Friday, December 31, 2010
Frozen Solid Weekend, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tessa,
Got a call from my Jr. High principal yesterday. His assistant, actually. "Hi, David. This is Steve Groen's assistant calling." Whoooosh. I heard nothing more she said. Suddenly I was 13 years old, sitting in a chair strategically designed to give Steve Groen a height advantage over whichever student had earned their way into his office this time.
Today, I was that kid. I was that kid most of the time. 3 tardies earned you detention. That rule alone was enough to award me the lion's share of the available detentions, but today I was in for trying to start a club. It was a club that, for a small admission fee ($20) allowed you into the group. We had a dozen members. Once in, you had the chance to guess who'd win all the NFL games for the upcoming season. The member with the most correct guesses won a bunch of the admission money. Me and my buddy Matt pocketed a healthy share for coming up with the idea. Everyone was happy. Especially the younger kids, who would have paid $20 just to sit with the older kids at lunch.
To Mr. Groen, this club was less of a club, and more of combination gambling/swindling outfit. I was not so much Co-Chair of the Football Appreciation Club, as I was "totally out of line, young man." It sounded so much worse when he said it. It always sounded worse coming out of his mouth than it did inside my head. And so that was detention #1 in a limited collectible series of 47; all signed by me, and Mr. Groen, and my parents. My mom instituted a 1 Detention = 1 Hour of Vacuuming rule, and we had the cleanest house that year.
"Mr. Groen heard you had taken a job with Bethlehem Covenant, and was hoping you could speak to the kids at chapel next month." I told her that I was responsible for most of Mr. Groen's grey hairs, and that I seriously doubted he wanted me back in the building. She laughed, and I realized she thought I was joking. Sure, I can speak at chapel; I probably owe the guy that much. 47 hours of detention, absolved by 20 minutes of every man's worst fear. Sigh. He told me once that I'd look back and wish I'd behaved myself more often. I just didn't think this would be the reason.
Got a call from my Jr. High principal yesterday. His assistant, actually. "Hi, David. This is Steve Groen's assistant calling." Whoooosh. I heard nothing more she said. Suddenly I was 13 years old, sitting in a chair strategically designed to give Steve Groen a height advantage over whichever student had earned their way into his office this time.
Today, I was that kid. I was that kid most of the time. 3 tardies earned you detention. That rule alone was enough to award me the lion's share of the available detentions, but today I was in for trying to start a club. It was a club that, for a small admission fee ($20) allowed you into the group. We had a dozen members. Once in, you had the chance to guess who'd win all the NFL games for the upcoming season. The member with the most correct guesses won a bunch of the admission money. Me and my buddy Matt pocketed a healthy share for coming up with the idea. Everyone was happy. Especially the younger kids, who would have paid $20 just to sit with the older kids at lunch.
To Mr. Groen, this club was less of a club, and more of combination gambling/swindling outfit. I was not so much Co-Chair of the Football Appreciation Club, as I was "totally out of line, young man." It sounded so much worse when he said it. It always sounded worse coming out of his mouth than it did inside my head. And so that was detention #1 in a limited collectible series of 47; all signed by me, and Mr. Groen, and my parents. My mom instituted a 1 Detention = 1 Hour of Vacuuming rule, and we had the cleanest house that year.
"Mr. Groen heard you had taken a job with Bethlehem Covenant, and was hoping you could speak to the kids at chapel next month." I told her that I was responsible for most of Mr. Groen's grey hairs, and that I seriously doubted he wanted me back in the building. She laughed, and I realized she thought I was joking. Sure, I can speak at chapel; I probably owe the guy that much. 47 hours of detention, absolved by 20 minutes of every man's worst fear. Sigh. He told me once that I'd look back and wish I'd behaved myself more often. I just didn't think this would be the reason.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Northern Exposure
Tessa,
It's cold outside, and I have been cold all day.
In bed I was at the soft, comfortable center of the universe. Then morning spit me out into the icy blue day and I have been cold ever since.
Writing about the weather usually signals that the author has nothing big going on in his or her life, much as talking about the weather with a stranger in the elevator means you have nothing else to offer them but awkward silence. But other times it's just bleeping cold outside. Cold enough that Katy Perry put a whole shirt on. Cold enough that the weather report in the paper just shows a picture of an Eskimo holding a gun to his head.
I can do this. In an age of remote car starters, heated boots, and North Face fleece, I stand a decent chance of seeing next spring. What I might never understand, is how people settled these parts before Thinsulate-lined boxers. Why Minnesota, unless you have no knowledge of Florida? My only thought is that they came in the Summer, and then the snow trapped them in. I know that's what happened to us.
It's cold outside, and I have been cold all day.
In bed I was at the soft, comfortable center of the universe. Then morning spit me out into the icy blue day and I have been cold ever since.
Writing about the weather usually signals that the author has nothing big going on in his or her life, much as talking about the weather with a stranger in the elevator means you have nothing else to offer them but awkward silence. But other times it's just bleeping cold outside. Cold enough that Katy Perry put a whole shirt on. Cold enough that the weather report in the paper just shows a picture of an Eskimo holding a gun to his head.
I can do this. In an age of remote car starters, heated boots, and North Face fleece, I stand a decent chance of seeing next spring. What I might never understand, is how people settled these parts before Thinsulate-lined boxers. Why Minnesota, unless you have no knowledge of Florida? My only thought is that they came in the Summer, and then the snow trapped them in. I know that's what happened to us.
I Heart You.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
What A Long, Strange, House-On-Fire Trip It's Been
Tessa,
Actually, the title of this post should be "Thanksgiving fire damages Bartlett home". That's the headline the Daily Herald went with, and who am I to ague with the nation's 75th largest newspaper? Here's the article text:
Why didn't the paper mention the part about you smelling the fire before even the dog noticed? Or the part about me noticing the smoke in the attic, and then crawling into that smoke-filled attic, like a perfect example of the idiot, what-not-to-do kid in a fire safety video. Plus, they originally spelled it "Alquonquin". (Really, there's a whole essay here somewhere about the demise modern print media, the kicker being that none of us ever even read the printed version of this story.)
What a helpless feeling, to stand outside the house, wrapped in a coat, watching smoke lisp out of the attic. You can't leave and you can't go help. You can only pray the flames lose and lose quickly. There are sirens and a ladder truck, and you think about how closely the scene around you resembles an insurance commercial. But we all made it out safely, reminded again of what we're truly thankful for. And that is the lesson sitcoms have taught us to learn.
In any event, I wouldn't want to stand outside a burning house with anyone else. Unless that other person had the ability to instantly put the fire out. In that case it just makes sense to go with the superhero.
Actually, the title of this post should be "Thanksgiving fire damages Bartlett home". That's the headline the Daily Herald went with, and who am I to ague with the nation's 75th largest newspaper? Here's the article text:
Bartlett firefighters stopped a Thanksgiving Day fire at a single-family home Thursday before it rendered the home uninhabitable.
The fire department was called to the home on the 500 block of Harbor Terrace at 3:58 p.m. in regards to a possible chimney fire.
After discovering light smoke on the residence's second floor and in the attic, firefighters determined fire had extended from the fireplace flue into the exterior wall.
The first crews to arrive got into the attic to extinguish the blaze there, while additional crews went to the roof to assist with ventilation and bring the remaining fire under control.
Firefighters are continuing their investigation into the exact cause of the blaze, which caused an estimated $30,000 in damage to the house and another $5,000 to its contents.
Hanover Park firefighters assisted Bartlett at the scene, while crews from Algonquin, Bloomingdale and Carpentersville moved to standby at Bartlett's fire stations.
