queue a mile long already<br />
c) I mostly pick up new books via the library. . . on audio. That way I can kill the boredom of my commute and "read" at the same time. If Barcode is on audio, I'd totally listen. Is this related to the fiction works I've seen on your page regarding the man with the barcode tattoo?<br />
<br />
5. Isn’t Handflapper one of the most beautiful women on the Twitter? The orange shirt and martini glass really bring out the red in her lips.<br />
I have not seen all of the women on twitter yet. It is my goal. . . but until that time, I shall reserve judgement. Certainly she's one of the most beautiful women on twitter that I've seen "to date". The hair. . .<br />
<br />
6. How many is too many when it comes to browser tabs?<br />
I usually go to my blog dash and open each new post in its own tab. I typically stop at about 15. I usually have at least four open at all times.<br />
<br />
7. Can you name any Jeremy London movies without looking it up? (Mallrats doesn’t count. That just proves you read this post.)<br />
I actually didn't SEE Mallrats, and after IMDB'ing the man. . . the short answer is "no". <br />
<br />
8. What is one stereotype people usually associate with you? Is it true?<br />
Engineer: Humorless/No creativity/good with numbers and math. . . . DEAD ON.<br />
<br />
9. If you were a tree, what kind of animal would you be?<br />
An Ent.<br />
<br />
10. Why do papercuts hurt so damn much?<br />
It's funny you ask. I JUST gave myself one on the way into a meeting prior to reading this question. The short answer is. . . because they break your skin and your nerves signal this to your brain. Or. . . did you mean relative to other cuts. Paper cuts hurt when they heal for some reason. I don't get why. They just sort of itch and sting. In fact, maybe I should clean this one out. . .<br />
<br />
11. What is your all-time favorite book?<br />
Favorite questions are hard for me to answer. I once took a sales training class. It was supposed to allow me to better work with the sales people so they would stop "motherfucking" me over the phone and telling management that I was difficult to work with. One of the discussions during the training was how important it is to figure out what the buyer/decision maker's motivations were. I swear to Jesus I'm coming back to the question. . . Anyway, there were several categories, power, recognition, respect, etc. I was motivated by power. The power category was a group that likes to have lots and lots of options. It's a group that doesn't like to be dictated to or bossed around, but likes to be given many choices allowing himself to choose the "best". So I think this is where things get sketchy for me. . . when I pick ONE I eliminate all my other options. Sometimes I like scifi. . . sometimes hard literature. . . I don't like playing favorites because I feel like all my possibilities and potential collapse and I'm stuck. So here are a FEW choices:<br />
"The Road" - spare and bleak and dire and at times amazingly poetic.<br />
"To Kill a Mockingbird" - great story, great message, great writing<br />
"All the King's Men" - poetry made prose. A bit wordy at times, but still a great book<br />
"Harry Potter" - a child's gateway drug to high literature.<br />
"The Lord of the Rings Trilogy" - Not my favorite fantasy genre series, but the plinth upon which the entire genre's column rests.<br />
<br /></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-9166949968130296662012-01-30T05:31:00.000-08:002012-01-30T08:49:10.412-08:00your TEA is my blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhqol4EPHvURbyA045qls942tR8oyWvwH3pD_th4APzrsxTjOAbIeolRVxEVbqrcj7qo5_ly_Z-QmqskcGUtNt-sApi2GEVqqtxMxV8Xu9dkZz3amxXeULId3dsl4UAPILNWHS1SNOM0/s1600/13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhqol4EPHvURbyA045qls942tR8oyWvwH3pD_th4APzrsxTjOAbIeolRVxEVbqrcj7qo5_ly_Z-QmqskcGUtNt-sApi2GEVqqtxMxV8Xu9dkZz3amxXeULId3dsl4UAPILNWHS1SNOM0/s200/13.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I wrote a guest post for Ken at his tea blog last week. Yes, that's right, his tea blog. It's <a href="http://lahikmajoedrinkstea.blogspot.com/">http://lahikmajoedrinkstea.blogspot.com/</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And I know what you might be thinking. What you might be thinking is, "what the fuck do <b><i>you</i></b> know about tea?" And to that I answer. Nothing. I know <b><i>nothing</i></b> about tea, and <b><i>that</i></b>, is precisely why writing from a perspective of someone who knows nothing about tea but is trying tea is <b><i>perfect</i></b> for me. You have to admit, it seems like a good fit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So anyway, I wrote a tea blog for Ken about an experience I had trying tea here in my office last week. He gave me a little guidance and I followed it as best I could, and that tea blog posting <b><i>gem</i></b> is the result. So go read it. >><a href="http://lahikmajoedrinkstea.blogspot.com/2012/01/teascapades-of-tea-newbie.html">HERE!!</a><<</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-42381320310128047402012-01-19T10:44:00.000-08:002012-01-19T11:58:07.571-08:00Zombie Evolution<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was surfing channels and came across "Land of the Dead". I checked the summary on the guide and then thumbed "ok" on my remote. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Essentially, the synopsis of the movie was, "Intelligent zombies 'evolving' and threatening a city, while a rich tycoon holds safety hostage for money and power." I haven't gotten the wording entirely right, but the skeleton of the thing is correct (yeah, totally on purpose); "zombies were evolving". And this made me think, "You idiots. How the hell can a zombie EVOLVE?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdwy7xgkHrz7ivYSknnqODcxCfvuOhb3MGKlccVlUNZlPyCsuG4nup_DUC5abs4xQshjh7ffgxRqW003b-qSwoLheza2-UToZoFXTM8LCe5oWX6Og3xdGHW7oo-xvc-YAFsVFykMW51gE/s1600/Zombie+Family.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdwy7xgkHrz7ivYSknnqODcxCfvuOhb3MGKlccVlUNZlPyCsuG4nup_DUC5abs4xQshjh7ffgxRqW003b-qSwoLheza2-UToZoFXTM8LCe5oWX6Og3xdGHW7oo-xvc-YAFsVFykMW51gE/s320/Zombie+Family.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And I thought of little zombie men and a little zombie women having little zombie babies which would grow up to be smarter than their parents, then having more zombie children that were smarter than THEY were and so on. And evolution isn't a short process people. And I laughed at the moron that would make a movie like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And I didn't actually watch the movie, but then it occurred to me. . . Why is that any more ridiculous than the idea of zombies in the first place? If anything it's LESS ridiculous. It was one of those nerd-recognition moments where I was able to leave my body and dispassionately observe past me, laughing at the audacity of some movie company for taking zombies and turning them into something that was impossible and recognize myself as the true moron.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It reminded me of a conversation my wife had with my mother-in-law. I wasn't there, but Leslie told me about it later. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Mom, you guys should watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's fun, and funny. Jim and I watch it all the time."