RISK
I bought it for my computer since nobody will play with me in real life. I am very good. I only lost once, and that was to myself. So, I guess even then I was a winner.
Blogging
My carpel tunnel is keeping me from typing a bunch. I am wearing a brace now, which diminishes my already poor typing abilities. Plus I've been trying to get things done before starting the new job next week. I still won't get everything done and there has been considerable down time, but I feel the need to conjure some excuse. That's the one I went with.
Truck
Still want it. Can't have it. Still want it.
Taxes
Almost done. Need to double check my work... could I really be getting money back this year?
Too soon to say, but at least I shouldn't owe anything. We pay quarterly because Em is a contract employee and so no taxes get pulled from he check each week. This means we have to estimate and pay quarterly. It also means the government sticks us in the nether eye as for the amount of taxes per dollar. So, I have become a pretty good estimator over the last few years, which is good since we got really surprised a few years back and there were many tears.
So, even though we won't owe more, we also won't enjoy a windfall of a return. Any money we get back we just put toward next year's taxes. No going to Disney World for us, and no new pickup truck.
The Snow Plow (or That Goddamned Sonofabitch!)
You know, it's bad enough we have to shovel, but then you wake up in the morning and find that pernicious little bitch the plow man cut you off from the world, again! This time I got hit especially hard because the neighbor's daughter (bless her heart) parks her piece of shit car on my side of the street, causing the plow to have to veer off, thus allowing the accumulated snow of an entire city block to rest right in front of my five foot wide driveway.
Well, it took me forever to undo that, and caused my carpel tunnel to render my left hand a worthless and numb appendage suitable only for Bob Dole. This afternoon, the daughter (bless her heart) had some difficulty getting out of the spot since the plow did a number on her. I sat and watched, but I did not help.
Maybe the plow guy ain't so bad after all.
Dinner
I mentioned Florentine's. There was no argument. Motion carried. That is all.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Marlboro Man's Truck
I don't want to be the Marlboro man, I just want to drive his truck.
No, I don't own a ranch and I don't haul a bunch of junk.
In fact if I had the Marlboro man's truck, there's nothing I would do.
I'd just know that if I wanted to, I could roll right over you.
Sure the diesel is a bit much, I don't need to tow 15,000 pounds;
But those big chrome wheels keep that thing way up off the ground.
Why drive with only two wheels, when you can drive with four?
It's not like it's a six wheel drive, or an eight wheel drive or more!
Sure, there are semis out there with less torque and horsepower;
And after you fuel it up, you need to take a shower.
It is so big that on the road I would be in a great big gleaming bubble.
I would have the excuse I crave to wear cowboy boots and stubble.
The towing mirrors are so gosh-darn big it is easy to look back.
The diesel engine throbs with it's staccato clickety-clack.
No, I don't need the Marlboro man's truck; it's a waste of hydrocarbons.
But I maybe could afford it if I cut back on my bourbons.
That big chrome grille in your rear view would express the world of hurtin'!
That one thing is without much doubt, in fact it's rather certain.
Because I've got the Marlboro man's truck and you best be out of my lane!
For if you don't I'll run you off and you'll be in much pain!
_______________________________________________________________
You may gather from the above rhyming couplets, that I want a truck. I had a pickup once which I loved, but when you buy a car for $400.00 you know it's not going to be a long-term relationship. Fred, the truck, was vaguely blue, but mostly rust. I am sure now that it is long since off the road, its buyer bought it for the fresh and strong 302 under the hood.
For what I used it, Fred was a good truck. I have always wanted a truck since. Last summer I test drove some. I liked them, but convinced myself I was not a "truck person" because I could tell Emily wasn't on board. She has a thing against trucks. She didn't understand Fred at first, either. She came around when she benefited the utility that Fred gave us.
But, to thine own self be true, I want a pickup pretty badly, whether the case can be made for need or not. However, though I have conveniently created an argument that is not predicated on logic, I feel compelled to insert some logic just for giggles.
I have arthritis in my upper back, neck and shoulders and I notice it is very uncomfortable getting down into a car of normal height. It doesn't seem like much at first, but if I am running errands or calling on customers, I am in and out a lot. My neck especially takes some beating as it doesn't like being "cocked" to the right. Emily's car has "fast" windshield and an imposing A-pillar which makes it very hard to get in and out of. My car isn't as bad, but the problem exists and the pain is very real. I could avoid the whole problem if I could climb up into a vehicle.
Being on the road as much as I am it is nice to have the view from up there, too. Instead of being bullied by the taller SUVs and minivans of the world that seem to be completely clueless of your presence and usurp your sight lines. Being a conscientious driver, I wouldn't be that guy. I like the four wheel drive part, too. Winter being what it is. And I don't need a big back seat, I don't have any kids.
I want a diesel engine for the economy and durability it offers. They are inherently able to go 250,000 or more miles without a hickup. And while all that is true, it's also a great big lie, because I really want a diesel because it is cool, it makes a cool noise, it is as powerful as a lineman on meth and you get to fill up at truck stops next to the big rig guys. I love the big rig guys. They always know everything. I guess driving all day with nothing to do but think and learn will do that for you.
Is your internet search about how to get to Mizzoula, Montana causing you annoyance? Go wait next to a diesel pump for five minutes and a trucker will be there to give you step by step instructions adjusted for seasonal load limitations; and they'll be able to tell you where all the cops are, too.
And to all those who would say I don't need a 3/4 ton pickup and that a half-ton would do, I say nuts to you. Why get something that is adequate when you can have something that is more than adequate? Since when was minimally acceptable, acceptable? The money it costs up front would be made back in higher resale value, longer use and lower service costs. So there.
Have I convinced you yet? Yeah, I didn't think so.
No, I don't own a ranch and I don't haul a bunch of junk.
