The following is the 2nd assignment I did for my creative writing course. We were instructed to write about our hobby or passion.
The Puppet
“So, you are sticking to your story?” the man trying to be the good cop, Detective Darnell, asked in a much angrier tone than the last time he asked me the exact same question. I make a mental note that his brown suit, which matches the color of his skin, is too big for him. I can tell he is new to this process.
We have been through this three times already tonight. The lights shining in my face are hot. I can feel the dampness in my underarms and around my collar. I am nervous. I shouldn’t be, but, I am. I have to remember what Dave told me. I need to be more convincing. I need to use my nervousness.
I lean across the worn wooden table and stub out my cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. The hazy smoke lingers in the stale air. My palms are getting sticky. I rub them on my thighs hoping to dry them off. I try to swallow my nerves but my throat is dry.
“It is not a story. I am innocent.” I claim, hoping that the other people watching believe me.
“That’s bull!” barks Special Agent O’Malley from across the room. She is trying to be the bad cop in this scenario. She is dressed in a black cotton pantsuit. She continues “We have six dead citizens who have absolutely nothing in common except you. Can you explain that?”
“Coincidence?” I ask knowing my cue to piss off O’Malley.
“Don’t be cute.” She huffs. She has been doing this for a long time. She is good. “We know that you are a collector of sorts. We know you have a soft spot for paintings done by early nineteen hundred illustrators. We know that you attended estate sales of each victim, that’s right, victim, and purchased, at pennies on the dollar, rare paintings. We can now pin you to being in three of their homes prior to the so called sales. They are dead and you end up with their art collections and you want to say coincidence? I don’t think so. ”
She is an old pro and I am impressed. I let her bask in her moment. When Dave asked me to be involved with this project I did not know I would be facing someone as good as O’Malley. She has more to say. I need to stay focused on her.
With a dramatic flair O’Malley throws a docket of manila folders onto the table. Black and white crime scene photos slide from their casing. I can see a coffee stain on the corner of one of the folders. This is her moment. She takes a deep breath and continues with her evidence. “We can prove Mr. Rupert Cadell was strangled with a rope we found in your garage. We can prove Hal Carter was poisoned at a picnic. A picnic you attended. That Dexter Haven was drowned. We can prove that you killed each of these men.”
I can get out of this. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Yes I collect old prints.” I said. I then realize I was not supposed to say prints. I was supposed to say artwork. I try to fix my mistake. “Yes I purchased some of their artwork. But I had nothing to do with ....”
“We know you did not work alone.” blurts Detective Darnell a little too quickly. He cut me off. Now he needs to explain that he is my friend and that he is going to help me. “We can make a deal. I am sure that there is someone pulling your strings. If you are scared we can protect you. Just tell us who you are working for.”
Dave wants me to be very methodical with my explanation. I collect old art prints. I enjoy going to estate sales. I like to see the items that people leave behind. I want to guess at why people collect what they do and make guesses as to their motivation. I feel like an archeologist. I never realized that my hobby, my passion would take me away from my family for so long. My wife is going to be so mad at how late I am going to be getting home. She told me I was going to let this hobby of mine consume me. I am in trouble but I have more to worry about right now than being home on time for dinner or tucking the kids into bed. If I do this right I can get out of here soon. I have to remember what Dave told me.
I start slowly, “Detective Darnell. Can I really trust you? I am a collector. That is all.” I need to pause a moment for effect before I continue. “I have told you, I look up estate sales in the newspaper and on the web. The sales are posted a few weeks in advance. The web provides pictures of what’s for sale. On a few occasions I have gone to the houses asking for an early preview.”
I can feel my energy building. Dave wants me to remain calm. How did I ever let him talk me into this? That’s right; he knew I had a passion for this kind of stuff.
Darnell half-sits half-leans on the table facing me. His jacket is too big and covers his gun just inches from my hand. I can’t see it but I know it is there. I hope he did not snap the clasp on the holster. I hope he did not engage the safety. That will make what I am about to do more difficult.
Dave wanted me to stay put this entire time but I feel the need to get up. I feel the need to move. Panic starts to set in. I am hot. I am going to go to jail for this. Fear is bubbling up inside me. I quickly grab the gun from Darnell’s side and point it at O’Malley.
“Step back!” I shout as O’Malley reaches for her gun. Her weapon gets caught on the jacket of her suit. I pull the trigger. Nothing happens. I squeeze the trigger a second time, but again, nothing. With nothing else to lose I yell, “Bang! Bang!”
Darnell and O’Malley both crack up laughing. I start to chuckle myself.
“Cut!” booms a voice from the darkness. “House lights please.” Dave, the director, is clearly annoyed. He leaps onto the stage just as the house lights come up and the stage lights dim. He calls backstage “Who in props is responsible for loading the gun? We can’t have a dress rehearsal if the gun is not loaded.”
Dave gives us a few more directions and a couple of notes before returning to his spot in the audience. “Bill, I am getting the sense you are not fully into the character. Try to remember your characters inner monologue, not yours, but your characters.”
The thrill of performing in front of a live audience is intoxicating. I love theater, acting, being on stage. I love the hot lights and the smell of fresh paint and make-up. I love playing different characters. My wife was right; this hobby of mine does consume me.
Dave takes his seat and calls out one more time. “Someone needs to fix Darnell’s costume. He is practically swimming it. Okay, let’s run it again.”
I guess I am going to miss tucking the kids into bed tonight.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Competition
My parents never forced me to play any sport or into any activity. They encouraged me to play and to at least try different things. I estimate, by a quick calculation, that I played 5 seasons of Little League Baseball, 8 or more seasons of intramural basketball and 8 seasons of football. Out of the 21 various teams I was part of only one championship team. I was an average athlete. My definition of average is that I did not completely suck.
I think organized sports and competition is important for a kid to experience. I do not think that every kid on every team should get a trophy. I do think that if a kid is playing a sport where keeping score is part of the game then they should keep score. I think when it comes to competition there are winners and losers. Being a good winner and being a good loser are important lessons to learn. Sports also helps teach lessons on teamwork, encouragement, adversity, humility, character and limits.
My parent's encouraging me to try different activities helped me discover what skills I had and what skills I needed to develop to accomplish various goals. I learned what I enjoyed doing and what I did not. I learned about when to be a leader and when to allow someone else lead. I learned valuable lessons from sports and teams when I was kid and I want my kids to be able to learn some of those same lessons. I will not force them to the play but I will encourage them.
I asked Maxfield if he was interested in playing any sports in the upcoming months. I told him he could play soccer, football, basketball and baseball (the four main township organized sports). Max told me he wanted to play on a bowling team. It was not the response I was anticipating. Max has never bowled in his life and I did not know where he developed an interest in the sport. During our conversation I tried to encourage Max to think about the other main sports. I was hoping he would have some desire to do some type of athletics but he had no interest. I did not want to force any one sport on him and I figure he would let me know if and when he wants to join a team.
Saturday morning I took Max to his first swim lesson. It was very traumatic for him. It was also very traumatic to me. Parents were not allowed to be in the pool with their children. The lead instructor felt that since swimming is not only a sport but also about survival that parents can be a distraction to their kids. I agree with that philosophy and I watched Max from the deck. Out of the 25 or so kids in the class Maxfield was the only one screaming and crying. He was scared. He was cold. He swallowed some water and was coughing. He cried for me to come and save him. My heart ached for him as for the first time in his life I did not "rescue" him. He pleaded and begged to get out. I realized that Max may not be cut out for athletic type of activities, but since he needs to learn to swim for survival purposes I told him to tough it out. He was very upset and kept yelling that he was scared. The twenty five minutes he was in the pool seemed like forever.
The lead instructor approached me to talk about the possibility that Max may not be ready for these types of classes. We briefly discussed a refund of the fee I paid and the instructor asked if I had any questions. I asked her if she knew how much bowling shoes cost.
On the way home from swim class Max was adamant about not going back. I tried to encourage him by various tactics but none of them seemed to work. He was mad that I did not come in and save him. He was upset with me. I felt horrible and guilty. I asked him what could I do to make it up to him. He asked to bowling (he could have asked for a pony and I would have got one for him I felt so bad). We agreed and as a bribe I told him as long as he attended swim class I would take him bowling each week.
Max went bowling for the first time on Saturday. I think he may have found his sport.
He did bowl with bumpers but he beat me fair and square, which he reminded of the entire drive home. Now I need to get him on a team so he can learn about being a good winner.
I think organized sports and competition is important for a kid to experience. I do not think that every kid on every team should get a trophy. I do think that if a kid is playing a sport where keeping score is part of the game then they should keep score. I think when it comes to competition there are winners and losers. Being a good winner and being a good loser are important lessons to learn. Sports also helps teach lessons on teamwork, encouragement, adversity, humility, character and limits.
My parent's encouraging me to try different activities helped me discover what skills I had and what skills I needed to develop to accomplish various goals. I learned what I enjoyed doing and what I did not. I learned about when to be a leader and when to allow someone else lead. I learned valuable lessons from sports and teams when I was kid and I want my kids to be able to learn some of those same lessons. I will not force them to the play but I will encourage them.
I asked Maxfield if he was interested in playing any sports in the upcoming months. I told him he could play soccer, football, basketball and baseball (the four main township organized sports). Max told me he wanted to play on a bowling team. It was not the response I was anticipating. Max has never bowled in his life and I did not know where he developed an interest in the sport. During our conversation I tried to encourage Max to think about the other main sports. I was hoping he would have some desire to do some type of athletics but he had no interest. I did not want to force any one sport on him and I figure he would let me know if and when he wants to join a team.
Saturday morning I took Max to his first swim lesson. It was very traumatic for him. It was also very traumatic to me. Parents were not allowed to be in the pool with their children. The lead instructor felt that since swimming is not only a sport but also about survival that parents can be a distraction to their kids. I agree with that philosophy and I watched Max from the deck. Out of the 25 or so kids in the class Maxfield was the only one screaming and crying. He was scared. He was cold. He swallowed some water and was coughing. He cried for me to come and save him. My heart ached for him as for the first time in his life I did not "rescue" him. He pleaded and begged to get out. I realized that Max may not be cut out for athletic type of activities, but since he needs to learn to swim for survival purposes I told him to tough it out. He was very upset and kept yelling that he was scared. The twenty five minutes he was in the pool seemed like forever.
The lead instructor approached me to talk about the possibility that Max may not be ready for these types of classes. We briefly discussed a refund of the fee I paid and the instructor asked if I had any questions. I asked her if she knew how much bowling shoes cost.
On the way home from swim class Max was adamant about not going back. I tried to encourage him by various tactics but none of them seemed to work. He was mad that I did not come in and save him. He was upset with me. I felt horrible and guilty. I asked him what could I do to make it up to him. He asked to bowling (he could have asked for a pony and I would have got one for him I felt so bad). We agreed and as a bribe I told him as long as he attended swim class I would take him bowling each week.
Max went bowling for the first time on Saturday. I think he may have found his sport.
He did bowl with bumpers but he beat me fair and square, which he reminded of the entire drive home. Now I need to get him on a team so he can learn about being a good winner.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Middle Finger
I just finished telling the kids a bed time story about Geo Trax trains and guys (Geo Trax trains and play sets by Fisher Price are Maxfield's favorite toys and I make up stories about the characters based on the DVD and by what Max tells me. Victor and Brutus are always the bad guys in all Geo Trax stories and all of the other trains and guys who make up Team Geo Trax are good guys) when I lifted my head above the top bunk to kiss Max goodnight.
"Dad?" He asked and I could tell he was concerned and had an important question.
"Yes pal."
"What does this mean? " He asked and he held up his middle finger. Yes, just his middle finger.
Lauren had told me that a few days before, Max was doing some kind of Spiderman web shooting dance. Instead of folding his middle finger into his palm, as Spiderman would do to shoot a web, Max got confused and was flipping the middle finger out while keeping all the other fingers closed. Basically he was dancing around the house flipping the bird. She explained to him that some people may misinterpret the middle finger as a bad gesture. That it was kind of like sign language for a bad word.
"It's just not a very nice thing to do Maxfield."
"Mommy said it means a bad word. What's the bad word?" He asked and he stared at his raised middle finger trying to figure out what it means.
"It is just a mean gesture. It is like teasing but in mean way."
"But what's the bad word?"
"It does not mean any specific word." I told him trying to avoid a long conversation about four letter words. "It means I don't like you very much. It is something you may direct at someone you don't like or who has been mean to you. But I don't want you to ever do that to someone."
He was quiet for a moment and I thought the conversation was going to end there. He put his middle finger down and I kissed him goodnight.
"Dad?"
"Yes pal."
"The next time you tell a Team Geo Trax story, maybe all the Team Geo Trax guys like Sir John and Bruno and Ethan can all surround Brutus and Victor and do this." Maxfield held up both his middle fingers.
"Dad?" He asked and I could tell he was concerned and had an important question.
"Yes pal."
"What does this mean? " He asked and he held up his middle finger. Yes, just his middle finger.
