Lifelong resident of the Baltimore area (except for that four-year stint whenI studied abroad in Washington, DC). Aspiring writer. Wife. Mother. Stalwart wearer of glasses.
On a scale of 1 to 10, I think my kids would rate about a 7 for appropriate behavior in public. The Boy hasn't quite learned what an inside voice is. And he's developed a fetish for a clean nose. Suffice it to say, he digs for gold about as often as Yukon Cornelius.
We're working on it.
But for the most part, they don't pinball around waiting rooms, grocery stores, restaurants, etc. They aren't particularly whiny or tearful. And they are usually pretty cooperative. So when I perceive that people in the business of rendering service to children are less than friendly, well, it's annoying.
Last night, we took the Girl to an ear, nose and throat specialist, to whom we were referred by her pediatrician. The pediatrician wanted her to be seen by said specialist because the Girl developed her first ear infection about a month ago. Despite being on Amoxicillin for 10 days, it became two ear infections. After second round of antibiotics (Cedifir, this time), the two ear infections raged on, and the Girl was placed on a third, different round of antibiotics which seems to have knocked it out of her system. Despite that, her pediatrician wants to diagnose the need for Eustachian tubes for the Girl early, if at all. Dr. G doesn't want to continue to pump her full of antibiotics, which I support, because I don't want the Girl to become resistant to their effects.
Wouldn't you think that a place to which I am referred for the treatment of a one-year-old, a place that accepts an appointment for a one-year-old, would have medical professionals who have a better bedside manner and equipment for toddlers? They wanted to weigh the Girl, but they didn't have a children's scale. They just asked me to hold her and stand on the scale with her. They didn't weight me separately, though, so they took my word for my guess as to what I weigh (we don't have a scale at home, so I honestly don't know). Yay for imprecision. Then they asked me if I happened to remember how long she is. I couldn't. But did they measure her? Nope. They just left it blank.
When the doctor came into the room, he asked me about the reason for my visit. So, I told him (I'd already told the physician's assistant, who typed it into a laptop where one would assume the doc could read it). He asked me if she seemed to be having trouble walking. Well, yeah, but that's only because she's one and doesn't really walk without holding onto to furniture. Then, he asked me if she's talking. Again, not really, on account of her being one year old. She's mastered, "Mama," "Dada," and "Bah" for bottle, but that's about it. He gives me one of those, "Oh really?" looks.
Now I'm feeling like my kid is behind the curve, when she's most assuredly at least in the middle of the pack for her age.
We've now arrived at the time when the doctor needs to look in her ears with the otoscope. Fair enough. But I have to restrain her so that he doesn't puncture her ear drum. The Girl is kind of big for her age, so this is no mean feat. Speaking of feet... Well, I'm not Lakshmi, so I couldn't hold onto her feet as well as both of her arms and her head, so she delivered a few good kicks to the doc's solar plexus. He briefly mentioned this after the exam, when he was sending me down the hall for another test to measure the amount of fluid he detected behind the Girl's left ear.
Great. So not only did he imply that she's not developmentally up to snuff, he also implies that she's, ahem, spirited.
I pick up my daughter and my work bag, and traipse down the hall to the other little room for the test. The tech says something like, "I hear you're a kicker!" She then explains that the test we are trying to do involves inserting a plug in the Girl's ear for about 5 seconds. Easy enough, right? Oh, except the test is invalidated if she cries. Have you ever tried stick something in a one-year-old's ear for five seconds, prevent her from ripping it out, and expect her not to cry? Didn't think so.
The tech and I had been trying to accomplish by distracting the Girl with toys for all of two minutes when the doctor poked his head in the office to see if we'd finished yet. We obviously hadn't. We tried a few different tacks, none of which panned out. The doctor came back after two more minutes, and said we'd just have to schedule a follow-up for a month from now to make sure the fluid had drained from the left ear. At that point he said to MY DAUGHTER, "And maybe we can schedule it for earlier in the day when you're not so tired."
This was a full two hours before her normal bedtime. She wasn't tired, she was annoyed. It could have been nine in the morning, and she'd still be grumpy about strangers poking things in her ears.
Yeah, so I think I'll be scheduling her follow-up at the other branch of this particular practice. You know, where they might grasp that a one-year-old will be docile during this kind of inspection if they are (a) asleep, or (b) drugged.
1) Kucinich was the only one who directly answered every question asked of him. Yay for that, but it will clearly knock him out of the race, which is a shame.
2) I wanted to pop the UNLV student (a woman, no less!) who asked Clinton if she preferred diamonds or pearls. Good Lord, young America, are THESE the questions you really want to ask of presidential candidates? I know you probably burst a blood vessel trying to come up with a feminine equivalent of "boxers or briefs?" Frankly, I would have been more impressed if you'd had the cajones to ask "granny or thong?" And I would have been equally impressed if one of the other candidates jumped in with a blood diamonds comment.
3) One of the post-debate-analysis talking heads commented that Clinton looked refreshed. I'm not sure if they would have made that comment about a dude, but whatevs. Me, I was distracted by her fresh visage 'cause she was clearly jacked up on Botox. Good genetics, you might argue. Well, there were a couple of points where HRC was valiantly attempting a look of concern, but her forehead remained as smooth as a slab o'clay. And don't worry -- I'd definitely be making this comment about any men showing signs of ye olde surgery plastique. We won't, however, open the forum on pancakey makeup, since all of the candidates looked like an all-day special at IHOP.
4) I'd love to hear a native speaker of Spanish's opinion on the quality of Senator Dodd's command of the language (he employed it when responding to the border protection "you voted for the wall" question). Folks used to crow about G.W.'s ability to speak Spanish, but it always sounded like twangy Spanglish to me. Incidentally, every time the candidates talk about erecting a wall 'twixt us and Mexico, I think of the play within "A Midsummer Night's Dream," in which a Wall has some pretty amusing lines. Do you see how being an English major can ruin a person's ability to focus?
5) Suzanne Malveaux tacked a question about abortion onto an audience member's question about Supreme Court Justice appointment criteria. Each candidate invoked the 9th Amendment's protection of the "right to privacy." I'm not going to debate Constitutional Law, because I'd have my ass handed to me in a heartbeat. But I think this amendment is about how to read the Constitution, meaning that we must abide by the spirit of the document and not the letter. Also meaning that Americans have a bunch of basic human rights -- like privacy -- that are not specifically enumerated by the Constitution but exist nonetheless.
Are you still reading this? I might not be if I were you. No one ever accused me of being scintillating.
Anyhoo, legalization of abortion was established by Roe v. Wade. And, from what I gather, the arguments in favor of legalization were made chiefly under the 9th Amendment and a woman's right to privacy. Since the words "right to privacy" were never inked onto vellum, you can see where folks might think there's still room to argue the legitimacy of the ruling.
BUT...
Can we all acknowledge that those who are against abortion are not caring if it's a private or a public matter? Their main problem with the procedure is that they view it as the termination of a person, not a pregnancy. Pro-lifers are not rooting for the procedure to take place in a stadium or anything. They don't want it happening it all.
Don't misconstrue this as an anti-abortion rant. It's an anti-semantics rant. The operating-in-the-real-world part of me understands that the candidates don't want to appear like a radical left-winger this early in the came, because the truth of the matter is that most Americans don't consider themselves red or blue, but kind of a purply political mulatto.