In any event, I wouldn't want to stand outside a burning house with anyone else. Unless that other person had the ability to instantly put the fire out. In that case it just makes sense to go with the superhero.
I Heart You.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
No-Shave November
Tessa,
Just in case you were wondering what you missed by deciding not to attend opening weekend of the 2010 deer hunting season:
Oh, you weren't wondering? Then these will really bore you.
Also, what's the difference between plaid and flannel? I really have no clue. I think it's one of those square-rectangle relationships. Like flannel is always plaid, but plaid doesn't have to be flannel. Either way, I use them interchangeably. Never had anyone say, "Actually, that's not a flannel shirt, it's plaid." Then again, I suspect that people who wear flannel/plaid are less likely to be quibble about fabric than most. They've got wrenches to turn, nails to hammer.
Okay, well if these photos whet your appetite for the frozen Northwoods, you're more than welcome to join. I'm sure Anthropologie has something in blaze orange.
I Heart You.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Letter Home From Camp
Tessa,
Just got back from 5 days of dazing and confusing teenager-watching at Covenant Pines. Since you couldn't make it, heres a snapshot of things you missed.
Just got back from 5 days of dazing and confusing teenager-watching at Covenant Pines. Since you couldn't make it, heres a snapshot of things you missed.
- A Jr. High boy asking if, after devotions were finished, we could all maybe have an awkward silence. His request was granted, and it was awkward.
- A Jr. High boy walking through a field, bending over to retrieve a pair of underwear from a pile of wet leaves, and asking aloud, "How did my Hanes get all the way out here?" (Yes, he took them back to his cabin for safe keeping.)
- A Jr. High girl who happens to be a semi-professional log-rolling champion, explaining the finer mechanics of the "Jerk and Squirt", a technique for making your opponent slip off the log.
- A kid trying to scare me in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, his arms waving in the darkness landed on my crotch, and the boy and I both wound up equally freaked out, shouting "Ahh! What is that?!"
- Me waking up in the middle of the night to a boy staring at me and screaming. Night terrors, apparently he remembers nothing.
- Me waking up in the middle of the night to chipmunks -- CHIPMUNKS! -- running across my sleeping bag.
So there you have it. The highlights and lowlights of a week with 300+ of your closest teenage friends. Makes you sort of understand why some animals eat their young.
I Heart You.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Dog, Gone.
Tessa,
Yesterday I lost Mom's dog. Hopped the back fence. Like a bird into the clouds, like a hare into the woods, like a teenager with daddy issues into a Hot Topic. Gone.
But he came back, and that's the part I'd like to focus on. Did I leave someone else's pet unattended, in a backyard that's about as secure as Paris Hilton's acting career. Yes, yes I did. But I'm also 1 for 1 on lost dog's eventually being returned, and that's 100%. So, in spite of this little bit of administrative malfeasance, I'm still voting YES! this fall on Proposition Pup.
Yesterday I lost Mom's dog. Hopped the back fence. Like a bird into the clouds, like a hare into the woods, like a teenager with daddy issues into a Hot Topic. Gone.
But he came back, and that's the part I'd like to focus on. Did I leave someone else's pet unattended, in a backyard that's about as secure as Paris Hilton's acting career. Yes, yes I did. But I'm also 1 for 1 on lost dog's eventually being returned, and that's 100%. So, in spite of this little bit of administrative malfeasance, I'm still voting YES! this fall on Proposition Pup.
I Heart You.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Idiot With an Eye for Opportunity
Tessa,
A Minneapolis woman sued the city because she tripped over an orange traffic cone. She claimed the cone was a hazard, and she should have been better marked. The judge threw the case out, saying that the bright orange cone was, itself, a warning the woman probably should have noticed. He noted that putting orange cones out to mark more orange cones ahead would result in never-ending parades of orange cones.
You have to love this woman though. This woman has bad luck mixed with some poor eyesight, deftly layered atop a desire to strike it rich. Who's to say Isaac Newton wouldn't have done the same thing if he were hit with a blaze orange traffic cone instead of an apple? Past ages required you mix your desire to be wealthy with a good idea and some hard work. Nowadays, play dumb and aim for that well-marked hole in the pavement.
A Minneapolis woman sued the city because she tripped over an orange traffic cone. She claimed the cone was a hazard, and she should have been better marked. The judge threw the case out, saying that the bright orange cone was, itself, a warning the woman probably should have noticed. He noted that putting orange cones out to mark more orange cones ahead would result in never-ending parades of orange cones.
You have to love this woman though. This woman has bad luck mixed with some poor eyesight, deftly layered atop a desire to strike it rich. Who's to say Isaac Newton wouldn't have done the same thing if he were hit with a blaze orange traffic cone instead of an apple? Past ages required you mix your desire to be wealthy with a good idea and some hard work. Nowadays, play dumb and aim for that well-marked hole in the pavement.
I Heart you.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
BREAKING NEWS: Apathetic, Disaffected Blog Author No Longer Deserving of Own Blog
If this blog were a fern, it would be brown. If this blog were a fish, it would be upside-down at the top of the tank, mouthing "...flush...me..." with its final fishy breath. Let's do one more: if this blog were a were a celebrity, it would be Calista Flockheart (because the blog's under-nourished, and loves Harrison Ford).
In spite of my total lack of commitment to so many things that now seem like -- of course -- they were doomed to fail from the very beginning (see: garage wood-shop, yard work of all sorts, calligraphy, jiu jitsu), I still think I can handle the responsibility of a puppy. My unflinching disregard for the realities of my own personality aside, I think a puppy would be a good idea. The wagging tail, so exited to see you up in the morning. The wagging tail, so happily expectant you're home. The tail, wagging at other times, but happily. Always happily.
So think about it. I promise to walk it. House train it. Teach it to say grace before eating. And if none of this works, think about this...
...not this.
I Heart You.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Our Very First Driveway
Tessa,
We have a driveway. We've never even had a parking space before. Sure, there was occasionally room for a car in front of the building we lived in, but that wasn't ours. You couldn't count on it being there in ten minutes. Now, every time I go home -- bang! -- an area specifically designated for one of our automobiles. Now, maybe First Driveway isn't on the order of Baby's First Steps, or The First Day of Kindergarten, but it's gotta be worth something.
Also, we've never had a yard before. Or a garage. No basement, guest room, or fireplace. And speaking of the yard, we have 2 of them: front and back. You could say, "I'm gonna be out in the yard, darling, pruning the rosebushes." And I'd have to ask, "Which yard, we have two of them, and I'm not certain which one you were referencing."
I do kind of miss the old place, with its This-Is-Your-First-Home appeal. I miss the creaks in the floor, and the blue walls in the living room (it was like sitting in the middle of the sky on a clear day). But the new place is an entire place, and when I took the garbage out today -- walking down the Driveway, through the Back Yard, and into the Garage/Wood Shop -- it dawned on me that we'd never even had a parking space before.
We have a driveway. We've never even had a parking space before. Sure, there was occasionally room for a car in front of the building we lived in, but that wasn't ours. You couldn't count on it being there in ten minutes. Now, every time I go home -- bang! -- an area specifically designated for one of our automobiles. Now, maybe First Driveway isn't on the order of Baby's First Steps, or The First Day of Kindergarten, but it's gotta be worth something.
Also, we've never had a yard before. Or a garage. No basement, guest room, or fireplace. And speaking of the yard, we have 2 of them: front and back. You could say, "I'm gonna be out in the yard, darling, pruning the rosebushes." And I'd have to ask, "Which yard, we have two of them, and I'm not certain which one you were referencing."
