Eleven years ago last month I graduated high school. I put on a green hat and robe and sat in a chair in my school gymnasium for an hour or so. I don't remember who I sat next to. I don't remember who the valedictorian was. I don't remember any of the speakers, my principal's name, who the mayor was or any of the supposedly valuable advice they gave us in their speeches. Perhaps one of them was "don't smoke so much weed in your 20's and maybe you'll remember more of this day." I still probably wouldn't have listened, though. Because it is hard not to like smoking weed.
I do not remember who the prom king and queen were- I went to four proms over three years and I don't remember any of them. I remember at best a third of the people in my graduating class, and most of them are by name only. Aside form the two or three random kids who have stumbled in to the bar that I have worked at for the past seven years, I probably couldn't pick anyone out of a lineup. I do not remember most of my teachers from my senior year and I couldn't tell you most of the classes I took. High school did not make an impression on me. I honestly don't know how it could have made an impression on anyone. It is a shitty four years filled with mostly useless academia, undesirable social interaction and an excess of human failure.
So when I returned to the place that had supposedly prepared me for this magical future I am currently enjoying to watch my sister Bethany experience her own day of forgettable nonsense last month I was not exactly expecting a fantastic swoon of nostalgia and inspiration. A few things did jump out at me, though. First, despite what I said earlier I was a little bit surprised, and a little bit concerned, at how little I did remember.
It did immediately occur to me looking at the athletic banners in the gymnasium that there was only one three year span since the 70's that the school did not receive some sort of achievement or award in basketball- division title, conference title, city championship and so on- and that happened to be the exact three year span that I played on the team. Coincidence, I'm sure. Or poor coaching. Yeah, I'll go with poor coaching. Never tapped in to my talent. I was a rebound machine.
Not sure the last time any of you have been to a
high school graduation, so let me fill you in on how something like
that goes these days.
First, everyone files past an unnecessarily
intense ticket taker, probably a teacher or administrator or an over-involved parent that seems really dead set that no one is going to sneak in without the proper documentation.
This isn't a Mumford and Son's concert, dude. Relax. No one is trying to bypass the ticket system. No one voluntarily sneaks in to a high school graduation. Except pedophiles, but pedophiles are usually pretty noticeable in places like that.
Calm down, champ.
In the case of mine and my sister's
school, the graduation is inexplicably held indoors. Therefore, the next
step is to scale a set of 50 year old bleachers in a 600 degree gym either stuck behind some old person who can't get a leg up high
enough to properly climb the splintered steps or bracing said old person so they don't tumble to a painful, nursing home inducing
graduation day tragedy. I was in the latter category and I am happy to say that both of my incredibly old grandparents made it out injury free.
The event begins only after everyone is well settled and already squirming from the uncomfortable seat that is slowly numbing all of our asses. The band plays that song that they
have to play at every graduation (poorly) and the students walk in. At
this point, after each guest has identified the person they are there to
see, the collective mind turns to one singular question: "How many
friggin kids ARE there and how long am I going to have to sit here on this ancient wooden hemorrhoid machine they are calling a seat?"
Cue a unified fumble through the program to determine exactly how many speeches we would all have to sit through.
Eventually
the whole thing begins with a parade of boilerplate speeches by everyone
from the mayor to the principal to various insignificant school committee members.
They all say the same thing. "This is a door to new
opportunities." "You should all be proud." "Thank your parents." "Think
of how all of you have grown" and so on...
It is all a mound of cliche and bullshit that most of the students will completely
dismiss and immediately kill from their brains after about the fourth Solo cup at that night's golf course kegger. Unless, of course, you are
the valedictorian. In which case, you hang on every word because you are
the most self important pile of shit that exists in this time and
space. You have spent four years using your family's rich resources to
enjoy carefree study sessions. You have spent hours after school kissing teacher's asses, winning poetry contests due to lack of entries, leading the debate team, captaining the women's cross country ski club, leading student council, scooping apple sauce for old people at the nursing home, being a camp councilor, heading prom committee and the healthy snacks coalition that successfully had soda removed from the cafeteria because, let's face it, guys, there is like, a real obesity problem in America, ok?
All of this so you can add a whole page of extracurricular activities to your application to Brown or Bentley or Bryn Mawr so you can get a TOTAL full boat and your rich ass parents won't have to spring for on campus housing. And all this time you still found a half hour now and then to watch the Office. Just enough to toss a joke in to your speech. Good for you, honey. Good for you.
I hope you get knocked up freshman year by some football hero who gave you ecstasy for the first time and then you have to drop out and waitress at Uno's or TGI Fridays for the rest of your 20's wishing and commiserating about what could have been and thinking back to those four years of high school and that WONDERFUL graduation speech you gave as the GREATEST TIME OF YOUR LIFE!!! WE WON FOUR STRAIGHT CROSS COUNTRY SKEET SHOOT CLUB TITLES!!!!!
Even aside from that twat valedictorian it was overwhelmingly apparent that high school kids are just the WORST. I mean, really just the most insufferable group of human beings I have been around since the last time I shopped at Whole Foods. Way worse than I remember. It isn't the jovial immaturity or the know it all teenager attitude. I expected that. It just seems like high school kids have a certain level of unwarranted pretentiousness about them these days. The way they dress, the things they reference, the cockiness. So. Much. Cockiness. I don't remember that. Then again, I don't remember much.
Once all of the speech giving and grandstanding is over the genuinely dreadful high school band plays everyone out (seriously, fire the band teacher, guys. He's no good). Before that happens, though, comes the "inspirational" flipping of the hat, or tassel, or whatever. This is only "inspirational" because the class chooses someone whose resiliency toward achieving a diploma has been a lesson in motivation, dedication and the ability to overcome anything. Succeeding against all odds! Proving everyone wrong!
Or, you could just be a kid who lost a leg in a drunk driving accident.
Seriously, guys, there wasn't one sick kid in the class? No one came from an abusive background and had to use welfare checks to buy MCAS pencils? You went with the kid who underage drank and lost a limb? Last year? I mean, the dude had two and a half years under his belt already. And last time I checked, you don't need a leg to study. Needless to say, I wasn't "inspired."
I feel like I should have been given a speech opportunity at this event. I would have told these kids the truth. Don't go to college. Learn a trade and get a job. College will just set you back $50 grand and guarantee that you will always have at least three annoying people who think they are your friends bugging you for the rest of your life to "hang out again soon." Don't marry the first girl you sleep with, even if she makes you promise before she gives it up. She's probably going to get fat. And don't drink any peppermint schnapps. It isn't worth it.
Finally, stop wearing tank tops. Unless you are playing basketball or walking around your house in a wife beater, there is no reason to wear a tank top. Especially a pastel colored one with a beer logo on the front.
***
As a professional in self loathing, no one speaks more to the art than Micah P. Hinson. Happiness is non existent on this man's face. He is like a more talented, still living Elliot Smith.
New computer, no excuses. I'm (we) are back. The old Dell laptop, or 'The Tank' as I began calling it, finally started its slow decent toward computer dementia over the past couple of months. Youtube videos getting choppy, typing delayed, cursor skipping around all over the place for no apparent reason, no left click, random restarting, delayed downloads, frozen porn- all of the unacceptable behaviors of a computer that is approaching 5-years-old. Which, in the rip-off, buy our new model world of technology is like turning 85.
This, of course, is not the only reason that I have been largely absent over the past few months. Monica is back to work and I am now 'parenting' (surviving) two children who are both younger than my laptop by myself for large portions of every day. This means that I am usually dealing with at least one child who is crying, eating, making a mess or needing something from me. And neither of them can seem to get on the same freaking page and at least need the same thing at the same time. Av is hungry when Luke needs a diaper change. Luke needs to eat at the exact moment that Av needs help getting the toothpaste on her toothbrush. Neither one of them are ever asleep at the same time.
Combine all of this with the fact that babies evidently do not like being put down (seriously, dude, I just have to take a dump. Chill in your chair for three minutes. Please. THREE MINUTES!) and it makes it very difficult to find time to blog. In fact, as I type this I am on very borrowed time. Luke is napping while Monica helps Av take a shower before she goes back to work and Av eats dinner. It could be 2015 before I actually finish this.
What it really comes down to is that I should be the one going off to work every day because Monica is much better at this than I am. Much better. That baby loves her. Doesn't much care for me. I do not smell as good.
I was inspired to write again today by reading an article about how parenting blogs have taken off and are evidently the 'new thing.' The story featured things like 'Conversations I have with my two-year-old" or "Reasons my Son is Crying" and the insufferably talentless Drew Mageary of Deadspin.com who has inexplicably spun his 'Dadspin' blog in to a book deal. Just remember I may only have around a dozen readers, but I consider myself the founder of this genre. Dad blogs would not exist without me. I am the Benjamin Franklin of Dad blogs. I'll never see the royalties. Story of my life.
Anyway, let's catch up on a few things I may have missed. Quite a bit has happened since the last time I posted. Some Russian pricks blew some people up at the Boston Marathon. That was a real jerk move on their part, but at the very least it gave every conservative anti-gun control Obama-basher and lunatic government conspiracy theorist a chance to pontificate on Twitter for a few days. Also, it gave the local news a chance to run some new graphics and beat a story to death with a crowbar.