6.) John Edwards looked thrilled every time he was addressed, either by a question or an insult. It also cracked me up when he busted out the Godfather's "It ain't personal, it's business" sentiment in response to the audience's clear dislike for negative comments about Clinton.
7.) Did you see the stare-down that Obama gave Clinton when she addressed his voting record? He turned his whole body toward her during the first minute or so of her response, like he was challenging her to continue. It looked like the mean girl in high school was caught scribbling something in a slam book, got caught, and could either backtrack or muscle through.
8.) Why is it such a problem for candidates to admit that they've changed their minds about things? Isn't it wise to allow yourself the flexibility to change your position if new facts come to light that make your previous position untenable? Some of my opinions have remained constant throughout my self-actualized life, but not all of them. New facts = new opinions.
Okay, I'm kind of boring myself now. Now, the real question is, will I watch the next Republican debate? Depends on what happens with the writer's strike, I guess.
So, this morning one of those liquid cargo trucks was pacing me on I-95. It looked like this:
Why highlight this mundanity? Because there was a big ol' Perdue logo decorating the barrel of that thar truck. Perdue as in chicken, and turkey, and all manner of poultry. Which begs the question: WAS THIS TRUCK FULL OF POULTRY GOO? I've heard many a rumor about the manufacturing methods of chicken nuggets, and this sighting kind of confirmed all of that for me. Okay, so this is not an earth-shattering revelation, but it is just not the kind of thing you want to think about at 7:17 a.m.
The Boy figured out how to open the baby gate this morning. He's nimble, so there's no fear that he'll go a-tumbling down the steps. But we liked knowing where he was. Now, there is every possibility that this intrepid three-year-old will steal out of his room, open the gate, (unintentionally) sneak up on me and cause my heart to explode in my chest.
Many moons ago, G. Gordon Liddy* stated on his radio show that the only proper way to respond to someone who introduces himself as an American veteran is, "Thank you for your service." I'm down with that. After all, my father's a veteran.
He was drafted into the U.S. Army during the Korean War and served at White Sands Proving Grounds in New Mexico. His gimpy eyesight, which he lovingly passed on to me, kept him off the battlefield. Consequently, his war stories revolve around weekend passes in Tijuana, making fun of the awful movies that were screened for the boys, and pranks they'd pull on each other in the barracks. Not really the Stuff of Legend, but I'm pretty thrilled things worked out the way they did.
So, thanks Dad, and thanks to the men and women who have honorably served in their posts.
*Talk radio programs were thin on the ground in late 1990's Baltimore. I took what I could get.
A crossing guard driving a minivan tailgated me almost the whole way to my daycare provider's house this morning. That's gotta be a harbinger of something, right?
The Girl turns one year old today (coincidentally, my marriage turns eight years old today*). She woke up all smiles and blonde curls, and truly is my sunshine girl. Everyone says the time flies, and it does, so I won't belabor the fact. I mean, how often can you listen to a parent jabber on about her kid's squishy cheeks, three teeth, and wobbly steps? I'll just say that she's an adorable chubby wonder, and I'm thrilled every day that I see her that she came to join me, Super Ninja, and the Boy.
*Since our anniversary and our daughter's birthday fall on the same day, one might suppose that either of these events would be at the fore of our thoughts this morning. When I greeted Super Ninja in the Girl's bedroom this morning (where he was getting my wriggly girlfriend dressed for the day), he turned to me and very happily said, "Can you believe BOTH of them slept through the whole night?" And yea verily, this was the thing to celebrate. Betwixt teething and stomach viruses, last night was the first night that either of us enjoyed more than three consecutive hours of sleep since...since...since...
Hmmm...should a show that's been rated TV-14 have a toy line for children 10 years-old and up? Apparently, CSI has released a new line of toys. Click the link to see the CSI: Facial Reconstruction Kit, among others. The work of real-life lab technicians isn't necessarily more gruesome than that of police officers, doctors, and firefighters. And kids have emulated those occupations, well, since the jobs existed.
Stop to consider this, though: those occupations are also involved with prevention. My guess is a kid pretending to be a doctor is listening to a playmate's chest and telling them to breathe. Or asking them to drop trou in an effort to see what's happenin' down below. Not yelling, "GSW to the chest! Fire up the crash cart!"
CSI stands for Crime Scene Investigation, yeah? If an eleven-year-old is happily squishing clay around a plastic skull, trying to solve the make-believe mystery of who died and why, we're desensitizing the idea of murder. I'm not getting all Tipper Gore or put kids in an incubator to protect them from outside influences. The dissonance rankles me a little, is all.
If a kid under 14 shouldn't watch a show, he probably shouldn't play with the toy affiliated with it. So acknowledge they can handle the yick and let them watch the show, or don't market to the tweens if we think it's too much for them. My bias is for the latter, but I've been accused of being too strict with that stuff.
Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to score ONE LESS than "genius level" on a MENSA test (or, at least, MENSA knock-off test)? Very, my friends. Very. Feel free to play. I got the following ones right: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10, 13, 16, 18, 20, 21, 23, 25, 27, 29, and 32. So, if you need help, lemme know!
If there's an iota of a chance that you will be violently ill, do not drink red Fruit Punch Gatorade to hydrate yourself. When the inevitable happens, for a split second you'll be horrifically frightened and convinced that you've just heaved up your innards.
I'm not a moron: I don't think that Jenny McCarthy actually wants to be me. My life is not so much about the fame and the rock hard abs and the $20-million-a-picture boyfriend. But we have (I shudder a weensy bit when I write this) similar writing interests. She wrote this and this, and I wrote this and this. My blog title is "Louder than Words," and so is McCarthy's latest book.
Okay, hundreds, nay, thousands of women write about these topics. Jenny and I are two of many, many similarly-aged women going through marriage, childbearing, child rearing, career issues, etc. Makes sense that we'd both write about these experiences.
BUT, I have been thinking about changing the title of this blog recently, and Jenny McCarthy's new book adds fuel to the fire. I mean, what if people start to confuse the two of us? Snarf.
Jenny's book title comes from her experiences with raising a child with autism, and my blog title comes from...well, I'll be honest: I ripped it off. "Louder than Words" is from a line in Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle." Since it's one of a few dozen songs that I love to belt out in the car, I know all the lyrics. And when I started this blog and thought, "a quote from a poem or a song about words would be a cool title," and well, this song came to mind. There's no subtext. I am not a man of great experience, nor am I hard to handle. It just seemed like a good fit for a word-based medium.
So, yeah, the more I think about it, "louder than words" doesn't really make a whole lot of sense for a blog. The actual lyric is "Actions speak louder than words." Which, now that I think about it, is the same sentiment expressed by Extreme in their hit single, "More than Words."
Crap. I know all the words to that song too, which KILLS me because it is rife with bad grammar. Not only that, but I'm convinced the human brain has a limited capacity, like a bucket, and retaining these lyrics is keeping me from learning something truly important, like how to manage a stock portfolio.
What is wrong with me?
Back to the original point of this post. Which was...wait, don't tell me...oh, right: my blog title doesn't make sense.
Written words don't make any noise, unless you read them aloud. Barring that caveat, EVERYTHING is louder than words. Clearly, I've got to brainstorm new titles that (a) make sense, (b) reveal transcendent coolness (or at least semi-hip geekiness), and (c) aren't twee.
That last one isn't really important. I just like the word twee and I don't get to use it often enough.
