Recently I've noticed something going on with several pairs of my pants: The right leg knee area is getting worn much faster than the left. Lily pointed it out on my favorite pair of black pants. The area has a worn gray circle right below where my knee is. No such gray circle on the left. And then I noticed the same thing on a pair of what I like to call "leisure pants" that I wear around the house. Call them sweats if you want, but they're more styley than that. Anyway, the leisure pants have a hole in the right knee area where the black "non-leisure" pants are gray.
I finally figured out what was causing the extra wear: Every time I bend down to the boy's level to do whatever - help brush his teeth, put on his sunscreen, etc - I'm kneeling on that right knee. Now I'm trying my best to kneel on the left, but old habits die hard, so I figured it's time to buy a new pair of pants.
Lately I've been into buying proper trousers rather than going with jeans all the time. I especially like the "old man" style that's become more readily available through skater-wear shops like Volcom. The "old man" thing helps because I'm fitting that description more and more these days, plus when I get really old it won't look like I made some major wardrobe switch. But seeing's how my one and only pair of jeans sports a threadbare look in the ass section (not that the ladies probably mind that too much), I thought I'd try to replenish the jean supply. That supply being one pair.
So off to H&M I went and by the luck of the gods I was able to find a nice pair that looks sorta modern and actually fits. And when I arrived home, I found a box delivered on my doorstep with to: my name and from: the name of my best friend from high school. I opened the box and there was a card that said "Here are the new jeans I told you about at the reunion. Hope they fit!" I don't remember having any such conversation, but I also drank a reunion's worth of beers there, so there ya go. Lily demanded I try them on immediately, and they fit perfectly! Two pairs of jeans in one day. My right knee will never be the same again.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Blind
I pride myself on being prepared. Prepared for the weather, prepared for when the baby's diaper blows out the side. Prepared for any foreseeable event when I travel. I have lists on the computer that remind me what to bring to be prepared, and I have post-it notes on the nightstand to remind me of things that didn't make it to the computer. When I travel I have almost no need for a flashlight, but I'll be damned if I'm leaving it at home. But in the event that I do leave it at home, that will be the one time the rental car breaks down in the dark in some sketchy area.
And because I pride myself on being prepared, you can imagine my surprise when I reached into my bag after making it through airport security at LAX, and I didn't have my glasses. Not sunglasses, not something I could just pick up at the grocery store, but my eyeglasses. It's not like I'm Mr. Magoo or anything, but no eyeglasses equals headaches, so it's more than a minor annoyance. I briefly considered having them shipped up to me, but then I briefly considered how smashed they'd be when they arrived.
The conclusion was to call my eye doctor's office, have them fax the prescription to me, then go down to the nearest LensCrafters and get the cheapest pair of glasses I could find. I called LensCrafters to make sure they'd be open after work, and I hopped on the bus down to the mall. I looked on the little mall map for LensCrafters and it said it was on level "M". Mezzanine, right. I go up to the Mezzanine level and there's no LensCrafters. I not-so-quickly discover that it's not the Mezzanine level, but the "Metro" level, which they mean as the basement level. Right.
Upon entering LensCrafters, I immediately head for the cheapo glasses. And the cheapo eyeglasses consisted of mainly Bill Lumbergh style glasses. I tried them on and almost laughed myself out of the store, but I opted for some Sarah Palin type glasses. I handed the glasses and my prescription to the nearest LensCrafters employee and we started filling out paperwork and taking eye and face readings for these cheapo glasses.
The employee takes my paperwork and goes to the room where they hammer out the prescription lenses, and comes back 30 seconds later. "The machine is broken. Would you like to come back tomorrow?" I'm about ready to start a riot and start clearing the walls of all the pretty little designer frames, but I tell him "Nah, I'll just go without. Thanks." I figured by the time I came back after work, I'm already halfway through my travels, so why bother paying for some lame frames? And now I've convinced myself of the bright side: At least I wouldn't be losing my glasses on this little trip.
And because I pride myself on being prepared, you can imagine my surprise when I reached into my bag after making it through airport security at LAX, and I didn't have my glasses. Not sunglasses, not something I could just pick up at the grocery store, but my eyeglasses. It's not like I'm Mr. Magoo or anything, but no eyeglasses equals headaches, so it's more than a minor annoyance. I briefly considered having them shipped up to me, but then I briefly considered how smashed they'd be when they arrived.
The conclusion was to call my eye doctor's office, have them fax the prescription to me, then go down to the nearest LensCrafters and get the cheapest pair of glasses I could find. I called LensCrafters to make sure they'd be open after work, and I hopped on the bus down to the mall. I looked on the little mall map for LensCrafters and it said it was on level "M". Mezzanine, right. I go up to the Mezzanine level and there's no LensCrafters. I not-so-quickly discover that it's not the Mezzanine level, but the "Metro" level, which they mean as the basement level. Right.
Upon entering LensCrafters, I immediately head for the cheapo glasses. And the cheapo eyeglasses consisted of mainly Bill Lumbergh style glasses. I tried them on and almost laughed myself out of the store, but I opted for some Sarah Palin type glasses. I handed the glasses and my prescription to the nearest LensCrafters employee and we started filling out paperwork and taking eye and face readings for these cheapo glasses.
The employee takes my paperwork and goes to the room where they hammer out the prescription lenses, and comes back 30 seconds later. "The machine is broken. Would you like to come back tomorrow?" I'm about ready to start a riot and start clearing the walls of all the pretty little designer frames, but I tell him "Nah, I'll just go without. Thanks." I figured by the time I came back after work, I'm already halfway through my travels, so why bother paying for some lame frames? And now I've convinced myself of the bright side: At least I wouldn't be losing my glasses on this little trip.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
The Mob Rules
Being the good consumers that we are, Lily and I finally made a date with destiny and purchased a Costco membership. Really the reason we were there to buy in bulk was the party we were hosting at our house for Judah's birthday. The big 0-3! And 62 people had RSVP'd yes to our Evite, so we knew it was gonna be a rager.
So off to Costo were we to buy party platters, pastries, and paper towels. Among other things. And if you've never walked into a Costco, add it to your list of things to witness in life. It's insane. Huge numbers of people ambling around a huge warehouse with huge shopping carts, big enough for two kids to sit side-by-side in the kid seating part. It was only Thursday and it was so packed that it was hard to imagine what it would be like to go on a weekend when the regular folks aren't working. The place was so buzzing that there was barely enough room to maneuver the cart around without getting into a 20-cart pileup.
The packed atmosphere began to drive us mad after about 10 minutes. It seemed that no matter which way you turned your monstrous cart, there'd be somebody either barreling down the lane, or a cart in the middle of the aisle to go look at 1000 count bottles of Advil. I just wanted to pull over to get out from behind the "wheel", so to speak, and there's someone either staring at the warehouse ceiling standing in the place I want to pull into, or pushing their cart at a snail's pace while gabbing on the cell phone.
And then there's the samples. Costco likes to set up stations throughout the warehouse to cook up some vittles for the hungry shoppers to try out. Experienced Costco shoppers seem to know the drill and about how long things take to cook there, because it seemed that as soon as a dish popped onto a plate, five ravenous shoppers descended on the spot to gobble it up. I tried multiple times to get to the tamales, but I wasn't fast enough. Gotta go back more I guess. Or climb over people's carts like everyone else does.
As we meandered through picking up items for the party, it began to dawn on me how Costco really gets you. It's that EVERYTHING is there. You may go there to buy bulk food, but along the way you see a TV you like and think "yeah, I need one of those too", and you walk by a cross-training/treadmill-type machine and think "I'll pick that one up next time I'm here". You're at Costco, where everything is a little bit cheaper, so how could you go wrong?
We finally managed to get everything we needed for the party, and headed to the checkouts. The good thing is that Costco checkers are way more helpful than the ones at Trader Joe's. Don't get me started again. Costco likes to put your stuff in boxes instead of bags. I guess that's somehow better, but now we've got this influx of cardboard to deal with. The bulk goodies would hardly fit in the back of the wagon. As we left the equally insane parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder "is this the beginning of the end?" It might be, but I'm looking forward to that next grocery run so I can get the treadmill.
So off to Costo were we to buy party platters, pastries, and paper towels. Among other things. And if you've never walked into a Costco, add it to your list of things to witness in life. It's insane. Huge numbers of people ambling around a huge warehouse with huge shopping carts, big enough for two kids to sit side-by-side in the kid seating part. It was only Thursday and it was so packed that it was hard to imagine what it would be like to go on a weekend when the regular folks aren't working. The place was so buzzing that there was barely enough room to maneuver the cart around without getting into a 20-cart pileup.