#Fuckin' Obama.
Also getting pretty sick of the whole #BOSTONSTRONG thing. I get it. Unity and coming together and all that. There were a lot of great moments directly after the events, but people who go the 'LOOK AT ME' route with it are starting to get on my nerves a little bit. There is no reason for the coffee shop down the street to still be selling teal BOSTON STRONG sweatshirts two months later. Just send your $10 text message donation like the rest of us and keep quiet. Oh, and stop thanking police officers on Twitter. Police officers don't follow you on Twitter.
What happened was disgusting and the people who stepped up should be praised, especially first responders. But wearing your #BOSTONSTRONG headband to the gym doesn't prove anything.
There were some tornadoes that tore up Oklahoma and killed a good number of people on live television. That was a jerk move on Mother Nature's part, but not at all an unexpected one. It does raise a question as to why in a city that had already experienced the same tragedy twice before public safety leaders didn't have more of an exit plan or shelter for, you know, students who might be at school. I mean, sure, the tornado came on quick, but you knew it was coming at some point, right? And one of those schools didn't seem to have an emergency shelter. Kids were hiding under desks. I always wondered as a kid during bomb scares why we all just went outside and stood in the parking lot. Like, if the building blows up we are 15 feet away. We are still screwed. It is the same thing with the tornado. Hide in a closet? Under your desk? Ohhh, that's right, tornadoes only pick up one item at a time. If you are under the desk it will only pick up the desk. C'mon people. We are smarter thanthat. But, listen, I am not a city councilor or a school superintendent so I am not going to judge. It is really horrible what happened to those people. I know, I watched it live. That shit is terrifying. Again, text message donation sent. I will say this, I wouldn't move to Oklahoma if I were you.
#Fuckin' Obama.
Some stuff blew up in Texas. I don't know that much about this story, to be honest, but it sounds pretty horrible and it is almost definitely a direct result of Obamacare.
#Fuckin' Obama.
An 80-year-old man reached the summit of Everest. Good for you, man. I hope that at 80 I will still be able to complete feats of physical endurance. Because, you know, I do that now. Actually, if it wasn't for Obama... Ok, I won't murder that joke. I'll just leave it bleeding where someone can find it and maybe revive it.
There were all sorts of other things that happened, but most of them didn't register on my radar enough to really formulate my opinion on them. I do not like Justin Bieber. That is for sure.
On the home front things aren't that much different. We still have two children. Monica is back to work and I get thrown up on at least three times a day. Often times at 3 a.m.
I do really enjoy the NBC show 'Hannibal' which is a new drama featuring the familiar characters from Red Dragon and other novels in the Hannibal Lector series by Thomas Harris. I am obsessed with those books and their spin off films, though, so maybe I am just nerding out over the show like all you other nerds do with Game of Thrones. In any event, Mads Mikkelsen plays Lector as good or better than Anthony Hopkins did and Lawrence Fishburne is in it co-starring along some Brittish guy who is married to Claire Danes. And who doesn't like Lawrence Fishburne and Claire Danes?
Thanks to all who keep checking the site looking for new posts. If all goes well this should be a pretty fertile summer for the blog. Fertile? Not sure if that is the right term to use, but I'm not changing it. I'm not. I love you all.
Due to a few very poor life choices, missed opportunities, misguided advice and and a dislike for condoms, I find myself at almost 30 essentially keeping the schedule of a single welfare mom. It has its pros and cons, but if nothing else, I am very well versed in daytime television programing. Because of this, one thing I have been able to pass along to my daughter (and hopefully, eventually my son), is a deep, passionate love of game shows. Game shows are the best thing on television. What is not to like? Regular people (usually) just like you and I playing games that seem simple enough that most of us feel like we could do a better job than the actual contestants if we were just given that one, magical chance to win fabulous cash and prizes. It is the ultimate regular man dream.
There are an infinite number of game shows. Games of chance, trivia, problem solving and physical performane. People seem to like ranking things these days, so here is my expert list of the top five current game shows. Why the top 5 and not the bottom 5, which would conform more closely to my cynical, miserable attitude? Because there are way too many bad games shows. Like that one hosted by Guy Fieri, or anything that involves Jeff Foxworthy. In fact, just as a general life rule, if it involves Jeff Foxworthy it is best to avoid it. This includes Jeff Foxworthy's Grit Chips which, unfortunately for society, is an actual product.
First, a few guidelines. What qualifies as a "game show?" A game show, for these purposes, is any show where contestants have to play a game, answer questions, or complete a non-athletic task in order to win prizes. Shows like 'Wipeout' or 'American Gladiators,' for example, do not count. Also, although game shows are really the first incarnation of the 'reality show,' as they currently exist, reality shows do not count. This means no 'Survivor,' 'Big Brother,' 'Biggest Loser' or any other competition of that nature. We are looking at traditional, plastic-hosted, studio audience, win a Volkswagen game shows.
Also, in order to be illegible, a current version of the show must still be televised. Game Show Network plays repeats of plenty of classics like '$100,000 Pyramid' or 'Match Game,' but those shows are no longer on the air and 80 percent of those people you are watching are dead.
5. Wheel of Fortune
"Wheel" is an American institution. Vanna White and Pat Sajak have been creepily not aging while your family wraps up dinner for the past 30 years. The appeal of the "Wheel" is how seemingly easy the game is. Spin the wheel, guess a letter, solve the puzzle. Of every game show on television, I feel most confident in my ability to play Wheel of Fortune. I sit on my couch, wait for the contestants to guess letters, and usually solve the puzzle before they do. I still remember the time I knew I could dominate this show. I was in high school. 'Becker' was in its prime as a viable CBS comedy. The clue was "Hollywood Couples." The answer was Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen." I solved it with only a "T" and an "M." BOOM. Give me the money.
Here is the problem with Wheel of Fortune: It is easy to solve the puzzle when some fool on TV guesses all the letters for you. When the lights are not in your face. When Pat Sajak's majestic figure isn't standing on a stool inches away from you. Wheel of fortune is about luck. You can solve the puzzle all you want, but you aren't rolling a 'Bankrupt' from your couch. I often wonder how difficult that game board must be to read. It has to be overwhelming. How do you not just get up there and freeze?
So why is such a difficult, magical game show only number five on the list? Two reasons. First, the contestants are consistently the ugliest on TV. Even worse than Jeopardy. Wheel of Fortune participants look like the producers literally went to your local Planet Fitness and dragged the first three people they saw walking on the treadmill in to the studio. Every. Single. Night. Sure, there is the element of the "common man," but when I'm eating tacos on my couch I don't need to see my 8th grade math teacher's ugly older sister screaming "BIG MONEY" at the wheel. Get it together, guys.
The second reason it is ranked so low is the final puzzle. RSTLNE? Sounds like a scam. It is like KENO. I don't trust it. Oh, so you already know six of the nine letters before you made the puzzle? No thanks. For years I have been convinced that when you play KENO the numbers automatically go in to a giant computer data base that dictates which numbers come up based on a ratio that selects which numbers have been selected fewest. I feel like Wheel of Fortune does the same thing. Oh, we are going to give the contestant RSTLNE? Well let's come up with a "thing" that contains almost none of those letters. Rip off. THAT is why I don't like Wheel of Fortune. Still, though, Vanna White-- Two years older than my mom, looking good. I am not sure how I am supposed to feel about that.
4. Jeopardy!
Ahhh, Jeopardy! The thinking man's game. Nobody doesnt' like Jeopardy! That being said, I feel like this game gets a free pass despite a large number of flaws. Everyone likes to play Jeopardy! from home like it is some sort of competition. It isn't. Every Tuesday someone gets lucky and gets a sports, movies or literature category that they sweep from the comfort of their living room and, if they are lucky, they know a few more random correct answers from shit they remember learning in 7th grade. This creates the illusion that anyone could play Jeopardy! I assure you, Rosie Perez in 'White Men Can't Jump' does not really happen. Jeopardy! is hard. Like, really freaking hard. Unless you are a well accomplished teacher or a genius, you aren't winning Jeopardy! Not only are the answers random facts, they are usually random facts about things that no one pays attention to. Who in their right mind knows, or even cares, who ruled England in 1237? No one. Except for that one lady that got it right.
That is flaw number one. Flaw number two is the whole "answer in a form of a question" bullshit. Seriously? I have seen people lose money because they screwed this up. Most of the time it doesn't even make sense. The concept is that they give you the 'answer' and you have to respond with the 'question.' Let me give you an example of how that should work.
A: " I was the center fielder for the 1994 Pittsburgh Pirates."
Q: "Who is Andy Van Slyke?"
Yes! you are correct, sir!
But that isn't how it usually works. Normally it is more like this:
A: In 1783, the first manned flight of this recreational transportation device was performed by Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier.
Q: "What is a Hot air balloon?"