If I stick with a shout-out to a song, though, here are songs that actually have a random significance from my childhood:
- "Brass in Pocket," Pretenders - "One Way Or Another," Blondie - "Back in Black," AC/DC - "Heartbreaker," Pat Benatar - "Another One Bites the Dust," Queen - "Elvira," the Oak Ridge Boys - "Never Surrender," Cory Hart
I'm going to stop there. My parents and older sibs exposed me to much, much music, and this represents just the teeniest sliver of my childhood soundtrack. You'll note that there's no Raffi or Disney. Just be glad I didn't toss in Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass...
"Did you know that Philadelphia was voted the ugliest city in the country?"
My co-worker, whom we'll call Former Math Teacher, is a Washington, DC native and has a penchant for non sequiturs. We'd been speaking about the achievement levels of a school district in Pennsylvania. And no, it wasn't Philadelphia.
"Really? I don't see how that's possible. There are some neighborhoods that are scary," I said, remembering the shoes dangling from power lines on Broad Street like ghetto mistletoe. "But I don't think it's fair to say the city is ugly. Haven't they been to Market Street? Or the the museum downtown, or..."
"Not the city. The people."
"Oh. Well, that's just mean. Who's voting on this?" I asked. I've been to Philly a number of times, and there's nothing especially unattractive about the City of Brotherly Love.
"Travel & Leisure Magazine. And they said that Washingtonians are mean and ugly, but not the ugliest." I could hear her flipping the pages of the magazine.
"Wait, doesn't The Hill do that 50 most beautiful Hill staffers article every year?" I asked. "That alone has to refute the ugly thing about DC." As for the 'mean' part...well, I've been elbowed out of the way by commuters clambering onto the Metro too many times to dispute that.
"I just think the whole article is unkind. Anyway, getting back to what we were talking about..."
And we resumed our conversation about achievement levels. But I wanted to dissect the topic further, so you, Gentle Reader, get to hear all about it.
The article in Travel & Leisure is just a slam book disguised as journalism. But, like a slam book, you're compelled to flip to your page to see what people really think. Problem is, the article didn't even include Baltimore. The indignity!
Baltimore is the 21st largest commercial market in the country. So, how about it, Travel & Leisure? Where are we? I wasn't able to find the selection criteria, but I think there are two reasons that Baltimore wasn't included:
1) Despite the renown of the Inner Harbor, most folks think that Baltimore is a super scary place. I won't say this is undeserved. I love the city of my birth, warts and all, but the warts can certainly taint the overall complexion. Why am I using a yucky skin analogy?
Anyway, editors likely don't want to feature a city that's closing in on 300 murders for the calendar year in a magazine that's ostensibly about travelling in pursuit of a good time. Not only that, but Baltimore's reputation in pop culture hovers somewhere between Detroit and Deadwood. In television shows like Homicide, The Wire, The Corner, and even Roc, drugs and crime exist as characters, not just story lines.
Compare that to, say, New York, which has enjoyed much love from Woody Allen, Friends, Seinfeld, How I Met Your Mother, Will and Grace, All in the Family, Futurama, Spin City, Felicity, NewsRadio, Sex in the City, 30 Rock...well, you get the picture. Even if you tot up all of the crime dramas, they are only a fraction of the New York representation on television. Most of the rest are of the "look how fun and exciting it is to live in New York" ilk.
2) It's possible that the magazine thought they were including Baltimore since they ranked Washington, DC. Many, many, many (too many) people see Baltimore as a suburb of Washington. The most recent example I've come across was in this past Sunday's Washington Post, in the section called the Sunday Source. Every week, they take picture of someone in or around the District who's workin' a personal style that the newspaper digs. This week's fashion plate was found in BALTIMORE.
Grrr. This is just a subtle way of saying that Baltimore is part of the Washington Metro area, and not it's own independent city.
Ah well. In the end it's probably better not to have been ranked. I just needed to say my peace about it.*
*Sidebar: Is it "peace" or "piece"? I've seen both in print. Obviously, I fall into the "peace" camp, but I like to know if I'm coming off like a dummy.
Strange things were afoot when I pulled into my parking lot this morning. My office building leases spots from the local American Legion post. The normally nightowlish veterans don't have much use for the lot during the day. Which is why the eight pallets blocking part of the main lane of the parking lot made me think, "Huh?" When I drove around them, I took a closer at what was sitting on those pallets...
Girl Scout Cookies.
Oh yes. Thin Mints, Tagalongs, Samosas, and whatever else those uniformed sugar pushers bring to our doorsteps. Here's what's weird: I immediately flirted with the idea of boosting a few boxes. Now, I don't have a thieving bone in my body, and Samosas are the only cookie in their arsenal that I like. And even those I can take or leave. But seeing those pallets being guarded by three or four men who can best be described as "spry," well, it inspired me.
Which is why I've decided that Girl Scout cookies are either the devil's handiwork and/or they are laced with crack.
I heard about this article on the radio a few weeks ago, and I've been meaning to look it up. You can see the original article here. I highly recommend looking at it, because there's a hilarious feminist argument raging in the comments. Admittedly, when I first heard about the article, I was all, "Why can't you call it what every person should know how to do?" But that's taking the list far too seriously. Wouldn't the real abilities be things like, "Can grow crops," or "Read pharmaceutical directions correctly"? P'raps someday I will craft a list of what every woman, nay, every PERSON should know how to do. 'Til then, enjoy the list from the mag (below). For fun, I've noted which skills are in my repertoire:
Patch a radiator hose If the answer is "duct tape," then I'm savvy. Otherwise, I'm calling my mechanic brother.
Protect your computer Yup -- both from thieves AND viruses.
Rescue a boater who has capsized Never had the pleasure, but I'm pretty sure you toss them a life raft. Or you call the Coast Guard. Is there an in-between?
Frame a wall I'm assuming this is not in any way a decorative term. Nope.
Retouch digital photos Yup! Otherwise, my family would look like demon seed, what with all the red-eye.
Back up a trailer Yes on this as well, crazy as that sounds.
Build a campfire Yes again. They don't say if lighters or matches are allowed. If not, I'm a wee out of luck. Me and the flint are not so friendly.
Fix a dead outlet Nay. I have a policy against trying to repair something that could potentially kill me.
Navigate with a map and compass Yes. My father-in-law would be proud. In case Super Ninja doubts me: immediate ability to distinguish right from left is NOT an indicator of one's ability to read maps.
Use a torque wrench Nope. Where would I lay hands on a torque wrench?
Sharpen a knife Ooh! I just read an article on this. I'm in the know!
Perform CPR No. Let's all take a moment to reflect on the fact that I know how to retouch digital photos, but not perform CPR. I must hie myself to one of those classes soon.
Fillet a fish Nope.
Maneuver a car out of a skid Yes.
Get a car unstuck I have had more opportunity to perform this feat than I'd care to admit. On one occasion, it was a Maryland state trooper's fault. The only thing that saved me was having a random piece of plywood in my trunk (thank you, set of "Raphael Without Hands"!)
Back up data Yup.
Paint a room Most assuredly, yes.
Mix concrete With a truck? No. In a bucket? Yes.
Clean a bolt-action rifle Nope.
Change oil and filter No, but I know how to take my car to Jiffy Lube.
Hook up an HDTV Nope.
Bleed brakes What have brakes ever done to me?
Paddle a canoe Shockingly, yes. Hooray for white water rafting adventures as an office team building experience!
Fix a bike flat Yep.
Extend your wireless network Yes, though I've perhaps extended it further than it should go.