The packed atmosphere began to drive us mad after about 10 minutes. It seemed that no matter which way you turned your monstrous cart, there'd be somebody either barreling down the lane, or a cart in the middle of the aisle to go look at 1000 count bottles of Advil. I just wanted to pull over to get out from behind the "wheel", so to speak, and there's someone either staring at the warehouse ceiling standing in the place I want to pull into, or pushing their cart at a snail's pace while gabbing on the cell phone.
And then there's the samples. Costco likes to set up stations throughout the warehouse to cook up some vittles for the hungry shoppers to try out. Experienced Costco shoppers seem to know the drill and about how long things take to cook there, because it seemed that as soon as a dish popped onto a plate, five ravenous shoppers descended on the spot to gobble it up. I tried multiple times to get to the tamales, but I wasn't fast enough. Gotta go back more I guess. Or climb over people's carts like everyone else does.
As we meandered through picking up items for the party, it began to dawn on me how Costco really gets you. It's that EVERYTHING is there. You may go there to buy bulk food, but along the way you see a TV you like and think "yeah, I need one of those too", and you walk by a cross-training/treadmill-type machine and think "I'll pick that one up next time I'm here". You're at Costco, where everything is a little bit cheaper, so how could you go wrong?
We finally managed to get everything we needed for the party, and headed to the checkouts. The good thing is that Costco checkers are way more helpful than the ones at Trader Joe's. Don't get me started again. Costco likes to put your stuff in boxes instead of bags. I guess that's somehow better, but now we've got this influx of cardboard to deal with. The bulk goodies would hardly fit in the back of the wagon. As we left the equally insane parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder "is this the beginning of the end?" It might be, but I'm looking forward to that next grocery run so I can get the treadmill.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Baby Come Back
Judah's preschool has asked that all parents pack a cloth napkin into the kids' lunches. Like 3 year olds are using napkins. Actually they use the napkins as a sort of tablecloth/mat area so they don't infringe on each others dining space at the kiddie tables. Still sounds crazy to me, but who am I to argue. And being that I'm packing Judah's lunch every morning, I'm using the only available cloth napkins to be found at our house - Lily's good ones. Lily doesn't like that.
So on my weekly pilgrimage to Target, I decided to buy some cloth napkins to be dedicated solely to Judah's lunchbox. Target didn't have much of a selection. Not much that fits into the "boyish but not branded by Disney/Pixar, Thomas the Train, or Spongebob" category. They had plain colors like green, red, and yellow. I opted for the green ones thinking that they'll hold up the longest over repeated food spillage. They came in packs of four, which works out great for the number of days in the school week. Laundry or dipping into the good napkin stash would be necessary.
Except that when I got home from Target and Lily inspected the new napkins, she noticed that there were only three in the pack. Damn! A return trip to return would be necessary. Which is what we did yesterday. Returning stuff at Target is never a big deal. The people working at the counter could care less why you're returning merchandise, so no need to make up any excuses, just show 'em the receipt and you're good. I had no need for an excuse, only that there were three napkins instead of four. As I stood in line, I contemplated the possibility that they might think I'm lying and I still have the fourth napkin at home. But why the hell would anyone make a return trip to Target and stand in the return line just for one napkin. I felt guilty of theft,nevertheless.
It was my turn to return merchandise, and Brendaisha would be assisting me. "Can I help the next guest?" she said with a blank stare that could only be achieved by burning countless hours of your life listening to return stories at Target in Los Angeles. I wondered why Brendaisha's mom couldn't have stopped at "Brenda". Why the "isha"? I'm sure her friends called her "Brenda" anyway.
"This pack is suppposed to have four and there were only three in there." I told Brendaisha holding my receipt out like it was a passport. Brendaisha (I'll stop with the "isha" from here on out if you can follow along) scanned the napkin package, then the receipt, and she asked if I wanted a refund or exchange. I asked for an exchange. I should have asked for the refund, because it would save me a trip back to Brenda. She told me I didn't have to wait in line next time.
After I walked to the napkin area and selected a pack that had four napkins, I went back to Brenda, who was blankly staring at a bearded man telling her some lengthy story about a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner he wanted to return. She obviously didn't care, but it made me think that the guy had something to hide by telling a story instead of saying "it's broken" and leaving it at that.
The refund line had three ladies waiting, and they didn't look like they'd be too happy to see me jump to the front of the line. They just didn't know about the arrangment Brenda made with me. So I sidled up to the counter and didn't dare look in the ladies direction. I waited for the vacuum man to finish his story.
Another Target refund counter casualty walked over and opened up the register where I waited and told me "sorry, but you're standing at the register". Oh, my bad. I moved away from the register and lady #1 in line got down to business. Finally Brenda was ready and she took my new pack of napkins and the exchange receipt and sent me on my way. Except that we were buying some gift wrap and some gifts for Judah's birthday, so we still had to go through the regular checkout.
And when we were through the checkout, I got a coupon, as all Targets like to give out when you're leaving so you'll come back. But this coupon was for a free Choxie chocolate bar. Like free as in redeemable right now no purchase necessary. All that returning business made me hungry , so I asked the checkout gal about the coupon and she said "oh yeah, go ahead and get it" and she motioned toward the rack of candy right at the checkout.
I had no idea what a Choxie bar was or what one looked like, so I scanned the candy rack and finally found a group of Choxie dark chocolate espresso truffle bars. Two bucks. I grabbed one and handed the bar and my coupon to the checkout gal. She scanned them both and the word "VOID" appeared on the screen. She looked at the coupon and said "oh you have to buy three dollars worth of something to get it". She moved onto the next customer in line. I looked closely at the coupon and it said nothing about buying anything. It did however say "up to a $3 value", which meant that the $2 Choxie bar in my hand would fit the bill.
I went to the 6-item max express line to see if I'd get a different result. The lady in front of me clearly had at least 8 items, but I waited patiently for my turn. The Target employee scanned the Choxie bar and the coupon and the screen said "VOID". The employee turned to the manager standing next to her and said "it's not working". The manager said "punch in the code". The employee again scanned the code. Same result. The manager looked at the coupon and said to the employee "I think he has to buy something." I said "it says free and it's worth a three dollar value and the bar is only two bucks." No sooner did I finish that sentence than the manager held up the "shush" finger (performed by pointing the index finger skyward and moving the arm toward the intended recipient) and told me "we're trying to figure this out". They resorted to some sort of manual override, and I walked out of Target with my free Choxie bar.
On the ride home I ate two squares of the chocolate. Lily asked "was it worth it?" It was and it was delicious. Free is damned tasty.
So on my weekly pilgrimage to Target, I decided to buy some cloth napkins to be dedicated solely to Judah's lunchbox. Target didn't have much of a selection. Not much that fits into the "boyish but not branded by Disney/Pixar, Thomas the Train, or Spongebob" category. They had plain colors like green, red, and yellow. I opted for the green ones thinking that they'll hold up the longest over repeated food spillage. They came in packs of four, which works out great for the number of days in the school week. Laundry or dipping into the good napkin stash would be necessary.
Except that when I got home from Target and Lily inspected the new napkins, she noticed that there were only three in the pack. Damn! A return trip to return would be necessary. Which is what we did yesterday. Returning stuff at Target is never a big deal. The people working at the counter could care less why you're returning merchandise, so no need to make up any excuses, just show 'em the receipt and you're good. I had no need for an excuse, only that there were three napkins instead of four. As I stood in line, I contemplated the possibility that they might think I'm lying and I still have the fourth napkin at home. But why the hell would anyone make a return trip to Target and stand in the return line just for one napkin. I felt guilty of theft,nevertheless.
It was my turn to return merchandise, and Brendaisha would be assisting me. "Can I help the next guest?" she said with a blank stare that could only be achieved by burning countless hours of your life listening to return stories at Target in Los Angeles. I wondered why Brendaisha's mom couldn't have stopped at "Brenda". Why the "isha"? I'm sure her friends called her "Brenda" anyway.
"This pack is suppposed to have four and there were only three in there." I told Brendaisha holding my receipt out like it was a passport. Brendaisha (I'll stop with the "isha" from here on out if you can follow along) scanned the napkin package, then the receipt, and she asked if I wanted a refund or exchange. I asked for an exchange. I should have asked for the refund, because it would save me a trip back to Brenda. She told me I didn't have to wait in line next time.
After I walked to the napkin area and selected a pack that had four napkins, I went back to Brenda, who was blankly staring at a bearded man telling her some lengthy story about a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner he wanted to return. She obviously didn't care, but it made me think that the guy had something to hide by telling a story instead of saying "it's broken" and leaving it at that.
