This is the first official post written on the new lap top, it is nice to not have to try and remember which key is 'd' and which one is 'f', you know, because they haven't been ripped off by my raptor daughter.I am having some trouble getting used to the new keyboard, though, as the new laptop is much larger than the old one, allowing space for a full keyboard, something I haven't used since I said goodbye to my desk job at the Item. The fact that I am blogging (God, I still hate that term) on the new computer, of course, means that it is nap time and after an epic battle trying to get her to leave the park- after two hours of fun- she has finally stopped stiff-bodying and screaming at me and given in to her daily siesta. I'm willing to bet any one of you would kill for a required afternoon nap.
Admittedly my patience wasn't the best early on today, probably because I had to work last night, which means that I didn't get to bed until 1 a.m. and I didn't sleep well. In fact, I never sleep well on nights that I work, mostly because I am too busy trying to alleviate the stress of my incredibly stupid job.
As I have mentioned a million times here, I have had a lot of pretty crappy jobs, but the one thing that I can say is that each and every one of them has opened my eyes to a new world of wonder and stupidity. At this point I truly do think that I have seen it all. From the Housing Authority, where I once saw a girl I knew from high school getting screwed on an open window sill while cutting her grass, to the newspaper where every day brought new possibilities of psychopaths, crazy townies and the discovery of dead people. Now I am bar tending at one of the more popular tourist spots in Salem, which means three things. There are a lot of idiot tourists, a lot of idiot college kids and a lot of weirdos.
I have shared many a story here about people trying to pay with skateboards or shitting their pants while waiting for take out meatloaf, but those are the outrageous stories. Those are the once in a while, 'I can't believe that just happened' type of thing. What really stresses me out about working at the bar is the day to day dance with stupidity that we all have to handle, and the inevitable nightly series of events that, on the wrong night, could easily end up getting you canned.
I guess all of this is on my mind because last night was just one of those typical nights where I get home, lay in bed and say to myself 'What the hell was that?' I'll explain. Picture yourself as the lone bartender behind a 36-seat horseshoe on a Wednesday night. There are some sports on the TV and some music playing in the background, it is not busy. Now I will take you on a journey through my night.
The restaurant that I work at is locally owned, but run as a corporate entity with several locations in and around Boston. Most of our jobs hang from a small thread, as we are required to memorize menus, recite corporate speeches and always be on the lookout for 'secret shoppers,' in other words, people with nothing better to do than come in to restaurants and grade their servers based on a list given to them by corporate. The slightest slip up in any area can get you suspended or fired. I've seen it happen a thousand times.
As most of you know, I am pretty short tempered. I have little patience and, when you are stupid, that patience is pretty much non existent. One of, if not my biggest pet peeve at the bar is when people don't listen. As a bar that brews our own beer we have a list of what is on tap up on the wall. When someone comes in and orderes a Miller Light I respond with "Actually, we only carry the beer that we make, they are all listed on the back wall, but if you are looking for a Miller Light you might like (insert appropriate beer here)." Simple, right? You would think so. Unfortunately, more often than not, people will respond with "I'll just take a Guinness then." Really? Do you see the word Guinness up on the wall? No. You don't. Now I get to pick.
There was certainly a lot of that going on last night as always, but the stupidest moment came from a mid-20's looking blond dude with a fake tan. A girl came in to the bar and ordered a beer, saying that she was waiting for a friend. Her ID said she had turned 21 three days ago. I said congratulations and got her the beer. Said friend, blond tan man, arrived shortly after with the greeting of "I'll have one of them," pointing to her beer. I always love it when customers surpass "hello" and just go straight to what they want to order. That is really a great way to start off with a server. Really it is. Honestly. We hate being treated like people.
I asked the man for his ID, even though he was clearly older than the girl, because, well, I am a bartender. I don't fuck around with that sort of thing. What followed was one of the classically stupid conversations of all time.
"Aw, man, I don't have it. I was born in 1979 though."
"Sorry man, I can't serve you without ID."
"Really? I come here all the time! I live right next door!" (This means, by the way, that he either lives at the New England Pirate Museum or a Dunkin Donuts).
"Sorry man, I can't serve you without ID. Your friend turned 21 three days ago, come on."
"Well, is Griff here?" (Referring to a popular former employee who left several months ago, refuting his earlier claims to have 'come her all the time).
"No, Griff doesn't work here anymore. I'm sorry man. I can't serve you."
(Girl chiming in.) "He goes to bars with me all of the time!"
(Man again) "Yeah man, I was a bartender for years, we just wanted to have one beer and some food. I'm not a cop."
Ok, so, if you are paying attention, the tan man who is not a cop and either lives at the Pirate Museum or Dunkin Donuts has claimed to come here all of the time, even though the one person he knows has been gone for months, and is now also claiming to have worked as a bartender. Which begs the question, if you have worked as a bartender, and you know you wanted a beer, why don't you have your ID? Furthermore, why are you arguing with me about asking for your ID? Because you are stupid. That is why. Complete f-ing moron.
As if that weren't enough, my last customer of the night was a girl who worked at a restaurant down the street. She was drinking blueberry beer and playing pool, seemingly harmless. Apparently, the third beer pushed her over the edge, though, because she decided to seek out the manager so that she could tell him that I was doing a great job. This would have been nice if she only did it once. Instead, she told him every time he walked by, eventually changing my name to "Ben" and later "Pat" and finally telling him that she would "love to work here instead of where she works, but I'm probably too drunk to interview, huh?" Yeah. Probably.
This, aside from, again, being very stupid, also means that the manager lingered around the bar until she left, seemingly making sure that I cut her off, but succeeding only in making her stay longer because she continued to speak to him. As a result, I was forced to delay some of my closing work, as I was inevitably drawn in to the conversation, and forced to endure an "over serving" lecture after she left. Now do you see why it is difficult to sleep after a night working at this job? One of, if not all of the above things happens every single night. It is a good thing I don't have to get up and do that every day.
Sorry to stray from the baby so much lately, not much going on other than park trips and fit throwing. I'll get some video up soon.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Episode 73: Dance Dance Revolution
I've got some good stuff lined up for you in the near future, but the new computer just came in yesterday and I need a week or so to get all of the images and video transferred over- and to figure out how to use the thing, myself. Yeah, I could probably do all of that in a day, but you have to remember that my computer time is limited to afternoon naps and after the baby goes to bed, especially since I am holding strong to my "the baby doesn't touch the new computer" rule. This pretty much means that it stays locked away most of the day. A small price to pay to keep all of the keys on the keyboard, I think.
So, I apologize that I don't have any hilarious video to accompany this post, I'll throw some up as soon as I figure out how to get it off of Monica's Flip cam and on to the new computer. Ever tried to watch your grandmother use a computer? Yeah, that is pretty much what it looks like when I have to learn how to do something new with it, too. Right down to the squinting to read the screen.
Moving on.
Along with her endless, nonsensical babbling, her hilarious animal noises and her bizarre tendency to to start laughing out of nowhere, at nothing, for no reason, the baby has now started to dance- which I will say is a welcomed addition to her ridiculous daily performance. Lately she has been in to absolutely everything, and has developed an attitude about it, so the dancing and other funny things that she does are often times the only thing keeping me from taking her down to the shelter and trading her in for another cat. Seriously. It is like she is 14 sometimes, only instead of being mad that I won't let her go to the mall with her new car-driving boyfriend she is upset that I won't let her play with the trash, or try and drink the cat's water.
The dance itself is still in its infancy, and at this point is little more than an up and down leg pump. Kind of like she is doing the behind the couch elevator trick, only much quicker. Eventually, she tries to move her feet, which typically results in a stumble or an unidentifiable side to side movement. Av's upper body doesn't really move during the dance, which makes it all the more funny, and it never really lasts for more than a few seconds. Interestingly enough, Monica compares it closely to the way I dance after a few beers. I refute this notion. I have much more leg movement and I make cool faces.
Now, obviously every kid dances, usually poorly and hysterically, especially when they are as tiny as Av- just watch an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, or America's Funniest Home Videos. What makes Av's dancing more funny to me is when it actually takes place. Unlike most kids, it is never really prompted. She won't do it on cue, rather, she will just spontaneously break out in to dance any time that she hears a song- or noise- that she likes. Sure, she does it plenty when her loud toys play kid music (she has an aquatic-themed turtle jukebox that plays about 50 different instrumental versions of kid songs like 'Twinkle Twinkle' or 'Home Home on the Range'), but it is much funnier when it is prompted by something else.
Sometimes during the day a jingle from a TV or radio commercial will prompt a spontaneous moment of dance, and other times it will be just out of the blue with no sound at all, but I think my favorite time that it happens is in the car when a song she likes comes on the radio. I like the car dance for two reasons. First, she is sitting down and strapped in, so instead of dancing she will just put her feet up in the air, shake them and laugh. Second, the songs that she chooses to dance to make absolutely no sense.
Music to me, like a lot of people, is a pretty important thing. It gets a lot of us through the day- even when you are hanging out with a baby. I am, by my own admission, a music snob. I like the music I listen to and I hate the music that you listen to. Unless we listen to the same music, in which case, we should hang out more because I haven't met very many people like you. Because of this, I have made it a point early on to play a lot of music when I am around the baby. I think that it is important that she listen to various kinds of music, aside from the "enriching" classical music and the ridiculous kid songs that those "child experts" insist on jamming down her throat. I'm not saying she shouldn't listen to that stuff, I'm just saying she gets enough of it from her toys and her videos, and even a 1-year-old needs to rock out a little sometimes.
In any event, I find her taste in music to be very curious. Through months of experimenting, I have found that her taste really lies in the classics. The older the song, the more chance of getting a leg shake. Favorites include the Police (probably because of Sting's cartoonish voice) Talking Heads (who doesn't love 'Burning Down the House?') and Jimmi Hendrix. She has also been seen leg shaking to the Animals (the most curious of them all given how dark most of those songs are), Boston, Tom Petty and Neil Young, but it usually depends on which song it is. When it comes to more modern music, her taste becomes more selective. I have found that she is not at all a fan of hip hop, even the really good old school stuff, and she can take or leave modern rock. I just don't think that it is fun enough for her. The one group that she does really love is an obscure experimental/ instrumental rock band called The Octopus Project. Each song is essentially 5-8 minutes of strange space noises set to a beat. She loves it. Dances to the whole catalog. What does this all mean? Probably not a damn thing. Or maybe I am going to spend the next 18 years living with a hippie, which given how much her and her mother are already alike is a pretty strong possibility. As long as she washes her hair and doesn't start listening to Phish I guess I don't care.