By my count, I legitimately know how to do fourteen of these things, making me a little more than half a man. THAT explains why I'm so short.
Okay, so it wasn't as big as the one depicted above. But it did take all of the weak-limbed, sculpted-by-a-sedentary-lifestyle strength that Super Ninja and I could muster to load it into the Family Truckster. Did we go pumpkin patching for the entertainment of the kiddies? Nope. They were asleep in the car. We were on our way back from a baptism in Pennsylvania, and we saw dozens of gigantic pumpkins lolling on a roadside hill.
Not normally an exciting thing, I know, but Super Ninja hasn't seen pumpkins this size in the patches near our homestead. We stopped so that we could satisfy his iddish feelings about Halloween and its trappings. The bonus is that the strapping two-feet-in-diameter gourd he picked out was pretty cheap, as those things go. The only downside is that I have a tough time tossing out anything useful, so I'm going to be eating pumpkin seeds, soup, and all manner of pumpkiny-ness for about a year.
Apparently there's an online magazine called Mental Floss. It's tagline is, "Feel Smarter." Well, nice try, Mental Floss, but I feel dumber after having taken your geography quiz. Now, I know geography isn't my strong suit. It ranked second to Sports & Leisure in my ranking of categories to avoid in the Genus edition of Trivial Pursuit.
But back to how dumb I am: the only one I got right was Spain. SPAIN? That's it? I got close a couple of times. When presented with the randomly selected countries, I always went to the correct continent or ocean. But I picked the Bahamas when I was looking for Dominica. And I have apparently decided that Niger will do for every country in Africa. Missing Tunisia was especially embarrassing since that's where Star Wars was filmed. I'm not such a super-fan of the series, but Super Ninja is, so you would think that I would have learned it by osmosis.
But back to the shame. Oh, the shame. And the osmosis that should have happened. It goes beyond Star Wars. Super Ninja actually had to take a whole class like this in college called Map of the Modern World. He spent the entire semester studying the global map and characteristics about each country. The final exam was a blank map and a pen and the instruction to "Go nuts."
Time to invest in some of those map placemats for "the Boy," and actually sit them at my own seat.
Is it bad that I will hork my 11-month-old daughter's snacks? And this doesn't happen in a, "Oh, look, the Girl didn't finish her snacks, no sense letting those go to waste and pitching them in the trash" kind of way. I eat them in a "Well, I'm a little hungry and the can is RIGHT THERE" kind of way. I haven't gobbled up all of them. She still has some left. Like, five crunchies, which is totally enough to take the edge off of her hunger at lunch time.
See. THIS is why I shouldn't ever be a stay-at-home Mom.
After my wisdom teeth follow-up appointment (clean bill of teeth, by the by), I dropped into the local Starbucks to grab a bagel and coffee to break my fast. As I swirled some skim into my Yukon Gold, I spotted a basket next to the coffee fixin's bar. Not unusual in a Starbucks. But affixed to the tippy top of this particular basket was a handmade sign: "Donate a Pound of Coffee to the Troops." Nestled within the wicker confines were four bags of varying blends.
Something about this arrangement bothered me, and I'm trying to pinpoint the source of my bother-ment. Here are a couple of contenders:
1) Why have only 4 people coughed up a $9 bag of coffee? (Full disclosure: I am not one of those 4 people).
2) Why doesn't Starbucks, with all of their crazy margin, kick in a few tons of coffee, rather than stick a donation basket in this little franchise to collect a few pounds? [Further investigation reveals Starbucks' corporate policy is that they will only donate to organizations officially classed as charities (which the U.S. Armed Forces are not), but have set up a program wherein their employees can take some of their paycheck in the form of coffee donated to soldiers. I still think the corporation could make a donation to an organization like this, though, and give soldiers some good brew without controverting their policies.]
3) Who's the fool who donated whole bean coffee?
4) How, exactly, will this coffee be distributed? Do a few lucky soldiers have individual coffee pots next to their bunks in the barracks? Or will the mess hall brew up a mega pot for everyone to enjoy during one of their meals?
I guess it's just weird because I hear all of these stories about WWII, and how people on the homefront rationed food and steel and such so that it could go to the soldiers on the battlefield. And my generation is setting up collection baskets in places where people routinely pay four dollars for a cuppa joe.
It's been five years since I left my first real full-time job. I was with that company for five years, so this month marks a fulcrum in my curriculum vitae. From this point forward, my post-first-job experience will be the tubby, low-hanging side of the see-saw. This week, though, there's a balance. And when there's a balance, it's a good time to reflect, no?
This little anniversary is a bigger deal to me than the ten year college graduation. Why? 'Cause my professional self was forged in the pits of that thar first job, and I do mean pits. Don't get me wrong: I learned loads there. But it was mostly about what not to do in a professional environment. I won't go into details, 'cause I don't want to be held liable for anything.
Suffice it to say, this guy was the Big Boss of my company, and I find his Facebook profile immensely satisfying:
First Prince George's County declared itself a livable community, and now Laurel has declared itself "An Inclusive Community*." Oh my sweet Lord in heaven, why can't the folks who pay for these signs come up with something snappier? Laurel is inclusive, to be sure, but if we want to market ourselves to people shopping around for new homestead, I don't know that inclusivity is their number one priority. In fact, I'm pretty sure that most developers bandy the term "exclusivity" about.
*I'm going to try and shutterbug a pic for ya when I drive by it tomorrow. The sign's at the intersection of Route 216 and Main Street.
Lay off the pain meds before meeting with the Operations Team, which comprises the senior staff of your company. Sure, you won't feel the throbbing pain as your jaw repairs itself in the aftermath of your recent dental surgery. But keeping your focus becomes exponentially more difficult.
(My Google fu has the flu (ha!), so I sadly have no linkage to the title of this post. It is a reference to one of those Saturday morning educational mini-cartoons about a Fonze-ish dude, named Chompers, who advocated eating loads of crunchy, good-for-you foods. If you find lyrics or pictures relating to this classic bit of '80's nostalgia, drop me a line.)
This past weekend was ALL about the teeth chez moi. How so, you ask? Well, my remaining two wisdom teeth were given the heave ho. My dental surgeon put me under, which was freakin' AWESOME. I forgot how cool it is to drift into oblivion. I'm not advocating nodding out or any of that illegal silliness. It's just fun once in a while to give yourself over to something like that. Some folks aren't put under for the procedure. Apparently, though, my roots were as swirly as a gift bow, so they thought they'd save me the horror of experiencing a portly fella digging elbows deep into my mandible. I applaud their thought process.
Coincidentally, the Girl sprouted her first incisor the very day of my extraction. It's the lower left one, and she really works it with her tongue. You can tell she's weirded out by the sensation. But, the confusion lurks on her visage for all of three seconds before she's moved onto something else, like extirpating the pots and pans from their cubby under the microwave.
Last, but most certainly, most assuredly not least, is that we have FINALLY broken the Boy of his pacifier addiction. Our ploy was to use the birth of my most recent nephew (the tenth grandchild in my clan overall) to meet our own ends. We told the Boy that babies need pacifiers, and his new cousin was a have not in this particular arena, and since the Boy is in fact a Big Boy these days, p'raps it was time to pass the pacifier on to his new cousin. So, when these two little men met for the first time on Sunday last, and hence, t'was time for the handoff. And the Boy did it, without so much as a blink.
Wha-huh?