The refund line had three ladies waiting, and they didn't look like they'd be too happy to see me jump to the front of the line. They just didn't know about the arrangment Brenda made with me. So I sidled up to the counter and didn't dare look in the ladies direction. I waited for the vacuum man to finish his story.
Another Target refund counter casualty walked over and opened up the register where I waited and told me "sorry, but you're standing at the register". Oh, my bad. I moved away from the register and lady #1 in line got down to business. Finally Brenda was ready and she took my new pack of napkins and the exchange receipt and sent me on my way. Except that we were buying some gift wrap and some gifts for Judah's birthday, so we still had to go through the regular checkout.
And when we were through the checkout, I got a coupon, as all Targets like to give out when you're leaving so you'll come back. But this coupon was for a free Choxie chocolate bar. Like free as in redeemable right now no purchase necessary. All that returning business made me hungry , so I asked the checkout gal about the coupon and she said "oh yeah, go ahead and get it" and she motioned toward the rack of candy right at the checkout.
I had no idea what a Choxie bar was or what one looked like, so I scanned the candy rack and finally found a group of Choxie dark chocolate espresso truffle bars. Two bucks. I grabbed one and handed the bar and my coupon to the checkout gal. She scanned them both and the word "VOID" appeared on the screen. She looked at the coupon and said "oh you have to buy three dollars worth of something to get it". She moved onto the next customer in line. I looked closely at the coupon and it said nothing about buying anything. It did however say "up to a $3 value", which meant that the $2 Choxie bar in my hand would fit the bill.
I went to the 6-item max express line to see if I'd get a different result. The lady in front of me clearly had at least 8 items, but I waited patiently for my turn. The Target employee scanned the Choxie bar and the coupon and the screen said "VOID". The employee turned to the manager standing next to her and said "it's not working". The manager said "punch in the code". The employee again scanned the code. Same result. The manager looked at the coupon and said to the employee "I think he has to buy something." I said "it says free and it's worth a three dollar value and the bar is only two bucks." No sooner did I finish that sentence than the manager held up the "shush" finger (performed by pointing the index finger skyward and moving the arm toward the intended recipient) and told me "we're trying to figure this out". They resorted to some sort of manual override, and I walked out of Target with my free Choxie bar.
On the ride home I ate two squares of the chocolate. Lily asked "was it worth it?" It was and it was delicious. Free is damned tasty.
Friday, November 28, 2008
That's Amore
Last weekend I went to a friend of Judah's for a playdate. The playdate was for Judah not me, silly. It was a friend of his - named Alida - who attended the same daycare until just recently when they went to different preschools. The family is Italian. Not Italian-American, but actually from Italy until just a few years ago. Their English is very good. But their parents, who live in Italy and were nearing the end of their visit, don't speak English at all.
Judah and his friend played outside for a while, then inside when it got dark. It looked like it was about time to leave until Alida's mom told me she made dinner for Judah. I'm thinking "No dinner for me? Oh, I guess I'm getting fatter and fatter, so nevermind." Alida and Judah ate the most elaborate dinner I've seen for preschoolers as they watched Finding Nemo. Alida's dad and I talked shop. Soon after Judah's dinner was done, I was about to leave again when Alida's mom told me that dinner was ready. For me and the rest of the adults this time. So I guess I'm not getting that fatter after all.
We sat down at the table with the parents (not just the parents of the preschoolers, but the parents of the parents of the preschooler who lives there) and we had a lovely dinner that consisted mainly of conversation spoken in English. There were a few minutes of Italian for the Italian speakers, and I felt compelled to follow the flow of whoever was speaking even though I could barely understand more than a word here or there. Words like "vino" and "pasta".
After dinner I got Judah's shoes on and put on our jackets and started saying goodbye. In my vino dampened mind I decided that it would be clever to try to say "have a good journey" in Italian. Not that I knew how to say that, but I quickly recalled from some Berlitz French lessons somebody saying "Bonne Journée". And I thought, "it must be 'Bon Journo' in Italian, and I went with it. I leaned in to Alida's grandma's cheek to do the Euro double-kiss thing and she smiled and said "Arrivederci!" I said "bongiorno"! Only later that night did I realize I really said "hello". What a dumbass American I am.
Judah and his friend played outside for a while, then inside when it got dark. It looked like it was about time to leave until Alida's mom told me she made dinner for Judah. I'm thinking "No dinner for me? Oh, I guess I'm getting fatter and fatter, so nevermind." Alida and Judah ate the most elaborate dinner I've seen for preschoolers as they watched Finding Nemo. Alida's dad and I talked shop. Soon after Judah's dinner was done, I was about to leave again when Alida's mom told me that dinner was ready. For me and the rest of the adults this time. So I guess I'm not getting that fatter after all.
We sat down at the table with the parents (not just the parents of the preschoolers, but the parents of the parents of the preschooler who lives there) and we had a lovely dinner that consisted mainly of conversation spoken in English. There were a few minutes of Italian for the Italian speakers, and I felt compelled to follow the flow of whoever was speaking even though I could barely understand more than a word here or there. Words like "vino" and "pasta".
After dinner I got Judah's shoes on and put on our jackets and started saying goodbye. In my vino dampened mind I decided that it would be clever to try to say "have a good journey" in Italian. Not that I knew how to say that, but I quickly recalled from some Berlitz French lessons somebody saying "Bonne Journée". And I thought, "it must be 'Bon Journo' in Italian, and I went with it. I leaned in to Alida's grandma's cheek to do the Euro double-kiss thing and she smiled and said "Arrivederci!" I said "bongiorno"! Only later that night did I realize I really said "hello". What a dumbass American I am.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Chocolate and Cheese
Yesterday I walked in on Lily and Judah laughing in the living room. Lily saw me come in, she turned to Judah and said, "Tell daddy what you told me". And without hesitation, Judah looked at me and said "You're getting fatter and fatter". Oh, kids just say the darndest things, don't they? I mean, I KNOW I'm not fat. But then why would the boy say I'm getting fatter? And fatter?
I guess for starters, I haven't been to the gym in like, forever. And even when I was going on a regular basis, it was probably only twice a week at best. But I do try to watch what I eat. Except for lately with the whole "newborn/no sleep/gotta do whatever I can to stay sane including eat junk food" diet. Cookies and cream ice cream has been a favorite lately. And chocolate chip cookies. And leftover halloween candy. But I deserve it! I'm not getting a regular night's sleep!
Okay, so maybe there is a bit more pudge around my waist. And maybe my face. So I suppose that means hauling my fatter and fatter ass back to the gym where it belongs. Except according the the Alex Hauser rules of fitness, which clearly state that you work out hard and watch what you eat all year, but when the holidays roll around, forget about it. You slack off and eat whatever you damn well please. I know we're not actually at the beginning of the holidays yet, but who starts a workout regimen in November? Nobody, that's who. I'm gonna eat a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream right now just to prove it. I'll show that kid who's getting fatter. And fatter.
I guess for starters, I haven't been to the gym in like, forever. And even when I was going on a regular basis, it was probably only twice a week at best. But I do try to watch what I eat. Except for lately with the whole "newborn/no sleep/gotta do whatever I can to stay sane including eat junk food" diet. Cookies and cream ice cream has been a favorite lately. And chocolate chip cookies. And leftover halloween candy. But I deserve it! I'm not getting a regular night's sleep!
Okay, so maybe there is a bit more pudge around my waist. And maybe my face. So I suppose that means hauling my fatter and fatter ass back to the gym where it belongs. Except according the the Alex Hauser rules of fitness, which clearly state that you work out hard and watch what you eat all year, but when the holidays roll around, forget about it. You slack off and eat whatever you damn well please. I know we're not actually at the beginning of the holidays yet, but who starts a workout regimen in November? Nobody, that's who. I'm gonna eat a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream right now just to prove it. I'll show that kid who's getting fatter. And fatter.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Blew
Last weekend I was hangin out eating lunch with Judah after a morning of hangin out, and mom and the new baby girl were asleep in the bedroom. Judah seemed really tired, which is usually the case around lunchtime, because that's also right before naptime. He wanted to sit on my lap to eat lunch, which isn't the norm, but he's so darn cute and cuddly at this stage that I wasn't gonna argue. I tried to get him to eat more of his lunch, but he seemed too tired to go on, so I put him to bed for his nap.