Ok. Let's examine this. So, you are having a casual conversation with someone. They for some reason have a question about who manned the first hot air balloon flight. Is that how they going to phrase that question? "What is a hot air balloon?" And is that how you answer? Absolutely not. No way. Answer like that and your friend probably tells you to screw. Why can't people just answer the question like a normal trivia show? It is hard enough without having to conform to your silly Jeopardy! standards.
Finally, we have Alex Trebek. Another American institution. I would LOVE to see this cocky bastard participate in his own game and see how well he really does. He makes it sound like he knew the answer without having to look at his card every time someone gets a question wrong. It drives me totally insane. Alex Trebek has created this illusion that he is some sort of librarian genius who creates these questions himself based on his own knowledge. No. he reads the question and then he reads the answers off of a card. Not impressed Trebek. NOT IMPRESSED! Also, the day he shaved that mustache a small part of me died.
Still, Jeopardy! is a really good time. It is fun to pretend that you are smart even if you are not. And I feel like if Brian Williams takes over for Trebek in two years when he is supposedly going to retire the show could greatly improve.
3. Let's Make a Deal
Let's Make a Deal is the most confusing show on this list. More times than not, I find myself watching it and asking myself, do I like this? Is Wayne Brady funny? Is the model girl attractive? I can't decide. On one hand, the show is very entertaining. It is upbeat and energetic and, for the most part, fun. Unlike the previous shows on this list, Let's Make a Deal does not take itself seriously. At all. Wane Brady is the host, but he isn't host like. He chooses the people from the audience and leads the way, but he has help. He has a sidekick, Jonathan Mangum (disappointingly unrelated to Neutral Milk Hotel singer and all around crazy person Jeff Mangum), who aids him in games and random periods of 'Whose Line is it Anyway" type improv. There is also an announcer/ keyboard player who offers on the spot music to accompany any situation. Say a contestant claims to be some sort of salsa dancer: cue salsa music. If someone says or does something stupid: cue 'you're an idiot' sound effect. Fun, right? Still not sure.
Then there is the model. There is only one. Her name is Tiffany Coyne and she is hot. Maybe. Is she? I don't know.
You tell me. I think she is not unattractive but she seems very average. I actually think that appeals to me. More real, you know? She does this weird thing with her hands that bothers me. But that isn't really relevant. I looked her up (because I have a smart phone and I am a creep) and it looks like she used to be an NBA cheerleader and a Vegas showgirl so she is almost definitely carrying around an STD or two. Ok, we have spent too much time on this already. Imagine how many times I have watched this show and had that exact conversation with myself. Too many. Too many.
Anyway, even our girl Tiff gets involved in the show, doing much more than modeling. She gets in on the improv, dances, tells jokes etc... I like that. I think I like her. Do I?
Let's move on. The most confusing thing about Let's Make a Deal, which apparently used to exist back in the 60's and 70's, are the costumes. I have no idea why this is, but everyone in the audience is dressed in some sort of iParty Halloween costume. There are bananas, nurses, hippies, sluts- all sorts of crap. But here is the thing: there does not appear to be any rhyme or reason to how the contestants are selected. It isn't based on the costumes. Wayne Brady doesn't hold a contest for best costume. He just randomly chooses people. There is no explanation for why.
The best part of Let's Make a Deal is the 'Zonk.' The Zonk is what they call it when you lose. The basic concept is Wayne Brady offers you a prize, usually it is hidden in a box, an envelope or behind a curtain. Then, when you learn of this prize, Wayne Brady offers you a deal. Take curtain three or take what is in this envelope etc... Instead of just doing something boring like saying 'you lose' or something, they hit you with a Zonk. It isn't just the word, either, they get creative with it. They give you a bacon Ferris Wheel or a car made out of doughnuts, or a cart of lambs. And for some reason there is always someone in a gorilla suit.
Here is an example. "Zonk loafers" Get it? It is bread. So, you have your choice of curtain one or whatever was in that box. You pick the box, you get Zonked. You're sad. Because the thing behind the curtain was a hot tub. Or a shitty manual transmission economy car. Or a trip to Seattle. The prizes on this show really suck.
I mean, you just won a car. But it is a freaking Smart Car or a Ford Fiesta. Good luck cramming yourself in to that over priced go cart. "You've won a brand new car!!! The 2013 Chevy Spark has a three speed manual transmission and crank windows!" Some people win scooters. They give away hot tubs like four times a week. I once saw a guy win a year supply of dog food. Neat!
I think the coolest thing they do is at the end of the show they have the 'big deal of the day' where the lady dressed as a piece of cheese who won the Kia Sol gets to give up her shitty car for a chance to win the big deal of the day. Which is almost always an exotic trip and some cash. If the lady who won the car wants to for some reason keep said car, the next guy who wins gets a shot etc... The Big Deal of the Day tends to be very exciting, and very rarely heartbreaking. There are no Zonks, only two prizes that are probably worse than what you have already won, and one extravagant "Big Deal." The losing curtain is a popular place to dump hot tubs and flat screen TV's people didn't win earlier.
All in all, Let's Make a Deal- despite its flaws- is one of the more entertaining things you can watch. And that is important when you are watching TV at 10 a.m. on a weekday because that usually means something has gone horribly wrong in your life. It is nice to forget.
2. Price is Right Considered by many to be the crown jewel of game shows, the Price is Right lands the second spot on this list. Drew Carey is a phenomenal upgrade from that cocky pervert Bob Barker (THE PRICE IS WRONG, BOB!) Even if he did lose all that weight and doesn't look like Dilbert anymore. I have long been a fan of Drew Carey, even before his sitcom, which was one of the best ever. He is just so jolly and awkward. Also, a bit off topic, he invented the coffee flavored beer on that show when he started 'Buzz Beer.' Berkshire Brewing Company and anyone else who has made a coffee porter or any other kind of coffee beer owes Drew Carey royalties.
There aren't many flaws in the Price is Right. Everyone on the show has fun and they give away fabulous cash and prizes.In fact, I think they invented the concept of the fabulous prize. I also really enjoy the unique styles of the pricing games. They are all totally different. I think, without question, though, the best game on this show has to be Plinko. Has to be. Climbing that ladder, dropping that hockey puck.
There are, however, two fundamental flaws that in my mind keep this from being number one. First: gimmicks. Since Drew has taken over as the host the show has started to implement gimmicks. For example, on April Fools Day the models take over the show and Drew becomes the models while they host. Last week they had a kids episode. This is not fun. It is like the Teen Tournament on Jeopardy! I hate the Teen Tournament. Worse, the Price is Right has now introduced a male model. I get it. Equality or whatever. But this guy SUCKS. He wears tight ass clothes. Like, so tight it is awkward. Almost as if they are a child size.
To make matters worse he isn't good at being a showgirl/man. He just points to the prize and waves to the camera. He has no grace. He is totally awkward He makes dreadful faces and his presence just seems totally contrived and forced. I would think a lot more of this decision if it was made when Barker was still the host and was still knocking up model girls and paying for their abortions. Drew Carey is so congenial and nice. I find it hard to believe he is making life difficult for any of those women. This man model appears totally unnecessary.
The second flaw of this show are the actual prices of the items featured. I watch this show a lot. I also go to the grocery store a lot. Sometimes I see things that just flat out don't make sense. I can't question the big ticket items. Cars, trips, motorcycles etc... those things all have large numbers tied to them and can vary in price by the thousands. You could buy a Hyundai for $19,455 at one dealership and see it for $22, 455 down the street. I am talking about tiny items, things I know I have purchased. For example, today there were two GPS systems featured. They were Garmins. They were one price point above a GPS that I own by the same manufacturer. I purchased my GPS at a Black Friday sale for $79.99. Original retail price was $115. So let's assume that the next model up, on the high end, is $150 retail. Now, I get that California is a different state and perhaps Garmin suggests a much higher retail price than many stores sell the product at, but the price for two of the GPS systems, according to the Price is Right, was $679.00. That is $339.50 a piece. That seems pricey.
I have also noticed similar situations with things like Wheat Thins or body lotion. Sometimes the prices just seem off. This makes me lose confidence that if I ever find my way on that stage that I could actually win.
All in all, though, this show is wonderful to watch. Spinning the wheel, the showcase showdown, all of the games. No complaints. The only other thing I would change is the notion that if you go over the price on a showcase you lose. I don't like that. I think there should be a window. I have seen people miss it over by under $100. I think if it is within $1,000 either way it should count. White people problems.
1. Family Feud
Look at Steve Harvey's face. Look at it. That face right there tells you everything you need to know about the new Family Feud.
Steve Harvey hates your answer. He thinks it is stupid. It makes no sense. He can't believe you said it. You know what? America can't believe you said it and he isn't afraid to let everyone at home know that he agrees with them.
When most of you think of the Feud you probably remember Richard Dawson trying to kiss all the hot women back in the old days. Or that hand job maniac and professional celebrity diver Louie Anderson teetering somewhere between suicide and a heart attack every afternoon. Or maybe even 90's sitcom role players Richard Karn (Al Borland) or John O'Hurley (J. Peterman) generally failing at the act of humor in the mid-2000's.