Lauren had told me that a few days before, Max was doing some kind of Spiderman web shooting dance. Instead of folding his middle finger into his palm, as Spiderman would do to shoot a web, Max got confused and was flipping the middle finger out while keeping all the other fingers closed. Basically he was dancing around the house flipping the bird. She explained to him that some people may misinterpret the middle finger as a bad gesture. That it was kind of like sign language for a bad word.
"It's just not a very nice thing to do Maxfield."
"Mommy said it means a bad word. What's the bad word?" He asked and he stared at his raised middle finger trying to figure out what it means.
"It is just a mean gesture. It is like teasing but in mean way."
"But what's the bad word?"
"It does not mean any specific word." I told him trying to avoid a long conversation about four letter words. "It means I don't like you very much. It is something you may direct at someone you don't like or who has been mean to you. But I don't want you to ever do that to someone."
He was quiet for a moment and I thought the conversation was going to end there. He put his middle finger down and I kissed him goodnight.
"Dad?"
"Yes pal."
"The next time you tell a Team Geo Trax story, maybe all the Team Geo Trax guys like Sir John and Bruno and Ethan can all surround Brutus and Victor and do this." Maxfield held up both his middle fingers.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Medical Story-Good Vibration
“Have a seat up here.” The nurse said as she pulled on roll of crinkly white paper covering the examination bed.
“Do you have any crayons?” I asked. “So I can draw pictures while I wait.” I pointed at the paper on the bed.
She ignored my joke and asked “What brings you here today?”
“Um….well…”I stuttered.
She glanced at my chart and her eyes widened as she realized the purpose of my visit. Not waiting for my answer, she mumbled something about the doctor seeing me in few moments and she quickly left the room. A few minutes later there was soft knock on the door and the doctor entered. He was a young guy, maybe late twenties, his name tag clearly showing that he was one of the doctors in training.
“What brings you in today, William?”
“My left testicle is vibrating.”
He kept his best poker face on as he asked me a series of questions regarding the symptoms. I explained all that had happened up that point. I answered--It is only the left one. About a week. Constant. No injuries. No pain. Just the left one. No other symptoms.
“Is it a twitch or a vibration?” he asked.
“Vibration. Like a cell phone is buzzing in there.”
“Can you feel it now?”
I laughed. “Is that a cell phone joke?” I asked. “Like the Verizon commercials?”
He smiled. “That’s funny, but no. Is it vibrating right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can you feel it with your hands?”
“No. Every time I reach down there to check. It stops.”
“It stops?”
“Yes. It’s like my ball knows that I am reaching for it and it stops. Like its hiding.”
He chuckled.
“I know ball is not the medical term but you know what I mean” I told him. “Feel free to laugh doc. Seriously; it may make this easier for both of us.”
“I just think it is funny that you gave it a personality.” He said.
“Well, don’t we all?”
He snapped on some rubber gloves and told me he was going to check me for any lumps or to see if he could feel anything. The examination was a little more than the typical turn your head and cough routine. He squeezed and poked and prodded.
“I think it was hiding from me as well.” He laughed when he finished the exam. “I do not feel anything abnormal. No lumps or anything that I would think could be the cause of it.”
“Basically you are telling me my balls feel fine.”
He was stunned. He then cracked up and in between chuckles he then said. “Yes. I guess that is what I am saying although I am not sure how to take that.”
The doctor told me he was going to have to look up some information and consult with the attending physician and he left the room. He returned a few minutes later with the attending physician who was a guy much older than me.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“You’re nuts.” Said the young resident, followed up with a “Ba-dum dum.”
I laughed but the attending just gave us a stern look. The attending physician read off a list of possible causes of a vibrating testicle. He was very serious and talked about cancer of the prostate and testicles. He mentioned blood flow and nerve damage. The tone of the conversation started to concern me.
The attending doctor explained to me what he thought was the problem. “I think the most likely explanation is that you have some kind of groin injury that you are unaware of. There is a tendon that runs though that area that can cause the sensation you are feeling and it would explain why you are only have the vibration on the left side. I think if you should take it easy and see if the symptoms stop. I wouldn’t worry about.”
“Wait a minute.” I said. “What if it was your testicle that was vibrating? Would you worry about it?”
Both doctors noted my concern and explained that since it was only the left side that it was most likely not prostate related. They ruled out other causes based on my symptoms and the physical exam. They eased my concerns and I felt better. They decided I should have blood work done to be safe and rule out other possibilities.
The young resident explained. “The other cause could be that you are experiencing low testosterone levels and you 're working extra hard to produce more testosterone.”
I waited for it.
The young doctor then added. “No pun intended.”
We both laughed.
Epilogue-
The results of my blood work were fine. All levels were good. No evidence of any diseases, cancer or low testosterone. A few weeks after that visit the vibrating stopped. My testicles feel fine.
“Do you have any crayons?” I asked. “So I can draw pictures while I wait.” I pointed at the paper on the bed.
She ignored my joke and asked “What brings you here today?”
“Um….well…”I stuttered.
She glanced at my chart and her eyes widened as she realized the purpose of my visit. Not waiting for my answer, she mumbled something about the doctor seeing me in few moments and she quickly left the room. A few minutes later there was soft knock on the door and the doctor entered. He was a young guy, maybe late twenties, his name tag clearly showing that he was one of the doctors in training.
“What brings you in today, William?”
“My left testicle is vibrating.”
He kept his best poker face on as he asked me a series of questions regarding the symptoms. I explained all that had happened up that point. I answered--It is only the left one. About a week. Constant. No injuries. No pain. Just the left one. No other symptoms.
“Is it a twitch or a vibration?” he asked.
“Vibration. Like a cell phone is buzzing in there.”
“Can you feel it now?”
I laughed. “Is that a cell phone joke?” I asked. “Like the Verizon commercials?”
He smiled. “That’s funny, but no. Is it vibrating right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can you feel it with your hands?”
“No. Every time I reach down there to check. It stops.”
“It stops?”
“Yes. It’s like my ball knows that I am reaching for it and it stops. Like its hiding.”
He chuckled.
“I know ball is not the medical term but you know what I mean” I told him. “Feel free to laugh doc. Seriously; it may make this easier for both of us.”
“I just think it is funny that you gave it a personality.” He said.
“Well, don’t we all?”
He snapped on some rubber gloves and told me he was going to check me for any lumps or to see if he could feel anything. The examination was a little more than the typical turn your head and cough routine. He squeezed and poked and prodded.
“I think it was hiding from me as well.” He laughed when he finished the exam. “I do not feel anything abnormal. No lumps or anything that I would think could be the cause of it.”
“Basically you are telling me my balls feel fine.”
He was stunned. He then cracked up and in between chuckles he then said. “Yes. I guess that is what I am saying although I am not sure how to take that.”
The doctor told me he was going to have to look up some information and consult with the attending physician and he left the room. He returned a few minutes later with the attending physician who was a guy much older than me.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“You’re nuts.” Said the young resident, followed up with a “Ba-dum dum.”
I laughed but the attending just gave us a stern look. The attending physician read off a list of possible causes of a vibrating testicle. He was very serious and talked about cancer of the prostate and testicles. He mentioned blood flow and nerve damage. The tone of the conversation started to concern me.
The attending doctor explained to me what he thought was the problem. “I think the most likely explanation is that you have some kind of groin injury that you are unaware of. There is a tendon that runs though that area that can cause the sensation you are feeling and it would explain why you are only have the vibration on the left side. I think if you should take it easy and see if the symptoms stop. I wouldn’t worry about.”
“Wait a minute.” I said. “What if it was your testicle that was vibrating? Would you worry about it?”
Both doctors noted my concern and explained that since it was only the left side that it was most likely not prostate related. They ruled out other causes based on my symptoms and the physical exam. They eased my concerns and I felt better. They decided I should have blood work done to be safe and rule out other possibilities.
The young resident explained. “The other cause could be that you are experiencing low testosterone levels and you 're working extra hard to produce more testosterone.”
I waited for it.
The young doctor then added. “No pun intended.”
We both laughed.
Epilogue-
The results of my blood work were fine. All levels were good. No evidence of any diseases, cancer or low testosterone. A few weeks after that visit the vibrating stopped. My testicles feel fine.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Medical Story
One morning, about a year ago, I was stirred awake by a strange sensation in my body. After sitting up for a few seconds the sensation ceased. I figured I must have been dreaming and I went back to sleep.
A day or two later, while I was driving, the same feeling from a few nights before started again. It lasted a few minutes. I knew I was not dreaming. I got out of the car and tried to walk off the odd way I was feeling. Everything returned to normal after a few minutes and I felt better.
The next day, while I was at work, my symptom returned. I took a walk around the building and I felt better. Through out the day my symptom returned again and again. Each time was longer than the last. I took several walks around the building in an effort to ease my uneasiness. The next day was the same. I mentioned the weirdness to Lauren and she suggested I call the doctor.
The fifth day, the symptom, the odd feeling, the strange sensation came back and it did not go away. I called the doctor.
The family medical practice that I go to is a facility where they train doctors. Basically there are one or two permanent physicians and all the others are just there to learn before they move on to their specialty or another practice. I do not think I have ever seen the same doctor twice. The practice is like a box of chocolates, when you make an appointment you never know what you are going to get.
The receptionist answered and I told her I wanted to make an appointment.
"Well sir, the first available appointment we have is three weeks from Thursday." She said.
"Do you have anything sooner?" I asked. " I think I should see someone sooner."
"Is it an emergency sir?" She asked in that condescending tone that all medical receptionists have.
"Well, no. Not really. I mean I would not go to an emergency room or anything, its just that I need something sooner."
"I could have you see Dr. Lingen at 7PM tonight. You would be her last appointment. What is your name and date of birth?"
"Great." I said and I gave her my name and birth date. "Wait. Did you say her? I would rather see another doctor."
"Well, sir, is this an emergency?" She asked again stressing the word emergency making it sound as if she doubted me.
"Is there a male doctor I could see in the next day or so? I mean, not a doctor who only studies males but A doctor who is a male."
She got defensive. "Sir, ALL of our doctors are qualified and each one of them is supervised by our attending physicians, male and FEMALE."
"I would just prefer a man." I said and I was about to get rude but I realized she already had my name and I did not want to get blacklisted.
"Sir, why don't you tell me what you need to come in for and I will see if I can schedule some one."
"Okay." I took a deep breath. " My testicle, its vibrating."
" Ex..ex..excuse me?" She blurted.
"My testicle. It is vibrating."
"What do you mean?" She asked and I could hear her stifling a chuckle.
"I mean exactly that." I could feel my face and ears get flush. I continued, "My left testicle is twitching like there is a cell phone on vibrate mode stuck in my sac and it won't stop."
"I will have Dr. Frank Smith see you tomorrow at 11 AM."
"Thank you." I said.
The receptionist verified my date of birth and my name and when she said my name she stressed every syllable. I swore I could her her writing it down in the appointment book really really big with three exclamation points next to it just so she would remember to tell the other ladies about me and my testicle and they could all chuckle the next day.
to be continued....
A day or two later, while I was driving, the same feeling from a few nights before started again. It lasted a few minutes. I knew I was not dreaming. I got out of the car and tried to walk off the odd way I was feeling. Everything returned to normal after a few minutes and I felt better.
The next day, while I was at work, my symptom returned. I took a walk around the building and I felt better. Through out the day my symptom returned again and again. Each time was longer than the last. I took several walks around the building in an effort to ease my uneasiness. The next day was the same. I mentioned the weirdness to Lauren and she suggested I call the doctor.
The fifth day, the symptom, the odd feeling, the strange sensation came back and it did not go away. I called the doctor.
The family medical practice that I go to is a facility where they train doctors. Basically there are one or two permanent physicians and all the others are just there to learn before they move on to their specialty or another practice. I do not think I have ever seen the same doctor twice. The practice is like a box of chocolates, when you make an appointment you never know what you are going to get.
The receptionist answered and I told her I wanted to make an appointment.
"Well sir, the first available appointment we have is three weeks from Thursday." She said.
"Do you have anything sooner?" I asked. " I think I should see someone sooner."
"Is it an emergency sir?" She asked in that condescending tone that all medical receptionists have.
"Well, no. Not really. I mean I would not go to an emergency room or anything, its just that I need something sooner."
"I could have you see Dr. Lingen at 7PM tonight. You would be her last appointment. What is your name and date of birth?"
"Great." I said and I gave her my name and birth date. "Wait. Did you say her? I would rather see another doctor."
"Well, sir, is this an emergency?" She asked again stressing the word emergency making it sound as if she doubted me.
"Is there a male doctor I could see in the next day or so? I mean, not a doctor who only studies males but A doctor who is a male."
She got defensive. "Sir, ALL of our doctors are qualified and each one of them is supervised by our attending physicians, male and FEMALE."
"I would just prefer a man." I said and I was about to get rude but I realized she already had my name and I did not want to get blacklisted.
"Sir, why don't you tell me what you need to come in for and I will see if I can schedule some one."