Then I think I watched a little bit of some college football game that I have no connection to, because I really don't know what to do with myself when everyone else is asleep at my house. The next thing ya know Judah is screaming at the top of his lungs crying. I went to his room to see what was up. He had puked all over himself and some of his bed. The vomit was mostly the eggs from breakfast, and I was surprised that those bits weren't more digested by then. He had managed to keep most of his bed clean, instead sending the majority of it onto my pillow, which was left there from the morning cry session of "DAAAAAADDDDYYYYY" over and over, when I was too tired to do anything but grab my pillow and go to his room to quiet him down.
The funny thing about kids and puke is that they don't understand what's going on. I wonder if they think their insides are coming out. Being a college graduate and veteran of puking, I know very well the ins and outs of that exercise. But kids must think the world is coming to an end when they hurl. Judah evidently did. I got him cleaned up, then concentrated on getting the mess in his room cleaned up and everything into the laundry. Thank god we have our own washing machine.
Lily woke up with all the racket, and she came to the living room to help Judah settle down. After I got the laundry going, I decided to water all the plants, which Judah likes to help with. We watered a few of them, and he got distracted and started playing with his trucks or trains or something. I heard him make a weird sounding cough and I turned and asked "are you okay?" Which was followed by a quick blast of mostly watery puke from his mouth. Right onto the rug. Lily said "I think it was mostly water" nanoseconds before Judah let loose with another, bigger blast of puke that wasn't mostly water. I grabbed his hand to get him off the rug, but again, Judah must have thought the world was coming to an end because he was crying and not moving. Another blast of puke. I managed to grab him and get him to the toilet for the final purge.
I don't know why I expected him to be able to give me some sort of sign like "Hey dad, I'm about to throw up here. Get me to the nearest bathroom". No, preschoolers don't have that sense built up yet, like they will in high school or junior high or whenever the kids really start drinking these days. So I'm resigned to the randomness of it. At least with dogs, they make that stomach pumping noise before they let loose some dog vomit. Eww.
Then I think I watched a little bit of some college football game that I have no connection to, because I really don't know what to do with myself when everyone else is asleep at my house. The next thing ya know Judah is screaming at the top of his lungs crying. I went to his room to see what was up. He had puked all over himself and some of his bed. The vomit was mostly the eggs from breakfast, and I was surprised that those bits weren't more digested by then. He had managed to keep most of his bed clean, instead sending the majority of it onto my pillow, which was left there from the morning cry session of "DAAAAAADDDDYYYYY" over and over, when I was too tired to do anything but grab my pillow and go to his room to quiet him down.
The funny thing about kids and puke is that they don't understand what's going on. I wonder if they think their insides are coming out. Being a college graduate and veteran of puking, I know very well the ins and outs of that exercise. But kids must think the world is coming to an end when they hurl. Judah evidently did. I got him cleaned up, then concentrated on getting the mess in his room cleaned up and everything into the laundry. Thank god we have our own washing machine.
Lily woke up with all the racket, and she came to the living room to help Judah settle down. After I got the laundry going, I decided to water all the plants, which Judah likes to help with. We watered a few of them, and he got distracted and started playing with his trucks or trains or something. I heard him make a weird sounding cough and I turned and asked "are you okay?" Which was followed by a quick blast of mostly watery puke from his mouth. Right onto the rug. Lily said "I think it was mostly water" nanoseconds before Judah let loose with another, bigger blast of puke that wasn't mostly water. I grabbed his hand to get him off the rug, but again, Judah must have thought the world was coming to an end because he was crying and not moving. Another blast of puke. I managed to grab him and get him to the toilet for the final purge.
I don't know why I expected him to be able to give me some sort of sign like "Hey dad, I'm about to throw up here. Get me to the nearest bathroom". No, preschoolers don't have that sense built up yet, like they will in high school or junior high or whenever the kids really start drinking these days. So I'm resigned to the randomness of it. At least with dogs, they make that stomach pumping noise before they let loose some dog vomit. Eww.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
The Golden Age of Wireless
My iPhone was stolen this week. Some people might think "Haha, stupid iPhone haver. Serves you right for havin' a stupid iPhone." Well, the joke's on me I guess. I won't get into the nitty gritty of how it happened, because that would make me seem like an even dumber stupid iPhone haver. But I would like to share what happened after the thievery.
After the requisite self-hatred for being a dumbshit who got his iPhone stolen, I started to piece together the things I probably SHOULD have done to protect myself. Oh, simple things like password protecting my phone. Or password protecting my SIM card. Or doing this or this or this.
But no, I thought that I would always have this phone and I never thought that anyone would ever steal it. But the funny thing about an iPhone is that it's a computer in your pocket. And that computer can be used to steal your identity and make your life a lot more complicated than it is right now. As I was lying in bed that night at 3 am wondering if somebody was coming to my house (because they had my address now) to steal more stuff, I considered that I should probably have locked the damn phone in the first place. I spent my afternoon changing all my passwords and deleting shit.
The next day I looked on my credit card's theft protection policy and saw that my phone was covered. Whew. But in order to get reimbursed, I'd have to file a police report. With the LAPD. Nice. I knew that would be pleasant, but necessary. So I made my way down to the police station closest to where the theft happened, and lucky for me, 2 hours free parking on the street outside. I walked in to see two men in blue staring at me, one of which looked like he had had about a dozen too many donuts. I walked toward him, as he was the guy directly in my path, and before I was two steps toward him he pointed his finger to the right, to a much younger much leaner cop. And that cop didn't seem too excited to be helping me.
I told him my story, and he stated "we're gonna have to list that as a 'lost' item because you didn't actually witness the theft". How many people actually see somebody steal their shit? Unless you're getting mugged, you're not seeing anything. So I told him that I called my phone and somebody answered, so I KNOW it was stolen. Apparently he thought that was good enough, cuz he changed the lost to stolen. I told him how AT&T wasn't gonna replace my phone with anything but a non-iPhone Nokia lame piece of shit for the low price of 50 bucks. At the end of the report, he told me his own story of how his iPhone had gotten water splashed on it in a scuffle, and AT&&T was ready to charge him full price to replace it. This for a guy who was Protectin' and Servin'. I told him they should give him a new phone for free. I walked out with copy of police report in hand.
And I went straight to the Apple Store in Century City to get a replacement. Now I couldn't just go without a phone for a while while my wife's in late/delivery stage of pregnancy, could I? I ordered basically the same thing as the first time. We were almost done with the transaction when the Apple sales rep told me it would be a $549 "upgrade" instead of the retail $299. That for being the asshole who had his phone stolen. Yeah, I wanted that to happen. After talking to two AT&T phone reps who toed the company line of screwing theft victims into paying more than full price, the Apple guy finally got his manager and got me the phone for the same price I paid pre-thievery. And the Apple Store guy told me how I could call AT&T with the SIM card nubmer and have them shut off the phone completely. I did that the next day.
Now all is back to the way it was before the theft. Except I'm down another $375 or so until the reimbursement arrives, if it arrives at all. And that shit is locked down tight. Takes me another 5 rings or so to unlock and answer the damn thing, but I'm not going through all that again.
After the requisite self-hatred for being a dumbshit who got his iPhone stolen, I started to piece together the things I probably SHOULD have done to protect myself. Oh, simple things like password protecting my phone. Or password protecting my SIM card. Or doing this or this or this.
But no, I thought that I would always have this phone and I never thought that anyone would ever steal it. But the funny thing about an iPhone is that it's a computer in your pocket. And that computer can be used to steal your identity and make your life a lot more complicated than it is right now. As I was lying in bed that night at 3 am wondering if somebody was coming to my house (because they had my address now) to steal more stuff, I considered that I should probably have locked the damn phone in the first place. I spent my afternoon changing all my passwords and deleting shit.
The next day I looked on my credit card's theft protection policy and saw that my phone was covered. Whew. But in order to get reimbursed, I'd have to file a police report. With the LAPD. Nice. I knew that would be pleasant, but necessary. So I made my way down to the police station closest to where the theft happened, and lucky for me, 2 hours free parking on the street outside. I walked in to see two men in blue staring at me, one of which looked like he had had about a dozen too many donuts. I walked toward him, as he was the guy directly in my path, and before I was two steps toward him he pointed his finger to the right, to a much younger much leaner cop. And that cop didn't seem too excited to be helping me.