Deep down I know that I am going to have little or no influence over what my daughter eventually starts to listen to, so for now I am just going to endure whatever it is that prompts the funniest dance. Hopefully the leg shake and the elevator dance evolve a little bit so that I can film it and win the $100,000 grand prize on AFV. The last kid who won laid down some solid moves, but I have confidence that Av has it in her to break out something better than that kid's air hump.
Sorry again about the lack of video. I'll get one up in the next few days. Stay tuned.
So, I apologize that I don't have any hilarious video to accompany this post, I'll throw some up as soon as I figure out how to get it off of Monica's Flip cam and on to the new computer. Ever tried to watch your grandmother use a computer? Yeah, that is pretty much what it looks like when I have to learn how to do something new with it, too. Right down to the squinting to read the screen.
Moving on.
Along with her endless, nonsensical babbling, her hilarious animal noises and her bizarre tendency to to start laughing out of nowhere, at nothing, for no reason, the baby has now started to dance- which I will say is a welcomed addition to her ridiculous daily performance. Lately she has been in to absolutely everything, and has developed an attitude about it, so the dancing and other funny things that she does are often times the only thing keeping me from taking her down to the shelter and trading her in for another cat. Seriously. It is like she is 14 sometimes, only instead of being mad that I won't let her go to the mall with her new car-driving boyfriend she is upset that I won't let her play with the trash, or try and drink the cat's water.
The dance itself is still in its infancy, and at this point is little more than an up and down leg pump. Kind of like she is doing the behind the couch elevator trick, only much quicker. Eventually, she tries to move her feet, which typically results in a stumble or an unidentifiable side to side movement. Av's upper body doesn't really move during the dance, which makes it all the more funny, and it never really lasts for more than a few seconds. Interestingly enough, Monica compares it closely to the way I dance after a few beers. I refute this notion. I have much more leg movement and I make cool faces.
Now, obviously every kid dances, usually poorly and hysterically, especially when they are as tiny as Av- just watch an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, or America's Funniest Home Videos. What makes Av's dancing more funny to me is when it actually takes place. Unlike most kids, it is never really prompted. She won't do it on cue, rather, she will just spontaneously break out in to dance any time that she hears a song- or noise- that she likes. Sure, she does it plenty when her loud toys play kid music (she has an aquatic-themed turtle jukebox that plays about 50 different instrumental versions of kid songs like 'Twinkle Twinkle' or 'Home Home on the Range'), but it is much funnier when it is prompted by something else.
Sometimes during the day a jingle from a TV or radio commercial will prompt a spontaneous moment of dance, and other times it will be just out of the blue with no sound at all, but I think my favorite time that it happens is in the car when a song she likes comes on the radio. I like the car dance for two reasons. First, she is sitting down and strapped in, so instead of dancing she will just put her feet up in the air, shake them and laugh. Second, the songs that she chooses to dance to make absolutely no sense.
Music to me, like a lot of people, is a pretty important thing. It gets a lot of us through the day- even when you are hanging out with a baby. I am, by my own admission, a music snob. I like the music I listen to and I hate the music that you listen to. Unless we listen to the same music, in which case, we should hang out more because I haven't met very many people like you. Because of this, I have made it a point early on to play a lot of music when I am around the baby. I think that it is important that she listen to various kinds of music, aside from the "enriching" classical music and the ridiculous kid songs that those "child experts" insist on jamming down her throat. I'm not saying she shouldn't listen to that stuff, I'm just saying she gets enough of it from her toys and her videos, and even a 1-year-old needs to rock out a little sometimes.
In any event, I find her taste in music to be very curious. Through months of experimenting, I have found that her taste really lies in the classics. The older the song, the more chance of getting a leg shake. Favorites include the Police (probably because of Sting's cartoonish voice) Talking Heads (who doesn't love 'Burning Down the House?') and Jimmi Hendrix. She has also been seen leg shaking to the Animals (the most curious of them all given how dark most of those songs are), Boston, Tom Petty and Neil Young, but it usually depends on which song it is. When it comes to more modern music, her taste becomes more selective. I have found that she is not at all a fan of hip hop, even the really good old school stuff, and she can take or leave modern rock. I just don't think that it is fun enough for her. The one group that she does really love is an obscure experimental/ instrumental rock band called The Octopus Project. Each song is essentially 5-8 minutes of strange space noises set to a beat. She loves it. Dances to the whole catalog. What does this all mean? Probably not a damn thing. Or maybe I am going to spend the next 18 years living with a hippie, which given how much her and her mother are already alike is a pretty strong possibility. As long as she washes her hair and doesn't start listening to Phish I guess I don't care.
Deep down I know that I am going to have little or no influence over what my daughter eventually starts to listen to, so for now I am just going to endure whatever it is that prompts the funniest dance. Hopefully the leg shake and the elevator dance evolve a little bit so that I can film it and win the $100,000 grand prize on AFV. The last kid who won laid down some solid moves, but I have confidence that Av has it in her to break out something better than that kid's air hump.
Sorry again about the lack of video. I'll get one up in the next few days. Stay tuned.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Episode 72: Dad sneakers
I have never really been all that interested in fashion, in fact, I really don't understand most of that scene- like who decides what is "in" and what isn't? Who decides when there is going to be a new trend? Or when an old one is coming back? Monica is a very fashionable person, and sometimes when I see the things she buys or I see the things that her equally fashionable (some of them) friends are wearing I just don't get it. For example, I have noticed the recent emergence of "body belts" (my term)- that is belts that don't hold your pants up, rather are worn around the stomach or under the boobs. Why? I don't get it. I don't get it at all.
Overall, fashion seems to be taking this retro-modern turn lately. Like everyone wants to dress like they did in the 20's or the 50's, only they don't, really, so they just take these throwback elements and add this new, hipster, trendy twist. Then all the chicks get their hair cut with bangs, all the dudes where jeans that are too small and everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, has to have a tattoo. (Note, I don't have a problem with tattoos. I have a few myself. What I have a problem with is people getting them just to get them- or to complete their duchebag hipster style. It is like when kids had those snap bracelets in middle school. Only permanent.) Whatever. The point is that for pretty much my entire life I have been a jeans, t-shirt and sneaker sort of guy. I wore shirts and ties when I had a desk job and in the winter I wear sweaters. Sometimes the t-shirts say things, like a sports team or a band I like, but I try to shy away from making too many statements. Statements start conversations, and I pretty much hate people.
Much of my apathetic fashion sense can be attributed to my strange body type and relative self-conscious nature. I have experienced two growth spurts in my life. When I was about 15 I sprung up to 6'1, but still weighed about 130 pounds until I was 22. That is when the second growth spurt came and I "filled out" to about 200 pounds. That was in 2006, which, coincidentally, is the last time I updated my wardrobe. I certainly don't feel that my body type warrants wearing anything that will show it off. I don't wear muscle shirts, because I have no muscles, for example, and I don't wear skinny jeans because , well, I'm pretty much the opposite of skinny. Get it? Good.
All in all I don't particularly care what i look like. Let's face it, it isn't like I am going out to clubs every night to pick up chicks. But one thing that I do care about is the appearance of my footwear. Obviously, since I am a t-shirt and jeans guy, I spend most of my day in sneakers. I always have. I have a pair of wing tips for my desk job and some black dress shoes for weddings and stuff and that is it. The type of sneaker that I wear is very important to me. I hate running shoes because they are mostly mesh and usually some shocking "fast" color. I can't wear canvas shoes like Chuck Taylors because, well, that is one of those styles you establish at 13, not 26. After that there isn't much left. You have your casual sneaker, your skateboard sneaker or your stupid trendy hipster metrosexual fake soccer shoe that every European kid and Jersey Shore meat head wears.
Due to the fact that I have not updated the wardrobe since 2006, and the fact that on occasion I tend to experience mild-moderate foot odor, Monica recently made it known to me that it was time to ditch my 4-year-old Pumas (with holes in the toes) and get a new pair of shoes. I loved those Pumas. They were the greatest sneakers ever. RIP.
Beginning around Christmas time I began my quest for a new pair. My demands were simple, if I couldn't find the exact same sneaker that I had- a Puma Rs-100 in gray- I wanted to find something relatively close. Easy enough, right?
Hours were spent on the Internet and in shoe stores looking for what I wanted. Of course, I could not find the shoes I had before in a reasonable color (seriously, why do sneakers have to be purple? Or orange? Or red? What the hell is wrong with people?) and I couldn't find anything close. Everything is a skateboard shoe. I hate skateboard shoes. It is like wearing the shoebox on your foot. They are perfect rectangles. Finally, I took my quest to Marshalls and found what I thought at the time were a nice, grown up pair of sneakers. They are made by the company Rocketdog (which may have helped the sale, that's a cool name) and they look like this:
Nice, right? I thought so, too. Not something I would normally wear, but they looked durable, were fairly comfortable and seemed grown up. A nice alternative to the previous pair I had thought about buying, which would have been nice if the shoelaces were the same color as the shoes. But they weren't. They were orange. What the hell? So, I bought the Rocketdogs and took them home, proud of my decision to grow up.
Now about two months later I could not regret this decision more. The shoes are comfortable and durable, two great features, but when I wear them the only real thought I have is "wow, I must look like a massive, massive tool." Other words that come to mind when I look at myself are "dink," "loser," "dill weed," "dork," "dufus," or any reasonable variation or combination of those- like "dinkus" or "dorkus." Wearing brown shoes with jeans makes me feel like an anti-social accountant or computer programmer with a Star Wars poster in my cubicle. It suggests that I collect stamps, or that I might be one of those adults that still carries a back pack around for no reason. No offense to anyone who does these things, everyone has their own nerdy tendencies (I admittedly watch NASCAR), but even though I don't have a style, if I did, it still wouldn't be that.