I do kind of miss the old place, with its This-Is-Your-First-Home appeal. I miss the creaks in the floor, and the blue walls in the living room (it was like sitting in the middle of the sky on a clear day). But the new place is an entire place, and when I took the garbage out today -- walking down the Driveway, through the Back Yard, and into the Garage/Wood Shop -- it dawned on me that we'd never even had a parking space before.
I Heart You.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Monkey Bar Blues
Tessa,
Second staff meeting today, marking the beginning of my second week. Spent my morning cruising paperwork. "Paper-Workin' It" I call it. What's Dave doing? He's not just workin' it, he's paper workin' it. To reach this level, you must be able to fill out forms while returning emails while meeting people whose names you'll likely forget while listening to the radio and singing along. Paper workin' it.
A perk of the new office is the big window, but a downside of the big window is that it overlooks a playground. I spend a good portion of the day telling myself, "You're too old for those monkey bars, David." While this is probably true, it doesn't stop the monkey bars from calling my name. Plus, they have a little rock wall that I'm totally sure I could summit in less than a minute. 40 seconds probably.
Kids today have way better playgrounds than we did. We had a vertical tower you could climb up, and then a swing set. The tower had a chain-link ladder you climbed to reach the top, but if you slipped, the ladder became a net, and you had to wait for adults to get free. And none of this soft rubber pellet stuff. It was concrete an asphalt and broken glass to give the ground a nice sparkle. The entire mess was then surrounded with barbed wire and intermittently peppered with mortar fire from rival elementary schools. We wouldn't have known what to do with a climbing wall. We would have probably just stared at it; toys like that are too nice to play on.
Staff meeting. Then monkey bars, maybe, after everyone goes home.
Second staff meeting today, marking the beginning of my second week. Spent my morning cruising paperwork. "Paper-Workin' It" I call it. What's Dave doing? He's not just workin' it, he's paper workin' it. To reach this level, you must be able to fill out forms while returning emails while meeting people whose names you'll likely forget while listening to the radio and singing along. Paper workin' it.
A perk of the new office is the big window, but a downside of the big window is that it overlooks a playground. I spend a good portion of the day telling myself, "You're too old for those monkey bars, David." While this is probably true, it doesn't stop the monkey bars from calling my name. Plus, they have a little rock wall that I'm totally sure I could summit in less than a minute. 40 seconds probably.
Kids today have way better playgrounds than we did. We had a vertical tower you could climb up, and then a swing set. The tower had a chain-link ladder you climbed to reach the top, but if you slipped, the ladder became a net, and you had to wait for adults to get free. And none of this soft rubber pellet stuff. It was concrete an asphalt and broken glass to give the ground a nice sparkle. The entire mess was then surrounded with barbed wire and intermittently peppered with mortar fire from rival elementary schools. We wouldn't have known what to do with a climbing wall. We would have probably just stared at it; toys like that are too nice to play on.
Staff meeting. Then monkey bars, maybe, after everyone goes home.
I Heart You
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Commuter Marriage
Tessa,
Remember when we had that Courtship & Marriage class in college. The professor listed off some variations on the typical we-live-together marriage, mentioning that "commuter marriages" were becoming more popular. Two people, living in separate cities, leading separate lives, except for the small issue of their souls being bonded together for life in holy matrimony. We rolled our eyes at the ridiculousness of it. Now the world has thrust it upon us, and it still seems ridiculous.
This is my first letter to you from the Department Of Really Spiritual And Life-changing Fellowship INitiatives, alson known as D.O.R.S.A.L. F.IN. It took me 3 days to make that acronym up. You should have seen the ones that I rejected. As of right now, I'm the only member, which makes this a very secret group. You can be in it if you want, maybe take notes at the meetings or something.
I delivered Meals On Wheels to some elderly, house-bound folks, earlier today. Or, rather, I thought I delivered Meals On Wheels. I caught a glimpse of the volunteer instructions as I was wrapping up the last delivery, and it turns out I was actually delivering Meals Via Wheels. Now, I don't usually care about brand names, but I felt more than a little duped. All this time I thought I was involving myself in a designer charity, only to find out later I was hood-winked into doing good deeds for a knock-off.
After that, I got taken out to lunch -- again -- and then received a very interesting lesson on how to properly format expense reports. Turns out, anyone can format an expense report, but only a very small number of people have the wherewithal to do it properly. I fear I am not in that very small number. In time, they will all know this. But for now I have decided to let people believe I am a smart and capable person. I have a bet with myself to see whether this ruse can last as long as the vase of flowers on the window sill.
You are missed.
Remember when we had that Courtship & Marriage class in college. The professor listed off some variations on the typical we-live-together marriage, mentioning that "commuter marriages" were becoming more popular. Two people, living in separate cities, leading separate lives, except for the small issue of their souls being bonded together for life in holy matrimony. We rolled our eyes at the ridiculousness of it. Now the world has thrust it upon us, and it still seems ridiculous.
This is my first letter to you from the Department Of Really Spiritual And Life-changing Fellowship INitiatives, alson known as D.O.R.S.A.L. F.IN. It took me 3 days to make that acronym up. You should have seen the ones that I rejected. As of right now, I'm the only member, which makes this a very secret group. You can be in it if you want, maybe take notes at the meetings or something.
I delivered Meals On Wheels to some elderly, house-bound folks, earlier today. Or, rather, I thought I delivered Meals On Wheels. I caught a glimpse of the volunteer instructions as I was wrapping up the last delivery, and it turns out I was actually delivering Meals Via Wheels. Now, I don't usually care about brand names, but I felt more than a little duped. All this time I thought I was involving myself in a designer charity, only to find out later I was hood-winked into doing good deeds for a knock-off.
After that, I got taken out to lunch -- again -- and then received a very interesting lesson on how to properly format expense reports. Turns out, anyone can format an expense report, but only a very small number of people have the wherewithal to do it properly. I fear I am not in that very small number. In time, they will all know this. But for now I have decided to let people believe I am a smart and capable person. I have a bet with myself to see whether this ruse can last as long as the vase of flowers on the window sill.
You are missed.
I Heart You.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Gooooooaall!
Tessa,
How angry was I that the US vs Algeria game wasn't on broadcast TV? Very angry, with a hint of still-sleepiness. I can understand not wanting to bump some prime time So You Think You Can Needle-Point or whatever, but it was like 9:30 in the morning. ABC put The View on instead. No one likes that show. We play it for terrorists to get them to talk, and when we do, they beg to be water-boarded instead. "No! Not Joy Bahar; anything but Joy Bahar! Osama's at a Motel 6 in Cleveland, just please make it stop!"
So, instead of watching the game I find myself reading second-to-second text updates on ESPN.com. I turn the radio on to get the full effect of what life was like before television saved us. We win the game in epic fashion, but reading the action off a website really neuters the moment. To make matters worse, I found out that you can watch the game online, I was just at the wrong page. Lame.
How angry was I that the US vs Algeria game wasn't on broadcast TV? Very angry, with a hint of still-sleepiness. I can understand not wanting to bump some prime time So You Think You Can Needle-Point or whatever, but it was like 9:30 in the morning. ABC put The View on instead. No one likes that show. We play it for terrorists to get them to talk, and when we do, they beg to be water-boarded instead. "No! Not Joy Bahar; anything but Joy Bahar! Osama's at a Motel 6 in Cleveland, just please make it stop!"
So, instead of watching the game I find myself reading second-to-second text updates on ESPN.com. I turn the radio on to get the full effect of what life was like before television saved us. We win the game in epic fashion, but reading the action off a website really neuters the moment. To make matters worse, I found out that you can watch the game online, I was just at the wrong page. Lame.
