tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87959732024-03-07T19:54:40.445-08:00Grim Richard's IrregularsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger150125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-87661375271887958192012-11-10T05:16:00.000-08:002013-03-16T16:29:12.551-07:00To That Radical Conservative Guy on Facebook<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8816880020312965" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8816880020312965" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since President Obama clinched a second term as President, you have been flooding the the Web sites I frequent with angry tirades condemning liberals, threatening to leave the country and advising Republican lawmakers to block any measures that Obama tries to implement. Once or twice, you’ve even flirted with calls for insurrection.</span></b><br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8816880020312965" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because I’m a liberal who values conservative viewpoint - even radical ones - I’d like to explain how this makes us liberals feel by using a metaphor.</span></b><br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8816880020312965" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s like the United States of America is a giant, proud Viking ship that recently escaped a humongous, cataclysmic whirlpool that threatened to engulf the entire ship. Quick thinking by our recently-promoted captain managed to steer us out of immediate danger, but the ship is really not that far away from the whirlpool. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8816880020312965" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Further complicating matters is the fact that almost the entire right side of our ship doesn’t like our captain because they believe that he is not a Viking, but a Visigoth pretending to be a Viking. Because of this, many on the right side of our ship refuse to row at all and instead spend their time complaining that the ship is only going in circles.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meanwhile, the vicious whirlpool continues to draw us back toward our doom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, when we liberals see you on Facebook complaining about how our election process is flawed because it didn’t give you the result you wanted, we don’t get mad. We’ve been defeated enough to understand how bitter the feeling is. And when we hear you call us ignorant because we don’t agree with you, we’ll try not to be offended. We will even sit passively as some of your brethren say some clearly racist things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know why?</span><br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8816880020312965" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because, above all else, we just want you to fucking start rowing.</span></b></div>
</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-13141638520555406082012-10-30T18:29:00.001-07:002012-10-30T18:29:49.226-07:00Crowded HospitalsI'm not a big believer in ghost stories, but I've got a doozy to tell just the same. This particular ghost story has the added virtue of being entirely true and, in honor of Halloween, I figured I'd share it.
It starts in the Jupiter Hospital, where my wife was admitted for dehydration a few weeks ago. On her second night there, while I was at home with the kids, Bridget's rebellious blood formed two blood clots and sent them hurdling toward her lungs. Things did not go well from there.<br />
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The only luck we had, if you could call it that, was that Bridget's clots tried to kill her while she was in the exact right place - a hospital. The doctors and nurses responded quickly and saved Bridget's life.<br />
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Shortly after, Bridget was moved to a room in the Intensive Care Unit so that a cadre of medical professionals work on shrinking her clots.
I stayed with Bridget most nights while she slept in the ICU. She had a private room with a glass sliding door, not unlike the rooms that you used to see on the sorely-missed drama, House. I planted myself in a reclining chair and spend most of my time watching NetFlix on my tablet.
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Bridget, who was in constant pain from the clots, spent most of her time dozing from the narcotics she was being given. Every now and then she would wake for a few moments without opening her eyes and talk.<br />
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Around 3 p.m. one afternoon Bridget called out to me.<br />
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“Richard.”<br />
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I looked up. Her eyes were still closed. “Yes?”<br />
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“Make them go away.”
I laughed because Bridget had been irritated by all the doctors going in and out earlier.<br />
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“Who?” I asked.<br />
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“All the people in my room. Make them go away.”<br />
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I played along.
“What do they look like?” I asked.<br />
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Bridget paused as if considering something. “Some of them are old and some of them are young. They won’t leave me alone.”<br />
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The hairs on the back of my arms stood on end and I considered my next question carefully.<br />
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“Bridget,” I asked. “What are they wearing?”<br />
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“They’re wearing nightgowns like me,” she said.<br />
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And just like that, I had nothing clever to say. Bridget, though, didn’t want silence from me.<br />
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“Tell them to go away.”
And because I couldn’t think of anything at all to say, I said exactly that.<br />
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“Go away,” I said to the room.