In fact if I had the Marlboro man's truck, there's nothing I would do.
I'd just know that if I wanted to, I could roll right over you.
Sure the diesel is a bit much, I don't need to tow 15,000 pounds;
But those big chrome wheels keep that thing way up off the ground.
Why drive with only two wheels, when you can drive with four?
It's not like it's a six wheel drive, or an eight wheel drive or more!
Sure, there are semis out there with less torque and horsepower;
And after you fuel it up, you need to take a shower.
It is so big that on the road I would be in a great big gleaming bubble.
I would have the excuse I crave to wear cowboy boots and stubble.
The towing mirrors are so gosh-darn big it is easy to look back.
The diesel engine throbs with it's staccato clickety-clack.
No, I don't need the Marlboro man's truck; it's a waste of hydrocarbons.
But I maybe could afford it if I cut back on my bourbons.
That big chrome grille in your rear view would express the world of hurtin'!
That one thing is without much doubt, in fact it's rather certain.
Because I've got the Marlboro man's truck and you best be out of my lane!
For if you don't I'll run you off and you'll be in much pain!
_______________________________________________________________
You may gather from the above rhyming couplets, that I want a truck. I had a pickup once which I loved, but when you buy a car for $400.00 you know it's not going to be a long-term relationship. Fred, the truck, was vaguely blue, but mostly rust. I am sure now that it is long since off the road, its buyer bought it for the fresh and strong 302 under the hood.
For what I used it, Fred was a good truck. I have always wanted a truck since. Last summer I test drove some. I liked them, but convinced myself I was not a "truck person" because I could tell Emily wasn't on board. She has a thing against trucks. She didn't understand Fred at first, either. She came around when she benefited the utility that Fred gave us.
But, to thine own self be true, I want a pickup pretty badly, whether the case can be made for need or not. However, though I have conveniently created an argument that is not predicated on logic, I feel compelled to insert some logic just for giggles.
I have arthritis in my upper back, neck and shoulders and I notice it is very uncomfortable getting down into a car of normal height. It doesn't seem like much at first, but if I am running errands or calling on customers, I am in and out a lot. My neck especially takes some beating as it doesn't like being "cocked" to the right. Emily's car has "fast" windshield and an imposing A-pillar which makes it very hard to get in and out of. My car isn't as bad, but the problem exists and the pain is very real. I could avoid the whole problem if I could climb up into a vehicle.
Being on the road as much as I am it is nice to have the view from up there, too. Instead of being bullied by the taller SUVs and minivans of the world that seem to be completely clueless of your presence and usurp your sight lines. Being a conscientious driver, I wouldn't be that guy. I like the four wheel drive part, too. Winter being what it is. And I don't need a big back seat, I don't have any kids.
I want a diesel engine for the economy and durability it offers. They are inherently able to go 250,000 or more miles without a hickup. And while all that is true, it's also a great big lie, because I really want a diesel because it is cool, it makes a cool noise, it is as powerful as a lineman on meth and you get to fill up at truck stops next to the big rig guys. I love the big rig guys. They always know everything. I guess driving all day with nothing to do but think and learn will do that for you.
Is your internet search about how to get to Mizzoula, Montana causing you annoyance? Go wait next to a diesel pump for five minutes and a trucker will be there to give you step by step instructions adjusted for seasonal load limitations; and they'll be able to tell you where all the cops are, too.
And to all those who would say I don't need a 3/4 ton pickup and that a half-ton would do, I say nuts to you. Why get something that is adequate when you can have something that is more than adequate? Since when was minimally acceptable, acceptable? The money it costs up front would be made back in higher resale value, longer use and lower service costs. So there.
Have I convinced you yet? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Catostrphic Marketing and other Shitty Things
Luvs brand diapers is proudly proclaiming to have the newest and greatest feature in the world of disposable diapers. Blowout protection. For real, that's what they call it- blowout protection.
This prompted me to do a little research. The disposable diaper was created by a woman named Marion Donovan. She holds twenty patents, the disposable diaper being the one we would know her for today. It was only through dogged determination and grit that her invention ever became produced at all. Incredibly, the idea was turned down by every major manufacturer of the day and it wasn't until 1961- ten whole years after she had patented the idea that someone took an interest.
That someone was Victor Mills who was a well known product developer with with Proctor and Gamble and was the one to market the new disposable product as "Pampers." Mr. Mills was nobody's fool. He was an excellent marketer and had a prescient hand on the pulse of Americans' wants and needs. He is credited with shepherding into being such well-known household products as Ivory soap, Duncan Hine's cake mix and, from my perspective the most important of all these, Pringles potato chips.
Pringles are of a singular genius because they are synthesized (which is to say mixed and molded and baked) from potato flakes that are essentially waste product from the manufacturing process of other potato products in much of the same way Medium Density Fiber Board (MDF) and Oriented Strand Board (OSB) are made from cast off shavings of wood mixed with resin. The man literally created a salable product (a delicious one at that) out of waste. It's a good thing he retired before Soylent Green hit the theaters. That may have given him too many ideas.
But that is way far off the topic. Sorry to go all Modern Marvels on you, but we owe a lot to the "Clark Griswold's" of the world and they seldom achieve the notoriety they deserve. At least all eight of you will know the rest of the story.
Back to the blowout protection. Mrs. Donovan thought the reason why disposable diapers were such a worthy invention was they were a huge time saver for the American family (the mom), they were hygienic (used once and done), safer (no safety pins), and a damn might bit more likely to be operated properly by a man the once or twice a year it became necessary for a man take part in the messy parts of child rearing (that weekend the wife had the flu).
And she was right. But I am certain that Luvs is making a big mistake with this ad campaign as, from a layman's perspective, blowout protection ought to have been first and foremost on their mind way when they were developing their product! What else could possibly have been of higher importance on the punch list during the development meetings?