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Oh, Leslie, I tried watching it one night. I just couldn't believe they were trying to pass the cast off as high school kids."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And Leslie looked at her silently for a minute and said, "Really? That's the part that you couldn't buy into? The vampires and stuff you made your peace with, but just couldn't suspend disbelief long enough to buy Sarah Michelle Geller as a Junior in High School?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It's like that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In writing this post I couldn't remember the name of the movie, but I looked it up because I remembered Simon Baker was in it, and the blurb on IMDB and HBO and anywhere else I cared to look said nothing about zombie evolution. . . just that the zombies learned. Which I guess means it wasn't the movie makers I thought I was laughing at anyway, but the people who do Xfinity's guide listings. Morons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This is the first and probably only blog post you'll ever read where I compare myself to my mother-in-law.</span><br />
<br />
<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-40154097318264513392012-01-16T20:39:00.000-08:002012-01-30T05:44:52.838-08:00Chess With Emma<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiM5j4vMUIpYrym_I-_LAMBVRMHFRm7fpJkW1CtUUa5pGHtijgGxAQzzFPSfvCgXrg5WtPyYgg9nK1GMg-90lO_x1LNkZ4GIKw7whthhr8MgiQ-s_WpQjnxizCbejdAa8Zrhs8MXv1VI/s640/blogger-image--118212597.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiM5j4vMUIpYrym_I-_LAMBVRMHFRm7fpJkW1CtUUa5pGHtijgGxAQzzFPSfvCgXrg5WtPyYgg9nK1GMg-90lO_x1LNkZ4GIKw7whthhr8MgiQ-s_WpQjnxizCbejdAa8Zrhs8MXv1VI/s320/blogger-image--118212597.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kasparov and Karpov</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">I sat at the table to play chess with Emma. Santa got her a chess/checkers/backgammon board for Christmas. It was a cheapo folding board with plastic pieces because Santa wasn't sure that Emma would <i><b>play</b><b></b></i> chess (despite telling me she wanted to learn) once she had a taste of it. So Santa had his elves whip up a $8.99 multiboard and added it to her pile because Lily's seemed to have grown disproportionately large, and despite it being a bunch of crap she needed, it's all gotta be even.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So we sat, and Emma helped set up the pieces and we got down to the business of playing. Playing chess with her has been really cool. She's a quick study. Actually quicker than I thought she'd be. She's very bright, I don't mean to make it sound like my expectations were low because she's not bright. She just has the attention span of a gnat and the patience of. . . well. . . of me.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She moves very cautiously; she doesn't like when her "pawneds" (sic) get killed, or when her "rookies" (sic) get into trouble, and I coach her and show her when I move my pieces what's being threatened and all the different ways she could move her pieces out of danger while gently correcting her nomenclature back to the more accepted "pawns" and "rooks". And I make trades with her and point out moves where she can take my pieces. Sometimes those moves come to her without me pointing them out.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This was our third game. We hadn't completed one yet, but we started early enough that I thought we would tonight. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Midway through the game I started to threaten her side of the board. She caught on to her peril quickly.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"I see what you're doing," she said knowingly.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you?" I countered.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"DO you?" I repeated dramatically.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"DO YOU??"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"I grow tired of this," she said, and I laughed.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We traded pieces and she moved her rook back out of danger. Its edge caught on the seam in the folding board, and several of her pieces tumbled off. She apologized as we picked them up and replaced them on the board.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"I should get us a better board," I said, "When I got this one I wasn't sure you'd really want to play it."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a silence in the room for a minute and Emma looked up at me, her eyes narrowing.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"What do you mean 'when you got this one?' Santa got this for me."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I took it in stride. I didn't even lie a huge amount. I told her I got confused. That I'd had an old chess board before she was born that was plastic pieces and her mom and I never played so I'd thrown it away. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She didn't let it go at first, asking a couple other questions which I deflected before we got back to our game. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There is almost<i><b> no way</b><b></b></i> she bought my pathetic line of shit. As previously stated, the kid is bright. Am I <i><b>trying</b></i> to kill Santa? Last year she was a hound of hell on the trail of Santa's mystery, but this year she didn't ask once. I thought for sure it was because she'd figured it all out and was just keeping quiet thinking that if she unraveled the mystery, the presents would disappear, but then she was spouting the company line and writing presents to Santa and leaving out reindeer food and the whole shebang so I thought we made it one more year. . . </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Just before Christmas she did ask me point blank, and I dodged and asked her instead what SHE thought. And I changed the subject and it didn't come up again. If it were up to me I'd have told her, but I can't tell her unless my wife and I have agreed to it first, and frankly I don't know that Leslie would tell her until her 15th birthday.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So anyway, I <b><i>possibly</i></b> killed Santa this evening, and <i><b>definitely</b><b></b></i> killed my daughter at chess. This time. </span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-34610844614569641672011-12-08T05:58:00.001-08:002011-12-08T06:13:50.056-08:00Shocking!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am rarely, if ever, at a
loss for words. This is the brief story of one day when I was. . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOssOyY7oG6OeePMF4cJWeIBxjV5n2Qx2eWfuJHxTKoho0y9E-T6VHWBJpA3adQBK1A2iix5WPK1NHuN2m7CtqxMabu69VhvvXjlwBvD95G1WyVhNZUDDT8bDGA0ExHooVj-LC1-Vzzw/s1600/shocker-101-hand-signs-art-poster-print.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOssOyY7oG6OeePMF4cJWeIBxjV5n2Qx2eWfuJHxTKoho0y9E-T6VHWBJpA3adQBK1A2iix5WPK1NHuN2m7CtqxMabu69VhvvXjlwBvD95G1WyVhNZUDDT8bDGA0ExHooVj-LC1-Vzzw/s320/shocker-101-hand-signs-art-poster-print.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Elaine (name changed to protect the . . . um. . . well, her) worked in our IT
department. She was in her late fifties. She had a round figure. By this I don't
mean that she was fat, for although she was certainly overweight she was not fat.