If any of those previous hosts turned you away from this show, and no one could blame you if the have, it is time to give the Feud another shot.
*Full disclosure: It is my dream to be on the Feud. It is also a smaller dream of mine to be the person they actually ask the survey question to. Like, who are these people? Is it random? Do they bring in a focus group? Or do they just head down to the food court of the Burlington mall and just ask questions until 100 men successfully tell them the most annoying thing their wives do in bed?
Steve Harvey is actually funny. Like, legitimately funny. He rags on people. He tells jokes. He does impersonations. In no way does he take himself, or the show too seriously. The best is when there are African American families on the show because he instantly reverts from showbiz, morning talk show Steve Harvey to streets of Detroit union auto worker Steve Harvey. It is awesome. It paces my afternoon every day. No matter what is going on, 3 p.m. is Family Feud time. Even Av likes him. Even if she does say things like 'Dat man is brown just like Steve Harvey.' It isn't racist if she is just being observational, right?
I think the best thing about this show, though, are the terms they use on the game board. Whenever there is a sexual or remotely taboo answer the person responsible for putting it up on the board likes to have a little fun. For example, and these are real. I have seen sex referred to as 'nookie', 'bumping uglies', 'getting down', etc... Boobs are often referred to as 'juggs', 'cannons', 'fun bags' and others. And don't get me started on poop.
So, there you have it. A completely useless and unnecessary look at how I feel gameshows rank. Maybe I just love Steve Harvey.
It was around 8:30 this morning that I received a text message from my sister. She is a teenager, so when I hear from her that early in the morning my first thought is always "Which one of my parents did something totally insane and is my sister finally pulling the plug and driving out here to get away from it all?"
Thankfully, though, she was just writing to remind me that my son Luke turned two-weeks old today and I had not yet taken the time to blog about it. Oops. I would like to sit here and tell you how busy I have been trying to get adjusted to a life with another child, catching up on sleep whenever I can, barely finding time to slide down a hastily-made peanut butter sandwich before one of my children inevitably needs something- kind of like that old Dana Carvey parenting bit from the 90's (remember him?) when he talks about how he hasn't washed his hair or brushed his teeth for a week because his kids won't let him have the time. But that's not really the case at all. I'm just lazy.
Don't get me wrong- I'm tired. I'm one of those people that requires more sleep than the average human as it is. I'm grouchy with anything less than 8-9 hours at night plus an afternoon nap (this is why I'm usually grouchy). So working until 1 a.m. most nights and being woken up periodically after I fall asleep doesn't help the cause. Still, Monica is up with him way more than I am and, for the most part, he really doesn't ask for much more than the basics.
My biggest fear going in to this was that I would have forgotten how to deal with a baby after four years. I was kind of right. Toddlers are jerks, but being able to talk to them and get a response- and the fact that they can move freely- makes most situations easier to deal with. Babies require you to pay attention to the absolute smallest detail no matter what you are doing. And if they have a problem they can't tell you what it is.
Everything has changed since Av was born. Different formula, different things to sleep in, different rules. Still, when the little guy comes out and you are suddenly in charge of keeping him alive 24-hours a day you kind of remember what to do. Don't feed him anything but formula, don't let that super heavy head of his flop around and don't fall asleep while you are feeding him at 4 a.m. I should write a parenting manual.
The most pleasant surprise has been that L-man, so far, is the total opposite of Av. From the second Avelyn came out of the womb she has been non stop. She cried for the first year of her life- straight. She is hyperactive, loud, fresh and disobedient. It is as true today as it was four years ago. If she ever ends up on 'Intervention' (likely) I can picture myself giving that interview at the start of the show when I talk about her childhood saying things like "Av was just full of life, she never stopped." or "We really had a hard time reeling her in right from the start." Then they will go on to interview her well put together brother who will talk about how they had a nice childhood growing up until she got to high school and ran around with the wrong crowd.
I think Luke slept more in his first two days of life than Av has slept in the past four years combined. He literally never cries. Unless you change his diaper or he is hungry and even then he doesn't get real pushy about it. When he is awake he just kind of looks around with this "This is it? Who are these insane people?" look on his face. In fact, after a couple of weeks, Av has still proven to be more high maintenance than the newborn. She still cries more, gives us more trouble. She is still non stop. Luke just looks at her with these giant eyes as if to say "Please, God, tell me this is not the sister I have been hearing about."
For her part Av has been very good with the baby. All of that jealousy stuff we were worried about doesn't really happen. She likes to help with him and hold him and tell people about him. It is Monica and I that she has a tough time dealing with. I think she will probably be a pretty good big sister providing she gets her shit together long enough to stay out of boarding school.
So, what have I learned now that my second and final child has arrived? A few things. First, I am old. I knew I was old anyway, but something about having that second child makes it more final. With Av I had a kid, but at least it was only one. We partnered around and did all sorts of stuff. Now that there are two I have to lug the whole family in to the car and in to the store and in to just about everywhere. You need to know where two people are at all times and you no longer just have ' a kid'- you have "kids." Way, way, way different. Before I was a dad. Now I am a father. Also much different.
I have also learned a few things about society. Even though I was home with Av every day before, I rarely watched daytime TV. Av and I love game shows, so we watch those, other than that it was either kid shows or nothing. Since Monica is home for a bit now and she couldn't really do much for the first few weeks I have dipped in to the strange world of mid-morning programming. I knew about the judge shows and the trashy talk shows and the Soaps. I know not to watch those. But what the Hell is up with morning news/entertainment shows these days? Between the Today show, whatever that show Regis was on that now features Michael Strahan (!) and some skinny bitch who looks like she hasn't had a sandwich in 15 years and local news morning shows it is a wonder that all of America doesn't collectively fork out their eyeballs on a daily basis. I mean this shit is completely unwatchable. I would rather watch the trailer trash fist fights on Steve Wilkos all day long than watch 15 seconds of any of these slugs interview a celebrity or make one sad attempt at covering a news story. Where did I go wrong in life? People actually like Mumford and Sons? I thought that was one of those things the radio pretended people liked. Like Bruce Springstein. Or Green Day.
Not sure how we got there, sorry I got lost again. The point is that we are home. My old ass has two kids. Lucas is very tiny but very strong. He likes to move his head around and try and crawl. Then he gets mad because he can't yet. The hospital experience was much better the second time around. They were nicer to us and the ratio of people who knew what they were doing to people who had no clue worked out much more in our favor. Plus, the support staff (janitors, food service, etc...) was a veritable freak show of American Idol cast off impersonators.
Most of all, I have learned that if there was an award for giving birth, my wife would be the hands-down winner. While every other mother in that hospital was whining and buzzing the nurses every 15 seconds, Monica was handling herself with class. Two days after the event she was walking around, lifting things up and, for all intents and purposes, running that shit. She never complains. Never whines and doesn't let being tired or sick slow her down at all. She is a champ and she should be recognized by someone other than me calling her a champ on a blog.
My daughter is trouble. She cheats at board games. She lies about sneaking snacks. She tries to steal from stores by sitting on things in the cart. Every man reading this dated a girl like that in high school or college. You know the one that stole make up from Claire's Accessories, skipped last period to get high and go to the skateboard park and forged her mom's signatures on failed math tests? Then you usually ended up breaking up with her because she slept with one of your friends at a party. (Ladies, you know who you are). True story, I was once dating a girl who told me to pick her up from cross country practice so we could hang out after. I showed up and she made me hide in the bushes outside the school and told her mom that she was staying late to help set up for a nonexistent spaghetti dinner. Yeah. That is gonna be my kid, I'm afraid.
I feel like at this point in our lives I need to start cracking down on letting her get away with things- especially the cheating at games. It is getting bad. She hoards berries in the neck of her Hungry Hungry Hippo and then says "On your mark, get set, go!" before anyone is ready to start playing, giving herself a head start. We have this squirrel game where you have to collect acorns and get all of the colors. She always cheats and ignores what the game board dictates, instead getting the color acorn she needs to complete her collection and win. When we go bowling she automatically gives herself strikes and spares so she can see the cartoons on the scoreboard. (This is particularly frustrating to a championship bowler like myself). Today has been another example of this as I find myself arguing with her over the new Jake and the Neverland Pirates game she tricked me in to buying. The game is tough, but you can win without cheating- she just won't.
For those of you who are unfamiliar, Jake and the Neverland Pirates is a totally unwatchable Disney cartoon based very loosely on the Peter Pan story. Instead of Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, they have heterosexualized it up with some kid pirates led by their very macho hero, Jake, who take on the dishonest Captain Hook in a series of cartoon pirate capers. No ferries. No tights. Lots of swords and pirating. Still, there is a lot of singing (not very manly) and, predictably, not a lot of educational value. I am not sure how she ever ended up watching this to begin with, since it violates my ban on the Disney Channel, but I can promise you that On Demand has been mysteriously "broken" every time she asks to watch it.
Av: "Why don't you like Jake?"
Me: "Because you don't learn anything from it."
Av: "Yes I do?"
Me: "Yeah? Like what?"
Av: "Pirate stuff."
Great, pirate stuff. Cool.