Back to the research. Luvs, the brand, was introduced in 1976 and was developed in part by an astronaut Kenneth Buell. Since babies are not equipped to give a whole lot of feedback on these types of things, vis a vis market research and the effectiveness of design, who better than an adult who in his profession had occasion to wear and use diapers (in space, I'm sure- I am not assailing Captain Buell's continence)?
So, the big difference with Luvs when they came out, from a marketing perspective anyway, was additional padding. The trend of fat lazy babies sitting in front of the T.V. had obviously begun by that time and Luvs was there to capture the obese glutinous baby market with their heavily padded husky diapers.But apparently, it was not until the year 2010, a full 34 years later (in my case, almost a lifetime) that they got around to blowout protection as a priority.
I can see where some innovations happen over a period of time. Like having specific fitted diapers for boys' and girls' to account for anatomical differences. Some years back one of the brands came out with resealable tabs, presumably to check the load and see if it needed attendance immediately or if you could stay to the end of the movie without destroying the diaper or the closure tab. These are good innovations, but all the while, I'm thinking chief among the core values of a product like this would be blowout prptection.
Luvs introducing and proudly marketing this as a feature is tantamount to Goodyear marketing their tires as "Goodyear tires keep your wheels from sparking while you drive down the road." No shit!
What could possibly be more important than blowout prevention on a diaper for god's sake? Leak guard is nice to have, but since you are basically telling me that all these years I have been lucky not to be on the receiving end of a shit storm from the infant or toddler in the shopping cart in front of me, a little pee isn't so concerning to me now! Hell, who doesn't get a little dribble every other time they have a pee anyway? I am saying the leak guard thing could have been put on the back burner, especially in light of the fact it took 34 years to solve the blowout thing!
I think Luvs has inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and has as much as admitted to the shocking lack of readiness of our nation's diapers. Each day that has gone by has been a miracle that some sort of massive broad based systemic failure of baby diapers hasn't left our homes and places of business knee deep in reprocessed pureed peaches, or that a coordinated attack from extremist terror groups hasn't taken place that would spread shit all over the country, all at once.
This all brings to the fore something that is a much larger concern, something that nobody seems to want to talk about. As usual, I will have to be the one to say it. Babies are gross! Everything about a baby, a toddler or pretty much every human until they learn how to wash their hands without being prompted is disgusting. Based on my armchair observations that is a large percentage of the population! I've seen things, man! Bad things!
I have seen kids drag a piece of cheese all across the floor and eat it, or rather gum it to death. And I have seen same said babies give the gummy melted gooey legionnaire's infected cheese to their parent who smiles and says "thank you" and eats it! Oh. My. God! What is wrong with you people?
I watched a father, my age or younger, pick up his baby's pacifier off the floor at a commercial shopping center, put it in his mouth to "wash it off" and give it back to the baby! What the hell? First off, there is nothing in your mouth that is any better than what was on that floor and you just put that thing back in your baby's mouth. Second of all, that thing was on the floor, in a commercial place, where hundreds of people have tread since it was last sanitized- and you put it in your mouth. Last, (and most important) before it hit the floor that thing was in your baby's mouth, dude! Gross!
Babies are like this century's equivalent of the pox infected blankets we gave to the native Americans who where just being nice in accepting them as presents. They didn't need any ugly knitted blankets that smelled like wrinkled old white woman, they had animal skins. They were just being polite in the same way that I should be when someone offers me their baby to hold.
But I won't do it! No! History unheeded is history repeated and I am not taking that little germ machine from you! You keep it! I don't care how much powder and how many baby wipes you use, that thing is a stinky cesspool of disease and death! You don't see it because you love your baby, but I can see the malevolence in his eyes when he is trying to shove a half-gummed slobber covered piece of floor cheese in my mouth.
"Oh, isn't that nice, he wants to share with you!" Yeah, but what does he want to share, Hoof and Mouth disease? Keep it! Uncle Bill can afford his own cheese! I don't want it. I can see the look in your eye you little devil child. I know what you are trying to do and I am out of here! I'm not entirely sure your diaper has blowout protection.
This prompted me to do a little research. The disposable diaper was created by a woman named Marion Donovan. She holds twenty patents, the disposable diaper being the one we would know her for today. It was only through dogged determination and grit that her invention ever became produced at all. Incredibly, the idea was turned down by every major manufacturer of the day and it wasn't until 1961- ten whole years after she had patented the idea that someone took an interest.
That someone was Victor Mills who was a well known product developer with with Proctor and Gamble and was the one to market the new disposable product as "Pampers." Mr. Mills was nobody's fool. He was an excellent marketer and had a prescient hand on the pulse of Americans' wants and needs. He is credited with shepherding into being such well-known household products as Ivory soap, Duncan Hine's cake mix and, from my perspective the most important of all these, Pringles potato chips.
Pringles are of a singular genius because they are synthesized (which is to say mixed and molded and baked) from potato flakes that are essentially waste product from the manufacturing process of other potato products in much of the same way Medium Density Fiber Board (MDF) and Oriented Strand Board (OSB) are made from cast off shavings of wood mixed with resin. The man literally created a salable product (a delicious one at that) out of waste. It's a good thing he retired before Soylent Green hit the theaters. That may have given him too many ideas.
But that is way far off the topic. Sorry to go all Modern Marvels on you, but we owe a lot to the "Clark Griswold's" of the world and they seldom achieve the notoriety they deserve. At least all eight of you will know the rest of the story.
Back to the blowout protection. Mrs. Donovan thought the reason why disposable diapers were such a worthy invention was they were a huge time saver for the American family (the mom), they were hygienic (used once and done), safer (no safety pins), and a damn might bit more likely to be operated properly by a man the once or twice a year it became necessary for a man take part in the messy parts of child rearing (that weekend the wife had the flu).