But she conveyed a sense of sphericity to an observer. I can't describe it. She
just looked like a little ball. She was about 5'4" tall with an unruly mass of
kinky,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">iron-grey </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">curls</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> on her head that vaguely resembled a brillo pad. She wore glasses and flannel shirts, and frequently sweated. I know, we all sweat, but beads of perspiration seemed a fixture on her forehead (maybe all the flannel) . Her glasses slide down her
nose when she was sweaty and she frequently had to push them back up to the
bridge of her nose. When she spoke to you she repeatedly said "okay"
while you talked to her, but you get the distinct impression that she was not really hearing what you were telling her because she said "okay" inappropriately, and too frequently. I would find myself repeating things to her because she'd say "okay" in the middle of something I was explaining and I feared she missed my point in her eagerness to communicate the fact that she understood my point. She had toadlike facial features. If she
were wearing an apron she would look grandmotherly. She told stories and used the names of her friends
and relatives </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">without explanation or clarification </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">even though you had no way of knowing who those people were. She just assumed you knew what everyone who knew her knew. She was completely harmless and very nice. She did an adequate
job.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One day, Elaine came into my office (I was just remembering this recently) and asked me, "What's two in the pink, one in the stink
mean?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I gaped at her. I don't know
that I've ever gaped at anyone before. I've heard about gaping, even read about it in books, but until that day, I don't recall actually ever ENGAGING in gaping. My mouth opened and closed like a fish
on dry land trying to breathe the air. I started speaking then stopped abruptly
several times mid-word. No intelligible language emerged for several seconds. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">In the end I believe I stammered something to the effect of,
"I'm sorry, I can't help you. I'm not even sure what to tell you to do.
Why are you even asking me this?" </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Her reply was, in essence, that she had
asked Dave (a friend of mine also from the IT department) and HIS response had been,
"You need to go ask Jim, he'll tell you." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yes. . . THANK YOU, Dave.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I have rarely felt as
uncomfortable professionally as I did when Elaine asked me to explain what a shocker was, but
I know the idea of calmly telling her that it's when someone puts two fingers
in a woman's vagina and drops a pinky in her anus was very very amusing in
hindsight. At the time however, I could not have been caught more off guard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Imagine your grandmother
coming to you and asking you what a "Cleveland Steamer" is and maybe you get
the picture. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Upon hearing that Dave had
put her up to it though, my response was, "You need to go ask Chris, he'll
tell you." And sent her on her way. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Chris kicked her out of
his office unceremoniously and ultimately she got the information from. . . her boss. I called Dave
and congratulated him while cursing his name. It was funny.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-84928681545987213942011-12-06T08:08:00.001-08:002011-12-06T09:50:38.747-08:00Dora Ditty<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w9qD3h74ko0ubta9vuyJrPsfnlZMCfQSbITSBdNbpBSc-hTGG707ciLNcej9Wgzg4O8plom5JawUEHwTSn6VQql5hlCd5_K5qnmaRwfXuk0NMdZiYqJa2eBWyUl_P6EzUudngL70UJQ/s1600/dora-the-explorer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w9qD3h74ko0ubta9vuyJrPsfnlZMCfQSbITSBdNbpBSc-hTGG707ciLNcej9Wgzg4O8plom5JawUEHwTSn6VQql5hlCd5_K5qnmaRwfXuk0NMdZiYqJa2eBWyUl_P6EzUudngL70UJQ/s320/dora-the-explorer.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Gonna pick some juicy ones!!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Barney and Dora are staples in my youngest daughter's life. My oldest daughter comes along for the ride despite having outgrown them long ago. She finds something to lose herself in regardless of what's on TV, so it's not a huge stretch despite her whining, because midway through the much-protested Dora episode that her younger sister is DEMANDING, i'll ask her a question and find her completely unresponsive, having devoted all her attention to thwarting that sneaky fox or helping Dora count out the books for the Octopus librarian (1 per tentacle. . . or 8 in all, if you care to know). </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <br />Yesterday we watched Dora as she escorted the grumpy old troll and the giant to the barber to get them (Boots too) all hair cuts. Emma, the oldest, protested, preferring Total Drama, or Phineas and Ferb, but it was Lily's turn. I sang along to D-D-D-D-Dora! <br /> <br />"Don't sing pease," Lily commented, watching the screen. <br /> <br />"I'm an AWESOME singer," I responded, but I stopped. I turned to Emma. "Sometimes I make up my own words to Dora's songs, Emma." <br /> <br />"Like what?" she asked. <br /> <br />"Well, you remember when she goes to pick berries and they have to go to blueberry hill where Swiper lives?" <br /> <br />"Yeah." <br /> <br />"You remember the song?" <br /> <br />Her mouth worked itself around as the wheels in her head tried to churn out the answer. "Huh uh," she replied at last. <br /> <br />"Going on a berry hunt, (repeat), Gonna pick some juicy ones! (repeat), We're not scared, (repeat), What a beautiful day!" I sang. <br /> <br />"Don't sing pease," Lily commented again without turning. <br /> <br />"Well I changed it to, 'Going on a booger hunt, (repeat), Gonna pick some juicy ones! (repeat), We're not scared, (repeat), What a beautiful day!" <br /> <br />Emma giggled at this and we sang it together. Lily ignored us. She only tells me to stop singing. Not Emma. <br /><br /> Then I leaned in and told Emma conspiratorially, "best we not sing that song in front of Mommy, 'kay, kiddo?" <br /> <br />"Okay, daddy."</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-30497612871671612222011-11-30T10:28:00.001-08:002011-11-30T10:31:52.735-08:00Tough Love<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Emma
does the least amount she can get away with.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I talked to her teacher about it, and she reassured me that
every kid in her class shares that same trait.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">That doesn’t mean I’m not trying to get her out of the habit of doing
the least she can get away with, but at least I don’t feel like she’s
“lazy”.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">She’s just being a kid.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">One morning she finished her breakfast and my wife told her she needed to put her
shoes on. Emma being Emma she’ll find
whatever shoes are handy and put them on without regard for whether they match
or fit the situation. If shoes are near.
. . THOSE shoes are the shoes her energy level dictates “match”. We’ve learned to adjust our requests to limit
the wiggle room. For example, my wife’s actual words were not “put your shoes on,” they were, “Emma,
you can either wear your black shoes or your black boots. Neither of them are downstairs, so go get
them on, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">“I
don’t WANT to go upstairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">This
is where I entered the fray with my unique and masterful parenting skills.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">“Emma,
what if this is all an elaborate ruse to get you to go upstairs to your closet
because inside the closet is a NEW PUPPY!!!?