I told him my story, and he stated "we're gonna have to list that as a 'lost' item because you didn't actually witness the theft". How many people actually see somebody steal their shit? Unless you're getting mugged, you're not seeing anything. So I told him that I called my phone and somebody answered, so I KNOW it was stolen. Apparently he thought that was good enough, cuz he changed the lost to stolen. I told him how AT&T wasn't gonna replace my phone with anything but a non-iPhone Nokia lame piece of shit for the low price of 50 bucks. At the end of the report, he told me his own story of how his iPhone had gotten water splashed on it in a scuffle, and AT&&T was ready to charge him full price to replace it. This for a guy who was Protectin' and Servin'. I told him they should give him a new phone for free. I walked out with copy of police report in hand.
And I went straight to the Apple Store in Century City to get a replacement. Now I couldn't just go without a phone for a while while my wife's in late/delivery stage of pregnancy, could I? I ordered basically the same thing as the first time. We were almost done with the transaction when the Apple sales rep told me it would be a $549 "upgrade" instead of the retail $299. That for being the asshole who had his phone stolen. Yeah, I wanted that to happen. After talking to two AT&T phone reps who toed the company line of screwing theft victims into paying more than full price, the Apple guy finally got his manager and got me the phone for the same price I paid pre-thievery. And the Apple Store guy told me how I could call AT&T with the SIM card nubmer and have them shut off the phone completely. I did that the next day.
Now all is back to the way it was before the theft. Except I'm down another $375 or so until the reimbursement arrives, if it arrives at all. And that shit is locked down tight. Takes me another 5 rings or so to unlock and answer the damn thing, but I'm not going through all that again.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Lovin' Every Minute of It
When the company I work for moved offices, we were all pretty excited about being in a new and much more spacious space. Our old place was just unimpressive, and in the entertainment biz you gotta entertain by being impressive. And the new place is indeed impressive, as shown by our massively huge and successful first real party last Friday night. Not much elbow room on your way to the bar, which is usually my measuring stick of the popularity of a joint.
Anyway, back to the new space: The one major drawback of this new awesome office is that there's not much in the way of parking. There's enough for the clients, but not the employees, so us worker bees park in the Yahoo lot which is at best a 7 minute walk. In order to dramatically reduce the time of said walk, I bought a skateboard. Actually Judah convinced me to buy a skateboard in the Sports Authoritie when we were really there to buy him some shoes. He just wouldn't let it go, so I let my inner child do the decision making, and we walked out of there with a skateboard in a box. How un-punk.
Cutting to the chase of this story (cuz I like short blogs - and short songs):
I'm feeling pretty good about my skateboarding to and from the parking garage, in spite of the fact that I hadn't really ridden a skateboard in about 20 years. This good feeling vanishes shortly after getting on the board one morning and wiping out and transforming the heel of my left hand into road burn/hamburger with a swift and stinging wipeout. Gross enough that I wondered if it would ever go back to normal.
I wore a bandage on the hand for a couple weeks and it was starting to look presentable enough that I could lose the bandage. So I did. And a couple days later, I was pan frying pork chops on the stove and managed to spill some nice hot oil on the thumb and index finger of that same hand. The burning sensation lasted for 4 hours, even with repeated slatherings of aloe. The next day there was (and still is) a pretty massive blister covering the area between the joints in my index finger. I wanna pop it, but Lily won't let me. I'd take a picture, but I like you too much.
So today we had a little meeting at Judah's new preschool, and as usual, I'm either late or I'm stressing that I will be late, so I grab the trusty skateboard to speed to the parking garage. And as you might guess by where this is all heading, I managed to wipe out in the crosswalk and scraped the hell out of (you guessed it) my left hand. Looking good, kid. My left hand is disgusting. And I can't really feel the heel of my hand anymore. I mean I can feel it with my right index finger, but on my left hand it feels dead.
I get to the preschool meeting (10 minutes ahead of schedule) and make a beeline for the bathroom so I can wash the blood off, but it doesn't really come off because it's embedded into the scraped heel of my hand. But when I get into the meeting and as I'm sitting there listening to Judah's new teacher, I glance down at my scraped up left hand and think: "I love skateboarding."
Anyway, back to the new space: The one major drawback of this new awesome office is that there's not much in the way of parking. There's enough for the clients, but not the employees, so us worker bees park in the Yahoo lot which is at best a 7 minute walk. In order to dramatically reduce the time of said walk, I bought a skateboard. Actually Judah convinced me to buy a skateboard in the Sports Authoritie when we were really there to buy him some shoes. He just wouldn't let it go, so I let my inner child do the decision making, and we walked out of there with a skateboard in a box. How un-punk.
Cutting to the chase of this story (cuz I like short blogs - and short songs):
I'm feeling pretty good about my skateboarding to and from the parking garage, in spite of the fact that I hadn't really ridden a skateboard in about 20 years. This good feeling vanishes shortly after getting on the board one morning and wiping out and transforming the heel of my left hand into road burn/hamburger with a swift and stinging wipeout. Gross enough that I wondered if it would ever go back to normal.
I wore a bandage on the hand for a couple weeks and it was starting to look presentable enough that I could lose the bandage. So I did. And a couple days later, I was pan frying pork chops on the stove and managed to spill some nice hot oil on the thumb and index finger of that same hand. The burning sensation lasted for 4 hours, even with repeated slatherings of aloe. The next day there was (and still is) a pretty massive blister covering the area between the joints in my index finger. I wanna pop it, but Lily won't let me. I'd take a picture, but I like you too much.
So today we had a little meeting at Judah's new preschool, and as usual, I'm either late or I'm stressing that I will be late, so I grab the trusty skateboard to speed to the parking garage. And as you might guess by where this is all heading, I managed to wipe out in the crosswalk and scraped the hell out of (you guessed it) my left hand. Looking good, kid. My left hand is disgusting. And I can't really feel the heel of my hand anymore. I mean I can feel it with my right index finger, but on my left hand it feels dead.
I get to the preschool meeting (10 minutes ahead of schedule) and make a beeline for the bathroom so I can wash the blood off, but it doesn't really come off because it's embedded into the scraped heel of my hand. But when I get into the meeting and as I'm sitting there listening to Judah's new teacher, I glance down at my scraped up left hand and think: "I love skateboarding."
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Coda
Time to go. I'm juggling way too many things right now to do any of them well. It might be a hiatus, it might be the end. You could always subscribe to the mirror site, then if and when another LLMB pops up, it'll be delivered right to your mailbox. In the meantime, if you need an LLMB fix, the mirror site is probably the best way to read the archives. The TNSC site shows them in HTML. And who the hell wants to read HTML?
Thanks go out to the TNSC crew for allowing me to rant on a weekly basis. And thanks to any readers out there, for reading!
Ciao baby,
Brett Favre
Thanks go out to the TNSC crew for allowing me to rant on a weekly basis. And thanks to any readers out there, for reading!
Ciao baby,
Brett Favre
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Let's Go To Bed
Child #2 is on the way. A girl this time. We're pretty stoked about the getting one of each kind thing. Lily is about 6.5 months along. I can't imagine what it's like to not only be carrying one child, as in pregnant, but to have to also deal with a toddler who's exploring his abilities to get into everything his parents don't want him to.
When Lily went in for a routine checkup last week, the docs put her on bed rest. The doc probably said something along the lines of "the stork will be arriving way ahead of schedule if you don't take it easy". So Lily got off her feet for a couple days, but not really. And then on her follow up to the routine checkup, the docs immediately admitted her to the hospital. Not so much that Lily or the baby wasn't doing well, but more as a precaution to the whole stork arriving too early thing.
When Lily called me to inform me that she had been admitted, I was in the middle of my yearly employee review, and my phone kept buzzing in my pocket. Not wanting to tarnish my reputation as a shining employee, I didn't answer the phone. But the second I got out and returned to my edit suite, the phone was ringing in there too. Our receptionist Gladys told me to call Lily immediately. I called, and Lily told me she was in the hospital. I achieved half-freakout mode and told her I'd be there right away.
Because this hospital is about 4 blocks from my work, I considered walking there. I also considered walking to our parking lot, which is about 2 blocks away, and driving. I opted for the walk. And good thing I did, because when I arrived at the street where the hospital is located, the entire street had been blocked off because a truck had flipped over moments before. Bad for the truck, but good for jaywalking.
And because I had never really been in this hospital before, it took me about an extra 30 minutes to find my way through the maze of hospital to the place where Lily was resting. She had a nice big room with a view of the Santa Monica mountains and palm trees. She was fine. The baby was fine. Just a precaution they said. But she'd be staying for a few days to monitor the situation.
Now Lily and unborn baby are home. And following doctors orders this time. I tell the story to most everyone I bump into, and everybody asks how Lily is doing. She's fine, I tell them. How's the baby? She's fine, I tell them. Nobody asks about me. I just run around doing everything Lily used to do, plus everything I used to do. Maybe if I'm lucky, Lily will let me curl up in bed beside her for some much needed rest.