And she was right. But I am certain that Luvs is making a big mistake with this ad campaign as, from a layman's perspective, blowout protection ought to have been first and foremost on their mind way when they were developing their product! What else could possibly have been of higher importance on the punch list during the development meetings?
Back to the research. Luvs, the brand, was introduced in 1976 and was developed in part by an astronaut Kenneth Buell. Since babies are not equipped to give a whole lot of feedback on these types of things, vis a vis market research and the effectiveness of design, who better than an adult who in his profession had occasion to wear and use diapers (in space, I'm sure- I am not assailing Captain Buell's continence)?
So, the big difference with Luvs when they came out, from a marketing perspective anyway, was additional padding. The trend of fat lazy babies sitting in front of the T.V. had obviously begun by that time and Luvs was there to capture the obese glutinous baby market with their heavily padded husky diapers.But apparently, it was not until the year 2010, a full 34 years later (in my case, almost a lifetime) that they got around to blowout protection as a priority.
I can see where some innovations happen over a period of time. Like having specific fitted diapers for boys' and girls' to account for anatomical differences. Some years back one of the brands came out with resealable tabs, presumably to check the load and see if it needed attendance immediately or if you could stay to the end of the movie without destroying the diaper or the closure tab. These are good innovations, but all the while, I'm thinking chief among the core values of a product like this would be blowout prptection.
Luvs introducing and proudly marketing this as a feature is tantamount to Goodyear marketing their tires as "Goodyear tires keep your wheels from sparking while you drive down the road." No shit!
What could possibly be more important than blowout prevention on a diaper for god's sake? Leak guard is nice to have, but since you are basically telling me that all these years I have been lucky not to be on the receiving end of a shit storm from the infant or toddler in the shopping cart in front of me, a little pee isn't so concerning to me now! Hell, who doesn't get a little dribble every other time they have a pee anyway? I am saying the leak guard thing could have been put on the back burner, especially in light of the fact it took 34 years to solve the blowout thing!
I think Luvs has inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and has as much as admitted to the shocking lack of readiness of our nation's diapers. Each day that has gone by has been a miracle that some sort of massive broad based systemic failure of baby diapers hasn't left our homes and places of business knee deep in reprocessed pureed peaches, or that a coordinated attack from extremist terror groups hasn't taken place that would spread shit all over the country, all at once.
This all brings to the fore something that is a much larger concern, something that nobody seems to want to talk about. As usual, I will have to be the one to say it. Babies are gross! Everything about a baby, a toddler or pretty much every human until they learn how to wash their hands without being prompted is disgusting. Based on my armchair observations that is a large percentage of the population! I've seen things, man! Bad things!
I have seen kids drag a piece of cheese all across the floor and eat it, or rather gum it to death. And I have seen same said babies give the gummy melted gooey legionnaire's infected cheese to their parent who smiles and says "thank you" and eats it! Oh. My. God! What is wrong with you people?
I watched a father, my age or younger, pick up his baby's pacifier off the floor at a commercial shopping center, put it in his mouth to "wash it off" and give it back to the baby! What the hell? First off, there is nothing in your mouth that is any better than what was on that floor and you just put that thing back in your baby's mouth. Second of all, that thing was on the floor, in a commercial place, where hundreds of people have tread since it was last sanitized- and you put it in your mouth. Last, (and most important) before it hit the floor that thing was in your baby's mouth, dude! Gross!
Babies are like this century's equivalent of the pox infected blankets we gave to the native Americans who where just being nice in accepting them as presents. They didn't need any ugly knitted blankets that smelled like wrinkled old white woman, they had animal skins. They were just being polite in the same way that I should be when someone offers me their baby to hold.
But I won't do it! No! History unheeded is history repeated and I am not taking that little germ machine from you! You keep it! I don't care how much powder and how many baby wipes you use, that thing is a stinky cesspool of disease and death! You don't see it because you love your baby, but I can see the malevolence in his eyes when he is trying to shove a half-gummed slobber covered piece of floor cheese in my mouth.
"Oh, isn't that nice, he wants to share with you!" Yeah, but what does he want to share, Hoof and Mouth disease? Keep it! Uncle Bill can afford his own cheese! I don't want it. I can see the look in your eye you little devil child. I know what you are trying to do and I am out of here! I'm not entirely sure your diaper has blowout protection.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
My Bloody Velentine
It never works out for us, this thing called Valentine's Day. Something always happens that leaves us scratching our heads and wondering why these things always happen and why they always happen to us. This year dawns with me being unemployed. Yippee! Lots to celebrate there. We went for a walk in the morning and Emily's schmootzy cold began to get worse. She was dispirited.
We got home, and after I made breakfast I completed the homework I had from my job interview last week and sent that on. Then, I began looking for other jobs. I found a couple I wanted to apply for and that's when things really went off the tracks.
I have a thumb drive that has virtually my entire life on it. It is usually a backup, but right now, it is the only medium upon which I have my important files (like my resume). Well, I couldn't find it. The search began. Up the stairs, down the stairs, under the bed, in my desk, in pockets of clothes I wore since the last time I had seen it. Furniture was moved, flashlights used to peer into deep dark corners.
Somewhere in the midst of all this searching I came to realize the thing I am looking for is virtually indistinguishable from the little gray cat toys in the shape of mice we have to entertain and astonish the cats. You know, the ones they incessantly bat around the house and manage to punt into the darnedest places, like the cold air return vents and same said deep dark corners. I surmised I had laid the thing on the side table and it got batted into the HVAC system, or under some furniture, or into the dread trash can.
There is nothing that says romantic so much as digging through many days old trash. One must act gingerly, slowly, carefully, so as to be thorough and not get dumpster funk all over them. It is a delicate and unpleasant operation, like changing the diaper on a parent (I imagine).
I did not find it.