If you don’t go upstairs to get the boots, you’ll never find out about
the new puppy we got for you. Now, if
that was the case, wouldn’t you want to go upstairs and find your new puppy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">“YEAH!”
she said excitedly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">“Well
there’s no puppy, but you still need your black boots, so go get ‘em.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Her
mother said it was mean, but I laughed, and so did Emma. She’s got a good sense of humor.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-33994100409494236332011-11-30T09:08:00.001-08:002011-11-30T11:08:31.944-08:00The Death of a Fairy<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Almost a year ago to the day, this happened:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We sat down to dinner with our friends and talked about
our children who enjoyed each other's company so much. We talked about their schooling and their
interests and their friendship, and then, because it was the season, we talked
about the Great Lies we tell them. I was
surprised and not surprised at how important the Lies were for them. Surprised because I thought they'd care less
then they did, not surprised because i feel the weight of the lies on my
shoulders too but am myself also reluctant to shrug it off. I think because preserving the lies preserves
our children's innocence and youth, and allows us to slow the passing of time
that every parent agrees 'goes by too quickly'. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">A week later a second set of friends were
visiting our house from out of town. The
kids sat at the table and started to chat.
Their oldest boy is in a 'bad' stage.
Everything is "STUPID" and he has forgotten the manners his
parents taught him. He knows how to do
everything even if you have to help him do it, and he snatches things out of
your hand without a word. It's
irritating. I'm positive i was EXACTLY
like he is at his age. I'm positive EVERY boy is exactly that way at his age.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"There's no Tooth Fairy," he said,
"that's STUPID." He appeared
about to launch into a dissertation about the subject. He started to talk about Santa Claus and the
Easter Bunny before his parents jumped in, horror stricken and redirected and
began damage control. Emma sat, unfazed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The following night as we decorated the Christmas tree, Emma pounced. . . on her mother, because i think she senses weakness. She was very careful. She knows we talk in circles. She's picking it up. She senses redirection and attacks when we
temporize.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"I need you to tell me the TRUTH." (She
really emphasized that word). "I
just want to know, once and for all, and I want you to be totally honest with
me. . . "</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">We waited with baited breath, tension in the
air. I was hanging an ornament on the
tree as she spoke, trying to "act naturally". Santa was about to die. My little girl was killing Santa tonight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"HONESTLY. . . do you and daddy put money under
my pillow when I lose a tooth, or is it a tooth fairy. And please tell me the truth. I really want to know."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">There was a hush in the room, broken only by
Christmas music, the Glee Christmas album, playing softly on my office
computer. Thank god thank god thank god repeated in an endless loop in my head. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"I promise i won't be sad."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">From my vantage point on the other side of the
Christmas tree, i could see my wife, a proverbial deer in the headlights of the
truck full of dreams my daughter was about to crash into her, but my daughter
couldn't see me. I gave her a head
nod. We'd been expecting something like
this ever since the visit. She
floundered. Though she'd not responded
to my nod, I stepped in and said, essentially, this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The tooth fairy is a secret that only very mature
children are allowed to know. Parents
put money under their children's pillows to surprise and delight them, and when
they're old enough that they can be trusted to keep the secret from their
friends and little brothers and sisters and other children NOT mature enough to
know, then they are told. And the way
parents know their children are ready, is when they ask, as Emma had, in no
uncertain terms, for the truth. I also
told her, that knowing the truth didn't mean that she wouldn't get money under
her pillow after her next tooth, just that she'd know where it came from.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPHy-N1L9kGPBKK-ZFXXMHEvTqZE-OS9D72vVu19H9RRSuyzycDAbLVMX6G9SdkjlLSdpRC8neVnI9cCqL3qQNzjFo2S_m1wYb9vhPJdd1ZU1JWC8RWvxL-j43c6p1VzfW_wP6RixpRk/s1600/chalk_outline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPHy-N1L9kGPBKK-ZFXXMHEvTqZE-OS9D72vVu19H9RRSuyzycDAbLVMX6G9SdkjlLSdpRC8neVnI9cCqL3qQNzjFo2S_m1wYb9vhPJdd1ZU1JWC8RWvxL-j43c6p1VzfW_wP6RixpRk/s320/chalk_outline.jpg" width="261" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">She accepted this truth and promised not to divulge
it to her friends/sister. And we waited
for the next hammer blow. Because what
IS Santa, but a wingless magical fairy delivering presents to good little boys
and girls? But it stopped there. Is it wrong that I was excited she only
killed the Tooth Fairy? I was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I think i've said this before. I want her to hold on to the magic as long as
she can, but I don't want her to be teased because she's the last one of her
friends to know the truth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">To paraphrase a quote from the movie "Dave", "I can kill a fairy. I can kill a hundred fairies." Santa though. . . that's tougher.</span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-15133248873268170832011-11-04T13:06:00.000-07:002011-11-04T13:06:43.276-07:00Nonowrimo<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRAbUc8lgdDvLkIr_dkYqlP8ENseQm3We9IJ4IcoPs5Q6jQsu3geoxXVTFG58NIJEmvvm7-QepqOnYBR1MW_Sj8wbecM4Q8F1EYcVL4KIn978hJ3kjuS20CEYAiSsCVBQt928ILaE2emM/s1600/nanowrimo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRAbUc8lgdDvLkIr_dkYqlP8ENseQm3We9IJ4IcoPs5Q6jQsu3geoxXVTFG58NIJEmvvm7-QepqOnYBR1MW_Sj8wbecM4Q8F1EYcVL4KIn978hJ3kjuS20CEYAiSsCVBQt928ILaE2emM/s320/nanowrimo.jpg" width="229" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I finally reached a decision. I'm not doing it. I started doing it. I think I maybe made it 700 words in (or so) before I realized I just don't have time for it. I'm doing a lot of writing for the other <a href="http://blogginglily.blogspot.com/">blog</a>, and between that, and the kids, and just general housekeeping. I'm stretched pretty thin.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I love the idea of writing a novel. I think the concept of pooping X number of words per night in order to reach an arbitrary total number of words starting no earlier than an arbitrary month is . . . um. . . arbitrary. And sort of equates to writing badly just for the sake of writing. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What makes Nanowrimo a good concept is that it gives folks a start time, pushing them out of inaction. It gives them a target word count, getting them into the habit of writing. And it gives them some support and additional motivation to get started and to keep going. . . twitter, the website, suggestions, ideas, and more. It's a good concept (like I just said). And I suppose to someone who has a good idea that he's just dying to get out of his brain and onto "paper" it's a great motivator.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Having said that, I have an idea. It's an "okay" idea. But it's not a 50,000 word idea. At least not right now. And while I'm sure I could inject it with words in order to ultimately get to 50,000. . . I have enough shit on my plate without adding that particular turd.</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-8070917674115950132011-10-19T06:25:00.000-07:002011-10-19T06:26:44.622-07:00Trick-or-Treat<br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Recalling Halloweens long ago. . . </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnd-d3BAnG646nrAnlQQcMxGPpLA3TX-H3ewSfapDLPioesMbcEPtNzzPfffqFPlNXpEThjghBGTaY2eJlq5rKGx2lo_Fza_VvZsJpfBVHQfhuvBmAD4a2FvVpUPxIVvLka86UF3X1GE/s1600/Scarecrow+and+Mrs.+W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnd-d3BAnG646nrAnlQQcMxGPpLA3TX-H3ewSfapDLPioesMbcEPtNzzPfffqFPlNXpEThjghBGTaY2eJlq5rKGx2lo_Fza_VvZsJpfBVHQfhuvBmAD4a2FvVpUPxIVvLka86UF3X1GE/s320/Scarecrow+and+Mrs.+W.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The only picture I have available at posting (I'm the dude with the orange nose)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We went trick-or-treating. It was a good time. </span><span style="font-size: large;">My wife and I take turns dressing up and accompanying the kiddos. It was my turn to trick-or-treat that year. </span><span style="font-size: large;">My sister, dressed as a candy corn, brought a treat
bag 'o beer and we walked the neighborhood. I was the scarecrow from the Wizard
of Oz. My oldest daughter (then six) was a green grease-painted Elphaba (the wicked witch
of the west from the musical Wicked) and my youngest (then almost three) was Dorothy complete with sparkly ruby slippers.