The worst part of it is that I still wear these dad sneakers pretty much every day. Along with my faded, too small shirts and my Old Navy era 2005 jeans. I guess it just comes down to the fact that I am just not all that hip. Maybe I should start listening to hipper music. Or learn a hip hobby, like photography. Or, maybe I could just get some bigger t-shirts that say hip things. It looks like my style is going to have to be a work in progress. Damn, it is a good thing I don't have to ever go on dates.
School vacation week is over, which means I am back to being a full time dad and the days are a little bit more boring, but the baby is increasingly more mobile and talkative, so it keeps me busy. She also doesn't care what I look like, which is nice, although, I bet she will probably hate my nerdy dad sneakers soon, too.
Overall, fashion seems to be taking this retro-modern turn lately. Like everyone wants to dress like they did in the 20's or the 50's, only they don't, really, so they just take these throwback elements and add this new, hipster, trendy twist. Then all the chicks get their hair cut with bangs, all the dudes where jeans that are too small and everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, has to have a tattoo. (Note, I don't have a problem with tattoos. I have a few myself. What I have a problem with is people getting them just to get them- or to complete their duchebag hipster style. It is like when kids had those snap bracelets in middle school. Only permanent.) Whatever. The point is that for pretty much my entire life I have been a jeans, t-shirt and sneaker sort of guy. I wore shirts and ties when I had a desk job and in the winter I wear sweaters. Sometimes the t-shirts say things, like a sports team or a band I like, but I try to shy away from making too many statements. Statements start conversations, and I pretty much hate people.
Much of my apathetic fashion sense can be attributed to my strange body type and relative self-conscious nature. I have experienced two growth spurts in my life. When I was about 15 I sprung up to 6'1, but still weighed about 130 pounds until I was 22. That is when the second growth spurt came and I "filled out" to about 200 pounds. That was in 2006, which, coincidentally, is the last time I updated my wardrobe. I certainly don't feel that my body type warrants wearing anything that will show it off. I don't wear muscle shirts, because I have no muscles, for example, and I don't wear skinny jeans because , well, I'm pretty much the opposite of skinny. Get it? Good.
All in all I don't particularly care what i look like. Let's face it, it isn't like I am going out to clubs every night to pick up chicks. But one thing that I do care about is the appearance of my footwear. Obviously, since I am a t-shirt and jeans guy, I spend most of my day in sneakers. I always have. I have a pair of wing tips for my desk job and some black dress shoes for weddings and stuff and that is it. The type of sneaker that I wear is very important to me. I hate running shoes because they are mostly mesh and usually some shocking "fast" color. I can't wear canvas shoes like Chuck Taylors because, well, that is one of those styles you establish at 13, not 26. After that there isn't much left. You have your casual sneaker, your skateboard sneaker or your stupid trendy hipster metrosexual fake soccer shoe that every European kid and Jersey Shore meat head wears.
Due to the fact that I have not updated the wardrobe since 2006, and the fact that on occasion I tend to experience mild-moderate foot odor, Monica recently made it known to me that it was time to ditch my 4-year-old Pumas (with holes in the toes) and get a new pair of shoes. I loved those Pumas. They were the greatest sneakers ever. RIP.
Beginning around Christmas time I began my quest for a new pair. My demands were simple, if I couldn't find the exact same sneaker that I had- a Puma Rs-100 in gray- I wanted to find something relatively close. Easy enough, right?
Hours were spent on the Internet and in shoe stores looking for what I wanted. Of course, I could not find the shoes I had before in a reasonable color (seriously, why do sneakers have to be purple? Or orange? Or red? What the hell is wrong with people?) and I couldn't find anything close. Everything is a skateboard shoe. I hate skateboard shoes. It is like wearing the shoebox on your foot. They are perfect rectangles. Finally, I took my quest to Marshalls and found what I thought at the time were a nice, grown up pair of sneakers. They are made by the company Rocketdog (which may have helped the sale, that's a cool name) and they look like this:
Nice, right? I thought so, too. Not something I would normally wear, but they looked durable, were fairly comfortable and seemed grown up. A nice alternative to the previous pair I had thought about buying, which would have been nice if the shoelaces were the same color as the shoes. But they weren't. They were orange. What the hell? So, I bought the Rocketdogs and took them home, proud of my decision to grow up.
Now about two months later I could not regret this decision more. The shoes are comfortable and durable, two great features, but when I wear them the only real thought I have is "wow, I must look like a massive, massive tool." Other words that come to mind when I look at myself are "dink," "loser," "dill weed," "dork," "dufus," or any reasonable variation or combination of those- like "dinkus" or "dorkus." Wearing brown shoes with jeans makes me feel like an anti-social accountant or computer programmer with a Star Wars poster in my cubicle. It suggests that I collect stamps, or that I might be one of those adults that still carries a back pack around for no reason. No offense to anyone who does these things, everyone has their own nerdy tendencies (I admittedly watch NASCAR), but even though I don't have a style, if I did, it still wouldn't be that.
The worst part of it is that I still wear these dad sneakers pretty much every day. Along with my faded, too small shirts and my Old Navy era 2005 jeans. I guess it just comes down to the fact that I am just not all that hip. Maybe I should start listening to hipper music. Or learn a hip hobby, like photography. Or, maybe I could just get some bigger t-shirts that say hip things. It looks like my style is going to have to be a work in progress. Damn, it is a good thing I don't have to ever go on dates.
School vacation week is over, which means I am back to being a full time dad and the days are a little bit more boring, but the baby is increasingly more mobile and talkative, so it keeps me busy. She also doesn't care what I look like, which is nice, although, I bet she will probably hate my nerdy dad sneakers soon, too.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Episode 71: My day at the zoo
Ok class, time for everyone to talk about what we did over April vacation. Dan, let's start with you. What did you do over your Spring break? If this were real and I really was an 8-year-old again the story that I would tell from this week would be about our family trip to the zoo.Much like our 1-year-old daughter, the trip to the zoo was my very first, and you could argue that I was more excited than she was about it. *I should note here that my mother claims I have been to the zoo on multiple occasions, but these trips seemingly took place when I was about 6-years-old, thus I have no recollection of the events of those days. I have been to petting zoos and aquariums, but for all intents and purposes, I'm calling this my first trip to the zoo.
I am a big fan of animals in general. I think they are funny and entertaining. I like to imagine what their personalities would be like and I enjoy watching them run around and fight and play. Now that I spend so much time with Av, I like them even more. She loves animals, too, and her reactions to them are priceless. She yells, points, makes animal noises and growls. Just the mere excitement I know she feels is enough to keep me entertained. This doesn't just go for live animals, either. When I was a kid I had hundreds of stuffed, toy friends. I always thought it was cool when I found a new animal that I didn't have yet. Av appears to be the same way. She loves seeing stuffed friends at the store and every morning starts with hugs for all of the friends at the house. In just 14 months we have collected so many that Monica has placed a moratorium on bringing more home. And that is a difficult rule to adhere to.
All of this means that a trip to the zoo was bound to be a big hit for everyone involved. With Monica home this week we decided that now was as good a time as any to take a day trip to Stoneham, and set out Thursday morning with a sack full of snacks and smiles on our faces. Personally, I was so excited about the zoo that I couldn't stop thinking about it while I was at work Wednesday night. When we got there the first thing I did was tear open the guide and start directing everyone to where we should go first. I was like a little kid.
For her part, Av loved the zoo. Most animals were referred to as "kitty," but we did get her to make some monkey noises and witnessed a hysterical attempt to make a sheep noise, which really just kind of came out sounding like something in between a growl and a smoker's cough. There was also a lot of pointing and yelling "wooooowwwww!"
Here you see some of my award-winning photography as her and Monica explored the wonderful world of flamingos.
The flamingos were part of a larger wild bird exhibit, something that I was not really all that in to, although there were some cool looking creatures in there. My problem with the bird room was that a few of the birds were allowed for some reason to fly free around the room, triggering one of my many irrational fears- that is being trapped inside with a bird. Terrified, I was forced to walk through the wild bird room, and I really just tried to keep my head down and hope that I wasn't buzzed by some exotic sparrow. Monica compared the situation to being in the Lowe's garden center when a bird gets trapped inside. She was right, it was just like that, and that is terrifying.Other than the birds, the zoo that we went to seemed to specialize in smaller animals from around the world, although there were some black bears, cougars and a jaguar in the mix. Mostly, though, we saw a lot of tiny exotic guys like meerkats, porcupine, a fox, a wolf and a linx. There were also some mountain goats chillin' on some rocks nearby, sandwiched in between the wolf and the snow leopard, which seemed like a cruel taunt to both the predators and the prey.
Above you will see my un-combed hair and stupid dad jeans showing Av what I felt was the most disappointing exhibit, the monkeys. In all there were four types of monkeys at the zoo, but none of them did a damn thing. There were no tricks, no banana eating, poop flinging or fly-eating. There were no big gorillas or apes, just smaller tree-climbing guys, and all any of them did was sit around and look at us. Above you see the two monkeys that Av loved the most. These guys got a "woooooowwww" AND their very own monkey noises, so I suppose it was not a disappointment for all of us.
All in all the zoo trip was a great time. It was a nice day, there were plenty of animals and, most importantly, there were plenty of funny baby exploring and discovery moments. For me, I thoroughly enjoyed my "first" zoo experience, but I did start to feel bad for the animals after a while, especially the cougar who kept pacing around his area like he wanted to go for a run, but there wasn't nearly enough room for him. I think in the future I would like to attend a larger zoo, perhaps one with a lion or a giraffe.
Ever see a giraffe give birth?
Now you have. Gross, huh? Also, that baby giraffe is not dead. At least that's what the people who posted it to Youtube said.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Episode 70: There is no way running a marathon is good for you
Bloody feet, chaffed, torn nipples, 4-6 hours of constant abuse and pounding on your knees, that light-headed feeling you only get after too much exercise (or showing up hung over to an omelet-heavy brunch buffet), yes, these are all the glorious side effects of waking up early on a Massachusetts-only Monday holiday to run 26-point-whatever miles in the name of tradition.