I expected tears, and fists, and rending of garments. This pacifier is the one thing, the one lovey, that my Boy has cleaved unto since his days in the cradle. It started to affect the way his teeth are positioned, so divesting him of it was long overdue. But still, I expected much more drama. I was pretty sure he didn't grasp the enormity of the situation.
And, like all good Mommies, I was right on the money.
Later that night he asked for the pacifier. And upon being informed that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of his addiction, well, that's when he unleashed a monsoon of tears. Know what, though? Fifteen minutes later, he was okay with it. There were more grumpies tonight, of course, but only about ten minutes worth. I figure in a week, we'll have kicked the pacifier addiction.
Did you like the way I ended my last post with the "more on that to come" tease? No? Didn't notice it? Oh well.
Well, here are the other immensely practical things I learned:
1) When a two-digit highway ends in an even number, it runs east-west. When it ends in an odd number, it runs north-south.
2) If a three-digit highway starts with an even number, that means that it will reconnect with the highway represented by the last two digits. That makes no sense, I know. Let's use a concrete example: the DC Beltway. It's 495, which means that it connects with I-95. Same thing with 695 in Baltimore, and 495 in Philly. Cool, eh?
3) Conversely, if a three-digit highway starts with an odd number, it means it ain't never joining forces with the highway represented by the last two digits. Think 195 (toward BWI airport) or 395 headin' into Virginia. These offshoots are called spurs.
4) If the exit number atop the exit sign on a highway is positioned to the right, then the exit will be on the right. If it's on the left, the the exit will be on the left. I haven't figured out what it means when they are in the middle.
There's nothing mind-expanding in this here post, Gentle Reader, but I likes to pass the helpful tidbits along.
Not only that, but you'll never forget what I'm about to tell you. This is a bold claim, but bear with me. Look at this:
So what, right? It's a picture of a gas gauge. Well, ya see that little picture of a gas pump? And you see that little arrow on the right hand side? That means the car's gas tank is on the right hand side. Isn't that phenomenally useful? When travelling and renting cars, or borrowing cars, or driving a new car, you no longer need to run the risk of parking on the wrong side of the gas pump or craning your neck to see if the gas tank is on the driver's side or the passenger's side. Just look for the little arrow.
And that's merely one thing that I learned on my recent business trip to Tennessee. More on that to come...
I have found that the average length of time that someone will wait to ask you if you are going to have more children is about six seconds after one has exited your womb. My philosophy? I'll take it as it comes. Very Catholic of me, eh? What I mean by that is that my notions and preferences about a goodly number of things have changed in the past five, ten, fifteen years. Do I listen to Depeche Mode daily? Nah. Do I tweeze my prodigious eyebrows? Yes sir!
The upshot is that I'm not going to make any permanent, long-term decisions about stuff like this. I mean, I didn't choose painkiller options until I was actually going through labor because I knew enough to know that I wouldn't be able to forecast my needs until I was actually suffering through the experience.
That was a marathon of a run-on sentence. Sorry. I've only had a half a cup of coffee today.
So, the next time someone asks me how many children I'm going to have, I will say that I am going for an infinite number of children. Because now, the technology is here. BEHOLD: Zeno, the artificial boy. Now, he's Texan, and you know how I feel about Texas. But I think I can work with the raw material.
The Boy needed some extra cuddling during daycare drop-off this morning, so I obliged and sat on the couch with him strewn across my midsection. Rarely do I get this kind of extended embrace from him, and I guzzled the deliciousness of it. Until he said this:
"Mommy, I have a piece of ear."
"What?" said I, unable to fathom what he meant.
The Boy pulled back from our hug and handed me a nugget of earwax. It was about the size of broken #2 pencil point. Not huge in general terms, but certainly huge in terms of things a three-year-old extracts from his ear. And a veritable juggernaut in the realm of things I really, really don't want to handle sans protective gloves.
As soon as he'd passed off the earwax, he laid himself back down upon me, pinning me to the couch and rendering me unable to divest myself of this chunk of bodily by-product. What's a mother to do? Well, I opted to stay put until his breakfast was served and he happily skipped away from me toward the waiting plate of chopped plum and cereal bar. At that point I discreetly disposed of the gunk, shivered, washed my hands, and zoomed off into the morning mist to begin my commute.
One of my nephews, whom I'll call Spikey, just got his first e-mail account. This kid is fabulously intelligent and sarcastic, so of course I think of him as a younger male version of myself. You know, before I learned to control my cutting remarks.
Anyway, I've got a soft spot for him and want to guide him on a few things to make life easier for him (well, if he's receptive to it). Like, "If you answer EVERYTHING sarcastically, it will likely hurt your chances at friendship." And, "It's physically impossible for Grandmom to understand sarcasm, so you'll want to keep it to a minimum around her." And also, "You've only got to endure four more years of gym class every day."
All of this means it's really tough for me to resist the compulsion to explain that forwards do not e-communication make. I take that back. They constitute e-communication if you are my parents or one of my new-agey college friends. This morning he sent me a link to a YouTube video featuring a Daft Punk song and hand dancing. It'd take up a lot of real estate to explain it, and I'm not going to post it here, because I don't want to do that to you.
I wrote back to him and did not include any pictures, links to other videos, or jokes. Just a note. Maybe he'll catch on. But I doubt it. Watch, he'll send me that video of a monkey smelling his finger and falling off a tree...
It’s 11:15 p.m. EST on September 11, 2007, and I have spent this sixth anniversary of the terrorist attacks criss-crossing the country in airplanes. Who says I don’t have a sense of adventure?
There was a school district in the northwestern part of Mississippi that needed training on the proper use of an online analytical database that my company has developed. I’m one of a precious few people willing and able to lead these trainings, so off I went. But I’m still lactating (sorry, for the squeamish among you), and would prefer not to be away from home for an overnighter. Consequently, I booked myself on this wacky round trip. I left my home at 4:00 a.m. to catch an outbound 6:00 a.m. flight. Nearly eighteen hours later, I’m still traveling. It’ll be about two and a half more hours ‘til I’m snuggled up in my bed at home. Christ, will that feel delicious.
Travel is invigorating. Well, right about now the vigor is starting to wear off, but that’s what my Starbucks venti Yukon Gold is for. Anyway, seeing new things, driving on new roads, trying on different lifestyles in the shape of rental cars and local eateries – it all gives my system a charge.
Here's a sampling:
I saw a cotton field today for the first time. Before my stint on Route 61 North, I’d only seen them in Gone With the Wind (and the only-slightly-less-well-known Places in the Heart). Anyway, antebellum romances are probably not the best representation of a textile crop that sustained and rent* a nation all at the same time.
I saw Dallas, Texas from the heavens, and it was a beautiful thing. Normally, all things Texan are somewhat off-putting. A shrinking violet like me is wary of bombast, and Texas is paradigmatic of bombast, right? But from up above, it was silent. And FLAT. The only thing that limited what I could see was my own gimpy pair of old lady eyes. In my native Maryland, the trees and hills and skyscrapers and dense population obscure anything that’s more than a few blocks away.
I experienced a Jackson, Mississippi traffic jam. It’s what we in the ‘burbs of DC call a yellow light.
There was more, but that's all I've got right now. MCV is sleepy, and while my synapses are firing off insights about the irony of my spending September 11th in four different states and airports, my fingers won’t cooperate anymore. Meh. Humankind’s loss.