My niece and nephew were dressed as a banana and a rabid bat respectively. My
niece was disappointed because she kept getting called banana boy and Mr.
banana. My nephew was frustrated because everyone referred to him as a wolf. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Before the festivities
began, however, we all met at my parents' house for pizza. My youngest was
fascinated by the bat mask, which was an sinister-looking latex and faux fur
amalgam. When my nephew removed it, she'd steal it and clutch it to her chest
like a teddy bear, toddling away with it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After pizza we all marched
up the hill to the neighborhood Halloween parade for pictures. Dorothy's ruby
slippers kept slipping from her stockinged feet. We later taped them on with
clear packing tape. Staples seemed 'wrong'.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When we left the parade for
trick-or-treating it was still light. My sister credited the Bush
administration with his greatest achievement in office, namely not
"falling back" an hour until after Halloween. The majority of our
evening out was spent in daylight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">With a beer in your hand you
feel less ridiculous dressed as a Scarecrow. I held that and a flashlight.
After every house I asked Elphaba if she'd said "thank you". Each
"yes" became more and more exasperated. This pleased me. Eventually
disgusted "yesses" turned into pre-emptive "don't say it,
YES". I would stop asking for a few houses before dusting it off again
later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When it got dark, i would
scribe a path of light on the pavement with flourishes of my maglight brand
flashlight, each path punctuated with a sci-fi-esque noise. Elphaba began
giving me dirty looks and shaking her fist at me, promising violence if I
didn't stop being "weird". Eventually I ran out of new sounds to make
and my niece said, "you already used that one." I told her I was recycling
for the environment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Halfway through the evening
(trick-or-treating from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m.) I offered to carry Elphy's bag. It
was heavy. From within my rope-belted pants, i drew out an empty plastic
grocery bag, and she used it for the second half of the evening. By that point
my two beers were gone and stowed safely in my sister's "treat bag".
I carried a bag of candy in one hand and the flashlight in the other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't like giving out
candy (when I stay home), and I'm sure I'm not alone. We stopped at a house.
The lights outside were off, but we could see someone was home. There were
lights on inside, and the TV appeared to be on. The kids rang the doorbell.
Nothing. They rang it again. I don't know how long we stood there, not long,
but I was just in the process of telling them nobody was home, when a woman
answered the door long enough to tell the kids that the lights weren't on and
that meant that they weren't giving out candy. The kids took it MUCH better
than I did. The lights inside WERE on. There were several houses just like it
along our route and each of them WAS participating. Later on I threw a rock
through her picture window. Cause fuck her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not really. I mean, fuck
her, that much i mean, but I didn't really throw a rock through her window.
Anyway, after commenting loudly about egging her house we moved on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Brief Sidebar - 1) if you're
going to hide from kids on Halloween. . . then hide. Don't come out of the
house to tell them they're stupid because you don't have lights on and that
means you're not home. It makes you look like a dumbfuck. 2) if you aren't
participating for some whacked out religious kook reason, then leave a sign
saying "no candy". I think that's a pretty universally understood
sign, and the kids don't have time to waste knocking on your door and annoying
the shit out of you. OR hand out religious nut job toys or candy instead. You
know. . . spread the Word of the Lord instead of candy. Believe me, word will
spread and the following year nobody will bother you. (end of sidebar)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the end of the night we
trudged up the hill into our familiar cul-de-sac and trick-or-treated the one
last house, our own, and went inside to rest our feet and wash off our makeup.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After cleaning up, the kids
took their sacks of candy into my family room and dumped them in heaps on the
floor. They organized them according to preference or flavor or whatever
category suited their cute little heads. Then the trading began. This has since become one of my favorite parts of the holiday. I needed to
help my daughter a little with the concept. She was giving away all her candy. She
was bartering like an Arab merchant by the end of the evening. Laffy Taffy for
Nerds, Nerds for Hershey bars, Hershey bars for pixie stix. The kids all had
their favorites and for the most part each kid's favorite was unique. So they
all ended up with what they wanted. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a brief period of
disaster as Dorothy re-entered the house and panicked rebagging of the candy
piles ensued. She plowed into the middle of the piles with her ruby red
slippers of death and began scattering Clark
bars and Butterfings pell-mell before they were recaptured and rebagged by
their respective owners and stowed in safer locations, unreachable by Dorothy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When the bags were stowed,
the makeup and costumes removed, jammies donned, children stuffed with candy,
and Dorothy asleep in her field of poppies aka crib, we watched E.T. I Netflixed (in those days it was called Netflix. . . ) it. We borrowed "a cup of popcorn" from the neighbors, and
I pan popped it and soaked it in butter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We lay in the family room on
couches and chairs, or sprawled across the carpet under warm blankets in the
dimmed lights and watched E.T. The words "Penis breath" and "shit"
caused me to close my eyes tiredly amidst the laughter of the children, but
it's still a great family movie despite that. My daughter got scared and sad and a little
panicked when E.T. "died" and I stayed close to her and whispered,
"just wait. . . keep watching. . . " and stroked her hair. She liked
it in the end, except "the scary part". My niece fell asleep on the
couch. We all got a little misty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When the movie ended, we
bundled up sleepy children and sent them home or to bed and then went to bed
ourselves. It couldn't have been later than 9:45 but it felt like midnight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was a happy Halloween.</span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-48429299186333014262011-10-12T09:15:00.000-07:002011-10-12T09:17:10.368-07:00I'm an Excellent Driver<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So. . . last night I left work early to go to a 5:00 meeting
on the Southside. I left the office at