When Lily went in for a routine checkup last week, the docs put her on bed rest. The doc probably said something along the lines of "the stork will be arriving way ahead of schedule if you don't take it easy". So Lily got off her feet for a couple days, but not really. And then on her follow up to the routine checkup, the docs immediately admitted her to the hospital. Not so much that Lily or the baby wasn't doing well, but more as a precaution to the whole stork arriving too early thing.
When Lily called me to inform me that she had been admitted, I was in the middle of my yearly employee review, and my phone kept buzzing in my pocket. Not wanting to tarnish my reputation as a shining employee, I didn't answer the phone. But the second I got out and returned to my edit suite, the phone was ringing in there too. Our receptionist Gladys told me to call Lily immediately. I called, and Lily told me she was in the hospital. I achieved half-freakout mode and told her I'd be there right away.
Because this hospital is about 4 blocks from my work, I considered walking there. I also considered walking to our parking lot, which is about 2 blocks away, and driving. I opted for the walk. And good thing I did, because when I arrived at the street where the hospital is located, the entire street had been blocked off because a truck had flipped over moments before. Bad for the truck, but good for jaywalking.
And because I had never really been in this hospital before, it took me about an extra 30 minutes to find my way through the maze of hospital to the place where Lily was resting. She had a nice big room with a view of the Santa Monica mountains and palm trees. She was fine. The baby was fine. Just a precaution they said. But she'd be staying for a few days to monitor the situation.
Now Lily and unborn baby are home. And following doctors orders this time. I tell the story to most everyone I bump into, and everybody asks how Lily is doing. She's fine, I tell them. How's the baby? She's fine, I tell them. Nobody asks about me. I just run around doing everything Lily used to do, plus everything I used to do. Maybe if I'm lucky, Lily will let me curl up in bed beside her for some much needed rest.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Unknown Pleasures
Like almost every other person in Los Angeles, on Saturday I went to Santa Monica for an event called Glow. Santa Monica isn't set up for that size of crowd. The city powers-that-be advertised Glow as an all-night event, from dusk til dawn, and it was touted as Burning Man in the city. But it lacked the art. And later it lacked the music.
I should have turned my car around when I saw traffic backing up from the 4th Street exit about a mile onto the 10. But no, I was positive my parking karma would come through. Nope. Not only were all the parking lots next to the Promenade full, the Santa Monica Police Department was busy putting up barricades everywhere, essentially turning the streets by the beach into one big evolving maze.
I brilliantly thought of parking at the Santa Monica Public Library, which was eight blocks from the pier. Apparently a lot of other people had this stroke of genius as well, because the only spots left were on P3, which was two floors down from street level. But getting to the event was easy enough. And when we arrived, we wondered what the big deal was. From the beach just north of the pier, the only glowing pieces to be seen were two 10-foot buoys floating about 40 feet from shore, and a misting device (about the size of a small house) that was lit up with different colored lights. Woo hoo.
There were plenty of people with glow sticks, and some with glowing light sabers, but not much else in the way of of anything worthy of calling an event "Glow". We hung out on the sand talking to friends we randomly came across until we all concluded that the event was a huge bust. At least Judah had fun running around on the sand.
When we made it back to the car, there was a line to get out of the garage. And Lily and I both had to pee. But we both agreed that we could hold it until we got home. We pulled out of our parking spot and got in line. And we moved about 1/2 a car length every 5 minutes. This, from 2 floors below street level. It was hot down on P3, and the exhaust from all the cars idling was choking us, so we had to roll our windows up. I remembered that I had forgot to bring my iPod, so I turned on the radio. Not much to hear but static when you're down two floors below street level in a concrete parking garage.
After about 30 minutes of sitting in the garage, I noticed that my gas meter was sitting on empty. And we still had one more floor to go. So I was forced to turn my engine on and off every time we moved up the exit line.
The highlight of the wait was witnessing a douchebag in a Mustang take the liberty of zooming past everyone in the wrong lane, going the wrong way. The highlight was 15 seconds after he zoomed past, when he was forced to go back down in reverse because some other suckers who were trying to park to see Glow were driving the right way in the right lane.
One hour after we began our journey from the center of the Earth, we arrived at the gate to pay. And there was only one gate in operation this night. 3 bucks flat rate parking. Just remember, next time you decide to go to ground zero for some event where all humanity will be in attendance:
- always keep a reasonable amount of fuel in your car
- bring your music
- go pee before you get in the car
Better yet, stay home. I know I will. Apparently the Santa Monica police department shut down the music at 2 am. Way to party til dawn Santa Monica.
I should have turned my car around when I saw traffic backing up from the 4th Street exit about a mile onto the 10. But no, I was positive my parking karma would come through. Nope. Not only were all the parking lots next to the Promenade full, the Santa Monica Police Department was busy putting up barricades everywhere, essentially turning the streets by the beach into one big evolving maze.
I brilliantly thought of parking at the Santa Monica Public Library, which was eight blocks from the pier. Apparently a lot of other people had this stroke of genius as well, because the only spots left were on P3, which was two floors down from street level. But getting to the event was easy enough. And when we arrived, we wondered what the big deal was. From the beach just north of the pier, the only glowing pieces to be seen were two 10-foot buoys floating about 40 feet from shore, and a misting device (about the size of a small house) that was lit up with different colored lights. Woo hoo.
There were plenty of people with glow sticks, and some with glowing light sabers, but not much else in the way of of anything worthy of calling an event "Glow". We hung out on the sand talking to friends we randomly came across until we all concluded that the event was a huge bust. At least Judah had fun running around on the sand.
When we made it back to the car, there was a line to get out of the garage. And Lily and I both had to pee. But we both agreed that we could hold it until we got home. We pulled out of our parking spot and got in line. And we moved about 1/2 a car length every 5 minutes. This, from 2 floors below street level. It was hot down on P3, and the exhaust from all the cars idling was choking us, so we had to roll our windows up. I remembered that I had forgot to bring my iPod, so I turned on the radio. Not much to hear but static when you're down two floors below street level in a concrete parking garage.
After about 30 minutes of sitting in the garage, I noticed that my gas meter was sitting on empty. And we still had one more floor to go. So I was forced to turn my engine on and off every time we moved up the exit line.
The highlight of the wait was witnessing a douchebag in a Mustang take the liberty of zooming past everyone in the wrong lane, going the wrong way. The highlight was 15 seconds after he zoomed past, when he was forced to go back down in reverse because some other suckers who were trying to park to see Glow were driving the right way in the right lane.
One hour after we began our journey from the center of the Earth, we arrived at the gate to pay. And there was only one gate in operation this night. 3 bucks flat rate parking. Just remember, next time you decide to go to ground zero for some event where all humanity will be in attendance:
- always keep a reasonable amount of fuel in your car
- bring your music
- go pee before you get in the car
Better yet, stay home. I know I will. Apparently the Santa Monica police department shut down the music at 2 am. Way to party til dawn Santa Monica.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Straight Outta Compton
I recently completed traffic school for the moving violation I received a few months back: Running a red light on a left turn. I chose the (Compton-based) Internet Traffic School option, because then I could make a beeline straight to the test part and fly through it because I'm such a knowledgeable driver. No need to read through all that pesky study material.
But being the diligent student I've always been, I decided to skim through some of the study material. And some of it was not only informative, but very entertaining. Here's an excerpt:
"Many accidents happen because Driver #1 assumed Driver #2 in front of him was entering traffic, but Driver #2 either did not start or changed his mind after going a few feet, so Driver #1 wound up in his trunk."
Here's another:
"How can you avoid mental mistakes? It is really quite easy. In each of the examples above, one part of your mind, the adult part, was telling you the right course of action. But you were not listening to the adult part. You were listening to the child in you who wants a drink, who thinks it is exciting to race a train."
and another:
"Have you ever walked, gotten up in the middle of the night and stumbled around in a house or apartment? Sure. Everybody has. Usually you stumble over something that you forgot was on the floor, banging your shin. Ouch! Or you walk into a door that you forgot was closed. Double Ouch! Or worst of all, you stub your toe. Pain!"
After reading a few passages like these, I decided to go ahead to the test part. I took the test. Failed. Three times. The questions seemed mostly obvious, but there were a few that weren't, and a few more where the test had to be wrong. Seriously. Both Lily and I agreed that the question about "making a right turn and moving to the left side of your lane" to do it had to be incorrect.