*'rent' as in 'torn asunder,' not 'rent' as in 'a five-story walk-up in Brooklyn.'
So, I just watched Britney Spears on the VMAs. Her new tune, "Gimme More," is your standard dance club fare. I just felt this weird wave of empathy for her. She was trussed up in a rhinestone studded bikini, stiletto boots, and kept thumbing her fake hair outta her line of sight. Which, come to think of it, might also have been obscured by her Fremen blue contacts.
Anyway, she looked nervous and unsure of her steps, like those heels she was tottering around on were going to splinter underneath of her. I know it's trite to say she looks like she needs a hug, but well, that's the mother in me. Sometime tomorrow she's going to say something that will make me groan and realize that she feels no sense of ownership or accountability for any bad decisions that she's made. But 'til then, I'll just keep it at empathy.
The higher the score, the more you exhibit the trait. For example, I only scored 7% on neuroticism, meaning that I'm not very neurotic. That's where the favorable analysis ends.
To wit: I'm apparently Wampa-shy. You know...I just hang out in my cave until a tasty meal comes along, and then I slash at it and hang it upside down in my lair. And then I end up with my entrails serving as an organic heating blanket. Something seems wrong there...
The classification I'm most displeased with is Grand Moff Tarkin. Not because I thought I was all kinds of Type A when it came to organization, but because Grand Moff Tarkin was just the worst-selling Star Wars action figure on the shelves. Super Ninja and I would peruse the toy aisles for gifts for our nephews, and there were ALWAYS at least five GMT's for every one Darth Vader or Luke Skywalker. This tells me if there were an action figure version of Yours Truly, it'd just be hanging out on the peg, surround by clones of itself.
So, you can't really see it very well, but that's an American flag flame magnetic decal on the fender. That's a picture of a car that wove around me on the inner loop of 695. There was another decal just like it on the other side, and two on the trunk. Further patriotic imagery was to be found on the back windshield in the form of a stars & stripes see-through decal. The irony? The flags were splattered all over a Volvo.
When Oldest Bro moved back home, he brought a yellow Labrador with him. That fella was named Toby, and he was big, and lovable, and a little dumb. Anyway, he gave up the ghost this past spring after making it to the ripe old age of fourteen, which is like Methuselah age for a Lab. And even though this was my Oldest Bro's dog, my Mom kinda fell in love with having a dog in the house. Which is how my parents came to be the proud parents of a chocolate Labrador for about three days.
The reason for the short span of ownership? She's a sweetie, but too much for my parents to handle. She zipped over the fence and ran away about five times over the course of those three days. So, they ended up giving her back to the breeder. I feel kinda bad for my Mom, because her brother recently passed away, and I think that she was looking for a little four-legged comfort.
Honestly, I'd love for them to get a smaller dog, because I want my kids to be exposed to pets so that they aren't afraid of them. But man, I don't want to walk them. A dog, I mean. I love walking my kids. Walking with them. They aren't on leashes. Well, the boy was almost leashed once upon a time, but he doesn't attempt to run into the street anymore. Bully for me, eh?
The funny side of all of this? The dog's name was the same as Super Ninja's sister, which was REALLY going to confuse the kids. Not only that, but I'm sure that little fact would've given Super Ninja a migraine. My name, Super Ninja's sister, and of course "Mommy" all start with "M," and Super Ninja already can't call us by the right moniker. A double dose of his sister's name would break the camel's back, or brain, as it were, and he would never call any of us by the right name again.
"You will find yourself identifying more with the ant than with the grasshopper."
Some folks spent their Labor Day weekend carousing on the beach, some picnicked, some caught their last poolside rays. Me? I extirpated outsized clothing from the Boy's and the Girl's closet, yanked items that Super Ninja and I no longer wear, rearranged our linen closet, and generally went on an organizational frenzy. And I LOVED it.
Fashion dilemma: a co-worker who dresses like the grown-up version of Rainbow Brite just complimented my accessories. Do I pat myself on the back for my excellent taste in jewelry? Or do I consider the source and never, ever wear it again? In case you're wondering, it's fairly innocuous stuff -- just a beaded necklace and a gold bracelet. It's a little flashier than my usual fare. But it's not anything that I expected to catch the eye of a woman who looks like she's wearing a belly dancer's get-up to the office.
At some point, technology will begin to escape you. You will no longer surf the tip of the wave of gadgetry. You will wipe out, and wipe out horribly.
I am the SLOWEST texter in the world. Little Bro texted me this morning, asking if I could provide him with mi madre's cell phone number. I had to pull my car over, park, and it took me five full minutes to text:
Yep: 410 XXX XXXX
I think it takes me forever because I refuse to use Avril Lavigne-ish abbreviations. And I use punctuation. And capital letters. My only defense for being so old school is that I find it difficult to read texting shorthand, so outta respect for the person receiving the text, I try to make it clear.
Over the weekend, I played a color quiz game with the Boy. I do this often to reinforce the names of colors that he has at his command. Once he's comfy with the basics, I'll introduce fun color names like vermilion and crimson and chartreuse. These are the ones to which I always gravitated during my oil painting days, and I want to share my palette love with him.
After a few minutes, we'd identified the colors of just about everything in the room, so I focused our little game on our own appearances. This game does double-duty in that identifying similarities in our coloring helps strengthen his identification with the family unit. Well, triple duty in that you can unintentionally discover some, ahem, physical flaws.
"What color are my eyes?" I asked.
"Blue," says he.
"That's right! And what color are your eyes?"
"Blue!"
"What color is my hair?"
"Brown!"
"That's exactly right! And what color is your hair?
"Brown too!"
"Right again! And what color are my," I fish around for something else that's easy, "teeth?"
"Yellow!"
Oof. Crushing pause.
"Good job. Let's, uh, let's go read a book now."
Vanity, thy name is MCV. Time to invest in some of these.
Super Ninja packed my lunch for me today, as he does pretty much every day, which is unassailably wonderful of him. So I fully acknowledge that I'm going to seem like the most ungrateful harridan in a moment.
My lunch today was leftover pad thai. My office doesn't stock disposable cutlery, because we are a nonprofit, and extras like sporks eat at the bottom line of all of our do-gooderiness. Knowing this, Super Ninja packed an eating implement in my lunch sack. Problem is, he packed a plastic spoon.
A spoon? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to eat pad thai with a spoon without flicking peanutty sauce and scallions all over yourself? Very, my friends. Very difficult indeed.
I checked out the gubment internet site on trademarking, and it'd cost me a cool $325 to trademark this phrase for every iteration of how I wanted to use it. That's $325 that I need to use for fun things like diapers and pizza, so looks like I'm not going to enter the licensing fray yet. But trust, if you steal this, I will cut you.
I have accepted three people as friends on Facebook. I am ignoring friend requests from five people with whom I am not really friends, though we did go to college together. One is CRX*, who is simply right out, and the others are people to whom I have not spoken since I waltzed through the front gates of Georgetown with my diploma and mortarboard.
So: is this disproportionate number a bad thing? Am I being a jerk?
Editorial: Don't laugh at my teeny circle of friends. For whatever reason, my particular clutch of gal pals leans Luddite, so no Facebooking for them. And, apparently, I'm also a jerk who doesn't accept friend requests from every joker who stumbles upon her profile.
BEHOLD! I have taken a "Which Superhero are You?" quiz, and my results are (tympany, please):
Aww, yeah. Thwip thwip, baby. Super Ninja, and possibly Super Ninja's brother, will be totally jealous**. I'd bet cash money that Super Ninja will totally take this quiz and turn out to be Black Canary or something.