about 4:25 ish. . .plenty of time. On
the way, I missed my turn and ended up in Oakland,
trying to turn around and get back to where I came from. It was a stupid lapse in my brain that I
can’t adequately explain except to say I’m getting elderly and instead of
taking Grant Street (if you don’t know where these streets are, just let the
words wash over you soothingly and enjoy the ride) I took 376W.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There is no convenient way back once you've gone that far
except to go through the city of Pittsburgh,
which I did. Did I mention that the
meeting was at 5:00? Don’t answer that,
because I know I did. It was 4:48. I snaked and through the snarl of roads and exits
to find a way to cross the Smithfield
Street bridge for the meeting. I was coming at it from the East (see map).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday was the Penguins home opener, so traffic downtown
(where the Consol
Energy Center,
home to the Pittsburgh Penguins NHL Hockey club, is located) was brutal
(but not quite as brutal as that sentence).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My wife, coming from the North (see map), called me to say she was
going to be late and to hold them over and discuss Lily's future until she got
there. . . except I could see I was going to be late. We discussed this. I was stressed out, pissed off, and she
offered some helpful suggestions about things I could have done differently in
order not to have gotten myself stuck in downtown Pittsburgh traffic, which I reacted less than
ideally to. (I had a minor tantrum that
I did my best not to direct at her, but failed moderately before recovering
later).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Cars moved at a snail's pace if they moved at all. I finally oozed my way through Pittsburgh, curling up
north as my wife turned and headed east into town. It was 5:25.
We’d called ahead and the meeting was on hold until we arrived. But that didn’t make it any less stressful
since we were already a half hour late and getting later every minute.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5IUmSjQ4qSxzgZOcbCpHOmQEAgP8lYBR3zUnS4Bq2pD2RsT6SmuthEo095ICl8crsIyvw0sqvEw3ZeRkjmYsQ_w8jMq9w9ImcNBXYniCp_-OFB25-Z70PGHKG3iO_KeiUl5rM1hMyHtg/s1600/map.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5IUmSjQ4qSxzgZOcbCpHOmQEAgP8lYBR3zUnS4Bq2pD2RsT6SmuthEo095ICl8crsIyvw0sqvEw3ZeRkjmYsQ_w8jMq9w9ImcNBXYniCp_-OFB25-Z70PGHKG3iO_KeiUl5rM1hMyHtg/s400/map.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Map of Pittsburgh and our routes. . . "ish"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I turned east onto the street that was going to take me to
our meeting. . . and my wife crossed at the light behind me from the other
street. She pulled in directly behind me
and waved cheerfully. It was so absurd
that it made my stress disappear. Our
timing couldn't have been any better.
Quite literally there’s almost no way we could have said, “okay, you
come from the north, I’ll come from the west and we’ll meet at the intersection
at 5:30. . . GO!” and made it work within 10 or 15 minutes of each other. The odds of her pulling in immediately behind
me from another street in the midst of that mare’s nest of roads and traffic
are astronomical. It was sort of
cool. Except that we both arrived at the
meeting at 6:00. . . an hour late. They told
us under no circumstances could the meeting go past 6:30. They had to be out of the building by
6:30. We left at 7:15.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">----------------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning on my way to work I was impatient with the traffic going through
the tunnels and took a short cut to the West End bridge, which sort of
parallels the Fort
Pitt Bridge,
but further down the river. . . then the road joins 376 on the other side of
the river, past the tunnel. (Again, if
you’re unfamiliar with the roads, just let the words wash over you, the message
amounts to the same thing. Just insert
your own road names.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It takes slightly longer, but sometimes the traffic on the Fort Pitt
Bridge makes it worth it. A guy in front of me was going so slowly we
were barely moving, so I jumped ahead of him and tried to get back in the lane
to take the ramp to 376. . . and couldn't.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I said. . . fuggit, I have a GPS. . . I’ll just drive a
little further and then cut across. Only
there's no cut-across, and what I didn't realize is that I was almost heading
in the opposite direction from work. . . my short cut was going to end up being
longer than the commute itself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUvwcBIaZssfObhdBjw1FJB5ws3TljOT4f1klNssfdYYG02M5DgmbY68eJ8UZxLdRFA0hw287TCJzmD5P01VJyURkJk2l956q1hD5ZTyHMBxqAI9_4OOVQ_OQHVRNxZMbNtyL9o_msuA/s1600/map+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUvwcBIaZssfObhdBjw1FJB5ws3TljOT4f1klNssfdYYG02M5DgmbY68eJ8UZxLdRFA0hw287TCJzmD5P01VJyURkJk2l956q1hD5ZTyHMBxqAI9_4OOVQ_OQHVRNxZMbNtyL9o_msuA/s400/map+2.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">not to scale and stuff</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I turned the GPSs on, and ended up driving through
neighborhoods I'd never heard of before, and some that I had heard of but never
seen, until eventually stuff started looking familiar.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I had already started the commute a little late. After I dropped the kiddos off and left the
daycare an urgent call of nature forced me to stop at home first before I
continued to work. I got started on my
commute about 10 minutes late. I usually
get to work around ten minutes to 8, so, no biggie right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I got to work at about 10 after 9. About an hour late.</span></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-76131273615391806392011-10-07T11:12:00.000-07:002011-10-07T19:44:29.697-07:00Learning Against Her Will<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyNHtfp3CGTIhfSYqhyphenhyphenTXFZC_FC0GJDD65Wxc1T_f1kyjsgJ79DuSadIn9Y7jjPTaESjKDmQlRw-XGxXYJij_pw6XP_un8G6KNnK08vB3undIWuCkVSPYjLuBWNMG9s6m7qUX2fqlscs/s1600/batman-riding-a-unicorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyNHtfp3CGTIhfSYqhyphenhyphenTXFZC_FC0GJDD65Wxc1T_f1kyjsgJ79DuSadIn9Y7jjPTaESjKDmQlRw-XGxXYJij_pw6XP_un8G6KNnK08vB3undIWuCkVSPYjLuBWNMG9s6m7qUX2fqlscs/s320/batman-riding-a-unicorn.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Batman riding a rainbow unicorn over a purple dolphin sea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Emma is reluctant to study anything other than what she <i>knows</i> is going to be on her tests. She will fight with me, for example, if I attempt to get her to give me the meaning of something that she knows she will not be tested on. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Last night we were going over definitions for a Social Studies test. The teacher had placed an asterisk by all the terms on a list that would be on the test but there were maybe fifteen or so additional terms and I forced Emma to review those too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Daddy, Mrs. G said that's not going to be on the test."