So we checked on the California DMV website to see what the law says, and lo and behold, there were all the answers. Every single one. I mean, the wording of the questions were exactly the same as the ones on my Compton internet traffic school's site. Now, I've never been one to cheat, but when the answers aren't true, you have to resort to other options.
So if you're ever in internet traffic school, just go ahead and get your answers straight from the DMV. But it's probably best to not get a traffic ticket in the first place.
But being the diligent student I've always been, I decided to skim through some of the study material. And some of it was not only informative, but very entertaining. Here's an excerpt:
"Many accidents happen because Driver #1 assumed Driver #2 in front of him was entering traffic, but Driver #2 either did not start or changed his mind after going a few feet, so Driver #1 wound up in his trunk."
Here's another:
"How can you avoid mental mistakes? It is really quite easy. In each of the examples above, one part of your mind, the adult part, was telling you the right course of action. But you were not listening to the adult part. You were listening to the child in you who wants a drink, who thinks it is exciting to race a train."
and another:
"Have you ever walked, gotten up in the middle of the night and stumbled around in a house or apartment? Sure. Everybody has. Usually you stumble over something that you forgot was on the floor, banging your shin. Ouch! Or you walk into a door that you forgot was closed. Double Ouch! Or worst of all, you stub your toe. Pain!"
After reading a few passages like these, I decided to go ahead to the test part. I took the test. Failed. Three times. The questions seemed mostly obvious, but there were a few that weren't, and a few more where the test had to be wrong. Seriously. Both Lily and I agreed that the question about "making a right turn and moving to the left side of your lane" to do it had to be incorrect.
So we checked on the California DMV website to see what the law says, and lo and behold, there were all the answers. Every single one. I mean, the wording of the questions were exactly the same as the ones on my Compton internet traffic school's site. Now, I've never been one to cheat, but when the answers aren't true, you have to resort to other options.
So if you're ever in internet traffic school, just go ahead and get your answers straight from the DMV. But it's probably best to not get a traffic ticket in the first place.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Holidays in the Sun
Last Friday one thing that struck me as kind of odd was people wishing each other a "Happy Fourth of July!" Maybe that doesn't sound strange to you, but it made me wonder why we refer to the holiday as its date for only that holiday. We're celebrating Independence Day. But you don't hear people say "Happy Independence Day" do you?
Why don't we say "Happy 31st of December" when we're celebrating New Year's? Or "Happy Fourth Thursday in November" when we're talking about Thanksgiving? "Merry 25th of December!" The list goes on and on, but the Fourth of July is kind of screwed when it comes to referring to the cause behind the celebration.
People aren't gonna start saying "Happy Independence Day". We're Americans and we're too lazy to change now. But I bet if we called it something sexier, people would change. Possibly "Happy Fireworks Day!" or "Happy Explosion Day!" That oughta do the trick. Try it out next Independence Day. That would be the Fourth of July, in case you forget.
Why don't we say "Happy 31st of December" when we're celebrating New Year's? Or "Happy Fourth Thursday in November" when we're talking about Thanksgiving? "Merry 25th of December!" The list goes on and on, but the Fourth of July is kind of screwed when it comes to referring to the cause behind the celebration.
People aren't gonna start saying "Happy Independence Day". We're Americans and we're too lazy to change now. But I bet if we called it something sexier, people would change. Possibly "Happy Fireworks Day!" or "Happy Explosion Day!" That oughta do the trick. Try it out next Independence Day. That would be the Fourth of July, in case you forget.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
In a Big Country
The latest from the inadvertent e-mail front:
Somebody named Larry Gardner from Alabama is apparently huge. Not huge like "blowin' up", but possibly about to blow up by ballooning to proportions not really meant for human beings. I know this because Larry was sent a few e-mails from King Size Direct concerning registering on their website and buying several items. King Size Direct's slogan is "More For Less In Big & Tall Sizes". I on the other hand am neither Big nor Tall, nor named Larry. We only seem to share the same spelling of our last name. Still, it's kind of interesting to see how the other half lives.
Larry bought three shirts and one pair of pants. The pants, colored "Stone", size 44 x 40 would almost fit two of me into them. The three shirts ranged from a 3XL Black Polo to a 2XL Dark Mauve Shirt and 2XL "Soft Yello" Shirt. This tapestry of colors at that size would probably form a nice quilt that would cover me comfortably, but I'm having trouble imagining what Larry must look like wearing "Soft Yello" or Dark Mauve shirts that would probably fit the likes of The Notorious B.I.G.
All in all, Larry spent $107.94 on an amount of fabric that would probably make an entirely new wardrobe for yours truly. Lily recently bought me one size S hoodie at Club Monaco for $120. Either good things come in small packages or I need to start shopping for bigger clothes.
Somebody named Larry Gardner from Alabama is apparently huge. Not huge like "blowin' up", but possibly about to blow up by ballooning to proportions not really meant for human beings. I know this because Larry was sent a few e-mails from King Size Direct concerning registering on their website and buying several items. King Size Direct's slogan is "More For Less In Big & Tall Sizes". I on the other hand am neither Big nor Tall, nor named Larry. We only seem to share the same spelling of our last name. Still, it's kind of interesting to see how the other half lives.
Larry bought three shirts and one pair of pants. The pants, colored "Stone", size 44 x 40 would almost fit two of me into them. The three shirts ranged from a 3XL Black Polo to a 2XL Dark Mauve Shirt and 2XL "Soft Yello" Shirt. This tapestry of colors at that size would probably form a nice quilt that would cover me comfortably, but I'm having trouble imagining what Larry must look like wearing "Soft Yello" or Dark Mauve shirts that would probably fit the likes of The Notorious B.I.G.
All in all, Larry spent $107.94 on an amount of fabric that would probably make an entirely new wardrobe for yours truly. Lily recently bought me one size S hoodie at Club Monaco for $120. Either good things come in small packages or I need to start shopping for bigger clothes.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Nevermind
My phone stopped ringing this week. Literally. I was wondering why I was missing all these phone calls that went straight to voicemail, then somebody called when I had it on Loud + Vibrate mode. It only vibrated. So I asked Lily to give me a call, and there was the answer: no ringing whatsoever.
I should have seen it coming when I used my free Sprint ringer download to get "Smells Like Teen Spirit". They had 2 options for that song: The chorus or the beginning. I opted for the beginning. You know, it starts off sorta quiet, then the drums hit and the gates to grunge heaven are kicked wide open. It sounded like shit on my lame little phone's tiny speaker.
The ringing was pretty comical at first, and I usually let it ring through to the drums part just for a laugh. Then later it wasn't so funny anymore and I'd desperately try to silence the ringing before it got to the drums part. But of course there were times where I wasn't around my phone and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" would go on endlessly until the call went to voicemail. That's probably what killed the ringing. Kurt Cobain destroying one more piece of equipment, blowing the tiny speaker on my lame little phone, from beyond the grave.
So I'm stuck with a phone that doesn't ring, but only vibrates. I missed a lot of calls this week, but I'll be damned if I'm buying a new phone right now. Anyone who saw my last cell phone knows the lengths I'll go before buying a new one. Besides, Steve Jobs has me by the balls until July 11th, when the new iPhone comes out. Hello.
I should have seen it coming when I used my free Sprint ringer download to get "Smells Like Teen Spirit". They had 2 options for that song: The chorus or the beginning. I opted for the beginning. You know, it starts off sorta quiet, then the drums hit and the gates to grunge heaven are kicked wide open. It sounded like shit on my lame little phone's tiny speaker.
The ringing was pretty comical at first, and I usually let it ring through to the drums part just for a laugh. Then later it wasn't so funny anymore and I'd desperately try to silence the ringing before it got to the drums part. But of course there were times where I wasn't around my phone and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" would go on endlessly until the call went to voicemail. That's probably what killed the ringing. Kurt Cobain destroying one more piece of equipment, blowing the tiny speaker on my lame little phone, from beyond the grave.
So I'm stuck with a phone that doesn't ring, but only vibrates. I missed a lot of calls this week, but I'll be damned if I'm buying a new phone right now. Anyone who saw my last cell phone knows the lengths I'll go before buying a new one. Besides, Steve Jobs has me by the balls until July 11th, when the new iPhone comes out. Hello.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Slim Shady
My wife's name is Lily. With one "L". Sorta. Meaning one L in the middle. Not two Ls. Sorta. Not with two Ls in the middle. As in not LilLy. Seems to me the default way would be the one L up front and one L in the middle. Saves time and energy over dealing with that pesky third "L".