I'm not saying that running the Boston Marathon isn't impressive- just unnecessary. It has always been my belief that running should only be done if there is a purpose behind it, like you are being chased by the police, playing a sport or trying to out run an explosion. Running under any other circumstance is a form of personal torture, masochism even.
I have always had a disdain for running, if even just for exercise, mostly because I was the kid who could never keep up. I weighed like 120 pounds until I was 22, but somehow I still wasn't fast. I was always winded and light headed after about 10 minutes (which somehow always prompted my high school basketball coach to make me run more), and just a few minutes on a treadmill leaves my legs stiff, my knees in blistering pain and my head woozy. Notice, though, how I did not say anything about my feet hurting.
That is because I spent a solid three years of my mid-20's as a running shoe-hawking salesman at a small community-owned shoe store. Since it is still in business and not an evil corporate chain, I'll go ahead and leave the name out, even though most of you already know where it is. I strongly believe taking care of your feet is one of the most important things you can do for your body. I hate them and I think they are disgusting (seriously, is there anything more unsettling than bare feet?) but if your feet hurt the rest of your body- your back, neck, shoulders- will all hurt. It is absolutely essential that people wear sensible shoes when walking, working on their feet and exercising. Essential.
Still, why would someone like me- who hates running more than just about any activity short of the dentist, and who has a crippling, irrational fear of the human foot- take a job selling running shoes? Because I am an idiot, that's why. From the ages of 13-19 I worked exclusively in the service industry until some connections got me a sweet job with the city cutting grass, cleaning apartments and doing maintenance in the projects. It wasn't glory and I wasn't rich, but for a teenage kid I was pretty well off. Then I went to college and ruined everything.
Broke and miserable, like every college student, I set out to find a job to support my beer, pizza and irrational sports-related clothing habits. Like a moron I said to myself "no more restaurants, I've done it my whole life and I hate dealing with the people"- potentially the dumbest choice a 21-year-old kid with no money and a desire to drink and hang out with girls could have made. Ever. So, instead of making $28/ hr waiting tables somewhere three days a week I decided to settle on a $8/ hour job selling running shoes with high school kids. Why? Because I was out by 9 p.m. and the job involved little to no effort.
Were there good parts to the job? Of course. I worked with a bunch of my friends and quickly moved up the ladder to a position of relative power, complete with a raise to $9/ hour. There were enough ignorant high school kids working under me that most of my day was spent making them help customers while I got stoned behind the dumpster, stacked and organized shoe boxes and set up new wall displays. My productivity on those days was at an all time high. I was, without question, an organizational mastermind.
The problem with the job was (SURPRISE!) the customers. All of the things I hated about the service industry, like being treated and spoken to as if I were an illegal house cleaner, dealing with moronic questions and complaints and bartering over the prices of things set by someone much higher up than me, were actually magnified as a shoe salesman- and there were no tips to make it worthwhile, either.
Unlike a large chain like Olympia Sports or Foot Locker, we only had two locations and specialized in high-end running equipment, meaning that the majority of our clientele were snooty, yuppie rich people who thought they knew everything about running an running shoes. If you haven't noticed by now, rich people and know-it-all's are like oil to my water. As a result I was involved in many customer confrontations, most of which were a result of me overreacting, but with reason. I knew my shit about those shoes and even though I wasn't dumb enough to go train for a marathon, I could tell you exactly what kind of sneaker you needed so that you could do your thing without hurting your feet. Furthermore, the prices of the sneakers were printed on the box- set by the manufacturer, and we offered a 15 percent discount to just about anyone who was a member of a gym or the local Jewish Community Center (later, we would secretly revise that list to include an unspoken 'hot chick' discount as well.), yet I was still forced to hear people bitch about having to buy $115 shoes, even as they paid with American Express Black cards and remotely started their Lexus' from the store.
It is remarkable that I was never fired from this job, but what is more remarkable is that having no money, dealing with snobs and looking at feet all day was not enough to make me quit. I will say that in three years at that job I never once actually touched a foot. I laced them up (I'll win any sneaker-lacing race you want to organize, thank you very much) and handed them to the customer. Once in a while I'd put the shoe on the floor for them to step in to. That's it. Nine bucks is not even close to enough to get me to cross that line.
So, why did I tell you this story? Because it is school vacation week and Monica is home, which means the baby has no desire to hang out with me. Just remember to take care of your feet, people, especially if you are going to torture yourself by running 26 miles .
I'm not saying that running the Boston Marathon isn't impressive- just unnecessary. It has always been my belief that running should only be done if there is a purpose behind it, like you are being chased by the police, playing a sport or trying to out run an explosion. Running under any other circumstance is a form of personal torture, masochism even.
I have always had a disdain for running, if even just for exercise, mostly because I was the kid who could never keep up. I weighed like 120 pounds until I was 22, but somehow I still wasn't fast. I was always winded and light headed after about 10 minutes (which somehow always prompted my high school basketball coach to make me run more), and just a few minutes on a treadmill leaves my legs stiff, my knees in blistering pain and my head woozy. Notice, though, how I did not say anything about my feet hurting.
That is because I spent a solid three years of my mid-20's as a running shoe-hawking salesman at a small community-owned shoe store. Since it is still in business and not an evil corporate chain, I'll go ahead and leave the name out, even though most of you already know where it is. I strongly believe taking care of your feet is one of the most important things you can do for your body. I hate them and I think they are disgusting (seriously, is there anything more unsettling than bare feet?) but if your feet hurt the rest of your body- your back, neck, shoulders- will all hurt. It is absolutely essential that people wear sensible shoes when walking, working on their feet and exercising. Essential.
Still, why would someone like me- who hates running more than just about any activity short of the dentist, and who has a crippling, irrational fear of the human foot- take a job selling running shoes? Because I am an idiot, that's why. From the ages of 13-19 I worked exclusively in the service industry until some connections got me a sweet job with the city cutting grass, cleaning apartments and doing maintenance in the projects. It wasn't glory and I wasn't rich, but for a teenage kid I was pretty well off. Then I went to college and ruined everything.
Broke and miserable, like every college student, I set out to find a job to support my beer, pizza and irrational sports-related clothing habits. Like a moron I said to myself "no more restaurants, I've done it my whole life and I hate dealing with the people"- potentially the dumbest choice a 21-year-old kid with no money and a desire to drink and hang out with girls could have made. Ever. So, instead of making $28/ hr waiting tables somewhere three days a week I decided to settle on a $8/ hour job selling running shoes with high school kids. Why? Because I was out by 9 p.m. and the job involved little to no effort.
Were there good parts to the job? Of course. I worked with a bunch of my friends and quickly moved up the ladder to a position of relative power, complete with a raise to $9/ hour. There were enough ignorant high school kids working under me that most of my day was spent making them help customers while I got stoned behind the dumpster, stacked and organized shoe boxes and set up new wall displays. My productivity on those days was at an all time high. I was, without question, an organizational mastermind.
The problem with the job was (SURPRISE!) the customers. All of the things I hated about the service industry, like being treated and spoken to as if I were an illegal house cleaner, dealing with moronic questions and complaints and bartering over the prices of things set by someone much higher up than me, were actually magnified as a shoe salesman- and there were no tips to make it worthwhile, either.
Unlike a large chain like Olympia Sports or Foot Locker, we only had two locations and specialized in high-end running equipment, meaning that the majority of our clientele were snooty, yuppie rich people who thought they knew everything about running an running shoes. If you haven't noticed by now, rich people and know-it-all's are like oil to my water. As a result I was involved in many customer confrontations, most of which were a result of me overreacting, but with reason. I knew my shit about those shoes and even though I wasn't dumb enough to go train for a marathon, I could tell you exactly what kind of sneaker you needed so that you could do your thing without hurting your feet. Furthermore, the prices of the sneakers were printed on the box- set by the manufacturer, and we offered a 15 percent discount to just about anyone who was a member of a gym or the local Jewish Community Center (later, we would secretly revise that list to include an unspoken 'hot chick' discount as well.), yet I was still forced to hear people bitch about having to buy $115 shoes, even as they paid with American Express Black cards and remotely started their Lexus' from the store.
It is remarkable that I was never fired from this job, but what is more remarkable is that having no money, dealing with snobs and looking at feet all day was not enough to make me quit. I will say that in three years at that job I never once actually touched a foot. I laced them up (I'll win any sneaker-lacing race you want to organize, thank you very much) and handed them to the customer. Once in a while I'd put the shoe on the floor for them to step in to. That's it. Nine bucks is not even close to enough to get me to cross that line.
So, why did I tell you this story? Because it is school vacation week and Monica is home, which means the baby has no desire to hang out with me. Just remember to take care of your feet, people, especially if you are going to torture yourself by running 26 miles .
Friday, April 16, 2010
Episode 69: In which I am shocked by the events that took place at CVS
Since her first trip to the doctor Av has always been considered kind of a freak of nature. She has always been super big, her teeth came in early and haven't stopped, she started walking and running before most 1-year-olds can figure out how to stand up. Everything about her would suggest that she is older than she is. Even moms at the park are surprised to find out how young she is when I tell them- and everyone knows that moms at the park know everything about kids, or at least that is what they would like you to think. The only thing that has been kind of lagging with Av is her speech. She is chatty and noisy, but she rarely- if ever- actually forms words. She is so far behind that the doctor told us in February that if she isn't talking yet in a few months to give her a call. ( I have also found, however, that pediatricians in general like to scare you in to thinking there is something wrong with your kid- see the x-ray we had to have last month for the phantom hip problem she supposedly had- so I am not too worried about her speech development).
Eventually some of the noises have evolved in to words. She can now say "kitty" and "dog" in reference to the actual animals (I am crediting "kitty" as her first word since I don't think we ever really documented what that was), she calls me Daddy and she occasionally mimics other sounds like "hey" or "hi" but doesn't use them conversationally. She has always kind of just stated the fact that it was a cat or a dog or summoned my by yelling "Daddy" but that has been it. Recently she has been saying "hi" here and there, never in the right context and mostly just because she hears us say it and it is an easy noise to make. She has never said hi to me or Monica as a an actual greeting, and I have really only heard her say it maybe three or four times in general.