The end of the show features these two pirate losers singing a song. It is the only part worth watching. I am pretty sure they were in the same band from the Freecreditreport.com commercials.
In any event, Avelyn has a cartoon crush on Jake and, thus, is a sucker for all of his merchandising. Give another point to Disney marketing. I told her that if she was a good girl at the dentist she could pick out a surprise at Target. I was thinking more along the lines of a stuffed animal or a box of crayons, but she seemed to think I meant the new Jake board game, which is eventually what we left with because I am a sucker.
We have been playing for over and hour and she is yet to play by the rules. The concept is that Captain Hook is laying on a hammock sleeping and you have to sneak in and get his treasure without waking him up. Because Disney likes to teach children how to steal. The hammock is suspended between two trees and every time you spin the wheel the game board tells you what tool you have to use to remove a specific piece of treasure from the hammock. The person with the most treasure wins. If you knock Hook off in to the lake, you lose. It is surprisingly difficult considering it is a game designed for kindergarteners.
Still, Av has continuously moved her guy (Jake) to the game board square that has the fish hook on it because it is easier to remove the treasure with the fish hook than it is with the sword or the shovel. In addition, every time Hook lands in the lake she refuses to surrender her treasure and start a new game, she just makes me put the treasure she hasn't yet retrieved back on the board. This is cheating and it is not cool.
The problem is that when I call her out on it all she does is laugh at me and tell me that I'm not good at the game. It is just like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Or Tick Tack Toe. I am thinking about lowering the hammer. Flipping over the game board or something. I just don't want her to end up being that girl we knew in high school. Unfortunately, knowing her mother as well as I do, I am not sure she has a chance.
At this age, though, it is time to instill some morals and some honesty in competition in to your children. Win, but win the right way. At the same time time, it is just a freaking board game, right? Like, Hungry Hungry Hippos is fundamentally flawed anyway. Three out of those four hippos get their necks jammed during the game and if you aren't on the world's flattest surface someone always has an advantage. And Jake the Pirate is teaching children all of the wrong things as it is, so who cares if she cheats? Still, if I let her cheat now she is going to be hiding in the bushes after track practice or slipping the new Candlebox cassette in to her purse at Strawberries (or whatever it is kids steal from the mall these days). Can you see the dilemma? CAN YOU?! There needs to be a manual for children.
T-minus 10 days. These cats are going to be so pissed when we bring home another kid.
Welcome back from vacation, everyone. I didn't actually take a vacation during 'school vacation week' - and you probably didn't either. But it is always nice to pretend you are on vacation so you can sleep late and drink during the day, or never change out of your wind pants. I love wind pants and I will not apologize for that.
The fact that I willingly wear wind pants out of the house comes as somewhat of a surprise as I am a usually a very awkward person. Socially and non socially. I have trouble behaving properly in public and I worry often about my appearance and other people's thoughts on my appearance and actions. I always have an answer in my head for every question people will never ask me. Like someone is actually going to come up to me at CVS and ask "Why did you park there instead of over there?" "Or why are you wearing that hat today?" Never fear, though, if they do, I have an answer. And that answer is almost always a lie. Which makes it that much more weird.
I have anxiety. I have crazy thoughts. I am probably suffering from one or more of the following disorders: Manic depression, autism, social anxiety disorder, bi polar disorder, impacted wisdom teeth and irritable bowl syndrome. None of these have been diagnosed by any sort of professional- mostly because I don't trust psychology as a real form of medicine and I just lie to my regular doctor when I see him once a year. "Everything is good, nothing hurts. I have been exercising more, eating better. I only have six drinks a week." Usually all of these things are lies, but I don't like to tell doctors what is wrong because I don't trust them- or the miserable heathens who run the billing department at hospitals. I may also suffer from paranoia.
Knowing all of this, like you now do, try to imagine how awkward it must get when I have to drop off or pick up Av from school- which I have also been known to do in wind pants. Seems like a pretty mundane task, no? I thought the same thing at first but, apparently, there are more social obligations than I had originally anticipated. Dropping a 4-year-old off at school is not like dropping a regular kid off at school. You can't just pull up and let them out of the car. They are little, you have to walk them in- all the way to the classroom. Also, keep in mind that Av's preschool is located within the same building as the town's middle school- where Monica happens to teach- which makes me far from an anonymous parent.
Bringing Av to school in the morning is usually better than picking her up in the afternoon. In the morning people seem to be in more of a hurry to get the kids to school and get on to whatever it is they are doing. An informal observational survey notes that most morning drop off parents are headed to exercise, or are at least dressed like they are headed to exercise, while a lower percentage seem to be heading off to work or are responsible for taking care of another child. I am usually headed back home to take a nap.
Gym moms all seem to have the same attitude. They show up walking all fast in their yoga pants and bright colored Nikes. They say hello to EVERYONE. They talk to the teachers. They smile- a lot. They obey every school rule like they are students and they tell stories. Lots and lots of very boring, very mundane stories. They travel in packs. They have energy. Perhaps the energy and happiness comes from going to the gym and eating right. I am going to say that it is more likely to come from the comfortable amount of money their husbands bring in. It is a lot easier to smile all day if you don't have to worry about paying bills and the stresses of going to work every day. Still, though, make sure to only shop at Whole Foods and LL Bean and preach to the rest of us- totally unsolicited- about how important it is to eat right and live a natural lifestyle. I love cheese, lady, and I'm not apologizing for that, either.
The working parents don't talk to anyone. They rush their kids in, give them hugs and leave. I typically look at these people, most of them men, and wonder to myself three things. 1. What does that guy do for work? 2. How much money does he make? 3. Can he get me a job?
A typical day usually begins with me getting pissed off the instant I pull in to the school parking lot. The mini van gym moms have no regard for human life outside of their own, ugly children. They suck at driving and they are worse at parking. They are totally inconsiderate of others and it is a miracle that they don't kill more people. Stop signs and turn signals do not exist. The part that really sucks about it is I can't really express my anger because I see the same people every day and most of them have children in Av's class. Also, I already accidentally taught Av how to give the finger to a cab driver. I didn't think she was paying attention. Oops. Parenting fail number 5,000.
Usually, to avoid the moms, I just pull up front in the area that says "pick up and drop off only" and run Av in. The school staff does not like this. Apparently, it is also a fire lane and is only for vehicles that are occupied and idling, or for school buses. Or crossing guards. Or delivery men. Or pretty much anyone in the entire world who is not dropping their child off at preschool. No one ever seems to be disciplined for parking there except for pre school drop off parents. This is a major point of contention with me. It is winter. It is 11 degrees out. The building isn't on fire and, you know what? If the building does catch fire I'm going to be in that car and out of town way before that fire truck ever shows up. Fact. I have actually never been personally spoken to by anyone who works at the school, but one gym mom did try to get me to move my car once. You can imagine how that went for her.
Her: "Hey. Hi, um, I just wanted to let you know that you really aren't supposed to park there. You should move it they really don't like that."
Me: (Mean mugging the mother) "I'm not to worried about it."
Her: (Looking surprised) "Oh, well I'm just trying to help you. You know, if Cheryl sees that..." (Cheryl is the pre school director- I think)
Me: (Cutting her off and walking away) "Yeah, I'll take my chances with the actual police, thanks for the concern, though."
(Woman stands there looking flabbergasted.)
If Cheryl finds out? What is going to happen? Is she going to write me a ticket from the pre school office? Enforceable via time out or two week TV probation? Is she going to call the police and have my car towed in the four minutes it takes me to drop Av off and walk back down the hall? Mind your own business, lady. Isn't there a 9 a.m. yoga class you have to go to?
Other than the occasional nosy gym mom, I actually luck out in the morning and I usually only have to interact with two people. There is the father of a boy named Dominic, who Av has a crush on. He is older and very nice. We greet one another as we walk by, trade a very occasional story or quip and move on. I am guessing we have similar nap plans.
The other person is significantly less tolerable. He is the father of a girl named Kilee. She is also in Avelyn's class. Her claim to fame appears to be spending the most time in the time-out bean bag chair. Her parents are a white trash stereotype right out of a made for TV movie. Her mother looks like an overweight, busted Christina Ricci and her father looks like he weighs about 96 pounds and spends the majority of his day in basketball shorts and smoking Marlborough Reds. He has a goatee. This is very obviously a high school relationship that went awry after a pregnancy and has continued well in to their early 30's. One day I came to drop Av off and saw Christina Ricci pull away in her Honda, the door panels rattling from the pounding bass of a DMX song. For you older folk, DMX has been missing from the rap scene since about 1999. It's what we used to listen to when we warmed up for junior varsity basketball games. Either way, not real appropriate for dropping your kid off at preschool.
Ricci's husband sees me every morning and offers me a fist bump. A fist bump. Like, are we playing high school baseball together? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have to be the guy who fist bumps fat Christina Ricci's crack head basketball shorts husband? It sucks. I can just hear all the gym moms now, gossiping about the guy in wind pants who won't move his car from the fire lane and how I'm fist bump pals with the DMX- bumping mom's husband. I bet they use really passive aggressive terms like 'strange' or 'odd' to describe us.