Em was in on the search now in between rapid-fire calls from her boss. I was keeping her from her lunch and her cold was continuing to ratchet up in its quest for total domination of her body. Halfway through Valentine's Day I am up to my arms in trash searching for my "life", the house is torn apart, my wife is sick. No need to guess whether this night will end with a bang or a whimper (pun very much intended).
After remembering I wore a different pair of jeans than I previously remembered the other day, I found the thumb drive in the pocket and set about putting the house back in order. Thanks again to my great friend, Saint Anthony, who has never let me down, yet.
"Life" in hand, I applied for the couple jobs without a whole lot of hope that I would ever hear anything back. And went on with the afternoon.
Em was going to make a special dinner, but on account of her not feeling well, let alone not being able taste anything, she decided to make a somewhat less special one. I thought it was pretty special, as I marvel every day that anyone would ever make me dinner, let alone live with me, let alone alone be married to me. So on the scale of special, that's pretty much every day.
I had a couple of martinis, which is always good for the outlook and we enjoyed dinner. We were to exchange gifts after dinner, so while it was being prepared, I went to my dresser where I had hidden the gift with designs of wrapping it. It was the first time I had looked at the gift, having intercepted the box it came in and spirited it away on the quick in an attempt to keep it somewhat of a secret as the address label would have given it away completely.
I did not immediately find things as they should be. All I could find was the "free gift with purchase" portion of what I had ordered. My sister-in-law, from whom I ordered the Pandora charms (she is a regional manager for a retailer who deals in preciously expensive baubles which no one, anywhere, ever needs- in other words, perfect Valentine's Day presents) was called in on the case and was sweet and patient as she described what I should be looking for.
Eureka! Crisis averted, I found the small satchel that included the three charms and I put the whole works in a gift bag and clumsily stuffed some tissue paper over the top of it. How anyone makes these things look good I don't know. They always look like a hastily constructed project of a second grader when I do it.
Dinner was lovely, we exchanged gifts and retired to the front of the T.V., whereupon my martinis began sitting on my eyelids. Bed at Ten with a simple, drowsy smooch. Just the way the fates intended it to be.
Last year, I was sick, the year before we were accosted by a belligerent homeless man on the way to dinner, and I don't remember the year before that as I am not even sure we were together (in the sense of being in the same physical space). It just never seems to work out for us on Valentine's day. I think it has to do with expectations. We desperately want things to go well and be special, but instead of striving for that every day, we try to cram it into a day where everyone else in the country is trying to do the same. Costs for chocolate and flowers shoot up, reservations are impossible to get, Hallmark stores resemble Ellis Island or Night of the Living Dead with men careening around the racks wondering just what the best card will be. It really is a lesson in setting yourself up for failure.
If yesterday were any other day than Valentine's day, it would have passed as unremarkable as any other day, but in the context of the expectations of the day, it was a disaster.
This week, I have a second interview so that looks good. I also have some time to relax a little before working on scraping paint and doing taxes. Somewhere in there, I am sure Em will feel better and will make that special meal which I am sure will be lovely, like all the meals she makes. I will have to make sure that these days, and their finest points, don't go unnoticed or unappreciated, title be damned.
We got home, and after I made breakfast I completed the homework I had from my job interview last week and sent that on. Then, I began looking for other jobs. I found a couple I wanted to apply for and that's when things really went off the tracks.
I have a thumb drive that has virtually my entire life on it. It is usually a backup, but right now, it is the only medium upon which I have my important files (like my resume). Well, I couldn't find it. The search began. Up the stairs, down the stairs, under the bed, in my desk, in pockets of clothes I wore since the last time I had seen it. Furniture was moved, flashlights used to peer into deep dark corners.
Somewhere in the midst of all this searching I came to realize the thing I am looking for is virtually indistinguishable from the little gray cat toys in the shape of mice we have to entertain and astonish the cats. You know, the ones they incessantly bat around the house and manage to punt into the darnedest places, like the cold air return vents and same said deep dark corners. I surmised I had laid the thing on the side table and it got batted into the HVAC system, or under some furniture, or into the dread trash can.
There is nothing that says romantic so much as digging through many days old trash. One must act gingerly, slowly, carefully, so as to be thorough and not get dumpster funk all over them. It is a delicate and unpleasant operation, like changing the diaper on a parent (I imagine).
I did not find it.
Em was in on the search now in between rapid-fire calls from her boss. I was keeping her from her lunch and her cold was continuing to ratchet up in its quest for total domination of her body. Halfway through Valentine's Day I am up to my arms in trash searching for my "life", the house is torn apart, my wife is sick. No need to guess whether this night will end with a bang or a whimper (pun very much intended).
After remembering I wore a different pair of jeans than I previously remembered the other day, I found the thumb drive in the pocket and set about putting the house back in order. Thanks again to my great friend, Saint Anthony, who has never let me down, yet.
"Life" in hand, I applied for the couple jobs without a whole lot of hope that I would ever hear anything back. And went on with the afternoon.
Em was going to make a special dinner, but on account of her not feeling well, let alone not being able taste anything, she decided to make a somewhat less special one. I thought it was pretty special, as I marvel every day that anyone would ever make me dinner, let alone live with me, let alone alone be married to me. So on the scale of special, that's pretty much every day.
I had a couple of martinis, which is always good for the outlook and we enjoyed dinner. We were to exchange gifts after dinner, so while it was being prepared, I went to my dresser where I had hidden the gift with designs of wrapping it. It was the first time I had looked at the gift, having intercepted the box it came in and spirited it away on the quick in an attempt to keep it somewhat of a secret as the address label would have given it away completely.
I did not immediately find things as they should be. All I could find was the "free gift with purchase" portion of what I had ordered. My sister-in-law, from whom I ordered the Pandora charms (she is a regional manager for a retailer who deals in preciously expensive baubles which no one, anywhere, ever needs- in other words, perfect Valentine's Day presents) was called in on the case and was sweet and patient as she described what I should be looking for.