So you can imagine my surprise today when a nice woman named Rosa working in the photo department at CVS looked at the baby and said "ohh, you are so cute. Hello there" and the baby, without hesitation, said "hi." I almost dropped her right there. Rosa thought it was cute, and when I explained that she had never done that before she looked at the baby and said "ohh thank you!" Av responded with a toothy grin.
Since our days are often pretty mundane and consist of a lot of errand running we have our own little clan of cashiers who recognize us spread throughout the Greater Salem area. There is sickly chair man at the Swampscott Walgreens, quiet Spanish lady from the Family Dollar, punk rock hair/belt chain girl from the Salem Walgreens and, my personal favorite, Nandu, an older Indian man from the Walmart on route 114. He is the nicest one of them all and he loves the baby. Every day one of these people will speak to the baby, say hello, tell her how cute she is etc... and Av has the same response every time- that is to bury her head in my shoulder, peek out with one eye and give a shy smile. Only when we walk away does she unearth her head and stare at them smiling as we exit the store.
This makes it all the more amazing that Rosa, who we have never seen before working in a CVS we almost never go to, got a "hi" right off the bat. She didn't even get shy first. Amazing. Incredible. I hope she keeps it up because Nandu will shit his pants if she says hi to him next time, and so will Walgreen's chair man (if his medical issues have not caused him to do that already. Seriously, the guy is not well. He needs a chair because he has one of those giant diabetes legs. He looks like he has about 10 days to live).
Is it sad that I have formed relationships with common, every day discount store employees? Yes, but let's not forget the point of the story here. Today my kid decided to talk to someone. I have always said that it would really trip me out when she started to talk and I was right. My head is still spinning. I almost want to wake her up and take her out shopping to see if she will do it again. I won't though, because I'm hungry.
Eventually some of the noises have evolved in to words. She can now say "kitty" and "dog" in reference to the actual animals (I am crediting "kitty" as her first word since I don't think we ever really documented what that was), she calls me Daddy and she occasionally mimics other sounds like "hey" or "hi" but doesn't use them conversationally. She has always kind of just stated the fact that it was a cat or a dog or summoned my by yelling "Daddy" but that has been it. Recently she has been saying "hi" here and there, never in the right context and mostly just because she hears us say it and it is an easy noise to make. She has never said hi to me or Monica as a an actual greeting, and I have really only heard her say it maybe three or four times in general.
So you can imagine my surprise today when a nice woman named Rosa working in the photo department at CVS looked at the baby and said "ohh, you are so cute. Hello there" and the baby, without hesitation, said "hi." I almost dropped her right there. Rosa thought it was cute, and when I explained that she had never done that before she looked at the baby and said "ohh thank you!" Av responded with a toothy grin.
Since our days are often pretty mundane and consist of a lot of errand running we have our own little clan of cashiers who recognize us spread throughout the Greater Salem area. There is sickly chair man at the Swampscott Walgreens, quiet Spanish lady from the Family Dollar, punk rock hair/belt chain girl from the Salem Walgreens and, my personal favorite, Nandu, an older Indian man from the Walmart on route 114. He is the nicest one of them all and he loves the baby. Every day one of these people will speak to the baby, say hello, tell her how cute she is etc... and Av has the same response every time- that is to bury her head in my shoulder, peek out with one eye and give a shy smile. Only when we walk away does she unearth her head and stare at them smiling as we exit the store.
This makes it all the more amazing that Rosa, who we have never seen before working in a CVS we almost never go to, got a "hi" right off the bat. She didn't even get shy first. Amazing. Incredible. I hope she keeps it up because Nandu will shit his pants if she says hi to him next time, and so will Walgreen's chair man (if his medical issues have not caused him to do that already. Seriously, the guy is not well. He needs a chair because he has one of those giant diabetes legs. He looks like he has about 10 days to live).
Is it sad that I have formed relationships with common, every day discount store employees? Yes, but let's not forget the point of the story here. Today my kid decided to talk to someone. I have always said that it would really trip me out when she started to talk and I was right. My head is still spinning. I almost want to wake her up and take her out shopping to see if she will do it again. I won't though, because I'm hungry.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Episode 68: The one where a small disaster leads to two days of manic thoughts and eventual excretion of insecurity and insanity
Sorry for the long title, but after reading the crap I just spewed on the screen I could think of no other way to describe this. Almost like watching the video of Steve Irwin dying, I am going to leave the post as is, you know, for posterity.
Do you ever watch those History Channel shows like Mega Disasters or Monster Quest? You know, the ones where crazy smart scientists search for mythical creatures, or try and predict what will happen if a super massive black hole swallows the Earth, or if a tidal wave were to somehow ravage the entire East Coast? No? Well, I am a nerd, so I do. Actually, my interest in the shows isn't really because I am a nerd- I really don't understand half of what they are talking about, especially if it involves numbers or science of any kind- it is more because I lack the emotional stability to watch most television programming.
Aside from sports, game shows and the occasional tolerable reality TV show I am really only capable of watching half-hour or hour long comedies. Most of the time movies are too much of a whirl wind for me, and TV dramas are either too emotional or way, way too unrealistic to sit through. The one exception to this has always been House, but I have abandoned that show lately, too. There are only so many obscure diseases that you can cure in 56 minutes. Seriously, it has gotten to the point where I am watching and someone on the show comes up with a great idea and I'm like "Wow, that sounds like a plausible explanation for the victim's symptoms, but it is only 8:37, it must be wrong."
I am not sure what those last two rambling paragraphs really have to do with anything, but the baby has pretty much launched her own show over the last two days that I have started calling "Disaster Quest." Yeah, that's where I was going with it. Give me a break, they can't all be winners.
Basically over the past 48 hours Av has decided that she is going to try and do everything in her power to either get hurt, break something expensive or make herself retarded. It started yesterday afternoon with a daring attempt to scale an end table and chase a cat on to a window sill and has continued through this morning where I have thwarted multiple attempts to access and eat kitty litter.
The problem is that she is extremely mobile and constantly chasing those damn cats around when we are home, which always leads to trouble. Combine that with an uncanny knack for determining exactly what I don't want her to do and she has become more than a hand full for me. Far and away the biggest disaster so far occurred yesterday afternoon.
We had just finished lunch and I had lifted her out of the high chair so that she could run around and play. I tossed some Blue's Cues on the TV and started to pick up around the house a little bit, paying attention to her but not playing with her. A few minutes later she decided to pick up an unopened can of Coke from a half-empty 12 pack sitting on the kitchen floor. This is not uncommon, she likes to play with the bottles of things waiting to go in to the fridge, but usually aluminum cans are passed over because they are kind of heavy and they hurt her teeth. I watched her pick up the can and walk in to the living room. Before I could turn off the sink I heard a crash followed by some laughing. What I found when I turned the corner was an absolute mess. Somehow she managed to drop (or throw) the can so that the tab on the top hit the end of the coffee table causing the can to open slightly and spray soda all over the living room. Of course, Av then picked up the can (still laughing) and turned it upside down, spilling the rest of the soda on to the table, and the trouble didn't end there.
As I was frantically trying to move the computer and remote controls from the path of the sticky liquid I noticed that she had decided to stick her finger in the top of the can. Now, obviously I couldn't reach over and grab it because I would risk cutting off the end of her finger, so I had to toss the electronics on to the couch and slowly remove the can, sparking a fit.
Once I got the can confiscated and the baby away from the mess I distracted her with some toys so that I could get started on the clean up. I grabbed some paper towels, all purpose cleaner and Murphy's Oil Soap for the hard wood floors and the wood table. The next 15 minutes were spent fending her off while I tried to soak the soda up from the carpet and clean off the table top. During this time she made it her goal to poison herself and become retarded. First, she attempted to get down on her knees and drink the cleaner that I had sprayed on the floor. When I put an end to that she grabbed the bottle of Murphy's and tried to chew on the cap. Eventually, I was able to get the mess cleaned up, but not without breaking an intense sweat trying to keep her away from everything. I am sure there is a more efficient way to handle that situation, but I am still a rookie and I couldn't tell you what that was.
Unfortunately for me, her Disaster Quest did not end there. Later in the evening I was given the task of putting together a small play kitchen Monica had found at the Family Dollar. Although the process was fairly smooth, the baby was able to escape Monica's grasp a few times and head right for the scissors, the screw driver and a pile of jagged plastic that I had to cut the pieces for the kitchen out of.
I woke up this morning wondering exactly what I was in for today, but luckily it has been fairly quiet. Except for when she ran behind the kids on the swings at the park, nearly getting punted across the playground, and when she tried to jump off of the bed and chase the cats- mild in comparison to yesterday. Then again, it is only 12:15, so I have at least another three hours of prevention ahead of me before Monica gets home.
I am not one to talk highly about my accomplishments, but I consider myself to be a person of at least average intelligence- even if I am too emotionally weak to watch fictional television programs and I can't cook dinner without burning a pan- so my question is, how do these dumb moms who don't pay attention to their kids keep them from destroying their homes, getting hurt and causing permanent damage to themselves and others? It has taken all that I have over the past two days to prevent this. I am tired, physically spent, and I don't even get paid for this job!
To be honest, I feel like the Coke incident has triggered some sort of short circuit in my brain. Since the disaster took place I have experienced a vast string of emotion that has caused me to, among other things, freak out at the post office about the mail man (again), develop homicidal thoughts toward American Idol's Adam Lambert and yell at a man with a dog for not using a cross walk. At the same time, I have been content enough to go to the supermarket in my slippers, smile and chat with moms and old women at the park and display unrivaled patience with my misbehaved child even as she hit me in the face with a banana peel today. I even had three dreams last night that I couldn't decipher from reality- so much so that I checked my sent text messages this morning to see if one of them was real.
As I mentally prepare to return to school next month (I wouldn't really call a 6-week course 'school' per say, maybe we'll call it training). As I mentally prepare to undergo 'training' next month the past 48-hours has caused me to seriously question my ability to once again function in the real world. If spending all day with a 1-year-old drains me physically and emotionally imagine what I will be like back in the office culture. I am going to run the risk of being described in some IT guy or accountant's blog as 'that anti-social weirdo from HR.' Then again, I do manage to communicate fairly well with hundreds of complete morons on a nightly basis working at the bar, the mail man does suck and my kid isn't retarded despite the adversity I have been thrown, so maybe I am prepared after all. I guess we are all just going to have to find out.