Anyhoo, here's what the great online gods of superhero classification said about yours truly:
You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.
Man, it's like they know me.
UPDATE: Super Ninja turned out to be Superman. This will surprise no one who knows him. Goober. Here's the description: You are mild-mannered, good, strong and you love to help others. Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test
*Super Ninja = my husband **Jealous = not really. He REALLY would've been annoyed if they poll determined that I most closely resembled the Hulk, but I think he'll be okay with Spidey.
Yesterday, if you'd asked me to name the most deluded person in Hollywood, I likely would have offered up some Britney-Nicole-Lindsay-Paris twiglet. But then I read this article, and I realize that the Delusion Crown belongs to none other than Steven Seagal.
Really, Steven? An FBI affadavit caused your career spiral? Not your film choices? Or that action stars (and I use that label grudgingly) score fewer roles as they age because audiences can't and won't suspend that much disbelief? Or the ponytail? I mean, my God, Steven, the ponytail alone could ground any soaring career.
Perhaps, Bravo, "The Exorcist" isn't the best choice for your 9:00 a.m. programming. Of course, this will be what I watch while I work, but still, I find it odd that this broadcast is competing against Sesame Street.
UPDATE: Ha ha ha ha! The first commercial during the first commericial break is for e-Harmony. Yup, 'cause Regan and Pazuzu were meant for each other.
I had lunch with a couple of girlfriends yesterday, and one of them mentioned that her sister-in-law was visiting. Women love, love, LOVE, to dissect the differences between their in-laws' and their blood relatives' modus operandi, and my friend was no exception. Bursting with confidence, she said of her husband and his sister, "They didn't hug each other when they said goodnight. Isn't that weird? In my family, we always hugged each other good night."
I expected the other ladies at the table testify in unison with me, "Uh, no. It's weird to hug people good night EVERY night. Especially adults."
Yeah, that's what I expected. Turns out I'm in the minority here. Ooh, the supercilious stares I got as I shared that I am, in fact, fatigued with the amount of hugging I am expected to do. Listen, I hug my children all the time. And my husband and I lean on each other after all the evening chores have been completed. Sometimes it's the only way we can stay standing after a long workday.
I hug family and friends that I haven't seen for a long time. But I see my immediate family all the freakin' time. Do I have to hug them on each occasion? There's like, twenty-three of us. I'd spend the whole visit embracing people. And my husband's college roomates...they are nice guys, and their wives are lovely women, but do I have to hug all of them hello and goodbye when we go to see a movie and spend all of two minutes chatting? I don't cringe when they're about to lay one on me or anything. I reciprocate. But I don't initiate.
Where do you draw the hug line? How do you discern when and where and whom to hug? Is it everyone? Or just everyone to whom you'd, say, send a Christmas card? Hugs are tender, reserved for those whom you'd like to comfort or boost for a moment. Should you lay one on your college roomate's new brother-in-law in her receiving line? I mean, are handshakes so crazy formal that they've become obsolete?
While lingering on the hug topic, one of my other girlfriends shared that her stepmother once said something like, "We don't hug each other often in my family, but that doesn't mean that we love each other any less." And, God love my friend, there was some snide riding on her voice when she said this. Meanwhile, I'm mentally high-fiving my friend's stepmother, thinking, "Yeah! Exactly! I love my siblings to pieces, but yeesh, there's a lot of us. I don't need to press the flesh to show them that I love them."
Ultimately, I sounded like a total cold fish when I declared that I am not a hug whore. Don't get me wrong. Hugs are nice. They really are. But people who dole them out like smiles just don't get non-huggy types like me. I've even heard an accusation or two about being an unfeeling robot. So after my initial, "Hey, I don't hug a lot," I kept a lid on it.
Man, it was like that time at the office when I hinted that we celebrated too many things in the office with cake. THAT did not go over well either.
Someone from the United Kingdom stumbled upon LtW by Googling, "How to remove your own wisdom tooth." DON'T DO IT, DUDE!
I have to assume that 'twas someone of the male persuasion who searched this out. I don't know any women who would perform her own oral surgery (they may be out there, those hearty and hale females, but I've not made their acquaintances). Removal of wisdom teeth involves stitches and ugly terminology like "dry sockets," so please, fella, hie yourself to someone who gets paid to do this stuff.
All the shows that I usually listen to in the morning are on vacation or have become phenomenally boring this week, so I've been exploring the stations on SIRIUS (yep, that's right, the man hasn't shut me down...yet). I've totally developed a crush on OutQ in the Morning with Larry Flick. In college, I had a couple of gay boyfriends, but those relationships are pretty dependent on proximity. Since all of my pals migrated to gay-friendlier towns, I haven't had a gay boyfriend for awhile. I didn't realize how much I missed their brand of conversation 'til I listened in on this show.
Case in point: this morning, Larry Flick was analyzing the Visible Vote '08, which aired on Logo last night. Now, this is a pretty big deal as the candidates that are considered to be the really major players -- Hillary Rodham Clinton, Barack Obama, and John Edwards -- all participated. But Larry Flick expressed some concern that various news media outlets and, oh, say, the general public wouldn't take this not-really-a-debate and its participants very seriously for various reasons. Fair point, for a couple of reasons: Melissa Etheridge, not Tim Russert, for example, moderated. Also, no conservative candidates participated.
Another reason Larry cited? Several of the candidates were wearing ill-fitting suits -- some were too big, some were too small, and Larry pointed out that a person loses some of their gravitas if he doesn't allow tailors to work his magic on his political threads. And that, my friends, is the kind of thing you'd expect to hear from a gay boyfriend.
Just for fun, enjoy the Hazzards' "Gay Boyfriend":
After last night's dental appointment, I am the proud owner of a shiny new crown. Watch, it'll tumble outta my mouth in a week. You'd think this was the last I'd see of the pleather dental chair for a while, right? Yeah, you'd think that. Except I have a wicked decayed wisdom tooth that I have to have yanked. Not very wise of me to still have this thing at the age of 32. Ha ha! Ha. Ha...
Anyway, my dentist doesn't extract wisdom teeth, so he's referred me to a maxillofacial surgeon. Sounds scary, right? I had two wisdom teeth removed about seven years ago, and it wasn't the worst thing I've ever experienced. Why didn't I just have all four wisdom teeth pulled back then? My dental insurance wasn't so awesome, and cash was thin on the ground. But now I'm loaded for bear when it comes to dental insurance, so Mr. Maxillofacial Surgeon can have at it.
Of course, these means that I have three more dental appointments -- one at my regular guy for one of those full head x-ray thingamahoosits, a survey appointment with the surgeon, and then the blessed day when they remove the gnarly cratered thing and its stalagmite twin from my head.
I like my coffee strong. Motor oil strong. I know this. But some of the weenies I work with don't like it that way. They make it so weak, I think I lose muscle tone when I drink it. This is so unfair. I love coffee. LOVE IT. It's unhealthy, this love that I have for a beverage. And to smell this delicious aroma, morning after morning, that wafts off of a flavorless liquid, a shadowy pod-person of a real cuppa java, well, it's just torture.
Maybe I should swing by Starbucks on my lunch break.
They don't live next door to us. They're not even in our little townhouse development, or I'd see less humor in the situation. These folks live on the corner of the intersection of the road that leads to our community. Why write about them, you ask? Because they, Gentle Readers, are the reason that Homeowners Associations exist.