The Lilys that immediately come to mind have the two L spelling: Lily Munster. Lily Allen. Lily Tomlin. So why would anyone use the extra L? No freakin idea. Some people even do it when they see it written on paper or on a computer, and they STILL insist on spelling it Lilly. Seriously. Lily sent an e-mail to the parents at our son's school, and she signed it "Lily". Person replying to the e-mail? "Thanks Lilly". Eesh.
Another one that really bugs the shit out of me is some people's comprehension of our son's name: Judah. I'm talking to somebody and I say "well Judah did blah blah blah..." And they come back with "oh really? Judas did that?" Ahem. Yes, we deliberately named our son with a name most commonly remembered as being a betrayer. The betrayer of Jesus. Yeah. We liked the sound of Judas and we really hate Jesus! Why the fuck would we do that? So I have to correct those people every time that they insist on continuing to say "Judas" when they're referring to "Judah". But it doesn't stick. They won't register the name Judah, but they'll remember a silly name like Judas. I'll tell 'em "Yeah, I'm a huge Priest fan." Then I'll throw the horns and roll my eyes back in my head for good measure.
My name is pretty tough to screw up. You hear Lee and you can easily repeat it, and other than the girly ways of spelling it, it's not too tough to spell either. So maybe the real reason I get so miffed at people misunderstanding the names of my family goes back to my childhood. Back when people made fun of my name. The way mean kids do out on the playground, making hurtful rhymes with the name Lee. Yep, you guessed it: Lee Pee. At least the founders of TNSC were kind enough to make it "Bee" instead. Lee Lee the Musical Pee doesn't really have a nice ring to it. Or does it?
The Lilys that immediately come to mind have the two L spelling: Lily Munster. Lily Allen. Lily Tomlin. So why would anyone use the extra L? No freakin idea. Some people even do it when they see it written on paper or on a computer, and they STILL insist on spelling it Lilly. Seriously. Lily sent an e-mail to the parents at our son's school, and she signed it "Lily". Person replying to the e-mail? "Thanks Lilly". Eesh.
Another one that really bugs the shit out of me is some people's comprehension of our son's name: Judah. I'm talking to somebody and I say "well Judah did blah blah blah..." And they come back with "oh really? Judas did that?" Ahem. Yes, we deliberately named our son with a name most commonly remembered as being a betrayer. The betrayer of Jesus. Yeah. We liked the sound of Judas and we really hate Jesus! Why the fuck would we do that? So I have to correct those people every time that they insist on continuing to say "Judas" when they're referring to "Judah". But it doesn't stick. They won't register the name Judah, but they'll remember a silly name like Judas. I'll tell 'em "Yeah, I'm a huge Priest fan." Then I'll throw the horns and roll my eyes back in my head for good measure.
My name is pretty tough to screw up. You hear Lee and you can easily repeat it, and other than the girly ways of spelling it, it's not too tough to spell either. So maybe the real reason I get so miffed at people misunderstanding the names of my family goes back to my childhood. Back when people made fun of my name. The way mean kids do out on the playground, making hurtful rhymes with the name Lee. Yep, you guessed it: Lee Pee. At least the founders of TNSC were kind enough to make it "Bee" instead. Lee Lee the Musical Pee doesn't really have a nice ring to it. Or does it?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
My War
I was rolling out the trash bins last Thursday night, when I saw a little critter scamper out from where the trash bins regularly reside. Not a critter like a mammal-varmint-sized critter, but like an insect-sized critter. After rolling the trash, recycling, and yard waste bins to the curb, I went inside and grabbed my trusty humongous flashlight to inspect said critter. And the critter turned out to be a cockroach.
There aren't many things in this world that truly creep me out, but cockroaches are near the top of that short list. They have like creepy ways of looking at you and almost like a humanlike personality that way, and ick! That, and they scamper so quickly that they might just crawl up your leg and... oh man, that would be the grossest. And the fact that they were on my property just wasn't going to continue.
When we moved into our new place I noticed (with all the other crap the previous owners left behind in the garage) a can of roach killer. I remember thinking "Now why would they need this? There aren't any roaches around here." Wrong. I didn't see any roaches in broad daylight, nor did I see any in the house. But now that I saw one in the driveway in the dark, I knew there had to be zillions more. And upon further inspection of the driveway, I found at least 10 more.
It was time to test out the can of roach killer. Apparently this stuff kills with mint, not some nasty chemical, so it's safe to use around the boy. Not that I was gonna spray it within a 50 ft radius of him outside at all, but at least the label made me feel better about spraying the life out of the cockroaches. As an added bonus, the can said it leaves a fresh minty scent. What's not to like?
I went around spraying the critters, which only seemed to make them scamper around that much quicker. But the label said to soak them with the stuff, so I did. And they didn't scamper around so quickly and then they stopped scampering altogether. I left a trail of about 15 dead roaches in my wake. I waited until the next morning to clean up the trail of dead, so's the sun could dry up the mint spray.
The spray seemed to have put a serious dent in the roach population outside. But if I so much as see one of those things skittering across the floor inside my house, I'm going gunslinging with the spray on a nightly basis.
There aren't many things in this world that truly creep me out, but cockroaches are near the top of that short list. They have like creepy ways of looking at you and almost like a humanlike personality that way, and ick! That, and they scamper so quickly that they might just crawl up your leg and... oh man, that would be the grossest. And the fact that they were on my property just wasn't going to continue.
When we moved into our new place I noticed (with all the other crap the previous owners left behind in the garage) a can of roach killer. I remember thinking "Now why would they need this? There aren't any roaches around here." Wrong. I didn't see any roaches in broad daylight, nor did I see any in the house. But now that I saw one in the driveway in the dark, I knew there had to be zillions more. And upon further inspection of the driveway, I found at least 10 more.
It was time to test out the can of roach killer. Apparently this stuff kills with mint, not some nasty chemical, so it's safe to use around the boy. Not that I was gonna spray it within a 50 ft radius of him outside at all, but at least the label made me feel better about spraying the life out of the cockroaches. As an added bonus, the can said it leaves a fresh minty scent. What's not to like?
I went around spraying the critters, which only seemed to make them scamper around that much quicker. But the label said to soak them with the stuff, so I did. And they didn't scamper around so quickly and then they stopped scampering altogether. I left a trail of about 15 dead roaches in my wake. I waited until the next morning to clean up the trail of dead, so's the sun could dry up the mint spray.
The spray seemed to have put a serious dent in the roach population outside. But if I so much as see one of those things skittering across the floor inside my house, I'm going gunslinging with the spray on a nightly basis.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Magic Johnson
I grew up hating the Los Angeles Lakers. HATING. Up there in the woods of the Pacific Northwest you rooted for the SuperSonics or you maybe liked the TrailBlazers. But you certainly didn't like the glamour boys from Hollywood. You HATED them. They were dominating our division and they were winning championships with flash and with a bunch of players everybody knew by name. We had guys that nobody knew, but they played with heart and the fans up there believed the Sonics could win it all. And they did. In 1979. Long, long long ago. So long ago that I was just a kid, and I didn't really follow sports and I didn't know that your city doesn't win NBA championships every year. Unless of course your city was Los Angeles.
Now that the road of life has driven me to Laker-land, I find my stance on that team softening. Call me a bandwagoner or whatever. I could really care less if it were the Lakers or Clippers winning a championship. With the exception of the aforementioned '79 Sonics team, I've never had the experience of:
A. A city that I currently live in win a pro championship
B. A team from a city where I previously lived and currently root for - win a pro championship
Maybe it doesn't matter. But it would be great to experience that once as an adult. So my hatred of the Lakers has waned just enough to root for them as they appear in the Finals this season. I rationalize it as not really wanting the Lakers to win, but the city that I currently reside in to win. Because I could give a shit about the Lakers. In fact, maybe it's my little way of putting a hex on them by rooting for them which, based on my track record, would actually cause them to lose. Go Lakers.
Now that the road of life has driven me to Laker-land, I find my stance on that team softening. Call me a bandwagoner or whatever. I could really care less if it were the Lakers or Clippers winning a championship. With the exception of the aforementioned '79 Sonics team, I've never had the experience of:
A. A city that I currently live in win a pro championship
B. A team from a city where I previously lived and currently root for - win a pro championship
Maybe it doesn't matter. But it would be great to experience that once as an adult. So my hatred of the Lakers has waned just enough to root for them as they appear in the Finals this season. I rationalize it as not really wanting the Lakers to win, but the city that I currently reside in to win. Because I could give a shit about the Lakers. In fact, maybe it's my little way of putting a hex on them by rooting for them which, based on my track record, would actually cause them to lose. Go Lakers.
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