Do you ever watch those History Channel shows like Mega Disasters or Monster Quest? You know, the ones where crazy smart scientists search for mythical creatures, or try and predict what will happen if a super massive black hole swallows the Earth, or if a tidal wave were to somehow ravage the entire East Coast? No? Well, I am a nerd, so I do. Actually, my interest in the shows isn't really because I am a nerd- I really don't understand half of what they are talking about, especially if it involves numbers or science of any kind- it is more because I lack the emotional stability to watch most television programming.
Aside from sports, game shows and the occasional tolerable reality TV show I am really only capable of watching half-hour or hour long comedies. Most of the time movies are too much of a whirl wind for me, and TV dramas are either too emotional or way, way too unrealistic to sit through. The one exception to this has always been House, but I have abandoned that show lately, too. There are only so many obscure diseases that you can cure in 56 minutes. Seriously, it has gotten to the point where I am watching and someone on the show comes up with a great idea and I'm like "Wow, that sounds like a plausible explanation for the victim's symptoms, but it is only 8:37, it must be wrong."
I am not sure what those last two rambling paragraphs really have to do with anything, but the baby has pretty much launched her own show over the last two days that I have started calling "Disaster Quest." Yeah, that's where I was going with it. Give me a break, they can't all be winners.
Basically over the past 48 hours Av has decided that she is going to try and do everything in her power to either get hurt, break something expensive or make herself retarded. It started yesterday afternoon with a daring attempt to scale an end table and chase a cat on to a window sill and has continued through this morning where I have thwarted multiple attempts to access and eat kitty litter.
The problem is that she is extremely mobile and constantly chasing those damn cats around when we are home, which always leads to trouble. Combine that with an uncanny knack for determining exactly what I don't want her to do and she has become more than a hand full for me. Far and away the biggest disaster so far occurred yesterday afternoon.
We had just finished lunch and I had lifted her out of the high chair so that she could run around and play. I tossed some Blue's Cues on the TV and started to pick up around the house a little bit, paying attention to her but not playing with her. A few minutes later she decided to pick up an unopened can of Coke from a half-empty 12 pack sitting on the kitchen floor. This is not uncommon, she likes to play with the bottles of things waiting to go in to the fridge, but usually aluminum cans are passed over because they are kind of heavy and they hurt her teeth. I watched her pick up the can and walk in to the living room. Before I could turn off the sink I heard a crash followed by some laughing. What I found when I turned the corner was an absolute mess. Somehow she managed to drop (or throw) the can so that the tab on the top hit the end of the coffee table causing the can to open slightly and spray soda all over the living room. Of course, Av then picked up the can (still laughing) and turned it upside down, spilling the rest of the soda on to the table, and the trouble didn't end there.
As I was frantically trying to move the computer and remote controls from the path of the sticky liquid I noticed that she had decided to stick her finger in the top of the can. Now, obviously I couldn't reach over and grab it because I would risk cutting off the end of her finger, so I had to toss the electronics on to the couch and slowly remove the can, sparking a fit.
Once I got the can confiscated and the baby away from the mess I distracted her with some toys so that I could get started on the clean up. I grabbed some paper towels, all purpose cleaner and Murphy's Oil Soap for the hard wood floors and the wood table. The next 15 minutes were spent fending her off while I tried to soak the soda up from the carpet and clean off the table top. During this time she made it her goal to poison herself and become retarded. First, she attempted to get down on her knees and drink the cleaner that I had sprayed on the floor. When I put an end to that she grabbed the bottle of Murphy's and tried to chew on the cap. Eventually, I was able to get the mess cleaned up, but not without breaking an intense sweat trying to keep her away from everything. I am sure there is a more efficient way to handle that situation, but I am still a rookie and I couldn't tell you what that was.
Unfortunately for me, her Disaster Quest did not end there. Later in the evening I was given the task of putting together a small play kitchen Monica had found at the Family Dollar. Although the process was fairly smooth, the baby was able to escape Monica's grasp a few times and head right for the scissors, the screw driver and a pile of jagged plastic that I had to cut the pieces for the kitchen out of.
I woke up this morning wondering exactly what I was in for today, but luckily it has been fairly quiet. Except for when she ran behind the kids on the swings at the park, nearly getting punted across the playground, and when she tried to jump off of the bed and chase the cats- mild in comparison to yesterday. Then again, it is only 12:15, so I have at least another three hours of prevention ahead of me before Monica gets home.
I am not one to talk highly about my accomplishments, but I consider myself to be a person of at least average intelligence- even if I am too emotionally weak to watch fictional television programs and I can't cook dinner without burning a pan- so my question is, how do these dumb moms who don't pay attention to their kids keep them from destroying their homes, getting hurt and causing permanent damage to themselves and others? It has taken all that I have over the past two days to prevent this. I am tired, physically spent, and I don't even get paid for this job!
To be honest, I feel like the Coke incident has triggered some sort of short circuit in my brain. Since the disaster took place I have experienced a vast string of emotion that has caused me to, among other things, freak out at the post office about the mail man (again), develop homicidal thoughts toward American Idol's Adam Lambert and yell at a man with a dog for not using a cross walk. At the same time, I have been content enough to go to the supermarket in my slippers, smile and chat with moms and old women at the park and display unrivaled patience with my misbehaved child even as she hit me in the face with a banana peel today. I even had three dreams last night that I couldn't decipher from reality- so much so that I checked my sent text messages this morning to see if one of them was real.
As I mentally prepare to return to school next month (I wouldn't really call a 6-week course 'school' per say, maybe we'll call it training). As I mentally prepare to undergo 'training' next month the past 48-hours has caused me to seriously question my ability to once again function in the real world. If spending all day with a 1-year-old drains me physically and emotionally imagine what I will be like back in the office culture. I am going to run the risk of being described in some IT guy or accountant's blog as 'that anti-social weirdo from HR.' Then again, I do manage to communicate fairly well with hundreds of complete morons on a nightly basis working at the bar, the mail man does suck and my kid isn't retarded despite the adversity I have been thrown, so maybe I am prepared after all. I guess we are all just going to have to find out.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Episode 67: The growl
Today was an eventful one at the park. There was a lot of showing off 0n the swings, some time spent making friends with another baby, pointing and laughing at a girl with crazy hair and shiny shoes, a very large dog that licked the baby's face and a French dad with a man- purse toting around a little boy named Clovis. When all was said and done the two and a half hour excursion ended with Av falling asleep in a swing still quietly muttering "doggy" under her breath. That, my friends, is a kick ass morning if you are 1.
Probably the best thing that happened for me was when crazy hair girl was playing near Frenchy and Clovis and the following exchange took place.
Little Girl: (playing next to a very shy Clovis) "Hey- is that a girl?"
Frenchy: "No. It is a boy, his name is Clovis."
Little Girl: "Aren't you a boy, too?"
Frenchy: "Yes, I am. My name is Russell."
Little Girl: (Pointing to man purse) "Then why do you have a bag like my mommy?"
I literally started laughing out loud when she asked that, which then prompted the baby to do the same (she pretty much laughs by default whenever anyone else does), thus causing me to miss Frenchy's answer to the question, but just hearing it asked was enough for me. In his defense, the bag was for snacks and diapers, and he also laughed at the question realizing how much of a French pansy he looked like, but this does not excuse wearing the bag around his shoulder like a purse. To be honest, Frenchy actually seemed like he might be kind of a cool dad. He nicknamed the kid's snack "crunchy men" and sang a comic book sounding song when he gave Clovis the package. "Crunchy men, crunchy men, they know you're hungry and they are here to save the day!" That would entertain me if I were a kid.
Anyway, as has been the case since about last week, there was also a lot of growling going on. Growing at animals, other kids, parents, inanimate objects- anything, really. I consider this a small victory for yours truly. Several months ago the baby debuted this hysterical growl, which for the longest time was reserved only for pigs and used very, very rarely. Determined to make the growl a regular part of her repertoire I began growling at the baby daily, usually when we would look at pictures of animals or play with a toy animal that didn't already have a designated noise (like a bunny, for example).
After a while she would do it back to me on command, and eventually she started breaking it out more on her own. Now it is a major part of her vocabulary and it is hysterical every single time. Instead of chasing the cats around screaming "ditty!" she chases them around growling (she still can't figure out why they won't stop to play with her no matter how many times I explain that running at them with your arms over your head, screaming and growling may not be the best method). Instead of making a baby noise and smiling or laughing when you look at her sometimes she just growls, she will even just start growling in the back seat of the car for no reason. This should eventually be a fantastic compliment to stink eye. All she has to do is put them together.
I consider this to be a major, significant accomplishment on my part. Since she was born I was determined to teach the baby something different, a quirk that would make her cooler than other kids. Since my attempt to make a stuffed cyclopes her favorite toy failed, I am counting the growl as this accomplishment. OK, so maybe the growl will make her more of a creepy weirdo than "cool," but in my defense she does that on her own anyway. Again, taking after her father, I suppose.
Probably the best thing that happened for me was when crazy hair girl was playing near Frenchy and Clovis and the following exchange took place.
Little Girl: (playing next to a very shy Clovis) "Hey- is that a girl?"
Frenchy: "No. It is a boy, his name is Clovis."
Little Girl: "Aren't you a boy, too?"
Frenchy: "Yes, I am. My name is Russell."
Little Girl: (Pointing to man purse) "Then why do you have a bag like my mommy?"
I literally started laughing out loud when she asked that, which then prompted the baby to do the same (she pretty much laughs by default whenever anyone else does), thus causing me to miss Frenchy's answer to the question, but just hearing it asked was enough for me. In his defense, the bag was for snacks and diapers, and he also laughed at the question realizing how much of a French pansy he looked like, but this does not excuse wearing the bag around his shoulder like a purse. To be honest, Frenchy actually seemed like he might be kind of a cool dad. He nicknamed the kid's snack "crunchy men" and sang a comic book sounding song when he gave Clovis the package. "Crunchy men, crunchy men, they know you're hungry and they are here to save the day!" That would entertain me if I were a kid.