The first tip that they might be less-than-perfect neighbors was the flatbed tow truck. They park it on the shoulder of the road across the street from their home. Now, don't go thinking that I'm a snob. My second eldest brother, we'll call him Mech, is a mechanic, and I've nothing but respect for grease monkeydom as his thorough auto knowledge has helped me out of many a jam.
I'm actually in favor of this tow truck resting in this particular spot because it has stopped cars from illegally whizzing past me on the shoulder of the road while I turn onto my street. However, this isn't the only vehicle nestled 'twixt the white line and the trees lining the road. Four other cars in varying states of disrepair hang out there too. This, too, wouldn't be a big deal, except that this house has a four-car driveway which should be able to contain all of their cars. And there, dear friends, is where the indicators of hillbillyishness begin.
To wit:
1) Half of their carport collapsed, and it took about two months to move the debris. Note that I wrote "move" and not "remove." That's because the miscellaneous shingles, 4" x 4"'s, and bolts have been pushed to the side of the yard.
2) There's a junker of a pick-up truck under the remaining half of the carport. It hasn't been moved for at least a month. And the hood has been up the whole time.
3) A go-kart has recently joined the pick-up truck. This is one vehicle that is actually working, as it buzzed through my parking lot while I was packing the Family Truckster for vacation.
4) A 5' tall metal canister with scary looking stickers all over stands upright in the middle of the parking pad.
5) There's an empty inflatable kiddie pool flopped into the front yard.
6) The lawn is so overgrown that I think guerilla armies are hiding out there.
7) A hick pixie (perhaps teenaged?) has darted across the street, in front of oncoming traffic, to get to the cars parked on the shoulder. Did I mention that she was carrying an infant?
8) I have yet to see one of the men wearing shirts.
If you're a good ol' boy or gal, you might think that I'm hatin' on folks who are working so hard that they don't have time to worry about the homestead. Not so. The bone that I'm picking is with people who are CLEARLY not properly tending to things that need tending -- lawns, deritrus, babies -- in favor of leisurely activities, like drunk go-karting. Plus, now I have to explain to the Boy why we can't have a go-kart in which to zoom around.
Okay, I don't know if you read this blog, College-Roomate's-Ex (CRE, for brevity's sake). A couple of people in DC and Virgina show up in my site's stats (shout out to my readers!), but I can't go all SD6 and figure out if it's you. But you might, and if you do, there's something I wanted to bring up. I saw your MySpace page. Don't worry, I didn't cyberstalk you. Your avatar showed up on a mutual friend's MySpace page, and I'll admit it, I was curious. You and I spent much time together, so even though I can't really get past some of the things you said and did (or didn't do), I wanted to see where life is taking you.
A word of advice.
If you are going to go all Zoolander to beef up your online gallery, figure out how to use the timer on your digital camera. Or ask a friend to snap a few pics. Definitely don't stand in front of your bathroom mirror and take your own picture with your arm slightly out of frame so it (almost) doesn't look like you're holding the camera. (How do I know it's the bathroom mirror? The towel rack in back of you, tough guy.) It's the height of narcissistic toolishness.
I'll admit that I had aspirations to be a DJ a long time ago. Anyone who's passionate about music has this fantasy that they can control the happiness of a roomful of people by spinning just the right tracks. For me, this took the form of many, many mixtapes in college. Very emo of me, eh?
All of this is to say that I might get a wee judgmental of music played during a wedding reception. The wedding we went to this past weekend was a lovely affair, and I've no critique of the ceremony, the organization, nor the first dance song choice. But there's a song that's been played at the last three weddings I've attended, and it's making me wonder...
Is "I Will Survive" an appropriate song to play at a wedding? A song about righteous singlehood? I know it's got a great beat and you can dance to it, but could we retire this one from events celebrating coupledom?
On my way from my front stoop to the Family Truckster this morning, I stumbled past a pile of garbage bags and sundry other objects in front of my neighbor's yard. Today isn't a trash day, though, so I took a closer look. Taped to one of the Heftys and two of the vacuum cleaners (yep, two) were notes that read, "Purple Heart." Oh, gotcha. Donations.
Something still didn't make sense, though...there were some framed lithographs in that heap. Since I came of age in the 1980's, I recognized the oeuvre of Patrick Nagel straightaway. I don't mean to stereotype, but...really? Patrick Nagel? For veterans? What's a veteran going to do with this:
Or this? Even if Purple Heart merely sells the items and donates the proceeds to veterans, I still wonder if this 20-year-old fad is really going to bring home the bacon.
[UPDATE: Purple Heart didn't take the Nagel prints! They took everything else and left the Nagel to fester on the sidewalk. Ha! Charity organizations have standards, thank you very much.]
On Monday, I jaunted over to Starbucks for some curry chicken salad and parked myself at one of their diminutive tables to hork it. I hadn't really planned on eating there, or I would've brought some reading material. But I'm spontaneous and crazy, as well as easily bored. So I rifled through the castoff newspapers by the door, and found a section of the NY Times, which is where I found the summation of Albert Ellis' life's work in the area of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy.
Man alive (or recently deceased, I guess), it was like someone had taken some of my long simmering thoughts and beliefs and turned them into a tasty and presentable meal. I'm not ego maniacal enough to claim that I coulda been a towering figure in the world of therapy or anything like that. But it's nice to see that my take on neuroses and such isn't a fringe perspective.
Small gripe to my alma mater: WHY wasn't Albert Ellis mentioned in Psychology 001 for goodness sakes? We spent most of the semester on William James, and then crammed in every other psych-ologist/iatrist since the dawn of the DSM in the final few weeks. Go ahead and argue that Ellis was a behaviorist and shouldn't be lumped into psychology. The behaviorism designation didn't stop my prof from including B.F. Skinner.
Ahem. Anyway, it was crazy to me that it was only upon his demise that I became aware of Albert Ellis. Here I am, thinking I'm all sorts of edumacated about incredibly influential people, and then I find out about him. Shows to go that Socrates was right about knowing that we know nothing, eh?
Since I'm depressed that I wasn't able to secure a hybrid mini-van, I'm sharing all I can about the ways and means of reducing your carbon footprint. So, in case you haven't heard, Google has a new face available to those of you who care to save a few megawatts of energy: Blackle. There's a whole "About" section you can click on to see exactly how Blackle saves energy.
Whilst in Deep Creek, MD, there was very little external entertainment to be had, so our fellow vacationers suggested we play some games. Me, I'm all about the board games because I have a huge non-athletic competitive streak. Seriously, when dice or spinners are involved, you'd best keep one eye open when MCV is in the room. (Balls and goal posts, however, render me powerless). By night two of the gaming, though, we'd run through the options we'd brought with us. I thought about raiding the in-laws' rented pad, but they had the same variety of Milton Bradley escapades. With one exception:
Since none of us belong to Clan Flanders, this game would not have been our cuppa tea. But I had to share this with you because of the quotation marks around the world "Trivia." That's a subtle indicator that naught about the Bible is, in fact, trivial. 'Cause we all know how important the cubits and the dress codes and hair braiding are.
Aw, man, I've gone and blasphemed again, haven't I?
Fashion dilemma: a co-worker who dresses like the grown-up version of 
Even if Purple Heart merely sells the items and donates the proceeds to veterans, I still wonder if this 20-year-old fad is really going to bring home the bacon.