Eureka! Crisis averted, I found the small satchel that included the three charms and I put the whole works in a gift bag and clumsily stuffed some tissue paper over the top of it. How anyone makes these things look good I don't know. They always look like a hastily constructed project of a second grader when I do it.
Dinner was lovely, we exchanged gifts and retired to the front of the T.V., whereupon my martinis began sitting on my eyelids. Bed at Ten with a simple, drowsy smooch. Just the way the fates intended it to be.
Last year, I was sick, the year before we were accosted by a belligerent homeless man on the way to dinner, and I don't remember the year before that as I am not even sure we were together (in the sense of being in the same physical space). It just never seems to work out for us on Valentine's day. I think it has to do with expectations. We desperately want things to go well and be special, but instead of striving for that every day, we try to cram it into a day where everyone else in the country is trying to do the same. Costs for chocolate and flowers shoot up, reservations are impossible to get, Hallmark stores resemble Ellis Island or Night of the Living Dead with men careening around the racks wondering just what the best card will be. It really is a lesson in setting yourself up for failure.
If yesterday were any other day than Valentine's day, it would have passed as unremarkable as any other day, but in the context of the expectations of the day, it was a disaster.
This week, I have a second interview so that looks good. I also have some time to relax a little before working on scraping paint and doing taxes. Somewhere in there, I am sure Em will feel better and will make that special meal which I am sure will be lovely, like all the meals she makes. I will have to make sure that these days, and their finest points, don't go unnoticed or unappreciated, title be damned.
Monday, February 14, 2011
On Valentine's Day
I just wanted to take a moment and declare my love for something very important to me... gin. Thank you, gin for all your piny juniper goodness. Thank you for being so good in a martini glass with an olive or five. Thank you for slowing my mind and helping me understand that things are gonna be okay. In fact they've always been okay, and they always will be.
Sure, I love bourbon. But you can't bring bourbon home to your mom, now can you? With her smoky deep voice and her amber tones. Oh no, bourbon has been around the block a few too many times. Scotch and I have gone on a few dates over the years, but her attitude makes it so that I have to be in a specific mood to enjoy her charms.
Vodka? Don't even get me started. That slut goes with everything. One second she's with cranberry juice and the next second she's getting gang banged in a Long Island. Which one is it you lusty strumpet? No- vodka is like a woman in stilettos on a Vegas street corner with bright red lips and lashes as long as the ultra-thin cigarette she is seductively sucking. Sure, you're gonna have fun, but you're gonna have to pay, not to mention the immediate need to get to the free clinic.
We can't even mention beer, that farting, belching queen of the trailer park. After a night with her, you will only feel pain and regret. surely, beer, tattooed and acerbic cannot hold a candle to you my sweet gin.
Dear gin, my sweet girl next store. The simple sun dress only hinting at your sultry shape and the warmth of your innocent laughter. You pull me in with your come hither stare and make me work to enjoy your charms. It doesn't even matter that you have a chaperone (that pesky vermouth), I just want to be with you.
Oh, gin! Thank you for your simple elegant beauty. And by the way, you look smoking hot in that martini glass hugging on those olives, just a little hot, just a little dirty, just right. Thank you, gin for being my date tonight.
XXXOOO
P.S. From Poet Ogden Nash
There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
Ogden Nash
Sure, I love bourbon. But you can't bring bourbon home to your mom, now can you? With her smoky deep voice and her amber tones. Oh no, bourbon has been around the block a few too many times. Scotch and I have gone on a few dates over the years, but her attitude makes it so that I have to be in a specific mood to enjoy her charms.
Vodka? Don't even get me started. That slut goes with everything. One second she's with cranberry juice and the next second she's getting gang banged in a Long Island. Which one is it you lusty strumpet? No- vodka is like a woman in stilettos on a Vegas street corner with bright red lips and lashes as long as the ultra-thin cigarette she is seductively sucking. Sure, you're gonna have fun, but you're gonna have to pay, not to mention the immediate need to get to the free clinic.
We can't even mention beer, that farting, belching queen of the trailer park. After a night with her, you will only feel pain and regret. surely, beer, tattooed and acerbic cannot hold a candle to you my sweet gin.
Dear gin, my sweet girl next store. The simple sun dress only hinting at your sultry shape and the warmth of your innocent laughter. You pull me in with your come hither stare and make me work to enjoy your charms. It doesn't even matter that you have a chaperone (that pesky vermouth), I just want to be with you.
Oh, gin! Thank you for your simple elegant beauty. And by the way, you look smoking hot in that martini glass hugging on those olives, just a little hot, just a little dirty, just right. Thank you, gin for being my date tonight.
XXXOOO
P.S. From Poet Ogden Nash
There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
Ogden Nash
My Favorite Authors
Aha Moments
I am presently reading on the origins of modern American English called "Made in America" by Bill Bryson and I am learning all sorts of things I didn't know before. Much more of our language than I ever knew is derived from the native American words the colonists bastardized. We are lead to believe that white settlers came in and after Thanksgiving basically wreaked havoc on the natives killing or moving them off immediately, (after all, what else was there to do before NFL playoff season?), which is not at all true. First we befriended them, stole their culture and language and skill and technique, assimilated the ones who could be assimilated and then we wreaked havoc.
Among the many words common to the colonists upon arrival to the shores of the new world that did not make it into the lexicon of today are:
Fribble, bossloper, bantling, sooterkin and my personal favorite, slobberchops. These would seem to denote in respective order, a frivolous person, a hermit, an infant, a lover and a messy eater. All of the original words are poetic beyond measure and I for one am hereby lobbying for their immediate re-inclusion into the common vernacular! Especially slobberchops! "Slow down there, slobberchops, that's the good tarp your eating over!"