I Heart You
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Forts & The World's Worst Psychic
Tessa,
I should be packing things away in boxes, but I am never so full of key-stroking impetus as when I should be doing something else. In fact, virtually every letter you will read here came at the expense of something else I was supposed be doing. As a kid, I always thought you just outgrew your desire to drop everything and make a fort in the living room out of the couch cushions. Now, with nearly a decade of adulthood under my belt, I see the truth: we never outgrow, we only tame the beast. Those who do not tame remain children, in cognito. They'll never be able to stroll through Wickes' Furniture without imagining a Chateau d'If made entirely from cushions.
Speaking of refusing to face reality, check this out: a Connecticut woman, claiming to be a psychic, was charged with lying to police after she filed a report accusing "rival psychics" of beating her up. Let's unpack this. First, I gotta believe that the biggest perk to being a psychic -- aside from the flowing gypsy robes -- is seeing the future. Ideally, a psychic should be the last person to be surprised by an attack.
Second, wouldn't the rival psychics know this, and maybe have a better way of getting to her than the very non-psychic route of beating her up? Replace her crystal ball with a regular glass one, maybe? The 'ol Pins-In-The-Voodoo-Doll trick? And gangs of rival psychics? Are these a problem in Connecticut? Do they have gang colors, and specified gang territories. Are there drive-by palm readings, after which they all meet back at the circled caravan of wagons? So many questions.
Finally, she ends up getting arrested. Shocker. One would think that an average person, entirely not gifted with magical powers, would be able to deduce that repeatedly lying to police is likely to put you behind bars. I guess psychics are like drug dealers; the first rule is you never use the product your selling.
I should be packing things away in boxes, but I am never so full of key-stroking impetus as when I should be doing something else. In fact, virtually every letter you will read here came at the expense of something else I was supposed be doing. As a kid, I always thought you just outgrew your desire to drop everything and make a fort in the living room out of the couch cushions. Now, with nearly a decade of adulthood under my belt, I see the truth: we never outgrow, we only tame the beast. Those who do not tame remain children, in cognito. They'll never be able to stroll through Wickes' Furniture without imagining a Chateau d'If made entirely from cushions.
Speaking of refusing to face reality, check this out: a Connecticut woman, claiming to be a psychic, was charged with lying to police after she filed a report accusing "rival psychics" of beating her up. Let's unpack this. First, I gotta believe that the biggest perk to being a psychic -- aside from the flowing gypsy robes -- is seeing the future. Ideally, a psychic should be the last person to be surprised by an attack.
Second, wouldn't the rival psychics know this, and maybe have a better way of getting to her than the very non-psychic route of beating her up? Replace her crystal ball with a regular glass one, maybe? The 'ol Pins-In-The-Voodoo-Doll trick? And gangs of rival psychics? Are these a problem in Connecticut? Do they have gang colors, and specified gang territories. Are there drive-by palm readings, after which they all meet back at the circled caravan of wagons? So many questions.
Finally, she ends up getting arrested. Shocker. One would think that an average person, entirely not gifted with magical powers, would be able to deduce that repeatedly lying to police is likely to put you behind bars. I guess psychics are like drug dealers; the first rule is you never use the product your selling.
I Heart You
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Air Conditioners & Panda Bears
Tessa,
My mind is blank today, but I hadn't written in you in over a week, so here I am... It's not like we haven't seen each other in a week. I saw you this morning. You were sleeping, and I was four inches from your face, staring at you and humming an E flat minor. "Ohmmmmmmnnmn...". But that type of thing doesn't count as quality communication, so here goes.
I helped the lady downstairs install 2 air conditioners yesterday. She's on the heftier side of the spectrum, and can't stand for more than a minute or two without resting. She has cancer, and she brought it up a lot. A lot. And I don't know what to say, because I'm sympathetic (Or do I mean empathetic here? Whichever one means I know cancer sucks, but not from personal experience), but I'm also holding a sixty-five pound window unit. The metal corner is digging into my hip, I think I'm bleeding, but I'm furrowing my brow and nodding to the story she's telling me.
It's strange to see people's homes when you don't really know them. No matter how clean a place is, some item always reveals more than polite sensibilities desire. Foot lotion, now with anti-fungal support. Old paperback romance novels, with some Civil War belle staring pensively out of a plantation window, her face clearly pleading "Come back to me, Jamison Beauregard III, so we can do the grown-up hug in the smoke house again." In public, people get the chance to present themselves as they seem fit. If you want to know about their weird side, you have to Facebook them. But once your in their home, there's simply no way they can hide their freakish love of panda bears.
Okay, off to the gym, and then to do more Censifying.
My mind is blank today, but I hadn't written in you in over a week, so here I am... It's not like we haven't seen each other in a week. I saw you this morning. You were sleeping, and I was four inches from your face, staring at you and humming an E flat minor. "Ohmmmmmmnnmn...". But that type of thing doesn't count as quality communication, so here goes.
I helped the lady downstairs install 2 air conditioners yesterday. She's on the heftier side of the spectrum, and can't stand for more than a minute or two without resting. She has cancer, and she brought it up a lot. A lot. And I don't know what to say, because I'm sympathetic (Or do I mean empathetic here? Whichever one means I know cancer sucks, but not from personal experience), but I'm also holding a sixty-five pound window unit. The metal corner is digging into my hip, I think I'm bleeding, but I'm furrowing my brow and nodding to the story she's telling me.
It's strange to see people's homes when you don't really know them. No matter how clean a place is, some item always reveals more than polite sensibilities desire. Foot lotion, now with anti-fungal support. Old paperback romance novels, with some Civil War belle staring pensively out of a plantation window, her face clearly pleading "Come back to me, Jamison Beauregard III, so we can do the grown-up hug in the smoke house again." In public, people get the chance to present themselves as they seem fit. If you want to know about their weird side, you have to Facebook them. But once your in their home, there's simply no way they can hide their freakish love of panda bears.
Okay, off to the gym, and then to do more Censifying.
I Heart You
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Not Crioceris Asparagi, Anything but Crioceris Asparagi
Tessa,
Geez, what is this, like the 50th cloudy day in a row? You know what I hate about cloudy days? It's that the sun's doing it's job; the problem is the clouds. It's not like there just weren't enough golden rays to go around. I could understand that, the sun deciding to take a day off. But that sun is up there, burning. And we'd all be down here, soaking up photons, maybe converting some Vitamin D, if not for the big, stupid, lazy clouds.
Today started badly. I opened up the 'ol web browser, up popped the homepage, and I started skimming headlines while the water boiled. The Dow is down, T-bills are up, the Euro is down, the Dollar is up. It's a roller coaster. A big, painfully-boring roller coaster made of numbers and high-blood-pressure medication. Then to the news headlines, where I see the front page of the Chicago Tribune announcing, "3 Bodies Found In Car."
The bodies were all bound, gagged, and shot to death, the article noted, and should not be confused with the "3 Bodies Found In Car" article from last month, where the 3 Bodies had been bound, gagged and beaten to death.
What? Are you kidding me? We live in a city where -- for all its genuine wonder and worth -- we run the risk of confusing one ghastly, grisly situation with another? Because, sorry, but as gruesome and atypically horrific as a crime scene might be, that chalk outline is a dead ringer, if you'll pardon the pun, for a chalk outline we drew yesterday. If they'd have just died in the same place, we could have saved on white chalk. Ridiculous.
In my righteous anger, I pulled up the Minneapolis Star Tribune, wondering how the Twin Cities' beastly crime-du-jour compared. With the population difference, I figured they maybe had "1.2 Bodies Found In Car" or something like that. 1.3 at the most. But they didn't. It's worse than that. Dear, sweet, Tessa, it was so much worse than that.