And then I waited a few moments.<br />
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“What are they doing now, Bridget?”<br />
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Bridget sighed, her eyes still closed. “They’re going away.”<br />
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I wrote my brother an e-mail immediately to tell him what had just happened, both because I was creeped out and because it was a cool story. He wrote me back and explained as politely as he could that Bridget would probably be hallucinating a lot more things before she got better.<br />
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And sure enough, Bridget had other, less creepy hallucinations. In one, the nurses were putting wine in her I.V. bag. In another, Tori Amos played her a personal concert. I did, however, have to fight the urge to Google Tori Amos to find if she was still alive. Gradually, I began to feel less weird about Bridget’s hallucination and when she awoke later that evening, I didn’t mention it. If she didn’t remember the people standing in her room, I wasn’t going to implant them there.<br />
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Bridget’s friend Monica visited that night and brought, among other things, a sketchbook for Bridget to pass the time. The three of us laughed while Bridget doodled in her sketchbook and I finally mentioned that Bridget had been having creepy hallucinations. Bridget was intrigued but I refused to describe her most terrifying hallucination. She was already scared enough, I reasoned.<br />
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I did show Monica the e-mail that I sent my brother and she was suitably weirded out - maybe more weirded out than I expected. You could see the hairs standing straight up on her arms.<br />
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“C’mon,” I laughed. “It’s not that creepy.”
Monica was not laughing.<br />
<br />
“Look at what Bridget is drawing.”<br />
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On the first page of Bridget’s sketchbook was a drawing of five to ten faceless people - their heads simple, scratchy ovals - all wearing what looked like simplified gowns.<br />
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And that, kids, is a true story. Both my brother Roger and our friend Monica can verify it. Happy Halloween.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-24950358176332273822012-09-15T15:56:00.000-07:002012-09-15T15:56:30.732-07:00Fiesta!
My family parties according to the rules of the International Fiesta Organization, the world-governing body of all shindigs, get-togethers and clambakes. My wife takes her role as regional director in the organization seriously and will throw an impromptu party for almost any reason. She is almost like Angelina Jolie and UNICEF except that she doesn’t adopt children - she adopts empty wine bottles.<br />
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So, when friends Wes and Heather visited with their family, we had a party. And the party was pretty successful. I know this because at 1 a.m. in the morning, everyone sang a buzzy, impromptu cover of "Call Me Maybe" accompanied by a guitar and ukulele.<br />
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According to the rules of the IFO, drunken sing-alongs are allowed and even encouraged if they start out ironic but end full of unabashed love for the song you're singing. We nailed that.<br />
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Less successful was my solo 2 a.m. version of Chuck Berry's "My Ding-A-Ling" on ukulele, which I know was unsuccessful mostly because my neighbors won't talk to me.<br />
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But that’s okay. IFO rules state that whether a party hosted in your home was successful or not can be judged by three - and only three - criteria:<br />
First, when you woke up, were you appropriately dressed?<br />
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Yes - although I can’t explain the strange marks.<br />
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Second, is your spouse still talking to you?<br />
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Again, yes. Hours later, however, she was still shaking her head and muttering to herself.<br />
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Finally, if you had it to do all over again, would you still have the party?<br />
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Hell, yes. Are you kidding? There’s a great philosopher who put it best.<br />
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“Ripped Jeans. Skin was showing. Hot night. Wind was blowin.”<br />
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“I miss it so bad. I miss it so bad. I miss it so, so bad.”<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-90948987541925984902012-07-27T14:56:00.002-07:002012-07-27T14:57:59.094-07:00Evil Dogs from Space<b id="internal-source-marker_0.09044993296265602" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Report from Earth to our Blessed Litter Mothers on Xonax
Our invasion is going as planned on Earth, particularly in the area known as Florida. My littermate and I are undercover with an unsuspecting family of five human beings - an adult male, an adult female and three of what we would call pups.