Anyway, it is the afternoon pick up where the social anxiety is really put to the test. There are so many more people mulling about, and a lot more of them know who I am than the other way around. Av usually takes off running for Monica's classroom as soon as we get to the lobby and I am left yelling 'Av slow down!' as I chase her through a sea of middle school students and teachers. I do NOT feel comfortable around middle school students. At all. Not one bit. I don't like being around them. It makes me feel strange, uncomfortable and totally out of place. This is nonsensical considering that when I worked at the newspaper my job was to report on education news, which meant I spent four out of five days a week in a school, but that is how I feel nonetheless. For some reason wearing dress clothes made me more confident. I should still wear a shirt and tie every day. Maybe that would cure the psychosis.
As a result of my fears I never enter Monica's classroom. I instead sit like a kid in detention at a desk outside the door. I check my phone. I occasionally read a text book that has been left on the desk. ( I am embarrassingly terrible at 8th grade math). I text Monica and tell her I'm hungry so she will make Av leave and I can get out of there. Despite the fact that almost every single adult in the building, including the principal and school superintendent, know who I am, I still fear that I will be interrogated, arrested or at the very least asked to leave. School security these days, you know?
Inevitably, a conversation will start a day or two later where Monica will describe how awkward I am and ask 'why didn't you say hello to so and so?' Because I don't know who that person is. Apparently I've met them several times. Sorry. My head was probably down. I'm weird like that. Monica's work friends that I do know also like to make fun of how awkward I am, which somehow makes me feel less awkward and more social. I know, it makes no sense. It must be the autism. I can't wait until she is older and I have to start chaperoning field trips or participating in after school activities. I'll probably just crumple like a statue.
***
It has been brought to my attention that I apparently curse too much in my writing. I'll try to clean up my act, but I have always found success in writing the way I speak. Which probably means that I swear too much when I speak too. I enjoy it, though, some words just feel really good to say. You spend so much time censoring yourself around your children or at work sometimes you just need to spit them all out at once. Especially if you have a mental inability to release and overcome frustration or experience random bouts of black out rage like myself. Besides, they are only words, right? I mean, who decided they were vulgar? Probably the same guy who decided God didn't want you to eat meat on Fridays during Lent. Ok. Let's not go down that path. I'll try not to do any of that swearing shit anymore.
Louis CK, as usual, makes my point much better than I did here. NSFW.
I've been taking Avelyn to some sort of weekly activity at the YMCA for years now. There was the relaxing toddler art class taught by a variety of lesbian college students and overweight moms. There was the gymnastics class with the crazy, over the top Russians who filmed their children and gossiped with the rich, bored housewife moms about trips to foreign countries and high class wine and cheese play dates. There was the 'kids club' with Ms. Stacey who appeared to consume some sort of Xanex and cough medicine cocktail every morning just to make it to work. The list goes on.
Some of these were enjoyable, others, like gymnastics, are not. Through all of this I have always managed to avoid having to take Av to dance class. Dance class is a mom thing. Tutus, tap shoes and all sorts of other women things are involved. It goes in the same category as training bras and her first period. Not my department. That is why you have a mom. Well, evidently, the time of the dance class has changed and Monica can no longer make it to the Y in time on Thursday afternoons so I have been unwillingly handed the reigns to the dance class responsibilities. The good news? It is the same time and day as gymnastics so I get to abandon that nightmare of a class war ever week. The bad news? I have to go to dance class.
Now seems like a good time to clarify something. "Dance class" is not a class that teaches toddlers how to dance. It is a 60-minute free for all where children wear tutus and ballet shoes and occasionally learn a dance move. There is no recital. There is no order. There is no learning.
The teacher, Ms. Joan, is wildly popular among the children. She is very patient and never raises her voice. She also looks like she could bench press a Volkswagen. She leads a Zumba class (I just found out what that was) right before the 'tiny dancers' class begins. Therefore, she is already covered in sweat and riding on whatever sort of exercise high people who work out are supposed to achieve that I have never experienced no matter how long I stare at TLC on the TV in front of the elliptical machine at Planet Fitness. All I feel is pain. ALL I FEEL IS PAIN!
When Zumba ends the toddlers are allowed in to the cold, mirrored dance studio and they all happily run up to sweaty, muscly Ms. Joan and she helps them put their shoes on. At the same time, all of the leftovers from the class, mostly middle aged women and mothers who leave their children in the YMCA child care room, (I always wondered where those kids' parents went) stand around and either support each other's fitness dedication or discuss what they are doing later that day. Then, inevitably, one of them will recognize another mother arriving for the dance class and try to recruit her to Zumba by saying something like "Oh, you should join! It's fun! Just bring so and so down to the child care room with Roberta! We would love to have you!" Then the other mother pretends like she wants to do it and bullshits the other lady until she leaves her alone and goes home. Smart lady.
Eventually, they all clear out and go about their fit, healthy days avoiding snack foods and sugary cereals and no doubt making it home in time to watch Ellen. (As an aside, as 'fit' as all of these women strive to be, most of them remain either over weight or at the very least extremely big boned.)
At this point, 'dance class' begins. The best way I can describe this "class" to you is as a 60-minute brain-rattling mental massacre. It is like listening to someone throw a tool box down a flight of stairs over and over and over and over and over. For an hour. There is yelling. There is crying. There is fighting. Kids fall. They panic. And the tap shoes... Oh those wretched, unbearable tap shoes. All of this with the same goddamn CD of Disney's shittiest pop culture animated movie greatest hits playing in the background. Like the Lion King soundtrack? You're in luck. Have a hankering for "A Whole New World?" Oh, don't you worry. And, just in case this wasn't satisfying enough, of course, for your listening pleasure, there is one mom who LOVES TO SING ALONG! YAY!!! At least there is the sound of the latest dramatic, screaming child who has somehow lost her coordination and hurt herself to drown it all out.
To her credit Avelyn is the most well behaved, silent child in the class. She goes about her business, sometimes following directions, sometimes not. While other girls push one another around and enter other people's respective bubbles , Av just avoids them and dances around like she is the only one there. Sometimes she looks over at me and makes a face. Sometimes she catches me looking at her and she gets embarrassed. It is usually cute.
Soon enough one of the children will take off running toward a parent and inevitable bust her ass on the part of the floor that transitions from dance floor to regular, YMCA-grade dirty tile. Then more crying ensues and Ms. Joan can use this opportunity to explain why we don't run in tap shoes.Then Av will look at me and roll her eyes as if to say "C'mon, every week one of you falls, pull it together."
Of course, while all of this is happening I am, per usual, alone in a sea of moms. While these women are much more middle class and tolerable- there are no trips to Spain or freakouts about what the kids do in school- it is still usually uncomfortable for me to be around them. These moms spend most of their time talking about what their kids do for fun, what they eat, who they saw at this place and that place and how they are planning surprise birthday parties for their wonderful husbands. They encourage and cheer for their kids, or in the case of the woman who loves Disney songs, nicely bark out directions throughout the entire class. Seriously, the lady seems sweet and well meaning, but the whole damn time it's "Sidney, pay attention. Sidney, walk that way. Sidney, don't climb over there." I mean, there is an instructor, that is the person in charge at the class. Let her instruct. Poor Sidney. Getting bossed around by wanna be Celine Dion all day long.
There is one hold over mom from the Zumba class crew and she is a very frightening, Serena Williams- looking woman who leaves Zumba to go get her daughter from the child care room and bring her to dance. This woman looks like she could end your life with a leg lock. She could punch your head right off of your body. She has thighs the size of one of my legs. She is terrifying. How the man that had sex with her to produce that daughter was not ravaged to death in the process is a testament to his own physical strenghth. Her daughter, in a word, sucks.
I think her name is Magnolia, the daughter. I know this only because all I hear the whole class is Magnolia being yelled at. Unlike Sidney, she totally deserves it. She bullies other girls, doesn't listen, throws things for no reason, yells at people. She acts like Avelyn does when she is at home. Combine all of this with the screaming, crying, tap shoes and Disney music and it is enough to make poor old me toss myself down a flight of stairs. Usually I just play word games on my phone and stare out the door across the hall watching all of the MILFS and geriatric old men who work out at the YMCA at 11 a.m. struggle in and out of the weight room. The ratio of old men to hot women at 11 a.m. in the Salem YMCA is 694 to 3. On average, of course.
It is worth noting that there is one other man that brings his daughter to dance class. Unfortunately, he does not stay. He just drops her off on account of him also dragging along two other children with him. Not that I would want to be his dad friend if he stuck around anyway. He has a Mohawk and one of those goatees that dangles all the way down to his chest. He is heavy and he wears a Fall Out Boy sweatshirt. On the back reads the words "California Surf Core." What the HELL does that mean? I have heard Fall Out Boy's music. Putting aside the fact that it is totally embarrassing for anyone who is not a 17-year-old girl in 2005 to actually listen to any of their songs, 'surf core,' as androgynous a term as it may be, does not describe their sound in anyway. There is nothing 'core' about it. And here is a 30-something-year-old man with three kids wearing a Fall Out Boy hoodie and a studded belt to the YMCA. He drives a Honda Odyssey. That is a FACT. Dude, I love music as much as the next guy but, damn, loose the hoodie. California Surf Core wasn't made for you.