Mr. Bryson has now taught me more about this subject and so many more than any of my college professors and has done so while making me laugh hysterically. He has the ability to put things into perspective that helps you comprehend what you are actually reading so that a full appreciation may be gained. If he is reading this, (you never know, it could be a slow day or maybe he Googles himself each morning), I want to be like you. Or exactly you. Anyway, thanks for the good reads. You are at the top of my favorite authors list.
Mr. Egan, I Presume
Similarly, Peter Egan is very much near the top. I have been reading his Side Glances column in "Road and Track" magazine since being an impressionable boy of 14 way back in the year 1989. I still own my original Road and Track magazine, thoroughly well worn, missing pages and replete with thumb smears on others.
Mr. Egan is a married man with no children who after a stint away from his boyhood home in the wilds of California, moved back to a farm in Wisconsin. He has a large workshop wherein is now or has been the greatest collection of automobilia, ever. I won't bore you with the details, but Egan's life of traveling to exotic foreign lands to cover wonderful and often untouchable cars and then coming home to his own projects and restorations is pretty much my dream.
Egan's road trip articles get past the pro forma normalcy and get right to the emotion of the event. Among his best is his two-piece article retracing of Hank Williams last road trip- in a very similar black Cadillac- as he was slowly drinking himself into hell. Poignant, funny, achingly beautiful and appealing not only to the music lover, but also the inveterate road tripper within me.
This is a guy who in the same issue of a magazine tells the story of his most recent automotive resurrection and has a story of eating dinner in France sitting between the amazing Paul Frere and Juan Manuel Fangio, (perhaps the greatest racer of all time), and wondering just how he got there all the while marveling that Mssrs. Frere and Fangio were each carrying on multiple conversations fluently in multiple languages all at the same time. Priceless.
Egan, like Bryson is an inspiration to me. Two people who take very seriously the work of having fun and doing what they love. Surely their lives cannot be perfect but from the outside, they sure look enticing.
I thank these two men for all they have given me and I hope, even if just a little, I can emulate them in my own words.
I am presently reading on the origins of modern American English called "Made in America" by Bill Bryson and I am learning all sorts of things I didn't know before. Much more of our language than I ever knew is derived from the native American words the colonists bastardized. We are lead to believe that white settlers came in and after Thanksgiving basically wreaked havoc on the natives killing or moving them off immediately, (after all, what else was there to do before NFL playoff season?), which is not at all true. First we befriended them, stole their culture and language and skill and technique, assimilated the ones who could be assimilated and then we wreaked havoc.
Among the many words common to the colonists upon arrival to the shores of the new world that did not make it into the lexicon of today are:
Fribble, bossloper, bantling, sooterkin and my personal favorite, slobberchops. These would seem to denote in respective order, a frivolous person, a hermit, an infant, a lover and a messy eater. All of the original words are poetic beyond measure and I for one am hereby lobbying for their immediate re-inclusion into the common vernacular! Especially slobberchops! "Slow down there, slobberchops, that's the good tarp your eating over!"
Mr. Bryson has now taught me more about this subject and so many more than any of my college professors and has done so while making me laugh hysterically. He has the ability to put things into perspective that helps you comprehend what you are actually reading so that a full appreciation may be gained. If he is reading this, (you never know, it could be a slow day or maybe he Googles himself each morning), I want to be like you. Or exactly you. Anyway, thanks for the good reads. You are at the top of my favorite authors list.
Mr. Egan, I Presume
Similarly, Peter Egan is very much near the top. I have been reading his Side Glances column in "Road and Track" magazine since being an impressionable boy of 14 way back in the year 1989. I still own my original Road and Track magazine, thoroughly well worn, missing pages and replete with thumb smears on others.
Mr. Egan is a married man with no children who after a stint away from his boyhood home in the wilds of California, moved back to a farm in Wisconsin. He has a large workshop wherein is now or has been the greatest collection of automobilia, ever. I won't bore you with the details, but Egan's life of traveling to exotic foreign lands to cover wonderful and often untouchable cars and then coming home to his own projects and restorations is pretty much my dream.
Egan's road trip articles get past the pro forma normalcy and get right to the emotion of the event. Among his best is his two-piece article retracing of Hank Williams last road trip- in a very similar black Cadillac- as he was slowly drinking himself into hell. Poignant, funny, achingly beautiful and appealing not only to the music lover, but also the inveterate road tripper within me.
This is a guy who in the same issue of a magazine tells the story of his most recent automotive resurrection and has a story of eating dinner in France sitting between the amazing Paul Frere and Juan Manuel Fangio, (perhaps the greatest racer of all time), and wondering just how he got there all the while marveling that Mssrs. Frere and Fangio were each carrying on multiple conversations fluently in multiple languages all at the same time. Priceless.
Egan, like Bryson is an inspiration to me. Two people who take very seriously the work of having fun and doing what they love. Surely their lives cannot be perfect but from the outside, they sure look enticing.
I thank these two men for all they have given me and I hope, even if just a little, I can emulate them in my own words.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Xenophobia
It's highly unlikely that I know anyone at all, given my intense dislike for the process of meeting new people. I have a simple dinner to go to with friends and we are meeting them and some other people (presumably friends of theirs) and I am not excited. That's to say I am terrified. I don't know why I get into such a lather about these things as I nearly always have a wonderful time and the people I meet I am glad to have met. The mental preparation, though, is a bitch.
Some would call it social anxiety disorder, some would say shyness and most would say they can't believe I am either one. It is simple xenophobia, or fear of the new. I am after all, charming and ebullient. I tell a great anecdote. I am intelligent enough to carry on several lines of conversation at once. I do not lack confidence in my ability to make a good impression or to be likable.