Geez, what is this, like the 50th cloudy day in a row? You know what I hate about cloudy days? It's that the sun's doing it's job; the problem is the clouds. It's not like there just weren't enough golden rays to go around. I could understand that, the sun deciding to take a day off. But that sun is up there, burning. And we'd all be down here, soaking up photons, maybe converting some Vitamin D, if not for the big, stupid, lazy clouds.
Today started badly. I opened up the 'ol web browser, up popped the homepage, and I started skimming headlines while the water boiled. The Dow is down, T-bills are up, the Euro is down, the Dollar is up. It's a roller coaster. A big, painfully-boring roller coaster made of numbers and high-blood-pressure medication. Then to the news headlines, where I see the front page of the Chicago Tribune announcing, "3 Bodies Found In Car."
The bodies were all bound, gagged, and shot to death, the article noted, and should not be confused with the "3 Bodies Found In Car" article from last month, where the 3 Bodies had been bound, gagged and beaten to death.
What? Are you kidding me? We live in a city where -- for all its genuine wonder and worth -- we run the risk of confusing one ghastly, grisly situation with another? Because, sorry, but as gruesome and atypically horrific as a crime scene might be, that chalk outline is a dead ringer, if you'll pardon the pun, for a chalk outline we drew yesterday. If they'd have just died in the same place, we could have saved on white chalk. Ridiculous.
In my righteous anger, I pulled up the Minneapolis Star Tribune, wondering how the Twin Cities' beastly crime-du-jour compared. With the population difference, I figured they maybe had "1.2 Bodies Found In Car" or something like that. 1.3 at the most. But they didn't. It's worse than that. Dear, sweet, Tessa, it was so much worse than that.
"Darned Asparagus Beetles" screamed the headline. I swear; you couldn't make this stuff up. Not even a farm report on the spread of pestilence. Just "Darned Asparagus Beetles" followed by an article about, well, beetles. To the delight of children everywhere, Crioceris Asparagi, as they're known to smart people, apparently spent most of this month feasting on the helpless stalks of local asparagus. C. Asparagi also holds the record for "Insect With the Stinkiest Pee". Front page.
Minnesota, the land of ten thousand lakes and zero cars full of dead bodies. A land where every chalk outline is as different as the crime that led to it. A land of where even the biggest headlines are of questionable importance. And should you miss the headlines, you can go about your day with the relative certainty that your car will likely not become your casket, and that the greatest threat to your way of life is quietly eating vegetables in your garden.
I Heart You
Monday, May 17, 2010
Give Up-Chuck
Tessa,
Why must you leave me on a Monday night, when there is nothing on but NBC's Chuck: the show that no one has ever seen. Ever. This is not good; I am not prepared for solitude and boredom. Tomorrow I'm playing basketball, and Dan's coming over to play FIFA. And there's a hockey game on. Why do the good things bunch together like that? Spread out, boys. Get some air. No need to all pile into Tuesday night. Monday's lonely after all. You know why? Because Monday night is Tuesday's fatter, less interesting twin.
Wait. Just found an unwatched Netflix sitting on the bureau. Things are going to be okay.
Why must you leave me on a Monday night, when there is nothing on but NBC's Chuck: the show that no one has ever seen. Ever. This is not good; I am not prepared for solitude and boredom. Tomorrow I'm playing basketball, and Dan's coming over to play FIFA. And there's a hockey game on. Why do the good things bunch together like that? Spread out, boys. Get some air. No need to all pile into Tuesday night. Monday's lonely after all. You know why? Because Monday night is Tuesday's fatter, less interesting twin.
Wait. Just found an unwatched Netflix sitting on the bureau. Things are going to be okay.
I Heart You
Daily Grind
Tessa,
Ugh. Worst part of my day is waiting for my brain to start. Appliances have Start buttons. Machines have pull-starts, kick-starts, electric ignition systems. Not me. Paperwork comes out, stare at some numbers, realize I zoned out staring at numbers, put paperwork down. Repeat this process three times and then go make some tea.
People worry about alcohol and drug dependency, but we've given the caffeine-dependent a pass. Rightly so. No one wants rehab centers full of sleepy, uninitiated office professionals, trying with every fiber of their being to make the switch to decaf. No one wants TMZ chronicling Lindsay Lohan's shameful walk back into Bellevue, again, this time for her combination oxycontin-and-espresso meltdown. Pills and beans; so sad.
Besides, society would shut down without caffeine: productivity would plummet, naps would skyrocket. (Aside: "skyrocket is one of those weird verbs that, lets be honest, is actually a noun.) We'd have the GDP of Luxembourg within a week. Bums passed out in the alley would now have company from business execs, just trying to grab a few winks on their lunch breaks, unable to admit their lack of natural drive to their coworkers. Remember the 60's, when a businessman could have a full bar in his office, on one of those little booze carts, and no one thought it excessive? No one wants to look back on the 10's as the good old days, when an employee could just get up from his desk and refill his coffee mug. Just refill away, as many times as he or she liked.
And so, caffeine stays. Meth is definitely out, marijuana too. Booze or smokes are gonna require an ID. Trans fat, salt, and fructose are treated worse than bankers are these days. But if you're gonna take my caffeine away, you're gonna hafta pry this mug from my cold, dead hands.
Ugh. Worst part of my day is waiting for my brain to start. Appliances have Start buttons. Machines have pull-starts, kick-starts, electric ignition systems. Not me. Paperwork comes out, stare at some numbers, realize I zoned out staring at numbers, put paperwork down. Repeat this process three times and then go make some tea.
People worry about alcohol and drug dependency, but we've given the caffeine-dependent a pass. Rightly so. No one wants rehab centers full of sleepy, uninitiated office professionals, trying with every fiber of their being to make the switch to decaf. No one wants TMZ chronicling Lindsay Lohan's shameful walk back into Bellevue, again, this time for her combination oxycontin-and-espresso meltdown. Pills and beans; so sad.
Besides, society would shut down without caffeine: productivity would plummet, naps would skyrocket. (Aside: "skyrocket is one of those weird verbs that, lets be honest, is actually a noun.) We'd have the GDP of Luxembourg within a week. Bums passed out in the alley would now have company from business execs, just trying to grab a few winks on their lunch breaks, unable to admit their lack of natural drive to their coworkers. Remember the 60's, when a businessman could have a full bar in his office, on one of those little booze carts, and no one thought it excessive? No one wants to look back on the 10's as the good old days, when an employee could just get up from his desk and refill his coffee mug. Just refill away, as many times as he or she liked.
And so, caffeine stays. Meth is definitely out, marijuana too. Booze or smokes are gonna require an ID. Trans fat, salt, and fructose are treated worse than bankers are these days. But if you're gonna take my caffeine away, you're gonna hafta pry this mug from my cold, dead hands.
I Heart You
Friday, May 7, 2010
Why Is The Why
Tessa,
I talked to Peter today. He was wondering about a good blogging site to use. Actually, a good one for Cassie to use, while she's in France the Summer. Oh, yeah: Cassie's in France or the Summer. I told him Blogger had been pretty user-friendly, as if I walked in and Blogger swaggered over and asked if I'd been here before.
"I have." I lied to Blogger, because his cologne was, at the very least, over-applied.
We talked about the golf course. All 18 holes, still there. Greens, driving range, the whole thing. We talked about the 2010 Census, and I told him as much as I could without violating Chapter XIII of the United States Code. (It's not really even a code. Anyone can read it. It's almost entirely in English.)