Needle, meet eye.
The daughter even showed up to dance yesterday with an arm sleeve of fake tattoos. Now, I have no problem with tattoos, at all, but c'mon. I found out the mom is a librarian, which made me only think of some wool-sock-wearing hipster with cowboy boots and leggins and multi-colored cardigans. And not in a hot way. Sometimes hipsters can be very attractive. No way this hipster librarian mom is one of them. In fact, the ratio of hot and/ or attractive hipsters to overweight bad fashion/ bad tattoo hipsters is 1 to 2,764. Fact. These are all facts I am leaving you with here, folks.
Anyway, California Surf Core doesn't stick around because he has too many kids. Eventually the class ends and Avelyn gets way too excited over a hand stamp or sticker and we go home. Yet another YMCA activity in the books where I leave with a headache and remain a mystery to most of the women involved. I like it that way. I am very mysterious. This probably leads to my billing as the Most Misunderstood Man in America. I am working to trademark that.
Looking to take advantage of some blog time as Avelyn has recently discovered Dora the Explorer. This is not something that I support. At all. Except for when it buys me a half hour of extra sleep, an opportunity to go to the bathroom in peace or a little time to entertain you, the reader, with my questionably unimportant life.
Dora the Explorer might be the worst show on television. I'm not even talking children's television here. Just television in general. It is worse than Mike and Molly. Worse than Suburgatory. Worse than every show on E! combined. It is, quite literally, the definition of televised garbage. Let's start with the obvious. The name 'Dora' does not rhyme with the word 'explorer.' If her name was 'Dorer' it would rhyme. Or if they chose to have her speak like some uneducated, Oxycontin- addicted roofer from South Boston they could call it 'Dora the Explora' and that would rhyme. But that isn't the name of the show and the name of the show doesn't rhyme.
Second, just randomly tossing Spanish words in the middle of English sentences does not make you 'bilingual.' It makes you annoying. Avelyn now goes around saying 'vaminos' all over the place. Do you think she knows what that means? Hell no, she is just repeating it because it is in the song. 'Verde, Daddy! Your a Verde! HAHAHAH!' Cool, you now know the Spanish word for Green. You might be able to get a Mountain Dew in Mexico some day.
I took three years of French in high school- mostly because I had a crush on the teacher. Oh, Ms. Duvall, where have you gone? I definitely would have compromised putting us in the news if I had the chance. ( I totally just Googled her and I really hope the lady with the same name that teaches French at Yale isn't the same person because if that is the case my memory is either very skewed or time has not been kind. No, no, can't be her. Too old. It was only 10 years ago and she was young then. She is 40 at the oldest right now. I am Facebook friends with another former high school teacher. Maybe they are friends...Wait- this is getting weird. Note to self. Internet stalking your high school French teacher is not ok).
Anyway, the point is that I took three years of French and I did horribly mainly because learning a language is very little about repeating random words that mean other words and very much about conjugating verbs and tricking your brain in to realizing that people in other countries speak completely backwards from the way we do here. They also use the Metric system, which seems annoying until you realize that it was Americans who decided to do something completely different for no reason. Fuckin' Obama.
Dora does not teach children the Metric system. It also does not teach children how to speak Spanish. No, it is 30 minutes of horribly, horribly annoying songs, pointless, unsupervised adventures with a pansy-voiced monkey and a talking map and random, lengthy pauses that, according to the Comcast OnDemand description, 'encourages preschoolers to participate' in the program. I have no idea who is responsible for this Dora resurgence after four years of avoidance, I link the responsibility to Monica and her new found love for television since I recently installed cable in our bedroom.
Now, when I say 'I' recently installed cable in our bedroom' what I really mean is 'I recently failed at attempting to install cable in our bedroom but a very nice Comcast man came and made it all better.' Due to laziness and overall slum living, Monica and I have not had television in our bedroom in over four years. Now that we will have another immobile, needy infant to keep us up at all hours Monica acquired a television and asked that I see to it that cable appear in said room. I contacted Comcast, first by phone and then by Internet live chat from their website, to inquire about pricing for this task. Long story short, after not being able to get a real person on the phone and being passed through three different people on the live chat I was a bit aggravated and in a perfect storm scenario was paired up with a Comcast employee who had probably had it with fed up customers that day. Our chat went something like this.
Comcast guy writes whole rhetoric about how he is here to help me and he just needs some information to get started.
I give him information, the same information that I have already given three other people that day. We go through the whole 'can't find your account phone number' charade and eventually get to the point where he asks me what I need from him. For the third time I explain that I want to run cable to my bedroom and I want to find out how much this process costs.
16 minute delay.
Me: "You know what, Richard? (I think his name was Richard) I'm sorry if I have interrupted anything with my annoying request for a straight and timely answer regarding a simple account question, but I will be going now. I have attempted and failed to get information from three other people already today and somehow you have been the least helpful. At least the others didn't ignore me while failing to answer my question."
At this point I wait because I want to see what Richard has to say.
Another few minutes pass and I get: "I am downloading your account information."
Another few minutes pass: "Oh, ok. Well, I can make you a service appointment for $22.99 or I can tell you how to do this yourself using a Comcast self install kit."
I then once again explain that I do not need to simply add cable to my bedroom, I need to run cable to my bedroom. Like, go in the basement, drill a hole, run cable, all the jazz.
Richard: "Oh, ok. Well if you don't care about saving money then I guess I'll just go ahead and make a service appointment for $22.99."
Me: "Nope. You know what, Richard? I'm gonna do this myself. God I fucking hate Comcast."
At this point I am furious and determined. I went to the Comcast office to get the equipment and, of course, the lady says that they aren't allowed to tell us to do things like that ourselves, but for my trouble she would give me all the equipment I need for free and LET ME TRY TO DO IT MYSELF! So, with a 45-foot cable cord, a splitter and a digital box I was on my way. I spent a Saturday attempting to make a hole in the floor using a hammer and a wide drill bit (I did not, at the time, own a power drill). I ran the cable wire across my basement ceiling and hooked it up to one of the 5 splitters already coming out of the wall. I bought a new staple gun to hang the chord. I probably swallowed 50-year-old ceiling dust at a rapid pace. I hooked everything up. I didn't get hurt. I was pretty proud of myself.
Richard?
I called the number to activate the box. A woman helped me (after the 'we can't find your account phone number' charade) and I was told to wait 45-60 minutes for my channels to download. Two hours went by and it still didn't work. At this point I called back and got the same woman, who pretended not to remember me but clearly did. She started saying things like 'I am sorry that we are having these difficulties and you are not able to enjoy your favorite TV shows and Comcast OnDemand features.' Or, 'I apologize for the delay in calling up your account information as we have updated our software to better serve you, the customer, as part as our Comcast customer guarantee." Or, "As we wait for your information to load I want to remind you that you can reach us 24 hours a day, seven days a week by calling 1-800-COMCAST or by visiting www.comcast.com.' Bitch, I know how to get a hold of you, I AM ON THE PHONE WITH YOU RIGHT NOW. I spoke to you three hours ago, I am clearly having trouble, stop killing time by reading from the Comcast training brochure. These people wonder why customers get aggravated. Luckily for Maria I was either in a good mood or totally defeated at that point so I did not lose my mind. I just made an appointment for a man to come install cable like I wanted to in the first place. He was pleasant and on time, he left a lovely cologne smell in my bedroom. As Monica described it, "It smells like a Spanish affair in here." I even got to schedule the appointment like, two days after I called, probably because Maria knew that I was teetering on the edge of mass murder and, let's be honest, at this point we had a bond.
In any event, the point of this whole thing today was supposed to be about how much of a scam glue is but, as usual, I have drifted down the beach. I mean, honestly, has anyone ever actually fixed anything with super glue? I have attempted to fix multiple things, including a vacuum cleaner hose, with super glue in recent months. It never, NEVER works. Super glue? Super useless if you ask me. Oh, cool, you need to fix a porcelain shelf trinket- you are all good. If you want to use it for something useful you are screwed. And don't even get me started on Gorilla Glue, either. That is even more of a scam. The only thing Gorilla Glue can hold together is my thumb and index finger. We are totally off the rails today, gang. I'm going to go back to stalking my French teacher. God, I just want my 20's back.
Very often, whether it be at work or in other areas of life, I have this or something very close to this conversation.
"You have kids, right?"
"Yes, I have a daughter and a son on the way in March"
"Ohhhh, that's so fun! How old is your daughter."
"She is almost four."
"Ohhhh! That's so sweet, what a wonderful age."
Let's go ahead and take this time to discuss the validity of that last statement. First of all, as a man barreling toward 30 like an avalanche preparing to decimate a ski lodge, I have lived many ages. None of them are 'wonderful.' I sucked as a child, sucked as a teenager and sucked my way through my 20's. In fact, I feel it has only been the past three years in which I have really begun to cease sucking. My wife would probably argue that point with me.