"Okay." I took a deep breath. " My testicle, its vibrating."
" Ex..ex..excuse me?" She blurted.
"My testicle. It is vibrating."
"What do you mean?" She asked and I could hear her stifling a chuckle.
"I mean exactly that." I could feel my face and ears get flush. I continued, "My left testicle is twitching like there is a cell phone on vibrate mode stuck in my sac and it won't stop."
"I will have Dr. Frank Smith see you tomorrow at 11 AM."
"Thank you." I said.
The receptionist verified my date of birth and my name and when she said my name she stressed every syllable. I swore I could her her writing it down in the appointment book really really big with three exclamation points next to it just so she would remember to tell the other ladies about me and my testicle and they could all chuckle the next day.
to be continued....
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Crash
The following is what I wrote for my first assignment for a creative writing course. The guidelines for the assignment were "Write a story about your life, between 3 and 5 minutes long when read aloud."
I am not really looking for feedback or anything, I just did not have anything to post this week and figured I could cut and paste the original text. I tried to make the assignment interesting, not only for the reader but also for me. By putting this piece on the blog I get a chance to add some links, which on paper would just look like bold print or when read aloud would be, well, I don't know. Is there some kind of symbol that could be used for a link when doing an oral presentation of a writing. Like air finger quotes..but only different..like an air finger links? I need to trademark this finger link thing.
********
“Holy shit!” I yelled as I slammed on the brakes, probably 6 seconds and 10 feet too late. I watched from the corner of my eye as the driver in the fire engine red pick-up realized he blew the stop light and he too hit the brakes. Charcoal grey smoke spit from beneath the trucks rear tires as they desperately tried to grasp more macadam. The red pick-up was heading right for me when the physical world seemed to slow down 100 fold. My brain’s activity, with all the synapses firing seemed to increase 1000 fold. It was a matter of seconds. It was a matter of a life time.
Images from my past flooded the forefront of my mind. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw two of my three sons, frozen in time, bracing for impact. I relived their births in reverse order. The memory of the birth of my youngest, Jackson, (who was not in the car) was the most vivid as he is only 4 weeks old. The image of him laying in the orange glow of a baby warmer quickly transformed to Wyatt, my two year old, lying in the same type of contraption but only in a different city and a different state. Maxfield’s birth, the first birth I ever witnessed, invaded my mind. My 5- year-olds first high pitched cry is a sound I equate to one of my most proud moments. I remember squealing for joy as he entered the world.
I heard the squeal of my tires, crying under the duress of the hard stop. My heart beating faster reminded me of when I first met my wife. Was it 10 years ago? No. It was 11. She told me her name was Lauren and I smiled because her first initial was an L. She did not realize the impact of having her name start with the letter L meant so much to a comic book fan. Superman was one of my favorite heroes and his main girl was Lois Lane. The letter L, for me, was love at first sound. As if someone hit the scene-forward button on the remote control to my brain, much like a DVD, images from my wedding engulfed me.
“Do you William take Lauren to be your wife?” the priest asked as we stood in the shadows of an enormous oak tree.
“Yes. I do.” I answered through tears of joy and over the giggles of my seven brothers who were standing behind me.
I felt proud that our wedding reception is still talked about by family and friends as the best wedding anyone ever attended. The perfect 80 degree sunny weather combined with the serene picnic setting made for a perfect romantic event, only to be out done by the laughter caused by my brothers dressing up as super heroes for the toast.
I jerked the steering wheel hard to the left hoping to turn away from the inevitable collision. I became amazed at how many turns my life had taken. I started working when I was thirteen, stocking various tan metallic shelves with tampons, cold medicine and snacks in the local pharmacy. Right after graduating high school I became a desk jockey at a major insurance company, pushing paper in the dim fluorescent lights of a cubicle farm. I left the confines of the office to explore the opportunities of acting at a shore side dinner theater where I performed on stage and served elderly patrons lukewarm coffee during intermission. I drifted from playing characters to greeting characters in a major nightclub in Philadelphia. The clientele ranged from bus boys and chefs, arriving after their shifts at the local restaurants, still dressed in their food stained whites and checkered pants, to athletes, gangsters and movie stars all decked out in their finest attire. The dark, fog-fumed dance floor, heavy doses of alcohol and drugs kept the crowds dancing to thump, thump, thump, of a heavy bass driven beat of popular songs.
My adrenaline kicked in and I could feel the thump, thump, thump of blood pulsing in my ears as I watched the car behind me, to avoid the accident, careen off the side of the road and splinter a mailbox. The driver leaned on her horn in frustration. She looked like my only sister Sharon. Sharon is oldest child the leader in our family. I remembered how she would walk the eight of her younger brothers to the playground in our middle class suburban neighborhood to play baseball. Each one of us fielding a position on the dirt diamond as my dad would hit pop-ups and grounders to us. The oldest had first dibs on their position of choice and since I was number six I usually ended up in the outfield. We would all scurry in the direction of the ball after hearing the pop of the bat.
Pop! My front left tire hissed and I could feel the tire rim grind into the street top surely creating a huge divot. I adjusted my grip on the wheel to compensate for a sudden lurch and turn, just like I adjusted my grip on my life, my family and my God when my father passed away. Feelings of happiness overwhelmed me as I recalled afternoons at the beach with my dad. I could see his face always smiling, enjoying the moment in the stands at my high school football games. I pictured him singing, off key, to the Beach Boys on lazy Sunday afternoons. I was grateful that he and my mom always taught me that I should do the right thing. I chuckled, in spite of my predicament, that I inherited their sense of humor and that I could laugh or make jokes in most situations. I felt in awe of their willingness to allow their children grow without too much of a tight grip.
I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. Then, I let go.
My mind slowed. I felt at peace. I caught ghost images of my past. I was twelve years old riding my bike on dirt trails through a forest. The splashes of sunlight, fighting through the canopy of tree branches, danced with the shadows below. My ride would end at the stream for a quick skinny dip and a drink from my canteen. I watched the sunset from the dock on Brigantine Bay with a beer in my hand. The red sun reflected off the water and into the windows of Atlantic City hotels making them appear as if they were on fire. I saw my children sleeping. I counted each rise and fall of their little chests.
The world sped up. I held my breath and I braced for the impact. My tires stopped and the body of the car thrust forward with a final groan. The red pick-up ground to a halt just inches from the driver’s side window. Everything became quiet. I watched the smoke from the burning tires engulf the front of the truck giving it the appearance of a fire breathing dragon.
I exhaled a sigh of relief. I looked over my right shoulder to check on the kids. “Are you guys okay?” I asked.
Both were smiling and wide-eyed. I could tell they enjoyed the excitement. What to them was only a flash of a couple of seconds, to me was a flash of a lifetime.
Wyatt nodded.
Max laughed. “Daddy just said a bad word.”
I am not really looking for feedback or anything, I just did not have anything to post this week and figured I could cut and paste the original text. I tried to make the assignment interesting, not only for the reader but also for me. By putting this piece on the blog I get a chance to add some links, which on paper would just look like bold print or when read aloud would be, well, I don't know. Is there some kind of symbol that could be used for a link when doing an oral presentation of a writing. Like air finger quotes..but only different..like an air finger links? I need to trademark this finger link thing.
********
“Holy shit!” I yelled as I slammed on the brakes, probably 6 seconds and 10 feet too late. I watched from the corner of my eye as the driver in the fire engine red pick-up realized he blew the stop light and he too hit the brakes. Charcoal grey smoke spit from beneath the trucks rear tires as they desperately tried to grasp more macadam. The red pick-up was heading right for me when the physical world seemed to slow down 100 fold. My brain’s activity, with all the synapses firing seemed to increase 1000 fold. It was a matter of seconds. It was a matter of a life time.
Images from my past flooded the forefront of my mind. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw two of my three sons, frozen in time, bracing for impact. I relived their births in reverse order. The memory of the birth of my youngest, Jackson, (who was not in the car) was the most vivid as he is only 4 weeks old. The image of him laying in the orange glow of a baby warmer quickly transformed to Wyatt, my two year old, lying in the same type of contraption but only in a different city and a different state. Maxfield’s birth, the first birth I ever witnessed, invaded my mind. My 5- year-olds first high pitched cry is a sound I equate to one of my most proud moments. I remember squealing for joy as he entered the world.
I heard the squeal of my tires, crying under the duress of the hard stop. My heart beating faster reminded me of when I first met my wife. Was it 10 years ago? No. It was 11. She told me her name was Lauren and I smiled because her first initial was an L. She did not realize the impact of having her name start with the letter L meant so much to a comic book fan. Superman was one of my favorite heroes and his main girl was Lois Lane. The letter L, for me, was love at first sound. As if someone hit the scene-forward button on the remote control to my brain, much like a DVD, images from my wedding engulfed me.
“Do you William take Lauren to be your wife?” the priest asked as we stood in the shadows of an enormous oak tree.
“Yes. I do.” I answered through tears of joy and over the giggles of my seven brothers who were standing behind me.
I felt proud that our wedding reception is still talked about by family and friends as the best wedding anyone ever attended. The perfect 80 degree sunny weather combined with the serene picnic setting made for a perfect romantic event, only to be out done by the laughter caused by my brothers dressing up as super heroes for the toast.
I jerked the steering wheel hard to the left hoping to turn away from the inevitable collision. I became amazed at how many turns my life had taken. I started working when I was thirteen, stocking various tan metallic shelves with tampons, cold medicine and snacks in the local pharmacy. Right after graduating high school I became a desk jockey at a major insurance company, pushing paper in the dim fluorescent lights of a cubicle farm. I left the confines of the office to explore the opportunities of acting at a shore side dinner theater where I performed on stage and served elderly patrons lukewarm coffee during intermission. I drifted from playing characters to greeting characters in a major nightclub in Philadelphia. The clientele ranged from bus boys and chefs, arriving after their shifts at the local restaurants, still dressed in their food stained whites and checkered pants, to athletes, gangsters and movie stars all decked out in their finest attire. The dark, fog-fumed dance floor, heavy doses of alcohol and drugs kept the crowds dancing to thump, thump, thump, of a heavy bass driven beat of popular songs.
My adrenaline kicked in and I could feel the thump, thump, thump of blood pulsing in my ears as I watched the car behind me, to avoid the accident, careen off the side of the road and splinter a mailbox. The driver leaned on her horn in frustration. She looked like my only sister Sharon. Sharon is oldest child the leader in our family. I remembered how she would walk the eight of her younger brothers to the playground in our middle class suburban neighborhood to play baseball. Each one of us fielding a position on the dirt diamond as my dad would hit pop-ups and grounders to us. The oldest had first dibs on their position of choice and since I was number six I usually ended up in the outfield. We would all scurry in the direction of the ball after hearing the pop of the bat.
Pop! My front left tire hissed and I could feel the tire rim grind into the street top surely creating a huge divot. I adjusted my grip on the wheel to compensate for a sudden lurch and turn, just like I adjusted my grip on my life, my family and my God when my father passed away. Feelings of happiness overwhelmed me as I recalled afternoons at the beach with my dad. I could see his face always smiling, enjoying the moment in the stands at my high school football games. I pictured him singing, off key, to the Beach Boys on lazy Sunday afternoons. I was grateful that he and my mom always taught me that I should do the right thing. I chuckled, in spite of my predicament, that I inherited their sense of humor and that I could laugh or make jokes in most situations. I felt in awe of their willingness to allow their children grow without too much of a tight grip.
I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel. Then, I let go.
My mind slowed. I felt at peace. I caught ghost images of my past. I was twelve years old riding my bike on dirt trails through a forest. The splashes of sunlight, fighting through the canopy of tree branches, danced with the shadows below. My ride would end at the stream for a quick skinny dip and a drink from my canteen. I watched the sunset from the dock on Brigantine Bay with a beer in my hand. The red sun reflected off the water and into the windows of Atlantic City hotels making them appear as if they were on fire. I saw my children sleeping. I counted each rise and fall of their little chests.
The world sped up. I held my breath and I braced for the impact. My tires stopped and the body of the car thrust forward with a final groan. The red pick-up ground to a halt just inches from the driver’s side window. Everything became quiet. I watched the smoke from the burning tires engulf the front of the truck giving it the appearance of a fire breathing dragon.
I exhaled a sigh of relief. I looked over my right shoulder to check on the kids. “Are you guys okay?” I asked.
Both were smiling and wide-eyed. I could tell they enjoyed the excitement. What to them was only a flash of a couple of seconds, to me was a flash of a lifetime.
Wyatt nodded.
Max laughed. “Daddy just said a bad word.”
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Birthday Wishes
Do you remember, back in the day, when only close friends and family knew to wish you a happy birthday and they would either call or send a card?
Now a days, with modern technology like Facebook and Twitter and blogs, hundreds and hundreds of people find out you are year older.
It is like the electronic equivalent of putting 35 wooden cows on the front lawn with a giant sign that says "Holy Cow! Lauren is 35 today."
Happy Birthday Lauren.