Then we talked about my parents. They got divorced yesterday. Man, parents.
I talked to Peter today. He was wondering about a good blogging site to use. Actually, a good one for Cassie to use, while she's in France the Summer. Oh, yeah: Cassie's in France or the Summer. I told him Blogger had been pretty user-friendly, as if I walked in and Blogger swaggered over and asked if I'd been here before.
"I have." I lied to Blogger, because his cologne was, at the very least, over-applied.
We talked about the golf course. All 18 holes, still there. Greens, driving range, the whole thing. We talked about the 2010 Census, and I told him as much as I could without violating Chapter XIII of the United States Code. (It's not really even a code. Anyone can read it. It's almost entirely in English.)
Then we talked about my parents. They got divorced yesterday. Man, parents.
I Heart You.
Holy Predator Drone, Batman!
Tessa,
I was reading Luke 13 last night, and Jesus was telling the people that the person he was healing was not sick because they were some special brand of super-sinner. Nope, he tells them, they're the same type of sinner as the rest of you. Or maybe: you're all super-sinners. You're just not all begging to be healed, which is too bad.
Then references some tower that fell over, killing 18 people. Those people didn't die because they were especially sinful, he tells them. They died because a tower fell on them. Towers are pretty heavy things. Even back then, one assumes a falling tower is likely to kill, just based upon the whole weight thing. And gravity. (No one ever blames gravity, but it's always at the scene. "Who's this guy?" "Oh, that's Gravity, Sergeant. He says it wasn't his fault.").
The people assumed, as people still think, that GOD was up there, waiting until those 18 extra-sinful people would all come to the tower at the same time and then BLAM!! Now everyone feels better, because the sinners are dead, and whoever's alive is obviously not a really bad person. But Jesus makes this seem stupid. I think it's supposed to be stupid, because this story gets book-ended by miracles. Miracles are when GOD reaches through time and space and whatnot, in order to help us. This is the opposite of the Final Destination brand of Theology, where He's the pilot of a Holy Predator Drone, waiting to wipe us off the map. Maybe Jesus was so frustrated because the people had their picture of GOD so backwards. And when our picture of Him gets so out of focus, it doesn't look like Him anymore, then who is it we're actually following?
Never end an essay with a question. People find it irritating.
I was reading Luke 13 last night, and Jesus was telling the people that the person he was healing was not sick because they were some special brand of super-sinner. Nope, he tells them, they're the same type of sinner as the rest of you. Or maybe: you're all super-sinners. You're just not all begging to be healed, which is too bad.
Then references some tower that fell over, killing 18 people. Those people didn't die because they were especially sinful, he tells them. They died because a tower fell on them. Towers are pretty heavy things. Even back then, one assumes a falling tower is likely to kill, just based upon the whole weight thing. And gravity. (No one ever blames gravity, but it's always at the scene. "Who's this guy?" "Oh, that's Gravity, Sergeant. He says it wasn't his fault.").
The people assumed, as people still think, that GOD was up there, waiting until those 18 extra-sinful people would all come to the tower at the same time and then BLAM!! Now everyone feels better, because the sinners are dead, and whoever's alive is obviously not a really bad person. But Jesus makes this seem stupid. I think it's supposed to be stupid, because this story gets book-ended by miracles. Miracles are when GOD reaches through time and space and whatnot, in order to help us. This is the opposite of the Final Destination brand of Theology, where He's the pilot of a Holy Predator Drone, waiting to wipe us off the map. Maybe Jesus was so frustrated because the people had their picture of GOD so backwards. And when our picture of Him gets so out of focus, it doesn't look like Him anymore, then who is it we're actually following?
Never end an essay with a question. People find it irritating.
I Heart You
Monday, May 3, 2010
Stories of the Dumb
Tessa,
I know you're home sick today, so I bring to you Stories of the Dumb. Note: I mean "dumb" in the people-who-think-Joy-Bahar-deserves-an-Emmy sense of the word; not people who can't speak. The idea here is to remember that, no matter what challenges life throws us, we can always cling to the knowledge that we aren't as dumb as these folks. And if they're still breathing, there might be light at the end of the tunnel for us yet.
I know you're home sick today, so I bring to you Stories of the Dumb. Note: I mean "dumb" in the people-who-think-Joy-Bahar-deserves-an-Emmy sense of the word; not people who can't speak. The idea here is to remember that, no matter what challenges life throws us, we can always cling to the knowledge that we aren't as dumb as these folks. And if they're still breathing, there might be light at the end of the tunnel for us yet.
- In Montana, a woman was just arrested after she claimed Montana wasn't legally a state. Actually, she was arrested after she claimed Montana wasn't a state, then claimed the city of Missoula as her territory, and then invaded people's houses and made herself at home. Maybe the hormones made her do it, because -- Bonus! -- she's preggers.
- After being sued by a wheel-chair-bound patron, the city of Hudson, NY finally installed a drinking fountain that is handicap accessible. The fountain works great, but its on the 2nd floor of a building with no ramp or elevator.
- People angry with Arizona's new anti-illegal-immigration law have decided to use their collective power too...boycot AriZona Iced Teas. Naturally, the best way to punish elected officials is by punishing their favorite beverages. Problem is, AriZona the company is not even based in Arizona the state.
- A hermit in India is being studied by scientists because he claims to have gone without food or water for...wait for it...wait..for..it.... 70 years! Yup, the man claims he hasn't had a spoonful of vindaloo since he was ten. Even better, scientists are now starving him, just to see if he's lying. This puts the crazy hermit in the uncanny situation of being totally insane, and still remaining the smartest dude in the room.
Ok, that's all I got. I hope you feel better. Remember that nothing passes a sick day like Saltine crackers and a John Hughes marathon. That's according to a team of scientists in India, anyways.
I Heart You
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Before I Was Gonna Do That Other Thing
Tessa,
Got up, which really hurt because of yesterday's trip to the gym, so I went into the bathroom for some ibuprofen, but then decided to get dressed before leaving the bedroom -- which is where all my clothes are -- so I went to the closet. That's when I noticed it was sunny, so I thought, "shorts" and went over to where I stored them last winter, under the bed. Then I saw my old flip-flops and thought "first flip-flops of 2010." Put them on and remembered I didn't have shorts on yet, so I took them off and picked out my gray shorts and started for the bathroom. Turned around for the flip-flops, put them back on and made a mental note to clip my toenails. Accidentally kicked Snow Bear, who was on the floor. Put Snow Bear on the bed. Headed out of the bedroom, but turned around because I might as well make the bed before leaving the room. Made the bed.
What was I going to get from the bathroom...
Right, toenails. Wondered why they call flip-flops "thongs". Decided it might be because of the little strap that goes between your toes, like that part of a thong that goes between the, well, you know where it goes. Why am I in the bathroom? I need some caffeine if I'm gonna get this day rolling. Went to the kitchen, grabbed the tea kettle, and went to the sink to fill it. Sink was already filled with dishes. Did some dishes and went to the TV to see where today's bomb blast was and what Martha was doing with potted plants this morning. Should I move the plants into the sun. Yes. Plants need water. Man do they need water. Why can't I keep a plant alive for more than half an hour. If I were a farmer in the middle ages, I would die. Maybe I'd be a blacksmith instead of a farmer, they don't have to till fields and they get to stoke fires. I'm a pretty adequate fire stoker.
Why am I holding this plant? Right, water. Went to the kitchen for water, and remembered I was gonna make tea. Filled the kettle and started boiling water. Where's my blue mug? Bedroom. Why did I have it in the bedroom? Turned off the fan I'd left on, grabbed my blue mug, and returned to the kitchen. watered the plant, but had to set it down because the water was boiling. Made tea and brought it out to watch Martha pot some plant with a celebrity. Is that the guy from V? What else was he on? Right: Party of Five. That was a stupid show.