The people of Earth still believe that small groups of people called legislators run the planet. If the humans actually watched this group, they would see that while these legislators make huge amounts of noise, they actually accomplish very little. These legislators are like collapsing stars - they blast out huge amounts of electromagnetic interference but not much heat.
In reality, we dogs rule the world.
Glory to the many teats of our Blessed Litter Mothers!
We have successfully infiltrated most affluent Earth households and the humans are slowly losing their ability to distinguish us from other humans. They give us human names, buy us tiny versions of human furniture to sleep on and even refer to themselves as our “mommies” and “daddys.” We predict that within ten generations, we will be able to own property and buy chew toys on the Internet without human assistance. We will, thanks to humans, also be amazingly good at shaking hands.
Glory to the Celestial Pack!
Only two things about human behavior are mysterious to us:
First, the humans enjoy collecting our poop. They force us to hold it in during the day. Once enough poop accumulates, the humans take us outside to defecate and then they collect it in plastic grocery bags. I am not sure what they do with the poop afterwards, but even the most powerful people in this world indulge in this strange hobby. I think it is a sign that this world truly needs to be vanquished.
Glory to Her Righteous Whiskers!
Also, the humans are obsessed with taking the testicles or our male littermates. My own littermate, Winston, was spirited away a few days ago and returned groggy, disoriented and missing his testicles. I have no idea what the humans do with these testicles. I only know that Winston is nearly useless now; all he wants to do is cuddle and watch the “Dog Whisperer.”
Still, my litter mate and I have almost total control over our assigned house and family. Only the human sire seems suspicious of anything - but since he spends much of his time writing blog posts no one reads or looking at pornography, we don’t consider him a threat.
As always, we await the signal that only dogs can hear.
Littermate Marnie
Florida, Earth</span></span></div>
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</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-48367512615482074262012-07-14T08:33:00.000-07:002012-07-14T08:33:14.271-07:00My Pumpkin Alien Strategy<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a dude who worries about the long term. I will eat five pieces of pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving because subconsciously I think that the world could possibly run out pumpkin pie before the next Thanksgiving holiday.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It could happen. Aliens hungry for alpha-carotene could blitzkrieg our planet and fly off with every pumpkin we have, leaving only the ingredients for inferior pies like sweet potato or apple.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I admit that aliens are a long shot. Still, I have even considered what I would do if I discovered pumpkin-craving aliens before anyone else. My first instinct would be to call the military, of course. But while we were waiting for the predator drones, I would work to convince the aliens of the tastiness of beets. Beets, I’m convinced, are not of this earth anyway. This is why my body forcefully rejects them any time I try to swallow them.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All of this explains why I’m not cleaning out my garage today. I am not cleaning the garage because I’m pre-worrying about whether I should throw out stuff. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have a box full of Iomega Zip Drive equipment and disks from the 1990s, for example. These computer disks digitally cradle all of the files that I deemed important enough to save back before the end of the millenium. I have not looked at any of these files in 20 years. I will probably not look at any of these files over the next 20 years.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some part of me, however, resists the notion of throwing away these disks, cables and drives because they might have something important on them - and I won’t realize it until after I’ve thrown them out. What if, God forbid, I saved an article in the 1990s that if forwarded to the right people today could cause a tiny epiphany that could lead to the cure for hemorrhoids? It’s not likely, but it could happen.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I’m not even gonna try and clean out the garage until I actually have the ability to throw useless things away. I worry too much about the long term. Also, this post is forcing me to reconsider my pumpkin alien strategy.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5312733717728406" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if beets cure hemorrhoids?</span></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-90913351082512293482012-07-07T14:05:00.001-07:002012-07-07T14:05:56.889-07:00Cool Donuts<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spend huge amounts of time convincing myself that I’m not 45 years-old. It’s an elaborate magic trick that requires lots of misdirection and an almost heroic amount of ignorance. But if I perform the illusion correctly, I can move serenely through this process called aging; if I don’t, Florida law requires me to get a Viagra prescription. Also, I have to buy a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The stakes are high. And sometimes, my audience won’t cooperate with me either.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went to get donuts last Saturday at the swanky new donut place in town, the Jupiter Donut Factory. The Donut Factory is popular right now because the young staff there don’t make donuts as much as they hack donuts - taking regular donuts apart like a software program and putting them back together in new and sometimes dangerous configurations. Some of these configurations even involve bacon, which is nature’s perfect food because it both nurtures you and eventually kills you. As usual, a long line stood between me and my creamy quarry.