Do you think sending her "pieces of flair" through Facebook is an adequate gift?
Now a days, with modern technology like Facebook and Twitter and blogs, hundreds and hundreds of people find out you are year older.
It is like the electronic equivalent of putting 35 wooden cows on the front lawn with a giant sign that says "Holy Cow! Lauren is 35 today."
Happy Birthday Lauren.
Do you think sending her "pieces of flair" through Facebook is an adequate gift?
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Saving Time
Just like messing with the clocks give us the "extra" time during the day, I too, have a way of giving me more time.
Bill's Life Savings Time: I just shaved and "added" five, maybe ten years to my looks.
Bill's Life Savings Time: I just shaved and "added" five, maybe ten years to my looks.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Shaker Law
I think there should be a law that standardizes the types of lids/holes that garlic salt makers use on their packaging.
We use a lot of garlic salt. The usual brand we buy has the screw-off type lid and the (hell I don't know what it is called) the hole-shaker-top-thing attached to the container. We must have shopped at a different store, because the new brand we have, the hole-shaker-top-thing was actually part of the screw top lid itself. Instead of taking the lid off you just flip up a side. One side for shaking, one side for scooping. Did anyone tell me this when I went to shake a little garlic salt on my dinner the other night? No. I unscrewed the lid and I shook the shaker only to have half the container of garlic salt dump out into a pile on my chicken. Lauren got a hearty belly laugh out of it but it ruined the dinner.
I am sure some congressperson can slip a couple of mil into the stimulus package for this worthy cause.
We use a lot of garlic salt. The usual brand we buy has the screw-off type lid and the (hell I don't know what it is called) the hole-shaker-top-thing attached to the container. We must have shopped at a different store, because the new brand we have, the hole-shaker-top-thing was actually part of the screw top lid itself. Instead of taking the lid off you just flip up a side. One side for shaking, one side for scooping. Did anyone tell me this when I went to shake a little garlic salt on my dinner the other night? No. I unscrewed the lid and I shook the shaker only to have half the container of garlic salt dump out into a pile on my chicken. Lauren got a hearty belly laugh out of it but it ruined the dinner.
I am sure some congressperson can slip a couple of mil into the stimulus package for this worthy cause.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Gray
My previous post, Sunday March 1st, shows a picture of Maxfield at a couple of weeks old and one at age 5. While I was looking for pictures of Max as an infant I realized how much I have changed in the five years.
Notice in the first picture (holding Maxfield when he was only a few days old) there is just a touch of gray on my left lip and the left side of my chin.
Notice in the first picture (holding Maxfield when he was only a few days old) there is just a touch of gray on my left lip and the left side of my chin.
Picture 2 (holding Jackson) there is only a touch of BLACK on my chin. 
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Happy Father's Day
My Dad, before he passed away, would call me on this day to wish me a Happy Father's Day. He would then call my wife and wish her Happy Mother's Day. The first year he called me on this day with his father's day wishes I didn't get it. He had to explain to me that it was the anniversary of the day I first became a father.
Maxfield is 5 today.
From this....
Maxfield is 5 today.
From this....
....to this. All in the blink of an eye.
We are having about ten, 4 and 5-year-old kids, over today, to play games and eat lots of sugar to help me celebrate Father's Day.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Transmission
A couple of months ago I turned on the receiver part of our baby monitor so I could listen in on the kids as they played in their room. After a few minutes of silence I suddenly heard a woman's voice come through the monitor asking "..help clean up these toys?'
I turned, looked at Lauren, who was standing in the same room with me and she had the same What the Hell expression on her face as I did on mine. Who was asking Maxfield and Wyatt to clean up the toys? I walked into their room and they were playing nicely. There was no woman in the room with them. I looked at the transmitter part on the baby monitor and it was turned off, which was weird because we leave the transmitter on all the time. One of the kids must have been playing with it and turned it off. I realized since our transmitter was off, our receiver was picking up the signal from another baby monitor somewhere. It was most likely the family a few houses away.
I explained my theory to Lauren and she agreed that was the most likely explanation. She then made a joke that the family a few houses away was probably picking up on some of our family noises. Like I said, we leave the transmitter on all the time. I am sure we have been broadcasting our lives to the neighborhood. I felt weird about that for a bit until I realized that all anyone probably ever heard was the kids screaming or me screaming at the kids. No big deal since I am sure our neighbors would hear us even without a monitor.
But the fact that there is the potential that someone, at any given time, could be listening in our house has given me a great idea. You see, now sometimes, when I walk by the baby monitor transmitter and no one is around, I just say random things like, "I hope I don't get abducted by aliens AGAIN tonight." Or "I really need to by a better set of binoculars to spy on my neighbors." And "How did John Wayne Gacy do it? I can only fit two or three in the crawlspace."
When I have a little bit more time I try subliminal messages. I will repeat over and over again,
"Send money to (and I say my address." Or "This is your guardian angel and you need points with God. Go and clean the gutters at (and I say my address)."
Do you have any suggestions of what I could say? Keep it clean Anonymous.
I turned, looked at Lauren, who was standing in the same room with me and she had the same What the Hell expression on her face as I did on mine. Who was asking Maxfield and Wyatt to clean up the toys? I walked into their room and they were playing nicely. There was no woman in the room with them. I looked at the transmitter part on the baby monitor and it was turned off, which was weird because we leave the transmitter on all the time. One of the kids must have been playing with it and turned it off. I realized since our transmitter was off, our receiver was picking up the signal from another baby monitor somewhere. It was most likely the family a few houses away.
I explained my theory to Lauren and she agreed that was the most likely explanation. She then made a joke that the family a few houses away was probably picking up on some of our family noises. Like I said, we leave the transmitter on all the time. I am sure we have been broadcasting our lives to the neighborhood. I felt weird about that for a bit until I realized that all anyone probably ever heard was the kids screaming or me screaming at the kids. No big deal since I am sure our neighbors would hear us even without a monitor.
But the fact that there is the potential that someone, at any given time, could be listening in our house has given me a great idea. You see, now sometimes, when I walk by the baby monitor transmitter and no one is around, I just say random things like, "I hope I don't get abducted by aliens AGAIN tonight." Or "I really need to by a better set of binoculars to spy on my neighbors." And "How did John Wayne Gacy do it? I can only fit two or three in the crawlspace."
When I have a little bit more time I try subliminal messages. I will repeat over and over again,
"Send money to (and I say my address." Or "This is your guardian angel and you need points with God. Go and clean the gutters at (and I say my address)."
Do you have any suggestions of what I could say? Keep it clean Anonymous.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Creative Writing
Back in October 2007, in a certain online magazine article , the following statement was made about me.
"The guy is clearly not a writer." (My brother John makes sure to point that out to me whenever he gets a chance.)
I appreciate the fact that Poop and Boogies got the attention that it did and the writer of the article, Lisa Cullen, did say some nice things about the blog, but that one statement stuck with me (maybe because John's reminders).
I started this blog four years ago as a way for people to stay in touch with me and my family. I never set out to be a writer. I have found that I have fun with the feedback of the blogging medium. I like telling stories. I enjoy writing.
A few weeks ago I started taking a creative writing course at the local high school's adult evening school. Why? Well, I want to be a better writer for this blog. Which is funny because I have been spending all my free writing time working on the assignments that I have not had much time to post here. It is a bad cycle. I want to improve my blog, so I take a class that sucks up all my time, that I neglect the blog I want to improve by taking a writing class.
Here is what I have learned so far from the creative writing course.
1. There really is nothing creative about it. It is more like a grammar 101 type of course. Which, believe me, I need all the help I can get in the grammar department but I thought the class was going to be more of a creative exchange of ideas and what not.
2. I really need to improve my word choices in my writing.
3. I make a terrible student. Not because I don't listen or pay attention but because I moan and sigh and get frustrated with the way the teacher teaches. She talks down to people as if they should already know the answer to her questions or criticism. Which cracks me up because if a student knew all the answers they would not feel a need to be taking a course and would not be in the room to have the teacher talk down to them. If they have a bad experience they may not take another class and then they will forget what they learned and have to take a class again. Another a bad cycle.
4. I hate when the rhythm of a class comes to a screeching halt because the teacher has to make sure the slowest student is "getting" what she is teaching. I call it teaching to the lowest common denominator. I can't stand it.
5. I need to learn to edit my writings (I may go through my archives and edit some of the posts to sharpen them up).
6. I hate being the lowest common denominator.
7. Back to the grammar- I get the importance of grammar. I have a basic understanding of grammar, punctuation and syntax. I know that this is an area in my writing that needs improvement. That being said, I do not find grammar jokes funny. The jokes are not at any one person's expense, they were just "humorous" stories shared by the instructor and other people in the class about improper use of a comma, apostrophe or a word. They giggled and chuckled the whole time. I didn't get it. I equate grammar humor to making women watch the Three Stooges and asking if they thought it was funny. Women don't get the Moe, Larry and Curly.
8. If I can work on numbers 2 and 5 as well as punctuation and grammar I will have a solid backbone, foundation if you will, to be an okay writer.
I hope when the course is over I can take what I have learned and apply it to my writing here. I hope that I can improve my blog and maybe get some advertisers or other people interested in actually paying me some money for the use of some sidebar space. I can then use that money to take another course to learn about search engine optimization and RSS feeds and HTML and other web stuff (which I really need help with this stuff) so I can improve their advertising impressions. And when I take the course I will neglect their ad space because I am busy trying to learn about web advertising. Another Bad cycle.
Actually, I hope to improve Poop and Boogies just so people will come back and read some more. Maybe I will get another four years out this here blog. And maybe, one day, someone will say "This guy is clearly an okay writer."
"The guy is clearly not a writer." (My brother John makes sure to point that out to me whenever he gets a chance.)
I appreciate the fact that Poop and Boogies got the attention that it did and the writer of the article, Lisa Cullen, did say some nice things about the blog, but that one statement stuck with me (maybe because John's reminders).
I started this blog four years ago as a way for people to stay in touch with me and my family. I never set out to be a writer. I have found that I have fun with the feedback of the blogging medium. I like telling stories. I enjoy writing.
A few weeks ago I started taking a creative writing course at the local high school's adult evening school. Why? Well, I want to be a better writer for this blog. Which is funny because I have been spending all my free writing time working on the assignments that I have not had much time to post here. It is a bad cycle. I want to improve my blog, so I take a class that sucks up all my time, that I neglect the blog I want to improve by taking a writing class.
Here is what I have learned so far from the creative writing course.
1. There really is nothing creative about it. It is more like a grammar 101 type of course. Which, believe me, I need all the help I can get in the grammar department but I thought the class was going to be more of a creative exchange of ideas and what not.
2. I really need to improve my word choices in my writing.
3. I make a terrible student. Not because I don't listen or pay attention but because I moan and sigh and get frustrated with the way the teacher teaches. She talks down to people as if they should already know the answer to her questions or criticism. Which cracks me up because if a student knew all the answers they would not feel a need to be taking a course and would not be in the room to have the teacher talk down to them. If they have a bad experience they may not take another class and then they will forget what they learned and have to take a class again. Another a bad cycle.
4. I hate when the rhythm of a class comes to a screeching halt because the teacher has to make sure the slowest student is "getting" what she is teaching. I call it teaching to the lowest common denominator. I can't stand it.
5. I need to learn to edit my writings (I may go through my archives and edit some of the posts to sharpen them up).
6. I hate being the lowest common denominator.
7. Back to the grammar- I get the importance of grammar. I have a basic understanding of grammar, punctuation and syntax. I know that this is an area in my writing that needs improvement. That being said, I do not find grammar jokes funny. The jokes are not at any one person's expense, they were just "humorous" stories shared by the instructor and other people in the class about improper use of a comma, apostrophe or a word. They giggled and chuckled the whole time. I didn't get it. I equate grammar humor to making women watch the Three Stooges and asking if they thought it was funny. Women don't get the Moe, Larry and Curly.
8. If I can work on numbers 2 and 5 as well as punctuation and grammar I will have a solid backbone, foundation if you will, to be an okay writer.
I hope when the course is over I can take what I have learned and apply it to my writing here. I hope that I can improve my blog and maybe get some advertisers or other people interested in actually paying me some money for the use of some sidebar space. I can then use that money to take another course to learn about search engine optimization and RSS feeds and HTML and other web stuff (which I really need help with this stuff) so I can improve their advertising impressions. And when I take the course I will neglect their ad space because I am busy trying to learn about web advertising. Another Bad cycle.
Actually, I hope to improve Poop and Boogies just so people will come back and read some more. Maybe I will get another four years out this here blog. And maybe, one day, someone will say "This guy is clearly an okay writer."
Monday, February 23, 2009
Stupid Cats
About a year ago I installed a pet door into the door of a large utility closet to keep the cats locked up at night. What I mean by large, is that the cats basically have their own bedroom. You see Bogart, our orange fat cat, likes to wake everyone up in the middle of the night by knocking stuff over or starting fights with the dog or jumping on our faces.