Anyway, as has been the case since about last week, there was also a lot of growling going on. Growing at animals, other kids, parents, inanimate objects- anything, really. I consider this a small victory for yours truly. Several months ago the baby debuted this hysterical growl, which for the longest time was reserved only for pigs and used very, very rarely. Determined to make the growl a regular part of her repertoire I began growling at the baby daily, usually when we would look at pictures of animals or play with a toy animal that didn't already have a designated noise (like a bunny, for example).
After a while she would do it back to me on command, and eventually she started breaking it out more on her own. Now it is a major part of her vocabulary and it is hysterical every single time. Instead of chasing the cats around screaming "ditty!" she chases them around growling (she still can't figure out why they won't stop to play with her no matter how many times I explain that running at them with your arms over your head, screaming and growling may not be the best method). Instead of making a baby noise and smiling or laughing when you look at her sometimes she just growls, she will even just start growling in the back seat of the car for no reason. This should eventually be a fantastic compliment to stink eye. All she has to do is put them together.
I consider this to be a major, significant accomplishment on my part. Since she was born I was determined to teach the baby something different, a quirk that would make her cooler than other kids. Since my attempt to make a stuffed cyclopes her favorite toy failed, I am counting the growl as this accomplishment. OK, so maybe the growl will make her more of a creepy weirdo than "cool," but in my defense she does that on her own anyway. Again, taking after her father, I suppose.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Episode 66: RE: stink eye
The legends grows. After seeing the picture of Av giving the stink eye last week my mother sent me this email, shedding some new light on legend.
(If you missed the post scroll down, or look here: http://trialbyfireparenting.blogspot.com/2010/04/episode-63-first-recorded-evidence-of.html)
(If you missed the post scroll down, or look here: http://trialbyfireparenting.blogspot.com/2010/04/episode-63-first-recorded-evidence-of.html)
Hi
Just thought I would give you a little background. “Stink eye” is officially known as “The Ricci Look” shortened to just “The Look” (your great grandmother Ricci also had something called the "Meluk" not sure if it is the same thing or not. (Your Aunt Barb would have more details) anyway the look is unique to Ricci family women. Some men have it but usually just as young children. Some of us have it better than others ( I do believe I am one of the best). I always thought it was learned however little Avelyn is proving that it apparently is inbred as she has not been around me enough to have seen me give it. From what I understand she is quite good at it, although it was a little hard to see in the pic. Generally used to show displeasure or the fact that the recipient is unbelievably stupid, if done correctly it can bring grown men to their knees.
Love,
Very proud grandma
Don't I know it. Once again I reiterate, I am so screwed.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Episode 65: Other people's kids: My worst nightmare
As I have mentioned many times before, one of my least favorite things about being a dad is having to interact with other parents, especially moms. For a variety of reasons I try to avoid them at all costs, and often succeed, but lately I have not been having a good run. The weather is nicer, the parks are busier and the alone moms are looking for someone to talk to. That means even a mean-looking quiet guy like me is fair game. As if the increase in shop talk with moms didn't get my anxiety roaring enough, I have now developed a fear of interacting with small children. Absurd? That is for you to decide. I'll explain.
Monday afternoon Monica left work early and met us at the park. As the events of the day progressed we ended up in Salem Common where we blew off steam with the sports buggy and a bunch of other kid-friendly activities. At some point during the visit Monica took Av over to the swings, which at the Common are usually dominated by renegade teenagers. I watched from a nearby bench like an old man as she not only pushed the baby, but also helped push some older kids from a Boys and Girls Club after school group. Kids continued to flock over to her for support and entertainment and things even got a little heated at one point when some slutty looking teenage girls tried to bully one little kid off the swing.
On a side note, the kid being bullied off the swing, Ryan, was a pimp. I saw him kiss two girls while he was over there and heard him make plans to kiss a third the next day. He couldn't have been older than 8. The best part was, in true Tiger Woods fashion, before kissing the second girl he said "You can't tell Alexis about this or I'm not going to kiss you again." Awesome.
Now, Monica is a teacher so dealing with kids is obviously not a foreign concept to her, but witnessing her patience and apparent enjoyment in interacting with this ethnic hodgepodge of at-risk youth made me realize that the situation she was in was pretty much my worst nightmare. Dealing with bitchy, snobby, judgmental moms is one thing, but dealing with kids is a whole different kettle of fish. Kids are mean, dirty, unpredictable and often times unable to properly communicate what they want. In addition, most of the kids I come across are also accompanied by said bitchy moms, which makes me even more nervous that I am going to do something to piss them off, forcing some sort of rant about how poor of a parent I am.
Dealing with other kids is something that I hope to avoid, always. I dread giving 13-year-old Av rides to the mall with her awkward teenage friends. I dread 8-year-old Av having friends from school over that I am not only forced to supervise, but interact with also. I remember my dad having to buddy up to my sister's friends. I am all set with all of that. After witnessing her display at the Common I told Monica essentially what I just told you and, as if on cue, was forced into one of these nightmarish situations just a few days later.
As has been the case every day this week, the baby and I made a mid-morning visit to the park, me hoping not to have a repeat of yesterday when she insisted on going in the ocean. (To say I wasn't prepared for that would be an understatement). Avoiding that section of the park entirely, we walked over to the playground area and saw that there was only one kid, a mom and two dogs. Jackpot on several levels. Things were going fine for a while, when a few other families showed up and the equipment started to fill up. It was at this point that a boy, later to be identified as 3-year-old Harrison (or possibly Garrison, I couldn't really tell) decided that he was going to take full advantage of my height.
Harrison's mom was a classic "I adopted a kid/ got artificially inseminated" butch lesbian. More occupied with her dogs than she was with her son, she was often referred to as "Amy" instead of mom (I only know she was his mom because he called her that once, too). She would pay attention to him long enough to scold him for something, but for the most part she just watched him run around while she gave the dogs treats.
After following us over to the monkey bars, where Av had aimlessly wandered, the kid got up the courage to ask me to lift him up. What am I supposed to say? No? I think not. So nervously, hoping that he didn't 1. fall, 2. scream or 3. catch a scolding from Amy for being dangerous, I lifted him up on to the bars. The event went off without a hitch, but I wasn't lucky enough to ditch the kid there. For the remainder of his time at the park (Amy mercifully told him they had to go home about 15 minutes later) he followed me around asking me to lift him up on to things. I reluctantly obliged, figuring it was probably pretty frustrating to have two moms when you needed something up high.
The kid was nice, kind of dumb and a little aggressive, but I was glad to help in the end. This does not change the fact that I was anxious and awkward through the entire exchange, and I was not so glad to help that I would ever want to do something like that again. It is safe to say that Harrison has not changed me, just made me more wary of loaner kids with lesbian moms.
That's all I have today, kids. Nap time is almost over, which means I had better grab some Cheetos if I plan on eating before 7:30 tonight.
Monday afternoon Monica left work early and met us at the park. As the events of the day progressed we ended up in Salem Common where we blew off steam with the sports buggy and a bunch of other kid-friendly activities. At some point during the visit Monica took Av over to the swings, which at the Common are usually dominated by renegade teenagers. I watched from a nearby bench like an old man as she not only pushed the baby, but also helped push some older kids from a Boys and Girls Club after school group. Kids continued to flock over to her for support and entertainment and things even got a little heated at one point when some slutty looking teenage girls tried to bully one little kid off the swing.
On a side note, the kid being bullied off the swing, Ryan, was a pimp. I saw him kiss two girls while he was over there and heard him make plans to kiss a third the next day. He couldn't have been older than 8. The best part was, in true Tiger Woods fashion, before kissing the second girl he said "You can't tell Alexis about this or I'm not going to kiss you again." Awesome.
Now, Monica is a teacher so dealing with kids is obviously not a foreign concept to her, but witnessing her patience and apparent enjoyment in interacting with this ethnic hodgepodge of at-risk youth made me realize that the situation she was in was pretty much my worst nightmare. Dealing with bitchy, snobby, judgmental moms is one thing, but dealing with kids is a whole different kettle of fish. Kids are mean, dirty, unpredictable and often times unable to properly communicate what they want. In addition, most of the kids I come across are also accompanied by said bitchy moms, which makes me even more nervous that I am going to do something to piss them off, forcing some sort of rant about how poor of a parent I am.
Dealing with other kids is something that I hope to avoid, always. I dread giving 13-year-old Av rides to the mall with her awkward teenage friends. I dread 8-year-old Av having friends from school over that I am not only forced to supervise, but interact with also. I remember my dad having to buddy up to my sister's friends. I am all set with all of that. After witnessing her display at the Common I told Monica essentially what I just told you and, as if on cue, was forced into one of these nightmarish situations just a few days later.
As has been the case every day this week, the baby and I made a mid-morning visit to the park, me hoping not to have a repeat of yesterday when she insisted on going in the ocean. (To say I wasn't prepared for that would be an understatement). Avoiding that section of the park entirely, we walked over to the playground area and saw that there was only one kid, a mom and two dogs. Jackpot on several levels. Things were going fine for a while, when a few other families showed up and the equipment started to fill up. It was at this point that a boy, later to be identified as 3-year-old Harrison (or possibly Garrison, I couldn't really tell) decided that he was going to take full advantage of my height.
Harrison's mom was a classic "I adopted a kid/ got artificially inseminated" butch lesbian. More occupied with her dogs than she was with her son, she was often referred to as "Amy" instead of mom (I only know she was his mom because he called her that once, too). She would pay attention to him long enough to scold him for something, but for the most part she just watched him run around while she gave the dogs treats.
After following us over to the monkey bars, where Av had aimlessly wandered, the kid got up the courage to ask me to lift him up. What am I supposed to say? No? I think not. So nervously, hoping that he didn't 1. fall, 2. scream or 3. catch a scolding from Amy for being dangerous, I lifted him up on to the bars. The event went off without a hitch, but I wasn't lucky enough to ditch the kid there. For the remainder of his time at the park (Amy mercifully told him they had to go home about 15 minutes later) he followed me around asking me to lift him up on to things. I reluctantly obliged, figuring it was probably pretty frustrating to have two moms when you needed something up high.