I also do truly end up liking most of the people I meet. It is rare I walk away from a new acquaintance saying to myself, "Let's hope we never have to do that again, shall we?"
What I don't like, what I have never especially liked, is change. New things bother me. I get into a happy little rut, an encampment, an entrenchment. After all the work that goes into burrowing, why make an effort to get out of it? Is not your most comfortable pair of shoes the one you have done many miles in? Do you change where you sit in your living room while watching T.V. or reading? Of course not, because you have forged that ass groove in your seat, made the cushions yield to your shape, created a rut that is custom sized around your complex curves. That is the very nature and definition of comfort.
Meeting new people forces me to offer up my chair to someone new. To sit in a different place and look upon the world with a new perspective. That perspective may challenge the old perspective and lead to more change. It is a vicious cycle!
There comes a point in time in nearly every life when you sit down, or dig in like a defiant jackass and become immobile. It is at this point when the rest of the world zooms right by and you fade off into irrelevance, or you bray and kick at the changes you see around you. I noticed five years ago I didn't recognize anyone on the cover of any of the popular magazines on the newsstand at my bookstore. I don't own an iPod (though I'd like to, but I have managed to go without, so I am not in a rush), and iPad (ibid), or even a blue ray player (which oddly uses a red laser ray to read the blue ray disc, but I digress).
I am not the only one subject to this xenophobia. I recommended to Emily that we transfer all our financial information to a program like Quicken, because in the virtual computer world, I am a rock star of organization and productivity, but if you hand me a piece of paper, a pencil, a calculator and the checkbook, I will rock in the corner crying like a little girl who just found out My Little Pony was shot dead by Rainbow Bright in a drive-by at the corner of Candy Land Street and Cabbage Patch Avenue. See? Even my toy references are dated. My suggestion was met with not a little enmity. There was much questioning as to whether I thought she was doing a poor job keeping the books, and why I wanted to take an interest all of a sudden (which I had long ago divested) in the family finances.
Change is hard. It is hard to swallow, hard to accept, and after you fight so hard against it it is hard to admit that it wasn't so bad after all. Like a tetanus shot, or a Diet Coke. Each new person you meet has the potential to come into your sphere and pop that protective bubble and leave you exposed to the outside air where you are vulnerable to terrible things like learning something, or appreciating something that you did not notice before.
This is very dangerous. What if you learn what you thought previously was gospel truth was wrong? What if you thought you were a republican, but you met someone and now you are distributing communist leaflets? These things happen, people! You must believe me!
So I say to all you whom I know to be sanitary and appropriately fitting for my life, I am glad you are here. As for the rest of you, I'm sorry, we aren't accepting any reservations at this time. If you want to hang around a little bit on the fringe and see if something opens up, you may feel free to do so, but I must warn you, we are very, very busy.
Some would call it social anxiety disorder, some would say shyness and most would say they can't believe I am either one. It is simple xenophobia, or fear of the new. I am after all, charming and ebullient. I tell a great anecdote. I am intelligent enough to carry on several lines of conversation at once. I do not lack confidence in my ability to make a good impression or to be likable.
I also do truly end up liking most of the people I meet. It is rare I walk away from a new acquaintance saying to myself, "Let's hope we never have to do that again, shall we?"
What I don't like, what I have never especially liked, is change. New things bother me. I get into a happy little rut, an encampment, an entrenchment. After all the work that goes into burrowing, why make an effort to get out of it? Is not your most comfortable pair of shoes the one you have done many miles in? Do you change where you sit in your living room while watching T.V. or reading? Of course not, because you have forged that ass groove in your seat, made the cushions yield to your shape, created a rut that is custom sized around your complex curves. That is the very nature and definition of comfort.
Meeting new people forces me to offer up my chair to someone new. To sit in a different place and look upon the world with a new perspective. That perspective may challenge the old perspective and lead to more change. It is a vicious cycle!
There comes a point in time in nearly every life when you sit down, or dig in like a defiant jackass and become immobile. It is at this point when the rest of the world zooms right by and you fade off into irrelevance, or you bray and kick at the changes you see around you. I noticed five years ago I didn't recognize anyone on the cover of any of the popular magazines on the newsstand at my bookstore. I don't own an iPod (though I'd like to, but I have managed to go without, so I am not in a rush), and iPad (ibid), or even a blue ray player (which oddly uses a red laser ray to read the blue ray disc, but I digress).
I am not the only one subject to this xenophobia. I recommended to Emily that we transfer all our financial information to a program like Quicken, because in the virtual computer world, I am a rock star of organization and productivity, but if you hand me a piece of paper, a pencil, a calculator and the checkbook, I will rock in the corner crying like a little girl who just found out My Little Pony was shot dead by Rainbow Bright in a drive-by at the corner of Candy Land Street and Cabbage Patch Avenue. See? Even my toy references are dated. My suggestion was met with not a little enmity. There was much questioning as to whether I thought she was doing a poor job keeping the books, and why I wanted to take an interest all of a sudden (which I had long ago divested) in the family finances.
Change is hard. It is hard to swallow, hard to accept, and after you fight so hard against it it is hard to admit that it wasn't so bad after all. Like a tetanus shot, or a Diet Coke. Each new person you meet has the potential to come into your sphere and pop that protective bubble and leave you exposed to the outside air where you are vulnerable to terrible things like learning something, or appreciating something that you did not notice before.
This is very dangerous. What if you learn what you thought previously was gospel truth was wrong? What if you thought you were a republican, but you met someone and now you are distributing communist leaflets? These things happen, people! You must believe me!
So I say to all you whom I know to be sanitary and appropriately fitting for my life, I am glad you are here. As for the rest of you, I'm sorry, we aren't accepting any reservations at this time. If you want to hang around a little bit on the fringe and see if something opens up, you may feel free to do so, but I must warn you, we are very, very busy.
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