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I know honey, I still think you should know it."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"But she said we don't have to."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"But <i>I</i> said you <i>do</i>."<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"But Daddeeeeeee. . . "</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And so on. She fought me and got all sullen because I made her tell me what a savannah was. . . or a mesa. . . when all she really <i>needed</i> to know for the test was grassland or prairie or plateau. But ultimately she got them and we moved on with our evening and she went to bed. I think she might have been a little tired, having just finished a 3 hour softball game the hour before.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So this morning after breakfast, I was giving her a practice spelling test and "rainbow" was on the list of words. It was number 19 of 20, but before I gave her the last word (scrape) I said "unicorn" instead. Because really, you can't have rainbows without unicorns. I think that's pretty much understood.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But it was <i>not</i> on her list of words. I waited for the protest. This time I was going to immediately capitulate since i was really only teasing her, but she spelled it out on the paper correctly, quietly concentrating as she wrote it out. . . and then looked up as if I'd just slapped her and did some sort of weird double-take, saying, "Wait, <i>what</i> did you just say?"<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Unicorn."<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She scowled in confusion. "Was that on the list?"<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"No sweetie," I smiled in reply.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She was just on autopilot, too sleepy to notice or too in-the-zone. She got mock angry with me for tricking her into learning something; scowling unconvincingly before smiling and laughing with me when I pointed out that she spelled it right in spite of herself.</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-75981664454424198272011-09-19T10:01:00.000-07:002011-10-07T11:13:17.867-07:00Happy 12th!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFo3aplSZTQgVrnZN-EDsf0XVzY5VGENVjcHLh-BJ5XkjRGeIkzSzaOUEu9Y2P1mEf06ow09hgsgcOFUATyhNM799GIMBdlAebI0Ch3Am7tCS7rK942Y-Sdt6fD8AtzBL3QGh9B2Y07U/s1600/card3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFo3aplSZTQgVrnZN-EDsf0XVzY5VGENVjcHLh-BJ5XkjRGeIkzSzaOUEu9Y2P1mEf06ow09hgsgcOFUATyhNM799GIMBdlAebI0Ch3Am7tCS7rK942Y-Sdt6fD8AtzBL3QGh9B2Y07U/s320/card3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">for my love. . . </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Last week was our (my wife's and mine) 12th anniversary. So much was happening that we, by almost unspoken mutual agreement, put it off, electing instead to celebrate it this week. That was a mistake, I think. There's so much important stuff that's going on in our lives and lives of our family and friends, but I think I probably should have drawn some sort of line in the sand. . . or planted my staff on the rock and roared to the Balrog of impending family business, "You shall not pass!!" and made plans to take my wife out for dinner and exchange cards, etc. I think the mistake that we made was not so much that we focused on others, but that we failed to prioritize ourselves as well. At all. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So this week we'll do our annual "go out to an awesome dinner" anniversary, and hit the reset button to some extent, and have another great talk (we always do our best talking when our brains are slightly addled on wine flight samplers and our stomachs are distended by difficult to pronounce foods). But last week was Anniversary Card Buying.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And don't get me wrong. . . I don't dislike giving my wife an anniversary card. I understand the necessity of restating what I consider to be understood (I love you, I'm thankful for you, I need you, etc) but, while I have no problem giving my wife a card, I dislike <i>shopping</i> for that card.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Because anniversary cards suck. The challenge of the greeting card industry in general is that they are presuming to speak to your loved one on your behalf. I've made my peace with the concept of expressions of love by proxy, but. . . I have to sift through a <i>lot</i> of greeting cards in order to get to one that sounds like something <i>I</i> would say.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">One of the cards I read last week leaps to mind. It took the greeting card lover-by-proxy mission statement a step too far and actually used the first person narrative. I didn't so much mind the sentiment itself as much as the fact that it presumed to actually attribute to me things that I'd never expressed or considered. I'll quote it, though I can't actually remember it word for word, "Happy You and Me day" it said, I opened the card, because so far I was okay with it. "That's what I always think of it as, you and me day. Because. . . " etc. That's actually <i>not </i>what I always think of it as, and I, and maybe this sounds silly, felt vaguely insulted and offended by the greeting card taking that sort of liberty with my feelings/expressions. I put it back. It wasn't me talking, but it was <i>saying</i> it was. It presumed too much, that card.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As I riffled through the cards, I reaffirmed how few cards I found that satisfactorily expressed me as I wished myself to be expressed by proxy. Here are my rules for greeting card purchase:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">1) Start with the classy/pretty cards. Not too frilly, not too lacy, not to busy or too loud. Nice simple colors/patterns on pretty paper. . . start opening these in order from most to least tasteful.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2) What's the message? </span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Toss the religious themes. . . nobody reading this message could <i>possibly </i>think that card was read by me prior to purchase. So, if it says "I thank god every night for the blessing" etc. . . it's gone.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Toss the overly mushy and sentimental messages. </span><span style="font-size: large;">"You have captured my heart.<br />I put my hand in yours,<br />and we began this <br />wonderful journey called love.<br />Wherever life takes us,<br />the light of your smile<br />will forever be my morning sun<br />and the shelter of your embrace<br />my heart's true home." etc. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Toss anything but the simplest of poetry. If the poem is more than a few lines long I can guarantee I'm not on board, specifically if it rhymes. These cards are often weeded out by the previous bullet point.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Toss anything that puts maybe <i>too</i> much emphasis on our love to the exclusion of the rest of the universe, "You are at the heart of all that is good and happy and meaningful in my life." The next line might just as well say, "and if i ever lost you, your body wouldn't have a chance to get cold before I killed myself out of sorrow". . . pass.