No, you know what show was stupid? 7th Heaven. That show made me want to enlist, just because I'm pretty sure Iraqi's don't have shows about American ministers and their huge dumb families. And what was with the herd of children? Same thing with Party of Five, Eight is Enough, Malcolm in the Middle: tons of kids on any show about a family. You only get three or fewer kids if the show is about multiple families (Parenthood, Modern Family, etc.). Either way, I think Hollywood understands that we need a bare minimum of 4 kids. 5 is better.
Why am I still sore? That ibuprofen should have kicked in by now. Aw crap.
Got up, which really hurt because of yesterday's trip to the gym, so I went into the bathroom for some ibuprofen, but then decided to get dressed before leaving the bedroom -- which is where all my clothes are -- so I went to the closet. That's when I noticed it was sunny, so I thought, "shorts" and went over to where I stored them last winter, under the bed. Then I saw my old flip-flops and thought "first flip-flops of 2010." Put them on and remembered I didn't have shorts on yet, so I took them off and picked out my gray shorts and started for the bathroom. Turned around for the flip-flops, put them back on and made a mental note to clip my toenails. Accidentally kicked Snow Bear, who was on the floor. Put Snow Bear on the bed. Headed out of the bedroom, but turned around because I might as well make the bed before leaving the room. Made the bed.
What was I going to get from the bathroom...
Right, toenails. Wondered why they call flip-flops "thongs". Decided it might be because of the little strap that goes between your toes, like that part of a thong that goes between the, well, you know where it goes. Why am I in the bathroom? I need some caffeine if I'm gonna get this day rolling. Went to the kitchen, grabbed the tea kettle, and went to the sink to fill it. Sink was already filled with dishes. Did some dishes and went to the TV to see where today's bomb blast was and what Martha was doing with potted plants this morning. Should I move the plants into the sun. Yes. Plants need water. Man do they need water. Why can't I keep a plant alive for more than half an hour. If I were a farmer in the middle ages, I would die. Maybe I'd be a blacksmith instead of a farmer, they don't have to till fields and they get to stoke fires. I'm a pretty adequate fire stoker.
Why am I holding this plant? Right, water. Went to the kitchen for water, and remembered I was gonna make tea. Filled the kettle and started boiling water. Where's my blue mug? Bedroom. Why did I have it in the bedroom? Turned off the fan I'd left on, grabbed my blue mug, and returned to the kitchen. watered the plant, but had to set it down because the water was boiling. Made tea and brought it out to watch Martha pot some plant with a celebrity. Is that the guy from V? What else was he on? Right: Party of Five. That was a stupid show.
No, you know what show was stupid? 7th Heaven. That show made me want to enlist, just because I'm pretty sure Iraqi's don't have shows about American ministers and their huge dumb families. And what was with the herd of children? Same thing with Party of Five, Eight is Enough, Malcolm in the Middle: tons of kids on any show about a family. You only get three or fewer kids if the show is about multiple families (Parenthood, Modern Family, etc.). Either way, I think Hollywood understands that we need a bare minimum of 4 kids. 5 is better.
Why am I still sore? That ibuprofen should have kicked in by now. Aw crap.
I Heart You
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I Love Air Supply. My Air Supply
Tessa,
When I was 8 I asked my teacher if the world might someday run out of air. I seemed to be using a lot it. Running, jumping, climbing; if it took oxygen, I was doing it, and I couldn't remember making any to replace all the breathing I'd been doing.
There couldn't be an endless supply of air, right? Earth -- I remembered from our Solar System unit -- was a blue island, floating in space with no oxygen tubes pumping in new air. I was worried, because it seemed that the whole of mankind had somehow missed this.
To be fair, that I was afraid at all was mostly Mrs. Wilson's fault. Our unit on water conservation made it clear that the next drop might indeed be the last one to come out of that faucet. Our ancestors settled here because of the bounty of wet goodness Minnesota provided. But let's be honest class: ten thousand lakes won't last forever.
Our unit on electricity was the same. The cartoon she showed us first how the pluses (+) and minuses (-) flowed into our homes and out of our light bulbs. But wait: plot twist ahead. The Plus/Minus Factory wasn't big enough for all the light bulbs in our town. It was like some municipal teeter-totter: every time you flipped a switch, bathing your basement in incandescent excess, some poor sap across town was suddenly stuck in their basement without a clue as to which direction the stairs were.
On some level, I was angry that this was a problem at all. Why hadn't the adults thought about this before installing all those faucets and light bulbs? Why waste time making a cartoon to explain conserving electricity to me!? You've gotta plug that TV in! The VCR, too! Plus, I'm already watching it in a room that's just glowing with unnecessary light bulbs. I count the bulbs. Fourteen of them. Fourteen! What were adults thinking?
Mrs. Wilson didn't know the answer. She invited the Principal -- Dr. Macy, PhD. -- into our classroom so 30 children could bring to her attention this clear and present danger. Dr. Macy told us that we got our air from trees, and we (she said "we" but it was really the adults, again) were cutting all the trees down for paper. (The blatant stupidity of this trade was infuriating.) Eventually, though probably not in her lifetime she said, the earth would indeed run out of oxygen.
I walked home from the bus stop very slowly. No running, no climbing. I went down to my bedroom, turned off the lights, and practiced holding my breath.
When I was 8 I asked my teacher if the world might someday run out of air. I seemed to be using a lot it. Running, jumping, climbing; if it took oxygen, I was doing it, and I couldn't remember making any to replace all the breathing I'd been doing.
There couldn't be an endless supply of air, right? Earth -- I remembered from our Solar System unit -- was a blue island, floating in space with no oxygen tubes pumping in new air. I was worried, because it seemed that the whole of mankind had somehow missed this.
To be fair, that I was afraid at all was mostly Mrs. Wilson's fault. Our unit on water conservation made it clear that the next drop might indeed be the last one to come out of that faucet. Our ancestors settled here because of the bounty of wet goodness Minnesota provided. But let's be honest class: ten thousand lakes won't last forever.
Our unit on electricity was the same. The cartoon she showed us first how the pluses (+) and minuses (-) flowed into our homes and out of our light bulbs. But wait: plot twist ahead. The Plus/Minus Factory wasn't big enough for all the light bulbs in our town. It was like some municipal teeter-totter: every time you flipped a switch, bathing your basement in incandescent excess, some poor sap across town was suddenly stuck in their basement without a clue as to which direction the stairs were.
On some level, I was angry that this was a problem at all. Why hadn't the adults thought about this before installing all those faucets and light bulbs? Why waste time making a cartoon to explain conserving electricity to me!? You've gotta plug that TV in! The VCR, too! Plus, I'm already watching it in a room that's just glowing with unnecessary light bulbs. I count the bulbs. Fourteen of them. Fourteen! What were adults thinking?
Mrs. Wilson didn't know the answer. She invited the Principal -- Dr. Macy, PhD. -- into our classroom so 30 children could bring to her attention this clear and present danger. Dr. Macy told us that we got our air from trees, and we (she said "we" but it was really the adults, again) were cutting all the trees down for paper. (The blatant stupidity of this trade was infuriating.) Eventually, though probably not in her lifetime she said, the earth would indeed run out of oxygen.
I walked home from the bus stop very slowly. No running, no climbing. I went down to my bedroom, turned off the lights, and practiced holding my breath.
I...(gasp)...Heart...(gasp)...You...