The kid was nice, kind of dumb and a little aggressive, but I was glad to help in the end. This does not change the fact that I was anxious and awkward through the entire exchange, and I was not so glad to help that I would ever want to do something like that again. It is safe to say that Harrison has not changed me, just made me more wary of loaner kids with lesbian moms.
That's all I have today, kids. Nap time is almost over, which means I had better grab some Cheetos if I plan on eating before 7:30 tonight.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Episode 64: The sweetest ride at the park
There are certain things in life that automatically bring a sense of pride no matter how old you are. One of those things is a sweet set of wheels, even if it doesn't have a motor and requires that someone push you. Above you will see what has become easily the coolest thing Av owns, her Step 2 sports buggy. This, I am finding, is pretty much the toddler equivalent to you or I coming home with a kick ass '67 Monte Carlo, or maybe a slick new Corvette.Since she has been old enough to sit up on her own Av has loved taking rides in wagons (and sometimes laundry baskets on the kitchen floor), so when the weather first started to warm up I decided to take a trip to Walmart and see what they had to offer in the way of affordable toddler transportation. Much of the need for such a wagon stems from the fact that the baby does not currently have a stroller at our house, but even if she did I doubt she would be content sitting in it for a walk to the park anyway. She is not a stroller kid, which is good because I am definitely not a stroller dad.
While most of the more traditional wagons go for upwards of $100, the Step 2 sports car was a very reasonable $39.99, and quite honestly, looks a hell of a lot cooler than a wagon. Specs include a cup holder, arm rests a (fake, obviously) GPS system and a decent amount of leg room. I even added a few after market things after I built it, like that sweet robot sticker on the hood. When I bought the sports car I knew she was going to have a good time with it, but I was worried about its practicality. I wasn't sure how well it would contain a squirmy kid with no doors, and I was nervous about how much physical stress I would be under pushing it long distances. Both of my concerns were quickly answered on the first trip as the seat belt (which I installed myself, thank you very much) prevents any real chance of escape and the back handle is high enough where I don't have to crouch down to push.
As for Av, she couldn't love it more. She has a great time being pushed around the 'hood pointing at dogs, and she gets to keep her juice right in the cup holder. Some times she will kick one of her feet up on the dash and lean back like Dr. Dre, or throw her arm on the rest and just chill. She knows how cool it is, too, which I love. She definitely gets that "yeah, you know you want one" face when she sees other kids.
As you can tell we both already know that the sports car is pretty sweet, but it wasn't until we really started to park it up for the new season that I got a real idea of just how sweet it is. This kid is literally the envy of every infant and toddler we pass, many of whom have been transported in more luxurious, and expensive strollers or wagons. I can't say I blame them, either. The sports car not only looks like a real car, it is open, unlike a stroller, for maximum wind in your hair exhilaration. It has a steering wheel, which most wagons do not have, and there is only room for one person, making it completely impossible for any snot nosed siblings, cousins or forced friends to bum a ride.
Literally every time we take it to the park some kid comes over and tries to jack it. We usually park it next to a tree or a picnic table where we have set up, leaving it vulnerable, and I always smile a little when I hear "No, no buddy, that isn't ours." Yesterday was the best, though, when a little boy named Vinny- who ironically looked like a mini car mechanic- came over and pretty much started drooling over the thing. He kept pointing at it, looking at his mom and looking at us in complete envy. I told him he could sit on it and he did, loving every moment of it. He even tried to follow us home when we left. I can't tell you how many moms have said something along the lines of "well, it looks like we're going to have to get one of those" or asked me where I bought it. It is one of the few times that I don't mind interacting with moms at the park. You may be some sort of house wife married to a high powered something or other with a Lexus and a savings account, but my kid's $39.99 sports car kicks your $300 stroller's ass.
The absolute best part is that I am almost positive that they don't make this particular model any more. The one I bought was the last one at Walmart, and I couldn't find any pictures of it on the Step 2 website for this post. In a few years it will be like owning a De Lorean or a Bugati. I even find myself going at it with a roll of paper towels and some cleaner whenever we get back from a walk. Gotta keep it lookin' good, you know.
It is always nice when you see your kid having a little pride in something you gave them, and it is even nicer for me that it hasn't fallen apart yet given that most other times I have attempted to assemble something from scratch have ended with a screw driver being hurled at the wall amidst a profanity-laced tirade. Like I said, we may not be able to compete with the families from the rich part of town when it comes to 'jobs' or 'houses,' but you know what? My kid doesn't have a nanny and has never once been forced in to the humiliation of a tandem stroller, so take that and good luck dealing with all the crap that pansy is going to take when he starts going to public school.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Episode 63: The first recorded evidence of stink eye
This is the elusive stink eye. Notice how the picture is blurry and a little bit hard to make out? That is because catching the stink eye on camera is about as rare as capturing a glimpse of Sasquatch or the Chupacabra.Stink eye is new, and there is no telling when it is going to show up. It is usually quick, and it usually leaves the victim in a state of shock. It is mean, ugly, hilarious and completely unexpected all at the same time. How does a 1-year-old develop so much attitude? I have no idea, but she has, and this is what it looks like.
The stink eye is unique because it rarely precedes any sort of fit or problem, it is usually just erroneously hurled my way after I make some sort of idiotic comment, or if I do something that she doesn't approve of. Kind of like she is saying "Dad, you're an idiot and you're getting on my last nerve."
I would say that I get it the most when we are eating lunch- usually because I tell her to stop playing with her food or force her to eat something she doesn't want- or in the morning, when she is pissed that it is me getting her out of bed instead of her mother. Other times I just get it for no reason.
The prospect of the stink eye is frightening to me because this means that the attitude is only going to get worse as she gets older. Judging from the looks I have received in my lifetime from her mother, aunt and grandmother, I can pretty much predict my future, and I am so screwed.
Short post today, Easter was a relative success. She seemed to have a nice time and it was a beautiful day. I don't even think I got the stink eye all day. My apartment is now filled with various stuffed and plastic bunnies, sheep and ducks, as well as a plethora of plastic eggs. She is also currently in the process of throwing a nap time fit while I prepare to, um, lets say 'consolidate' some of her toys, so I am sure that I have a stink eye in my future at some point today as well.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Episode 62: Happy Easter- here is a rip off food set
Happy Easter to everyone who enjoys celebrating the death- and rebirth- of Christ by eating ham and biting off the ears of chocolate bunnies. For me, personally, Easter is kind of a wash holiday. I like it because it signifies the start of spring and there is a lot of candy involved. At the same time, there are a lot of aspects that I don't care for. There is always mandatory church, mandatory family meal time (which means mandatory visits to other family members homes after meal time, too) and the usual blatant over commercialism. Worst of all, it always seems to sneak up on me since it is on a different day every year. It is not uncommon for this conversation to take place leading up to the holiday.
Monica: "Did you get Easter off?"
Me: "When is it, like next month?"
Monica: "No, idiot, it is next weekend."
Me: "oh, um. Yeah, it's all set" (begin panicking and going through employee phone list in my head).
I also don't care for the Easter season because of the whole lent thing. I am not going to get in to my religious beliefs much but I was raised pretty hard core Catholic, which means I was taught guilt and intolerance from an early age. Since I have become rather disenchanted by the whole thing, rather than giving up something like food, beer or candy, I choose to sacrifice in other ways, like giving up not eating meat on Fridays. God and I have an understanding. Don't worry about it.
We did make an attempt at the egg coloring thing yesterday- something that went better than expected. The eggs aren't exactly award winners, but the baby didn't drink 16 oz of vinegar, so we'll count that as a win.
As is the case with every religious holiday, gifts are exchanged on Easter. (Fattening the wallets of the toy company CEO's across the country- most of them Christian, I'm sure. OK, I'm done). This time, they are stuffed in to a cute, Jesus era (wait- that's not right) wicker basket. My biggest victory this year is that I have managed to avoid buying the $20 stuffed bunny from Walgreens that is twice her size and managed instead to appease her with a smaller, yet still fluffy and appealing $9 sheep from Walmart.
Of course, when you are Av, you often don't need a holiday or birthday to receive gifts, you just get them. Recently, Monica got her an 'Easter gift' that came a few weeks early. That would be the Circo 90 piece toy food play set similar to but not the same as the one below.
This was purchased to accompany a play kitchen that is at her grandmother's house, but has somehow managed to become a part of the toy pile in our apartment instead. I will admit that when I first saw the play food set I was super excited. There is nothing I enjoy more when it comes to toys then small novelty replicas of real things. Toy cars, realistic stuffed animals and plastic food. Awesome. This would also be the perfect toy to compliment her plastic meat basket.We opened up the food set to find immediate disappointment. The packaging advertised a 90 piece set, which it was, but it did not indicate that there would be such a large number of repeats and shitty paper boxes. Sure, there are plenty of fun, interesting plastic foods in there- like a croissant, a tomato and the full line of citrus fruits, but there are also stupid paper packaging toys depicting things like milk, candy bars and truffles. This is the worst possible thing that you could give a child. Almost all of the paper toys have hit the trash within a week of buying a food set. They fall apart and they get soggy. Crap. Also, I have a serious problem with the amount of repeat foods. The '90 piece food set' gets off easy by giving you like 10 potato chips, 10 hot dogs an 10 french fries. This is cheating. If you want to include chips and french fries, make a plastic bag instead of the food itself. C'mon, Circo people, think.
Perhaps most infuriating is that, despite having a grocery aisle of food, it is almost impossible to actually pretend to make anything. Unlike the set in the picture, which we would have bought if it were at the store, there are no buns, condiments or any other items needed to actually make a real meal. Again, lazy cheaters. How about you ditch the paper stuff, cut down on the repeats and help a brother out here making some meals. Even worse, there is no dessert. No cookies, no cake, no candy. There is one doughnut that looks completely out of place. What the hell is that about? This may not seem like a big deal, but when you are a kid- or an adult trying to entertain a kid- this is frustrating. I think that I need to get a job as an executive at a toy company.
I hope that everyone has a lovely weekend no matter which, if any, religious tradition you are taking part in. I am sure the baby will have a grand old time playing with all of her new toys and smashing up Easter eggs.
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