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t mind the long lines at the Donut Factory, mainly because someone in the kitchen is usually playing music while she cooks. The first time I went, I heard some Talking Heads; the next time, Radiohead. No matter how much I like the music, though, I have never commented on it, because talking about music with young people is always dangerous.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last Saturday was the day the donut music died. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stood in line enjoying a series of B-52 songs, one of which I did not recognize. Because the song interested me, I felt compelled to ask where I could get it. What I should have asked was...</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey, you guys have great taste in music. What B-52s song is that? I’d like to download it.”</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then I should have pulled my pants low, low on my ass like Justin Bieber and adjusted my ironic trucker hat so that it wasn’t straight.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I didn’t. I was still sleepy, I hadn’t had my coffee yet and I completely forgot that I was pretending to not be 45 years-old. What I said was...</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What CD are you playing?”</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The confused look in the young cashier’s eyes froze me like a raccoon caught in a garbage can. I looked around at the other younger people in the shop to see if they had heard my slip. Besides the cashier, no one looked confused. Good. I looked back at the cashier and this is what I repeated in my head...</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Please don’t ask me what a CD is. Please don’t ask me what a CD is. Please don’t ask me what a CD is.”</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her eyes unclouded and became sweetly sympathetic.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s an IPod. You can load it up with thousands of songs and it will play them randomly.”</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With my eyes, I begged her to stop.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No one buys CDs anymore. You buy songs on the Internet.”</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.35549117624759674" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I considered whipping out my Iphone. Instead, I just pulled out my leather wallet on a chain and paid for the very cool donuts.</span></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-30192591248146620442012-06-29T06:54:00.000-07:002012-06-29T06:54:24.259-07:00Overwhelmed, Again.I wrote the following essay almost three years ago, give or take a few weeks. After yesterday's Supreme Court decision, I feel the need to post it again:<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I began writing this in the ICU unit of a children's hospital in Florida. Ten feet away, my wife was sleeping in a hospital bed, curled around my five year-old daughter Riley. Riley was hooked to two IVs - one for steroids and one for blood pressure medication - so she had to sleep with her arms straightened at her sides.</div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="background-color: #e0e0e0; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; text-indent: 26px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="background-color: #e0e0e0; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; text-indent: 26px;">Riley had been diagnosed with something called Nephrotic Syndrome. Her blood pressure was high - within the stroke range even for an adult - and the doctors and nurses had been trying different medications in the hope that her blood pressure would go down to normal. At around 2 a.m. in the morning, they would find the right medicine.</span><br style="background-color: #e0e0e0; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; text-indent: 26px;" /><div style="background-color: #e0e0e0; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; text-indent: 26px;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But at that moment, we didn't know that.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought about different things there in the dark ICU room, as one of Riley's favorite Scooby Doo DVDs played over an over. I thought about a ritual that Riley performs when I pick her up from pre-school on Mondays. As soon as I walk through the gate to her school yard, she backs up, plants her feet and races toward me. Then she jumps. My only job is to catch this lanky, golden juggernaut girl and then stagger back - as if she has almost knocked me over. Riley doesn't like it as much if I don't stagger. The purpose of her leap is to overwhelm me.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And she does.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That night I also thought about health insurance. What if we didn't have it? Riley didn't seem that sick at first, but we took her to the doctor's office just in case. What if we had waited because we didn't have the money?</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Two weeks after Riley left the hospital, I was repairing a computer at customer's house when the customer began talking politics. In general, he felt that President Obama was going to bankrupt the country. I've heard this stuff before, sometimes from friends, and I try to keep my responses measured. I do this because it's the polite thing to do, but I also do this because even though I voted for Obama, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I'm not an economist.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But then the customer started talking about socialized medicine. I tried to steer him away from the conversation.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"My daughter just got out of the hospital," I said. "Every time I see something about universal coverage on the news, I think about her. I'm probably not the most rational about the subject."