I used to have to chase the cats, every night, trying to lock them up just so we could get a good nights sleep. The stupid cats caught on and did their best to hide from me at night. It would take me a half-an-hour, every night, to herd the cats.
So I got the pet door.
Before I go to bed, I flip the red switch on the pet door which allows the cats to go into the closet to use the litter box or get food, but it locks the door preventing them from coming out. No more chasing cats. No more cat's ass on my face in the middle of the night. My problems were solved.
It took the cats one year to figure out the fricking piece of shit pet door. Watch the video.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Jackson's Eye
I do not remember at what point the eye color of my kids became obvious. Max has super blue eyes. Wyatt has real dark brown, almost black, eyes. I think with Max it was around the one year mark where we were convinced his eyes would stay blue. Wyatt's eyes gradually became muddier and muddier and then one day he woke up and his eyes were completely dark. We are still waiting to see how Jackson's turn out. They look different every day.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Dentist
I was at the dentist office yesterday getting some work done. You know how it is when you are at the dentist, they have drills, saliva suckers, cotton and other things in your mouth while the dentist asks you questions and has a conversations with the assistants and all the time you can't actually answer or participate in the conversation because your mouth is full.
This is all the stuff I wanted to say but never got the chance.
"If my mouth looks like Newark than I guess my ass would be Camden."
"Rihanna has herpes? Was it Eye Herpes?"
"You guys should sell advertising space on all the walls in here."
"That's what she said."
"Can we please stop talking about Rihanna."
"A-Rod sucks. Not because he took steroids but because he is a Yankee."
"Holy Ca-rap! That hurt."
"Moooooon River. Are you using the whole fist doc?"
"That's what she said." (again.)
This is all the stuff I wanted to say but never got the chance.
"If my mouth looks like Newark than I guess my ass would be Camden."
"Rihanna has herpes? Was it Eye Herpes?"
"You guys should sell advertising space on all the walls in here."
"That's what she said."
"Can we please stop talking about Rihanna."
"A-Rod sucks. Not because he took steroids but because he is a Yankee."
"Holy Ca-rap! That hurt."
"Moooooon River. Are you using the whole fist doc?"
"That's what she said." (again.)
Monday, February 16, 2009
Leaving Church Early.
Is it wrong, while in church, to stare at the butt of the woman in front of you the entire mass?
I need to explain.
I took Maxfield and Wyatt with me to church. We settled into the pew and I gave them each their toy and a distraction snack. The distraction snack, this particular Sunday, was a baggie filled with a mixture of raisins and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. With enough activities for the boys we usually make it to the 35 minute mark of the service before they get rambunctious and i feel the need to leave. The Mass started and everything was good.
The second time the congregation stood (you know how Catholic masses are sit, stand, kneel, stand, sit, kneel) is when the service became interesting. Wyatt stood and leaned over the front of the pew spilling part of the contents of his snack bag all over the seat in front of us. I quickly reached over and cleaned up most of the scattered food before the occupants of the pew in front of us sat down again. I did not want the people to sit and hear the popping crunch of Cheddar Goldfish meeting their demise. In my haste I missed a few raisins which the woman directly in front of me did not miss with her butt when she sat down.
When we stood again I looked down to see if I could pick up the fallen raisins. They were not on the pew. I looked up and saw that two raisins were stuck to the left cheek of the woman's jeans. I started chuckling to myself. I couldn't just reach out and wipe them off. I would surely get smacked. It was then time to kneel and I hoped that the motion of kneeling would knock them loose. I watched as one of the raisins slowly peeled away from the denim and fell to the floor leaving just one dangling from the seam of the back pocket.
As I stared at the woman's butt, watching the raisin, my mind started to panic. What if Max or Wyatt sees the raisin. Neither of them has mastered the art of the whisper. I pictured them blurting out "Dad look. That lady has a poop on her butt." I could hear in my mind the fits of laughter and giggles this would cause a five year old. I could feel the premature blush of embarrassment creep up my neck. I stared more intently at the raisin trying to will it to fall.
The congregation stood again. I hoped, I prayed (I was in church after all) that now that the raisin was in direct eye level of the kids, that they would not notice it. I did my best to keep the kids occupied on our side of the pew all the while I watched the woman's butt. Eventually the woman sat down again and when she stood up the raisin was gone. I looked at the bench and saw the flattened raisin squished onto the seat right next to her purse.
I reached down, and using my fingernail of my middle finger, I tried to scrape up the raisin guts. One of the people in the woman's pew noticed me reach over and must have thought that I was reaching for the purse and they gave me a dirty look. I held my up finger with the raisin stuck to it and showed them what I was doing. I quickly realized that it appeared as though I was flipping the bird to the person.
I sighed deeply and knew that I would not be able to explain the situation and decided it was best if we left Mass early.
I need to explain.
I took Maxfield and Wyatt with me to church. We settled into the pew and I gave them each their toy and a distraction snack. The distraction snack, this particular Sunday, was a baggie filled with a mixture of raisins and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. With enough activities for the boys we usually make it to the 35 minute mark of the service before they get rambunctious and i feel the need to leave. The Mass started and everything was good.
The second time the congregation stood (you know how Catholic masses are sit, stand, kneel, stand, sit, kneel) is when the service became interesting. Wyatt stood and leaned over the front of the pew spilling part of the contents of his snack bag all over the seat in front of us. I quickly reached over and cleaned up most of the scattered food before the occupants of the pew in front of us sat down again. I did not want the people to sit and hear the popping crunch of Cheddar Goldfish meeting their demise. In my haste I missed a few raisins which the woman directly in front of me did not miss with her butt when she sat down.
When we stood again I looked down to see if I could pick up the fallen raisins. They were not on the pew. I looked up and saw that two raisins were stuck to the left cheek of the woman's jeans. I started chuckling to myself. I couldn't just reach out and wipe them off. I would surely get smacked. It was then time to kneel and I hoped that the motion of kneeling would knock them loose. I watched as one of the raisins slowly peeled away from the denim and fell to the floor leaving just one dangling from the seam of the back pocket.
As I stared at the woman's butt, watching the raisin, my mind started to panic. What if Max or Wyatt sees the raisin. Neither of them has mastered the art of the whisper. I pictured them blurting out "Dad look. That lady has a poop on her butt." I could hear in my mind the fits of laughter and giggles this would cause a five year old. I could feel the premature blush of embarrassment creep up my neck. I stared more intently at the raisin trying to will it to fall.
The congregation stood again. I hoped, I prayed (I was in church after all) that now that the raisin was in direct eye level of the kids, that they would not notice it. I did my best to keep the kids occupied on our side of the pew all the while I watched the woman's butt. Eventually the woman sat down again and when she stood up the raisin was gone. I looked at the bench and saw the flattened raisin squished onto the seat right next to her purse.
I reached down, and using my fingernail of my middle finger, I tried to scrape up the raisin guts. One of the people in the woman's pew noticed me reach over and must have thought that I was reaching for the purse and they gave me a dirty look. I held my up finger with the raisin stuck to it and showed them what I was doing. I quickly realized that it appeared as though I was flipping the bird to the person.
I sighed deeply and knew that I would not be able to explain the situation and decided it was best if we left Mass early.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Unlucky Love
Since it is Friday the 13Th and the day before Valentines Day I figured I would share with you some blogs that I love.
I always find it difficult to explain why I like certain blogs. I know that most of my favorites are funny, positive and well written but after some serious thought I realized that the common element they all share is that they all, to me, read like a conversation between me and the poster. 9 out of 10 times their posts make me want to comment on their site.
My latest favorite blog is Creative Breathing . My wife recommended her site a month or so ago and it took me a while to start reading but once I did I was hooked. When you first go there it looks all girlie and "sugar and spice and everything nice" but don't let that distract you. Her stories are awesome. Her attitude reminds me of the next blogger.
What Was I Thinking (Susie) was one of the first blogs I started to read. That was four years ago. Her posts have had the most influence and impact on me as a blogger and as a person,than any other blogger I have never met. She shares a birthday with Jackson I have given her the title of his Blog Mother.
The Wind In Your Vagina. Black Hockey Jesus is just so entertaining. You never know what you are going to get.
Bogart in P Towne Lauren says he is my blogger boyfriend.
Oh The Joys She paints word pictures without using 5 dollar words.
And, of course there is Gigglepotamus. Lauren is the hottest blogger that I know. She is gifted beyond belief. I love her blog and I love her, and I want to be the father of her babies...oh wait...I am.
Happy Valentine's Day. Tell me what blogs you love.
I always find it difficult to explain why I like certain blogs. I know that most of my favorites are funny, positive and well written but after some serious thought I realized that the common element they all share is that they all, to me, read like a conversation between me and the poster. 9 out of 10 times their posts make me want to comment on their site.
My latest favorite blog is Creative Breathing . My wife recommended her site a month or so ago and it took me a while to start reading but once I did I was hooked. When you first go there it looks all girlie and "sugar and spice and everything nice" but don't let that distract you. Her stories are awesome. Her attitude reminds me of the next blogger.
What Was I Thinking (Susie) was one of the first blogs I started to read. That was four years ago. Her posts have had the most influence and impact on me as a blogger and as a person,than any other blogger I have never met. She shares a birthday with Jackson I have given her the title of his Blog Mother.
The Wind In Your Vagina. Black Hockey Jesus is just so entertaining. You never know what you are going to get.
Bogart in P Towne Lauren says he is my blogger boyfriend.
Oh The Joys She paints word pictures without using 5 dollar words.
And, of course there is Gigglepotamus. Lauren is the hottest blogger that I know. She is gifted beyond belief. I love her blog and I love her, and I want to be the father of her babies...oh wait...I am.
Happy Valentine's Day. Tell me what blogs you love.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Smell and Memory
Today Jackson is exactly 5 weeks old. Maxfield is becoming an exceptional big brother and has been really great. Wyatt... not so much. Wyatt is adjusting, not only to having a little brother, but also to having to share a room with Max. Wyatt also made the transition from crib to twin bed. Almost every night over the past five weeks I have ended up sleeping with Wyatt in his bed. He claims he is scared but I know he just needs a friend. As soon as I lay down to comfort him he throws his arm around my neck and instantly he falls back to sleep. When I try to get up, he wakes up and fusses. It is nice to know that I bring him some comfort and peace in this trying time for him. The nights have been long. Or short. Depending on your definition and how much sleep is required.
From the day we brought Jackson home I have been conducting an experiment which I will not know the results for another 10 years or so. I have read various articles that claim smell and memory are closely linked because the olfactory nerve is part of the brains system that is closely associated with memory. When Jackson is just fed and content lying in my arms, I hold various sweet smelling things in front of his nose. I have used Strawberries, Kiwis, Bananas, Ginger and Cinnamon spiced tea, Oranges, Blueberry and Pomegranate teas, candy canes and other mint candies.
I hope that when Jackson is older and he smells these various smells he will remember a peaceful and calm time and, for purely selfish reasons, he will remember his dad as a calming and happy person. Then, when he is 3 and he throwing a temper tantrum I can spray a Citrus scented air freshener, which will trigger the calming memory and he will immediately settle down. Or say when he is 15 and he becoming a bitter and angry teenager, I will simply hang Ginger scented car air fresheners in his room and he will change his attitude.
Like I said I won't know the results for a few years.
I am going to have to reprogram Wyatt. Now that I spend most nights in his bed, he is going to associate the smells of garlic morning breath and farts with being comforted.
What smells remind you of happy times?
From the day we brought Jackson home I have been conducting an experiment which I will not know the results for another 10 years or so. I have read various articles that claim smell and memory are closely linked because the olfactory nerve is part of the brains system that is closely associated with memory. When Jackson is just fed and content lying in my arms, I hold various sweet smelling things in front of his nose. I have used Strawberries, Kiwis, Bananas, Ginger and Cinnamon spiced tea, Oranges, Blueberry and Pomegranate teas, candy canes and other mint candies.
I hope that when Jackson is older and he smells these various smells he will remember a peaceful and calm time and, for purely selfish reasons, he will remember his dad as a calming and happy person. Then, when he is 3 and he throwing a temper tantrum I can spray a Citrus scented air freshener, which will trigger the calming memory and he will immediately settle down. Or say when he is 15 and he becoming a bitter and angry teenager, I will simply hang Ginger scented car air fresheners in his room and he will change his attitude.
Like I said I won't know the results for a few years.
I am going to have to reprogram Wyatt. Now that I spend most nights in his bed, he is going to associate the smells of garlic morning breath and farts with being comforted.
What smells remind you of happy times?
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Jedi Mind Tricks
There is a scene in the original Star Wars film where Luke, Obi Wan Kenobi, C3-PO and R2-D2 cruise up in the land speeder and are stopped by a bunch of storm troopers. The storm troopers are looking for C3-PO and R2 and they start to question Luke and Obi-Wan and they ask for ID.
Obi-Wan raises his eyebrow and waves his fingers and says "You don't need to see his identification."