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Deep, Dark Well
Tessa,
I just had this thought: what if everyone chose their own name? But here's the catch: you choose it when you're 5 years old, and you have to keep it for life. On their fifth birthday every kid goes into their room, no adults allowed, and decides their own name.
Do you have any idea how much cooler everyone's name would be? That guy Daryl, in the next cubicle, his name's actually Donatello Monster Truck He-Man Smith. Catherine, in Accounting? Don't know her. Oh, you mean Princess Starry Sparkles My Little Pony Henderson? The world would be a better place. Can you imagine voting for Tiger Shark 2% Milk Stevens? Me too.
Mom says I should journal. ("Journal," like it's a verb. I'm going to journal in my journal. I'm going to go drive around in my drive around. I don't think it can be a verb and a noun. Not at the same time, anyway.) People say its a good way to get your true feelings out, to dig deep and find out what's down there. You know what thoughts are hiding deep down there? Shark Bites. Whatever happened to them? Those things were the best. You'd tear open that silvery package and they'd spill out onto your desk, and you'd quickly take account of how many Great Whites you were blessed with that particular Thursday. In that moment, you wanted nothing more than to name yourself Shark Bites Johnson.
This is what I've got deep down there. We could have wasted two hundred bucks to lay back on a couch and have a PhD discover that my deep-seated issues revolve primarily around high-fructose corn syrup and cornstarch. (Also, if someone told me they were going to take corn and turn it into a fruit snack, I'd say they were crazy. But they do it every day. Corn...machine...low rumbling...POOF!, fruit snack.)
Okay, I'm gonna go to the gym, because I have nothing to do until the 26th of April.
I just had this thought: what if everyone chose their own name? But here's the catch: you choose it when you're 5 years old, and you have to keep it for life. On their fifth birthday every kid goes into their room, no adults allowed, and decides their own name.
Do you have any idea how much cooler everyone's name would be? That guy Daryl, in the next cubicle, his name's actually Donatello Monster Truck He-Man Smith. Catherine, in Accounting? Don't know her. Oh, you mean Princess Starry Sparkles My Little Pony Henderson? The world would be a better place. Can you imagine voting for Tiger Shark 2% Milk Stevens? Me too.
Mom says I should journal. ("Journal," like it's a verb. I'm going to journal in my journal. I'm going to go drive around in my drive around. I don't think it can be a verb and a noun. Not at the same time, anyway.) People say its a good way to get your true feelings out, to dig deep and find out what's down there. You know what thoughts are hiding deep down there? Shark Bites. Whatever happened to them? Those things were the best. You'd tear open that silvery package and they'd spill out onto your desk, and you'd quickly take account of how many Great Whites you were blessed with that particular Thursday. In that moment, you wanted nothing more than to name yourself Shark Bites Johnson.
This is what I've got deep down there. We could have wasted two hundred bucks to lay back on a couch and have a PhD discover that my deep-seated issues revolve primarily around high-fructose corn syrup and cornstarch. (Also, if someone told me they were going to take corn and turn it into a fruit snack, I'd say they were crazy. But they do it every day. Corn...machine...low rumbling...POOF!, fruit snack.)
Okay, I'm gonna go to the gym, because I have nothing to do until the 26th of April.
I Heart You
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Buckets of Rain, Mountains of Laundry, Isthmus of Attention
Tessa,
When it rains it pours, they say. The Interview last night went pretty well, I'd say. Pretty Well to Moderately Hooray-ish. Somewhere in there. Although, should I get the job -- knocking on wood, at least I think it's wood (you know, it's from Ikea and I never can tell) -- it won't even start until July.
Then today I got a call from the Census Bureau, they ask me a series of questions ("Can you read? Do you walk upright? Opposable thumb? Good, good." The CB loves workers with opposable thumbs), and then offer me a job. A temp job, 8 weeks worth, leading right up to July. But it's almost $20 an hour, and 40 hours a week, so I'll take it. Truth be told, they could have had both my thumbs and the broken middle toe for way less than that. Amateurs.
Feeling good from my double booking, I decided to stop by and tell the landlord his rent check is on it's way. He said he could care less how long it takes to get our rent, but he did want to know if I'd work on some of the other apartments for them.
"You bet your blue bonnet, I do." I said to him.
"My what?" he asked.
"I said, uh, 'you bet sure i'm on it wahoo.'" Confused silence. "When should I start?"
He said he'd get back to me. Then -- I know, more? It's almost too much -- Collins emailed to say he'd be passing along my resume shortly, and was giving it to some friends with mad connections. Well, he didn't say "mad connections," because Collins doesn't talk like that, because only an idiot says "mad connections" these days. But he did say he was feeling good about the whole thing, and that makes me feel good about the whole thing.
Okay. Going to do laundry.
When it rains it pours, they say. The Interview last night went pretty well, I'd say. Pretty Well to Moderately Hooray-ish. Somewhere in there. Although, should I get the job -- knocking on wood, at least I think it's wood (you know, it's from Ikea and I never can tell) -- it won't even start until July.
Then today I got a call from the Census Bureau, they ask me a series of questions ("Can you read? Do you walk upright? Opposable thumb? Good, good." The CB loves workers with opposable thumbs), and then offer me a job. A temp job, 8 weeks worth, leading right up to July. But it's almost $20 an hour, and 40 hours a week, so I'll take it. Truth be told, they could have had both my thumbs and the broken middle toe for way less than that. Amateurs.
Feeling good from my double booking, I decided to stop by and tell the landlord his rent check is on it's way. He said he could care less how long it takes to get our rent, but he did want to know if I'd work on some of the other apartments for them.
"You bet your blue bonnet, I do." I said to him.
"My what?" he asked.
"I said, uh, 'you bet sure i'm on it wahoo.'" Confused silence. "When should I start?"
He said he'd get back to me. Then -- I know, more? It's almost too much -- Collins emailed to say he'd be passing along my resume shortly, and was giving it to some friends with mad connections. Well, he didn't say "mad connections," because Collins doesn't talk like that, because only an idiot says "mad connections" these days. But he did say he was feeling good about the whole thing, and that makes me feel good about the whole thing.
Okay. Going to do laundry.
I Heart You
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
What Tuesday Means to Me
Tessa,
So you were right: for a couple with a one bedroom apartment, we have been hosting an awful lot of people lately. My Brother, Sister, and Girlfriend of Brother, down from MN the weekend before last. My Mother/Father combo last weekend. Then, last night, I decided our friends should come over and watch basketball with us, and that I shouldn't tell you about it until an hour before tipoff.
Tessa: "Why are you making so many nachos?"
David: "It's not so many nachos."
Tessa: "It's a lot of nachos."
David: "Enough for 8 people?"
Tessa: "Aw, crap."
A doctor once told me that men with attention deficit disorder should kiss their wives feet every night before bed. There's real wisdom here.
So I thought I'd try to have a quiet Tuesday afternoon before The Interview later this evening. "The Interview" sounds like a bad Michael Douglas movie. Nope, just Googled it. It's a bad Steve Buscemi movie. Truth be told, Steve Buscemi wouldn't be half as likable as an actor if he had good teeth.
While we're on the topic of movies, I was at the Red Box the other night and noticed something. Just try and tell me I'm seeing things:
I'm not, right? I mean, it's not like I found their dopplegangers, but there's a likeness there. Somebody's art department was asleep at the wheel on this one. How many people forgot their glasses when they went to the nearest Red Box and wound up with the wrong movie, I wonder? You're sitting down, ready to see an inspirational tale of an unlikely youth overcoming life's obstacles, and -- BAM! -- you're watching Precious instead.
Okay. Going to play soccer.
I Heart You
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