It is cliche, but if I could find a time machine, possessing all of the knowledge that I have today, I would give anything to go back to my teenaged years and start over, because I would DOMINATE. I mean, totally dominate. I would be a millionaire. Women everywhere would be quivering. I would have a six pack. Domination.
Anyway, one age that I do not remember being is three. Maybe I do a little bit. I am not one of those people who have vivid memories of childhood, I have blocked most of them out. But my earliest recollection of existence involves me throwing a fit in my bedroom, slamming my door and knocking off some cheesy hot air balloon door decoration with my name on it. Sounds about right for a three-year-old.
Heading in to parenthood all anyone kept saying was 'Terrible Two's, Terrible Two's, just wait for those Terrible Two's." I will say this, society is a year early. Sure, two-year-olds have their moments where you want to stuff them in a mailbox, but three-year-olds make you want to get a subscription to one of those websites where you can weigh your packages and pay for postage from your own house. Yes, three-year-old girls are sweet and adorable. They do cute things like sing Christmas carols and say funny things because they don't really understand the meaning of certain words. Here are some of the other things they do.
*Spit at you
*Yell at you
*Deliberately and systematically destroy your home or apartment in a comprehensive and sweeeping fashion on a daily basis
*Pee their pants
*Totally ignore direction and discipline
*Routinely make other people question your parenting ability due to their dreadful public behavior.
The list goes on and on.
One of the things I enjoy about children growing older is their ability to become more independent. They go to the bathroom on their own. They can talk, walk and feed themselves without constant supervision. This also gives them free reign to be complete assholes.
Av has total ability to communicate. She can speak in full sentences and her words are usually easy to understand and quite often make sense. This is very helpful 75 percent of the time. The other 25 percent is spent saying things like "You're a moron. I don't like you. I am going to put you in the trash and they are going to take you away in the truck and squish you."
That's an actual quote.
Being able to communicate also means that Av has full ability to understand what I am saying to her, follow my directions and execute tasks. This is something that she almost always chooses not to do.
On an average basis our conversations go one of three ways.
1. The 'ignore':
"Av, what do you want for lunch?"
(Silence)
"Avelyn, it is time to eat lunch, what would you like?"
(Silence)
"Av, tell me what you want for lunch or I am going to pick it out for you and you aren't getting up until you eat it."
(Silence)
"AV!"
"AVELYN"
"AVELYN WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR LUNCH?"
(Silence, looking forward)
(Me whistling)
"AVELYN!"
(Silence)
"Ok, fine, I am making you a grilled cheese"
Av: "I JUST WANT CHICKEN NUGGETS YOU MEEF!"
(Now would be a good time to introduce the word 'Meef.' This is a word that Avelyn has made up. No one has any idea what it means, but it is usually used in the tone and context of an insult. I am pretty sure that she made this up because she knows the chances of her getting in trouble are slim because there is no actual definition, therefore no grounds for discipline. If I ever find out what it means, though, she is probably grounded).
2. The 'argue fit':
Me: "Avelyn, I want you to please pick up your art supplies before you play something else."
Av: "NOOOOOOPPPEEEEEE"
Me: "Excuse me? Pickup your art supplies or you are not playing doll house"
Av: "YOU AREN'T PLAYING DOLL HOUSE YOU MEEF!"
Me: "Ok, you know what? I am going to just throw away your art supplies then."
Av: (Epic crying, yelling off 'NOOOOOOOOOOO')
Me: "Well then pick up the art supplies!"
Av: "YOU PICK UP THE DAMN ART SUPPLIES!"
Me: "Ok, here they go in to the trash. And now you are in a time out for saying fresh words. Get in the hallway" (We do time out in the front hallway because it is dark and cold and at one time she was a little bit afraid of it. I have long been against time out because I feel it is ineffective and yuppyish. One of many arguments I have lost, but I digress).
Av: (More screaming, eventually picks up the art supplies one by one in a fresh fashion) "I don't even like you, Dad, I'm gonna give you away."
Me: "Please do. And make sure the family is rich and the women are attractive."
Av: YOUR A FRESH GUY!
Me: (Muttering under my breath) "I just want my damn 20's back"
Av: "Why you say damn?"
3. The"Grandma':
Sometimes when Av either doesn't understand something, or doesn't want to understand something, she pretends she cannot hear you.
Me: "Avelyn, we have to go to Home Depot to get a part for the toilet.
Av: "What?"
Me: "We have to go to Home Depot."
Av: "What?"
Me: "Home Depot. We have to go to Home Depot, please get your boots on."
Av: "What?"
Me: "PUT YOUR BOOTS ON AND TURN UP THE MIRACLE EAR, GRAMMA!"
Av: "What?"
Me: (Pinching the area between my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, speaking very quietly).
"We have to go to Home Depot because we need to get a part to fix the toilet so I need you to please but your boots on."
Av: "What?"
Me: "GRAMMA!!! AUNT MEREDITH CALLED THIS MORNING SHE SAID HELLO! UNCLE BOBBY IS IN THE HOSPITAL."
Av: What?"
Me:"I SAID AUNT MEREDITH CALLED, GRAMMA! SHE SAID HELLO. UNCLE BOBBY IS IN THE HOSPITAL."
Av: "What?"
Me: (Muttering under my breath) "Jesus Christ I just want my damn 20's back."
Av: "Daddy, why you say damn?"
That is about the long and short of it right there. There are a million other little things that take place. Like the total inability to rip off less than half a roll of toilet paper at a time. The insistence upon hitting me out of nowhere for no reason just to take out some sort of bizarre, pent up rage. The habit of turning off the TV every time Family Feud comes on. Seriously, a guy wants 30 minutes of Steve Harvey a day. 30 Minutes. I can't have 30 minutes of Steve Harvey and the Family Feud? This is totally unreasonable.
The worst seems to be days when she goes to school. I will pick her up at noon and by the time we get in to the car she has gone totally batshit crazy. It is almost like she has tried so hard to behave and be a sweet little girl for four and a half hours at school so when she gets back to me she just has to release all of her dickheadery at one time. She will refuse to sit in the car seat, kick me in the chest as I buckle her in, spit in my face, throw things, call me an idiot etc... The worst part of the whole thing is that punishment is futile. Usually she just laughs at me and if she actually does take me seriously there is so much epic crying and fit throwing that I literally just throw my hands up, take two Alieve and ignore her. I can't listen to the racket. I can't. Monica can sit there and listen to her scream and cry all day long. I can't do that. I don't have it in me.
Don't get me wrong. I love my daughter. We have plenty of nice times together. But the next time somebody tells you that this is a 'wonderful' age for children just know that they either don't have any children of their own or they probably have children who have grown up to be dickhead adults or college kids who are bleeding them dry. They are longing for the days when their little children drew on the TV with marker just to see what the punishment would be.
I will leave you with a typical Crosby's Market three-year-old grocery shopping experience.
Av: "Daddy, I don't want to sit in the cart. Can I get a little guy cart and push it myself?"
Me: (Sigh) "Why don't you just walk next to the cart, you don't have to ride in it, but we need a big cart today."
Av: "Noooo, I want a little guy cart. Please, daddy? That little girl has a little guy cart!!"
Me: "Fine. But if you get the little guy cart you have to stay next to me the whole time. No grabbing things off the shelf unless I tell you it is ok and no running. You need to be a good listener and follow directions, ok?"
Av: "Ok!"
Me: "No, I want you to say it. Daddy, if I get a little cart I will be a good listener and follow directions."
Av: "Daddy, if I get a little cart I will be a good listener and follow directions."
Me: "Ok. Go grab the cart."
(Av grabs the cart, follows nicely behind me for about 3-4 minutes and then snaps, steals cucumbers from the salad bar, wanders off at the deli, crashes in to several old people)
Me: "Ok, ok, you know what? Why don't you go put that cart back if you can't listen."
Av: "Nooooooooooooooooooo." (Begins to tear up)
Me: "Ok, ok, ok, fine. Just... just please, please listen to me" (Trying desperately to avoid being 'that parent with the screaming kid' in the grocery store)
Av:"Daddy I think we need some of these"
(Grabs a handful of water chestnuts-- this actually happened, by the way)
Me: "No, those are water chestnuts. You don't even know what those are."
Av: "Yes I do they are water nuts or whatever you said"
Me: "You aren't going to eat those. I don't even know how to eat one of those."
Av: "Yes you do."
Me: "No, I definitely don't. I'm pretty sure you have to roast them."
Av: "Let's roast these water nuts, Dad."
(Takes two out of the bin, licks them, and puts them in the cart)
Me: "Ok, seriously? did you just lick those?"
Av: "Yeah , they tasted bad. Let's get them."
(Spins around and takes off running with the cart which immediately tips over and spills water chestnuts on to the floor.)
Me: "Ok. Let's go. C'mon. Let's, just- Let's go. We are close enough to being done."
Av: "I think we should just give our water nuts to the squirrels"
Me: (Muttering under my breath and looking to the heavens) "I just want my damn 20's back."