The Storm trooper pauses and says "We don't need to see his identification. "
Obi-Wan then tells the Stormtroopers "These are not the droids you are looking for."
The Storm trooper responds, "These are not the droids we are looking for."
There are a few more lines in the scene ,but the basic gist is that Obi-Wan uses Jedi Mind Tricks on the Troopers. A combination of the Force and telling the person what you want them to think and you accomplish the Jedi Mind Trick.
In Return of the Jedi, Luke tries to use the Jedi Mind Trick on Jabba the Hut and Jabba responds by saying, "That old Jedi Mind Trick won't work on me boy."
Wyatt will be three years old in June. He has never seen Star Wars but he is already trying the Jedi Mind Trick. Anytime he is caught doing something he is not supposed to be doing, he simply tells us that he is not doing whatever he is doing and hopes that we buy it.
Wyatt will be dancing on top of the coffee table. I bark, "Wyatt! Get off the coffee table."
"I an not on a coffee table."
"Yes you are." I am starring right at him on the table.
"No I an not. I a just dancing."
"Get down from the table."
"I an not on the table dad."
This will go back and forth until I either cave in (which is usually me laughing at the fact that he is in complete denial and yet in total control of the situation) and let him continue his business or I tell him that his Jedi Mind Tricks won't work on me.
I have been trying to capture the whole Mind Trick exchanges on video but for some reason I can never get the full effect. Here are just some tidbits of our exchanges
I am still not the favorite
My mom, Momo9, has picked the winners of the Proflowers contest. Although I am still not her favorite there were some decent arguments made by all the commenters.
Here are the winners.
G-Side Pride, Kcinnova, Cherioak, Nape, and Maria from NJ. I need all of you to contact me via email in the next 2days so I can send you the web codes for your gift certificate. My email address is listed at the end of my profile. Thanks to everyone who played. Thanks to Proflowers. My mom said she had fun reading all the comments.
Honorable Mention (but no gift certificate) goes to LawnWhisperer for stating his case that I am my mom's favorite son fathered by the mailman. Every one called our mailman Rocky because he wore one of those hats that had flaps to cover his ears. The same kind of hat that Rocky the squirrel wore. I always thought our mailman looked like the mad painter from Sesame Street. At a very early age my brothers always called me Rocky's son because I was the most different than the rest of them. My mom, always laughed at this, she never denied it, she just laughed.
There were/are many other bloggers who had this contest. There still may be a chance to win the gift certificate by visiting their sites.
http://chris.pirillo.com/
http://www.gearlive.com/
http://www.techronical.com/
http://Ploomy.com
http://artofmanliness.com/
http://mommydaddyblog.com
http://dadtalk.typepad.com
http://www.pkmeco.com/familyblog/index.html
http://joeprah.com
http://www.buildingcamelot.com/
http://dadomatic.com
http://www.patricksays.net/
http://poopandboogies.blogspot.com/
http://www.athomedad.org/
http://www.rudecactus.com/
http://www.noodad.com/wp/
http://agoodhusband.net/
http://www.dadcentric.com
http://www.disfordad.com
http://daddyforever.com/
www.youserved.com
http://emailourmilitary.blogspot.com/
Here are the winners.
G-Side Pride, Kcinnova, Cherioak, Nape, and Maria from NJ. I need all of you to contact me via email in the next 2days so I can send you the web codes for your gift certificate. My email address is listed at the end of my profile. Thanks to everyone who played. Thanks to Proflowers. My mom said she had fun reading all the comments.
Honorable Mention (but no gift certificate) goes to LawnWhisperer for stating his case that I am my mom's favorite son fathered by the mailman. Every one called our mailman Rocky because he wore one of those hats that had flaps to cover his ears. The same kind of hat that Rocky the squirrel wore. I always thought our mailman looked like the mad painter from Sesame Street. At a very early age my brothers always called me Rocky's son because I was the most different than the rest of them. My mom, always laughed at this, she never denied it, she just laughed.
There were/are many other bloggers who had this contest. There still may be a chance to win the gift certificate by visiting their sites.
http://chris.pirillo.com/
http://www.gearlive.com/
http://www.techronical.com/
http://Ploomy.com
http://artofmanliness.com/
http://mommydaddyblog.com
http://dadtalk.typepad.com
http://www.pkmeco.com/familyblog/index.html
http://joeprah.com
http://www.buildingcamelot.com/
http://dadomatic.com
http://www.patricksays.net/
http://poopandboogies.blogspot.com/
http://www.athomedad.org/
http://www.rudecactus.com/
http://www.noodad.com/wp/
http://agoodhusband.net/
http://www.dadcentric.com
http://www.disfordad.com
http://daddyforever.com/
www.youserved.com
http://emailourmilitary.blogspot.com/
Monday, February 02, 2009
Flower Contest
My mom used to call me every Valentine's Day or Mother's Day to thank me for the flowers she received. Not for the flowers that I sent but for the ones she received. But she called me every year to thank me. Because every year someone sent her flowers signed "Your favorite son."
She called each of her 8 sons and thanked them. Some years I sent her flowers signed "your favorite son". Some years I did not.
ProFlowers.Com sent me an email, well, actually one of their marketing companies did. They offered me Five $70.00 gift certificates to give away to readers of Poop and Boogies if I had a contest of some sort promoting ProFlowers.com. The gift certificates are actually gift codes to their website where the winners of the contest can get or send flowers or gifts from ProFlowers.com for Valentine's day. The gift certificates are only good for orders in the US.
The marketing company asked me to use certain key words in my contest which I think I just covered in the last few paragraphs.
I suck at contests. I suck at entering them. I suck at winning them. And I suck at creating them.
She called each of her 8 sons and thanked them. Some years I sent her flowers signed "your favorite son". Some years I did not.
ProFlowers.Com sent me an email, well, actually one of their marketing companies did. They offered me Five $70.00 gift certificates to give away to readers of Poop and Boogies if I had a contest of some sort promoting ProFlowers.com. The gift certificates are actually gift codes to their website where the winners of the contest can get or send flowers or gifts from ProFlowers.com for Valentine's day. The gift certificates are only good for orders in the US.
The marketing company asked me to use certain key words in my contest which I think I just covered in the last few paragraphs.
I suck at contests. I suck at entering them. I suck at winning them. And I suck at creating them.
I was going to ask people to leave me comments on the most romantic thing ever done for them. Or maybe tell me their favorite home made card. Or they could tell me what I should get Lauren for Valentine's day. But I decided to go a different route for the give-a-way.
Many of the people that read Poop and Boogies have been doing so for a while, so you know that my mom reads this blog and that she sometimes comments. To enter the contest for the ProFlowers. Com gift certificate give-a-way, in the comments section, leave a comment trying to convince my mom why I should be her favorite son. I will close the contest on Wednesday 2-4-09 at Noon. Sorry but the gift codes are only valid for customers in the US.
My mom will pick her five favorite answers. If you want to kiss up to my mom, I am sure you can find all kinds of good information from my archives.
Please make sure you leave a valid way for me to contact you if you should win.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wipes
I was at my friend JT's house the other night when he told me this story. The hows and why of him telling me this story are also funny but not as funny as the actual story. I will do my best to tell the story accurately but I may embellish a bit so it makes sense.
A long time ago JT had his first baby and he was discussing the whole diaper changing situation with his brother DP. DP started talking about how awesome baby wipes are for cleaning almost everything. Now DP's kid was little older than JT's kid and DP kept wipes in his bathroom for potty training purposes. DP then told JT that he uses baby wipes on himself when he has a hard time cleaning himself after, well, using the toilet.
"You know how sometimes, after you go, you just don't feel like you are getting your butt completely clean?" DP said to JT. "I use a baby wipe and I feel so much better."
Yes, guys, especially brothers who at one point shared a bathroom, do talk about bathroom habits, the good, the bad, the ugly.
JT made a mental note of this bit of fatherly/brotherly advice.
A few weeks later JT used the bathroom and did not feel like toilet paper was doing a good enough job. He noticed that his wife left a new container of wipes in the bathroom and so he decided to try DP's advice. He opened the container of wipes and wiped himself. He immediately felt an intense burning sensation that did not subside for a few minutes. The pain was so bad that his forehead started to sweat. JT thought to himself, "WOW! DP must be a serious trooper or really need to feel clean to go through this kind of pain." JT never considered that the wipes could cause a baby pain.
Later that night JT's wife asked JT if he opened the wipes in the bathroom. He told her that he did.
"What did you use them for?" she asked.
JT felt a little weird but then told her about his conversation with DP and that he used the new wipes to clean his own butt.
Of course, she most likely fell into a fit of laughter, because the wipes she left in the bathroom were Lysol Disenfectant Cleaning Wipes. With Bleach!
A long time ago JT had his first baby and he was discussing the whole diaper changing situation with his brother DP. DP started talking about how awesome baby wipes are for cleaning almost everything. Now DP's kid was little older than JT's kid and DP kept wipes in his bathroom for potty training purposes. DP then told JT that he uses baby wipes on himself when he has a hard time cleaning himself after, well, using the toilet.
"You know how sometimes, after you go, you just don't feel like you are getting your butt completely clean?" DP said to JT. "I use a baby wipe and I feel so much better."
Yes, guys, especially brothers who at one point shared a bathroom, do talk about bathroom habits, the good, the bad, the ugly.
JT made a mental note of this bit of fatherly/brotherly advice.
A few weeks later JT used the bathroom and did not feel like toilet paper was doing a good enough job. He noticed that his wife left a new container of wipes in the bathroom and so he decided to try DP's advice. He opened the container of wipes and wiped himself. He immediately felt an intense burning sensation that did not subside for a few minutes. The pain was so bad that his forehead started to sweat. JT thought to himself, "WOW! DP must be a serious trooper or really need to feel clean to go through this kind of pain." JT never considered that the wipes could cause a baby pain.
Later that night JT's wife asked JT if he opened the wipes in the bathroom. He told her that he did.
"What did you use them for?" she asked.
JT felt a little weird but then told her about his conversation with DP and that he used the new wipes to clean his own butt.
Of course, she most likely fell into a fit of laughter, because the wipes she left in the bathroom were Lysol Disenfectant Cleaning Wipes. With Bleach!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Dreams
Lauren and I often argue over the TV. We rarely argue over what we watch together. No, we argue over what one watches while the other one is asleep. See this post from two years ago.
We both like to fall asleep watching TV. Lauren usually goes to bed and is asleep before me. She falls asleep to home improvement or medical shows and occasionally a bad reality show. The first thing I do, when I get into bed, is change the channel to either the Discovery, History or the Military channel. I watch shows like Mythbusters, History's Mysteries, Future Weapons and Monster Hunters. I like to fall asleep to things blowing up or to stories about UFOs or Bigfoot or Nostradamus and the end of the world.
Lauren hates this. The shows I watch as I fall asleep often run repeats in the middle of the night. The stories and music often infiltrate her dreams and give Lauren nightmares. She wakes up anxious and upset. She fumbles around looking for the remote and will mutter about the type of shows I watch. She always questions my choice of late night shows and asks how they don't bother me while I sleep. How I could not have dreams of hauntings or alien abductions or of Bigfoot chasing me was beyond her.
This past weekend we both went to bed at the same time and discussed what channel would be on the TV as we fell asleep. I wanted to watch a movie on TNT or TBS and she wanted to watch Bridget Jones Diary on the Oxygen channel. Now that she is nursing Jackson and does not sleep for long periods of time I agreed to watch the Oxygen channel. I fell asleep first.
I woke up at three in the morning feeling anxious. The show on the TV was infiltrating my dreams. I could hear the TV and I could not believe what I was listening to. What the hell was Lauren watching? I leaned over but she was fast asleep. I fumbled around for my glasses so I could see what the women on the television were discussing. Here is a link for the show that was on.
Apparently the Oxygen Channel turns into a sex toy QVC in the middle of the night selling various plugs and vibrators. I am not a prude but I found the whole thing disturbing. Bigfoot now has a new meaning in my dreams.
This morning, as I was writing, I told Lauren the topic of this post.
She laughed and asked, "Is that why there was Google search for Dildo on the computer?"
We both like to fall asleep watching TV. Lauren usually goes to bed and is asleep before me. She falls asleep to home improvement or medical shows and occasionally a bad reality show. The first thing I do, when I get into bed, is change the channel to either the Discovery, History or the Military channel. I watch shows like Mythbusters, History's Mysteries, Future Weapons and Monster Hunters. I like to fall asleep to things blowing up or to stories about UFOs or Bigfoot or Nostradamus and the end of the world.
Lauren hates this. The shows I watch as I fall asleep often run repeats in the middle of the night. The stories and music often infiltrate her dreams and give Lauren nightmares. She wakes up anxious and upset. She fumbles around looking for the remote and will mutter about the type of shows I watch. She always questions my choice of late night shows and asks how they don't bother me while I sleep. How I could not have dreams of hauntings or alien abductions or of Bigfoot chasing me was beyond her.