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Sort through the remaining messages, "The first time I looked into your eyes, I knew it was happily ever after." That's not <i>bad</i>. . . but it's also not <i>true</i>. The first time I looked into her eyes I had already had three or four beers and was trying to think of some way to ditch my friend and get a ride home with her. And while to me (at 24) there was a 'version' of happily ever after involved, that's not what the card meant, and she'd have known it!</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: large;">3) Find the simple, honest message on the prettiest card, and purchase it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">4) Insert mush. This, above all else, is why I detest the annual card-passing ceremony. Because my cards don't have proxy mush that doesn't sound like me, but instead have simple messages (by proxy) embellished with my hand-written personal mush. . . I don't <i>want</i> her mother reading them. I don't <i>want</i> her friends reading them. They're written for <i>her</i>. Privately for her. I'm not particular big on "sharing" emotionally in the first place! Sorry. . . did I just interject personal baggage into this? Yeah, I don't like when people pass cards around at a party or gathering. Your card is for him or her or us, and those intended should read it. . . it's nobody else's business.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So last week I bought my card and embellished it with mush. This year's mush said essentially (because it's <i>actually</i> nobody's damn business but hers and mine, but I can hand out the essentuals) that she's a higher priority to me and my life than we exhibited over the course of our actual anniversary, and that I'm going to try harder to make sure we reprioritize "us" amidst all the festivities involving "them". (Where "them" means. . . everyone else in the world, kids going to games, kids going to kindergarten, relatives getting married, relatives moving their houses, relatives putting on charities). And let me further soften it to say. . . all that stuff I just mentioned in parentheses is EXTREMELY important to not just her, and not just me, but US. . . but not to the EXCLUSION of us. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway. . . </span><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Belated Anniversary to us. From me!</span><br />
<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-56279710850304395822011-09-15T09:45:00.000-07:002011-09-19T18:09:29.323-07:00A Little Rain<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvWAR9T0LcRELHjjsec6aGU-Z6IyQVFuHMlZ8eAQMf3yoAiOuiOGp0JaRFXkM24XKY_xEiZDLJJfKMmPgwmPLzMDDCHPfCFfPKOn9QCUTtbj_2Po4EiDpEIL7sP-1MK82M7rxl_SNRsg/s1600/472796_Singin-in-the-Rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvWAR9T0LcRELHjjsec6aGU-Z6IyQVFuHMlZ8eAQMf3yoAiOuiOGp0JaRFXkM24XKY_xEiZDLJJfKMmPgwmPLzMDDCHPfCFfPKOn9QCUTtbj_2Po4EiDpEIL7sP-1MK82M7rxl_SNRsg/s200/472796_Singin-in-the-Rain.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I guess I've already lounged through whatever guilt equity my new injury may have originally engendered. Gone already (sheesh, has it even been 48 hours yet) are the offers to carry things for me or perform "boy chores" on my behalf. She's already making plans for me to carry the loveseat out to the curb tonight for the garbage men to collect tomorrow.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"But what about my foot?" I sputtered indignantly.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'll help carry it," she replied. Fantastic.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning I underestimated both the volume of rain that was falling as well as the length of time it would take me to limp from my car to the front of the office. This underestimation resulted in my election to forgo the umbrella and feel the rain on my face. But when I got inside, I felt it everywhere else as well. With any luck it'll be dry by the time I leave the office.</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845565742716684094.post-73761228332070714802011-09-13T12:42:00.000-07:002011-09-13T12:44:26.733-07:00I Broke My Toe <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0kaK7miwkwTo2qELH81K0P-9WYq78-Ocd7AfBKlH6fegocoD_XJ0OQzFWMoSogTHyTbgfMb0QOVdKn6LOd-q3n6nOt67X_UbiOE-JppThUGHY177iMpfLM0tamWK_aOlEZdZ1GYjnzUI/s1600/broken+toe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0kaK7miwkwTo2qELH81K0P-9WYq78-Ocd7AfBKlH6fegocoD_XJ0OQzFWMoSogTHyTbgfMb0QOVdKn6LOd-q3n6nOt67X_UbiOE-JppThUGHY177iMpfLM0tamWK_aOlEZdZ1GYjnzUI/s320/broken+toe.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual toe pictured. Arrows added for clarity, these do not occur in nature.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yeah, I did actually not only <em>feel </em>like I broke my toe but literally broke it also. See picture. Now, not only do I have to limp around the office until it heals, but I must do so in some sort of bizarre velcro post-op shoe monstrosity that the doctor said was the modern medical equivalent of strapping a board to the bottom of my foot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">How long must I wear it? Three weeks, if it heals nicely. This neatly solves the problem of "who will watch the youngest while we participate in the charity walk". Me. I will. Becuase I cannot walk. . . only thump, drag, thump, drag, thump. Like a pirate (</span><a href="http://yourfaceismyblog.blogspot.com/2011/09/ow-my-toe.html"><span style="font-size: large;">see previous blog</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">) or Mad-Eye Moody.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"What if I <em>don't</em> wear it?" I asked. It turns out nothing much. It may not heal as quickly. it may not heal as nicely. It <em>may,</em> opined the doctor, create an extra joint. I tried to fathom what it would take to create an extra joint, and the mental image, of bone grinding itself smooth over time against another bone, didn't seem awesome to me. So I'm wearing the stupid shoe. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9uQ7FtjOSPhqIzT76_LIMg_IHMRb6tPRw20wkiRpjcwZJbEBMXBOaV5QIFrNpPKfrPRsWZl14SkWMqRuoNLaEraqencMyQewcYFBvgRrsxdBe3PIhGr9pwzm4kQWTipk1OK0ogAJbHGA/s1600/blue+suede+shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9uQ7FtjOSPhqIzT76_LIMg_IHMRb6tPRw20wkiRpjcwZJbEBMXBOaV5QIFrNpPKfrPRsWZl14SkWMqRuoNLaEraqencMyQewcYFBvgRrsxdBe3PIhGr9pwzm4kQWTipk1OK0ogAJbHGA/s320/blue+suede+shoes.jpg" width="239" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">How long will it take to to heal? The doctor indicated that his rule of thumb was 6 weeks to heal any simple break, and that the break should be immobilized for about 50% of that time. So in an effort avoid creating a new joint utilizing the process I've imagined above, I'll wear the stupid shoe for three weeks and follow up with an orthopedic surgeon next week.</span></div>
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<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11538573774184028004noreply@blogger.com0