This past weekend we both went to bed at the same time and discussed what channel would be on the TV as we fell asleep. I wanted to watch a movie on TNT or TBS and she wanted to watch Bridget Jones Diary on the Oxygen channel. Now that she is nursing Jackson and does not sleep for long periods of time I agreed to watch the Oxygen channel. I fell asleep first.
I woke up at three in the morning feeling anxious. The show on the TV was infiltrating my dreams. I could hear the TV and I could not believe what I was listening to. What the hell was Lauren watching? I leaned over but she was fast asleep. I fumbled around for my glasses so I could see what the women on the television were discussing. Here is a link for the show that was on.
Apparently the Oxygen Channel turns into a sex toy QVC in the middle of the night selling various plugs and vibrators. I am not a prude but I found the whole thing disturbing. Bigfoot now has a new meaning in my dreams.
This morning, as I was writing, I told Lauren the topic of this post.
She laughed and asked, "Is that why there was Google search for Dildo on the computer?"
Monday, January 26, 2009
Always Funny
Wyatt and Maxfield were watching me prepare dinner. I pulled the tray of thick cut fries from the broiler and placed them on the counter. As I turned to close the oven door I caught my hip on the corner of the counter and I winced and yelped in pain. Both kids cracked up laughing.
To make sure the fries were done I took one off the tray and I bit into it. I winced and made a strange noise when I burnt the roof of my mouth and spit I out the fry. Maxfield and Wyatt cracked up again with some serious belly laughs.
I suddenly had a moment of clarity and discovered a universal truth. Boys will always laugh at their father getting hurt. Okay, maybe not always, but 9 out of 10 times it is funny. Once a kid gets a little older and realizes that it may be inappropriate to laugh it usually makes it that much more funny. Also there is a direct correlation of the quality of the funny based on the frustration factor of the father.
I remember my dad getting so frustrated trying to put a chain back on a bike. Sweat was dripping from his nose and he was muttering under his breath and when the chain finally caught, it caught his hand in the cog. I had to cover my mouth not to laugh out loud. It was like I had the church giggles. When he asked me to hand him a wrench, I couldn't do it, I was fighting the laughter so hard.
I sat down with Max and Wyatt to eat dinner, feeling sad because I was missing my dad (he has been gone a year now) when I had another realization. Another factor that increases the humor of a dad getting hurt is just how public the injury incident or slip and fall or hitting his hand with a hammer is.
To make sure the fries were done I took one off the tray and I bit into it. I winced and made a strange noise when I burnt the roof of my mouth and spit I out the fry. Maxfield and Wyatt cracked up again with some serious belly laughs.
I suddenly had a moment of clarity and discovered a universal truth. Boys will always laugh at their father getting hurt. Okay, maybe not always, but 9 out of 10 times it is funny. Once a kid gets a little older and realizes that it may be inappropriate to laugh it usually makes it that much more funny. Also there is a direct correlation of the quality of the funny based on the frustration factor of the father.
I remember my dad getting so frustrated trying to put a chain back on a bike. Sweat was dripping from his nose and he was muttering under his breath and when the chain finally caught, it caught his hand in the cog. I had to cover my mouth not to laugh out loud. It was like I had the church giggles. When he asked me to hand him a wrench, I couldn't do it, I was fighting the laughter so hard.
I sat down with Max and Wyatt to eat dinner, feeling sad because I was missing my dad (he has been gone a year now) when I had another realization. Another factor that increases the humor of a dad getting hurt is just how public the injury incident or slip and fall or hitting his hand with a hammer is.
Many years ago my siblings and I sent my dad to the Phillies Phantasy spring training camp in Clearwater Florida. My dad spent a week in a Phillies uniform, training and playing baseball with real pros like John Kruk and Mitch Williams. My brother Jim went down with a video camera to make sure the rest of us could see my dad in action. I think what Jim was trying to capture was the fun my dad was having playing in the big leagues. What he did catch on the video, was my dad, after hitting a single, take a header, tripping over first base. We must have watched that video a hundred times, laughing hysterically every time.
I need to get my hands on that video tape.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Only so much cool to go around
I have been thinking about a theory of mine about being cool. Cool as in hip and popular and confident.
When it was just Maxfield and Wyatt I noticed it. Now that Jackson is here I notice it even more. When it comes to brothers, there is only so much cool to go around. It is like one brother is the cool magnet and the others look like dorks.
The cool factor can shift to another brother. The coolness passes from one to the other, but never does more than one brother have the same level of being cool. One dominates and the others just do not look as good.
In an effort to illustrate my theory that one brother is always cooler than the other brothers I will use famous brothers as examples.
Jimmy Carter and Billy Carter. Being the President of the United States is cool. Being a hard drinking partyer who pisses on a runway, like a rock star, in full view of the dignitaries and the press and having a beer named after you, cooler.
Beau and Jeff Bridges- Beau is an actor who does many supporting roles for both TV and film usually playing someones dad or hard ass neighbor. Being an actor is cool. Jeff Bridges is a four time Oscar nominated actor who has been in films like Iron Man and the Contender and he played the Dude in the Big Lebowski. Cooler.
Ron Howard and Clint Howard-Ron Howard is a famous actor and Oscar winning director who has directed films such as Night Shift (one of the best films of all time), Apollo 13 and The DaVinci Code. Very Cool. Clint Howard...well..is Clint Howard.
Peyton Manning and Eli Manning- This is a good example of the coolness shifting. Both brothers are NFL quarterbacks making millions of dollars. Cool right? Except that Eli always looked like a whiny dork and Peyton always looked real smooth and funny in his TV commercials. Peyton is a future hall of fame QB with great TV commercials and he won the Super Bowl in 2007. Then the coolness shifted. In 2008 Eli won the Superbowl while Peyton looked like a dork. Then there is the other brother Cooper. Who? Cooper. That's right, the other two brothers sucked up all the coolness.
When it was just Maxfield and Wyatt I noticed it. Now that Jackson is here I notice it even more. When it comes to brothers, there is only so much cool to go around. It is like one brother is the cool magnet and the others look like dorks.
The cool factor can shift to another brother. The coolness passes from one to the other, but never does more than one brother have the same level of being cool. One dominates and the others just do not look as good.
In an effort to illustrate my theory that one brother is always cooler than the other brothers I will use famous brothers as examples.
Jimmy Carter and Billy Carter. Being the President of the United States is cool. Being a hard drinking partyer who pisses on a runway, like a rock star, in full view of the dignitaries and the press and having a beer named after you, cooler.
Beau and Jeff Bridges- Beau is an actor who does many supporting roles for both TV and film usually playing someones dad or hard ass neighbor. Being an actor is cool. Jeff Bridges is a four time Oscar nominated actor who has been in films like Iron Man and the Contender and he played the Dude in the Big Lebowski. Cooler.
Ron Howard and Clint Howard-Ron Howard is a famous actor and Oscar winning director who has directed films such as Night Shift (one of the best films of all time), Apollo 13 and The DaVinci Code. Very Cool. Clint Howard...well..is Clint Howard.
Peyton Manning and Eli Manning- This is a good example of the coolness shifting. Both brothers are NFL quarterbacks making millions of dollars. Cool right? Except that Eli always looked like a whiny dork and Peyton always looked real smooth and funny in his TV commercials. Peyton is a future hall of fame QB with great TV commercials and he won the Super Bowl in 2007. Then the coolness shifted. In 2008 Eli won the Superbowl while Peyton looked like a dork. Then there is the other brother Cooper. Who? Cooper. That's right, the other two brothers sucked up all the coolness.
Another good example of the coolness factor shifting from one brother to the next is Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez. While one has a breakout movie or hit TV show the other is floundering in hookers and drugs. The coolness shifts and then the other brother has a hit and the other falls off the face of the earth. It proves my theory.
There are many famous brothers and when you think of them, one sticks out in your mind over the others. Jackson 5, Osmonds, David and Shaun Cassidy, Ben and Casey Afleck, Luke and Owen Wilson, Baldwin brothers, Bacon brothers.
Looking at my own siblings the coolness theory holds true. Sure, some of us excelled at certain areas or have different talents but for the most part, only one of us was cooler than the others at any given time. There have been many shifts over the years from one brother to the next but never were any two just as cool as each other.
I know at some point, when sibling rivalry starts to get more intense, I am going to have to have this discussion with my kids.
No more than one brother can be equal cool as the other at any given time. Am I off base with this theory? I am looking for opinions and counter points.
Monday, January 19, 2009
When Santa Screws Up
The box looked cool.
I grabbed the box of Moon Sand off the shelf at Target. Santa needed one more gift for Wyatt to balance out all the gifts between the two boys. I thought to myself “Perfect. Moldable sand. A gift that is for Wyatt but that both boys can use.”
The box contained orange and red Moon Sand and a couple of molds. I read the box. It said “Molds like dough. Never dries out. Cleans up easily and won’t stick or stain.” I picked up an extra container of blue and green Moon Sand so they would have more to play with.
I showed it to Lauren when I got home from shopping. She gave me the Are you sure? look. You know the look that says “You are going to be sorry about this.” The Are you sure look is normally a precursor to the I told you so look. I told her I thought the stuff looked cool and that it would be fun to play with. She gave me the Are you sure look again and we left it at that.
A day or two after Christmas, Maxfield and Wyatt were very excited to play with the Moon Sand. As soon as I opened the first package of orange sand I knew I was in trouble. The key word in the product's name is Sand.
I repeat, SAND.
Does it mold? Sure. It molds into the fingernails of small boys. It molds into the cracks and crevices of the faux tile floor. It molds into all the wrinkles and folds of clothing.
Is it easy to clean up? Sure if you have a vacuum cleaner with a replaceable Hepa filter or a power washer that can be used indoors.
After 20 minutes of playing with, and 40 minutes of cleaning up the Moon Sand I decided the best place to store the product would be out in the garage. I put it behind the containers of gas and pesticides and weed killers. All the stuff the kids know they are not allowed to touch.
I told Lauren about the hiding spot just in case the kids ask for it again. She spared me the I told you so look.
I grabbed the box of Moon Sand off the shelf at Target. Santa needed one more gift for Wyatt to balance out all the gifts between the two boys. I thought to myself “Perfect. Moldable sand. A gift that is for Wyatt but that both boys can use.”
The box contained orange and red Moon Sand and a couple of molds. I read the box. It said “Molds like dough. Never dries out. Cleans up easily and won’t stick or stain.” I picked up an extra container of blue and green Moon Sand so they would have more to play with.
I showed it to Lauren when I got home from shopping. She gave me the Are you sure? look. You know the look that says “You are going to be sorry about this.” The Are you sure look is normally a precursor to the I told you so look. I told her I thought the stuff looked cool and that it would be fun to play with. She gave me the Are you sure look again and we left it at that.
A day or two after Christmas, Maxfield and Wyatt were very excited to play with the Moon Sand. As soon as I opened the first package of orange sand I knew I was in trouble. The key word in the product's name is Sand.
I repeat, SAND.
Does it mold? Sure. It molds into the fingernails of small boys. It molds into the cracks and crevices of the faux tile floor. It molds into all the wrinkles and folds of clothing.
Is it easy to clean up? Sure if you have a vacuum cleaner with a replaceable Hepa filter or a power washer that can be used indoors.
After 20 minutes of playing with, and 40 minutes of cleaning up the Moon Sand I decided the best place to store the product would be out in the garage. I put it behind the containers of gas and pesticides and weed killers. All the stuff the kids know they are not allowed to touch.
I told Lauren about the hiding spot just in case the kids ask for it again. She spared me the I told you so look.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Not Grumpy
Sorry that the video is side ways. This is Wyatt in his terrible twos and trying to adjust to having a new baby brother around. His mood has been somewhat challenging. For the record he is not grumpy.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Best Ever
The best pizza I have ever had was from Domino's. I know that sounds weird, since I live in the northeast part of the country where there are thousands of pizza shops that would have better pizza than Domino's, but it is true.
It was on a Thursday, the third week of June, the summer of 1988, Ocean City NJ. I was celebrating graduating from high school by spending a week at the shore with some friends. I had blown my food budget for the week by Monday and I had only consumed beer, pretzels and maybe some chips for the past three days, when I decided to take some of my beer money and buy a pizza. Domino's was the closest place. It was real good. I think my buddy Tobes and maybe Goose would agree with me.
When Lauren gave birth to Maxfield almost 5 years ago, our neighbor dropped off a plate of Chicken Cacciatore. I do not like Chicken Cacciatore but after that first night at the hospital, when I got home, I scarfed that chicken down. One of the best meals I have ever had.
I tell the first two stories because they are about meals that came at the right moment and ones I will never forget.
Just like the next one.
Our friend Lori dropped off a Lasagna on Monday. Her kindness and generosity always surprise me. Not because she is not normally kind or generous but because she is always kind and generous and nice. She truly is one of the nicest people I know. Anyway, her Lasagna, awesome.
How do I know? Besides the fact that I ate it and it was delicious, Wyatt who does not eat anything, ever, cleaned his plate and asked for seconds. And he ate the seconds. Wyatt asking for seconds is one of the highest compliments I think a chef could get. Lori, thanks for the lasagna, I need to get the recipe.
Last week I also received one of the best baby presents I think anyone could ever get. My brother John, the LawnWhisperer, brought over a bottle of vodka and a bottle of gin. His reasoning, "You already have two other boys so you don't need clothes. Jackson is never going to remember what I got him as a gift, so I did not get toys. But you and Lauren, you guys are going to need the vodka."
LW was right. Best baby gift ever.
It was on a Thursday, the third week of June, the summer of 1988, Ocean City NJ. I was celebrating graduating from high school by spending a week at the shore with some friends. I had blown my food budget for the week by Monday and I had only consumed beer, pretzels and maybe some chips for the past three days, when I decided to take some of my beer money and buy a pizza. Domino's was the closest place. It was real good. I think my buddy Tobes and maybe Goose would agree with me.
When Lauren gave birth to Maxfield almost 5 years ago, our neighbor dropped off a plate of Chicken Cacciatore. I do not like Chicken Cacciatore but after that first night at the hospital, when I got home, I scarfed that chicken down. One of the best meals I have ever had.
I tell the first two stories because they are about meals that came at the right moment and ones I will never forget.
Just like the next one.
Our friend Lori dropped off a Lasagna on Monday. Her kindness and generosity always surprise me. Not because she is not normally kind or generous but because she is always kind and generous and nice. She truly is one of the nicest people I know. Anyway, her Lasagna, awesome.
How do I know? Besides the fact that I ate it and it was delicious, Wyatt who does not eat anything, ever, cleaned his plate and asked for seconds. And he ate the seconds. Wyatt asking for seconds is one of the highest compliments I think a chef could get. Lori, thanks for the lasagna, I need to get the recipe.
Last week I also received one of the best baby presents I think anyone could ever get. My brother John, the LawnWhisperer, brought over a bottle of vodka and a bottle of gin. His reasoning, "You already have two other boys so you don't need clothes. Jackson is never going to remember what I got him as a gift, so I did not get toys. But you and Lauren, you guys are going to need the vodka."
LW was right. Best baby gift ever.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Alpha-numeric soup
Like any parent I worry about my children's education. Like most parents, I use the modern tools available to me to assist the kids with their early educational development. Tools like the television, coloring books, music, the Internet and food. All of which, I am sure, are approved by the FDA, ADA, PTA, Children's Television Workshop, and Martha Stewart.
Teaching the kids the alphabet has mostly involved the video "Here Come the ABCs" By They Might Be Giants.
After we watched that video a hundred or so times (the kids now know that gyroscope starts with the letter G, they don't know what a gyroscope is but...) we decided it was time to kick it up a notch and present the alphabet to them with food.
Maxfield and Wyatt both love tomato soup and Lauren thought that adding alphabet shaped pasta to the soup would be great for them to learn more about letters.
This mix up theory did not make sense because why would they be making pasta numbers in the first place? Who has ever heard of Numeric Soup?
The educational value of food in this country surley is slipping.
Teaching the kids the alphabet has mostly involved the video "Here Come the ABCs" By They Might Be Giants.
After we watched that video a hundred or so times (the kids now know that gyroscope starts with the letter G, they don't know what a gyroscope is but...) we decided it was time to kick it up a notch and present the alphabet to them with food.
Maxfield and Wyatt both love tomato soup and Lauren thought that adding alphabet shaped pasta to the soup would be great for them to learn more about letters.
What we learned is that the numbers 2,8,3,5,7 are all part of the alphabet. Max pointed the numbers out to us. Look at the pictures you can clearly see numbers in the Alphabet pasta. At first, I thought that maybe we were only seeing misshaped letters. That the 8 we were seeing was somehow a B or that the 5 was a squished S. After closer inspections we were able to determine that the numbers were actual numbers.
Then I thought that maybe we bought a bad batch of Alphabet pasta. That maybe someone at the pasta factory mixed up the pasta numbers with the pasta letters. But so far every box we have bought since noticing the numbers has the numbers in it.
This mix up theory did not make sense because why would they be making pasta numbers in the first place? Who has ever heard of Numeric Soup?
The educational value of food in this country surley is slipping.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
No time to write.
Jackson has been keeping us all busy. Lauren and Jackson came home on Thursday. I am amazed that after giving birth Lauren has been up and around cleaning and doing other chores. I have been trying my best pitch in and keep up with my domestic responsibilities all the while keeping Maxfield and Wyatt occupied. Jackson was not home for 5 minutes when Wyatt realized the pecking order has changed and shifted. I am now his favorite and he does not like Lauren very much at this time. I decided the best way to keep the boys busy and to get the chores done was to make the boys part of the chores.
They say if you give a boy a pancake he eats for a day. Teach a boy to make pancakes and he makes a big mess.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Now with more Boogies
Jackson Grey. Born 1-6-09 at 7:41 pm.I will let Lauren, when she is ready, tell the story over at Gigglepotamus.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Scrapple
Last Friday morning, I spent close to two and half hours talking, face to face, with two people, who before that Friday, I only knew from blogging.
I had the pleasure of meeting Bogart From P Town and his fiance Claire. They were in the Philly area doing some sightseeing and they took time to actually drive out to meet with me for coffee. I enjoyed my breakfast with Bogart and Claire. It was like seeing and hanging out with old friends. They are both brilliant people with such genuine personalities there was never an awkward moment (At least not for me. Maybe for Claire, when I mentioned the vibrating testicle). Since they were in town and they like to try new foods I suggested they try some Scrapple. I love Scrapple and I knew it was a regional "thing". I always understood that Scrapple came from "SCRAPS" of the pig.
I do not think I said or did anything embarrassing. What I mean is that I did not feel embarrassed, that is, until I got home.
Bogart emailed me a month or so ago letting me know he was going to be in the area. I knew Lauren was due to have the baby on the days Bogart was to be in town and I told him I would have to play it by ear. It turns out, that Friday morning was perfect for both of us. Once the time and place was set for the blogger meet up I realized I only had two hours to get ready. Normally 20 minutes would be all the time I would need to get ready but I have been growing a full beard and I needed to clean it up a little. I had a Charlie Manson like beard going. I did not want Bogart and Claire to think that they were meeting Ted Kaczynski or Rupert from Survivor so I decided to trim the unruly beard.
One problem: My beard trimmer was out of power and it takes a couple of hours to charge up. I did the best I could under the circumstances. I trimmed as much as I could until the battery went dead and then I let the trimmer charge for a bit more. I trimmed some more of my beard and the trimmer would die and I would have to wait another 15 minutes or so. Once you are committed to trimming your beard you have to do it all. I could not go out with only half of my face trim and clean. Also, I am in the middle of re-doing my bathroom and I clipped my beard without a mirror.
After about an hour and several jokes from Lauren about my "Man date" I decided the beard was good and I let it be. I left to go meet Bogart.
After the meeting I got home and I looked in the mirror and I realized that I did such a horrible job with the beard trimmer. There were stragglers everywhere. Long, white, unruly hairs that seemed to have a life of their own. I could only imagine what Bogart and his fiance thought. The worst part, how do I explain this, when one has a moustache, one does not need to worry too much about grooming the hairs in ones nostrils because they kinda blend in. Now if one decides to trim the moustache and forgets to trim the nose hairs...well it looks kinda of weird.
Crazy chin hairs that were three times longer than the rest of the hair on my face. I will spare you ugly picture of my nose hair and just show you a somewhat tame one below.
I had the pleasure of meeting Bogart From P Town and his fiance Claire. They were in the Philly area doing some sightseeing and they took time to actually drive out to meet with me for coffee. I enjoyed my breakfast with Bogart and Claire. It was like seeing and hanging out with old friends. They are both brilliant people with such genuine personalities there was never an awkward moment (At least not for me. Maybe for Claire, when I mentioned the vibrating testicle). Since they were in town and they like to try new foods I suggested they try some Scrapple. I love Scrapple and I knew it was a regional "thing". I always understood that Scrapple came from "SCRAPS" of the pig.
I do not think I said or did anything embarrassing. What I mean is that I did not feel embarrassed, that is, until I got home.
Bogart emailed me a month or so ago letting me know he was going to be in the area. I knew Lauren was due to have the baby on the days Bogart was to be in town and I told him I would have to play it by ear. It turns out, that Friday morning was perfect for both of us. Once the time and place was set for the blogger meet up I realized I only had two hours to get ready. Normally 20 minutes would be all the time I would need to get ready but I have been growing a full beard and I needed to clean it up a little. I had a Charlie Manson like beard going. I did not want Bogart and Claire to think that they were meeting Ted Kaczynski or Rupert from Survivor so I decided to trim the unruly beard.
One problem: My beard trimmer was out of power and it takes a couple of hours to charge up. I did the best I could under the circumstances. I trimmed as much as I could until the battery went dead and then I let the trimmer charge for a bit more. I trimmed some more of my beard and the trimmer would die and I would have to wait another 15 minutes or so. Once you are committed to trimming your beard you have to do it all. I could not go out with only half of my face trim and clean. Also, I am in the middle of re-doing my bathroom and I clipped my beard without a mirror.
After about an hour and several jokes from Lauren about my "Man date" I decided the beard was good and I let it be. I left to go meet Bogart.
After the meeting I got home and I looked in the mirror and I realized that I did such a horrible job with the beard trimmer. There were stragglers everywhere. Long, white, unruly hairs that seemed to have a life of their own. I could only imagine what Bogart and his fiance thought. The worst part, how do I explain this, when one has a moustache, one does not need to worry too much about grooming the hairs in ones nostrils because they kinda blend in. Now if one decides to trim the moustache and forgets to trim the nose hairs...well it looks kinda of weird.
Crazy chin hairs that were three times longer than the rest of the hair on my face. I will spare you ugly picture of my nose hair and just show you a somewhat tame one below.
This is Bogart and Claire before they tried the scrapple. I have sent Bogart a few emails since we met and I have not heard back from him. Maybe he figured out that you can't spell Scrapple without the word "crap".
Bogart has a great blog and you should check it out.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
A year in PRE-view
A lot of people use the New Year Holiday to reflect back on the past year and make resolutions for the new year. I have noticed that many bloggers have posted their year in review posts which highlights and links their various posts from 2008.
Me, I decided that I am going to post a Year in Pre-View. Here is a glimpse at some of the stories that I plan to post in the upcoming year. Some of the stories on the following list have already happened and I just need to write about them. Other posts on my preview list have not happened but I hope that they do in the year 2009.
The following is what the readers of Poop and Boogies will get to see in the upcoming year.
A new baby story, a guest post by my brother Anonymous, stories about me meeting other bloggers that I never met before, my 1000th post, Bathroom Begats, my 500,000 visitor, a story about me winning the lottery, Stories about Maxfield entering Kindergarten, I Could Have Been a Contender parts 4 and 5, Wyatt going to pre-school, the vibrating testicle story, being in a play, meeting someone famous, nerve conduction study, how advertisers keep asking to pay me, a book deal, lose 15 pounds, My Dad and the assistant principle, I win fantasy football, Tripling my readership, Poop and Boogies turns Four, LawnWhisperer returns, I write a screenplay, finish begatting my man space, Take photos of UFO,Bigfoot,alien,or ghost, guest post from Momo9, get invited to speak at some blog convention, win an award.
Hopefully this list will keep most of you coming back in the year 2009. I do want to offer up a heartfelt thank you to everyone that stops here on a regular basis. It is always great to see that people stop by everyday to check out what is going on. I have been blogging for close to 4 years now I still find the whole thing fascinating and fun.
Have a great year.
Me, I decided that I am going to post a Year in Pre-View. Here is a glimpse at some of the stories that I plan to post in the upcoming year. Some of the stories on the following list have already happened and I just need to write about them. Other posts on my preview list have not happened but I hope that they do in the year 2009.
The following is what the readers of Poop and Boogies will get to see in the upcoming year.
A new baby story, a guest post by my brother Anonymous, stories about me meeting other bloggers that I never met before, my 1000th post, Bathroom Begats, my 500,000 visitor, a story about me winning the lottery, Stories about Maxfield entering Kindergarten, I Could Have Been a Contender parts 4 and 5, Wyatt going to pre-school, the vibrating testicle story, being in a play, meeting someone famous, nerve conduction study, how advertisers keep asking to pay me, a book deal, lose 15 pounds, My Dad and the assistant principle, I win fantasy football, Tripling my readership, Poop and Boogies turns Four, LawnWhisperer returns, I write a screenplay, finish begatting my man space, Take photos of UFO,Bigfoot,alien,or ghost, guest post from Momo9, get invited to speak at some blog convention, win an award.
Hopefully this list will keep most of you coming back in the year 2009. I do want to offer up a heartfelt thank you to everyone that stops here on a regular basis. It is always great to see that people stop by everyday to check out what is going on. I have been blogging for close to 4 years now I still find the whole thing fascinating and fun.
Have a great year.
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