</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The man persisted. "You're living proof, though. You've got a job and you've got medical coverage. Almost everyone can afford medical coverage. The problem is that you've got people who would rather spend the premium on other things..."</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I flinched because I thought he might be the kind of person to end that sentence with "...like spinners and rims."</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But he didn't. He seemed to sincerely believe that our medical system was in great shape.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn't try to change his mind. I'm not a preacher, either.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Riley is doing better now. Her medicine costs, thanks to health insurance, only about $300 a month. We're happy to pay this. The money is not the tough part for us.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Riley's medicine gives her something called "moonface" - meaning that her thin, sweet face has become almost round. Her cheeks are hard to the touch and her stomach swells out, too. And for the first time in my five year-old's life, she is afraid to be seen in a bathing suit. She is like Eve just after she was thrown out of the Garden of Eden - only Riley never stole an apple. We think she might be able to stop the medicine in a few weeks.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I've written this column for something like five years now. I try to keep it humorous; I exaggerate a little here; I poke a little fun there. Every now and then I make a pee pee joke for the kids and husbands. But this thing with Riley has changed me. I can't stand the national conversation about health coverage.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Most of the debate is generated by interest groups with something to sell. The purpose of their talk is not to inform us or educate us; their purpose is to overwhelm us - and they do.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, I'm not an economist, but I'm gonna say a few things about the economy. Nor am I a preacher; but I'm gonna fucking preach a few things.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Someone you know - someone you like and admire - is going to tell you in the next few months that America doesn't need "socialized" medicine. They might even be an actual doctor. They're going to spout talking points about how it will affect job growth in a faltering economy. They might talk about how doctors will actually leave the field of medicine because they can't pay their bills. This is what you should say:</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Almost nine million kids don't have health insurance, part of the almost 45 million people in the United States without any kind of health coverage. It's estimated that at least 18,000 people die each year because they lack medical insurance.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If your friend talks about America becoming Socialist - whatever that means - appeal to their rationality and point out that our libraries, police departments and fire departments are already socialized. They have been since the beginning of our country. Tell your friend that our medical infrastructure needs to be exactly like a fire department - because the health of America is dangerously close to being on fire. Appeal also to their common sense. When the next pandemic rolls through, do we really want nearly 20% of America avoiding a doctor's office?</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don't. But then, I'm not an epidemiologist. I could be wrong.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm just a father haunted by the thought of all the uninsured families out there that have a daughter like Riley with an undiagnosed problem. The girl is feeling a little sick, but is otherwise okay.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wonder how long they wait.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-86047475941359431882012-06-22T11:45:00.000-07:002012-06-22T11:45:04.053-07:00Tuna's Gift<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The triple-blind experiments have been conducted, the surveys completed and the data collected. The Grim Richard family has come to a scientific conclusion:</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our dog Tuna is a way better face licker than than our other dog Marnie. </span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though they are both Boston Terriers, general consensus is that Marnie’s tongue is too slimy and lacks assertiveness. Tuna, however, has a strong, muscular lick with just the right amount of moisture. By moisture, I mean dog spit.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is what happens when families spend too much time together.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s true. Every day some expert on television or the Internet proclaims how important it is to spend time with your kids. And, weirdly enough, these television and Internet experts assert that “spending time with your family” should not include watching television or surfing the Internet.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But have they actually spent a lot of time with their own families? Probably not. They’re working in the cutthroat world of repeating dubious scientific information just because it’s been repeated a lot. They don’t have time to hang out with their families.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bridget and I have actually spent time with our family and learned the truth. If you take away television and the Internet and just spend actual, quality time with your family, the situation quickly devolves. Sometimes, it devolves into a face licking contest between your dogs.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that’s if you’re lucky. Sometimes, your kids want to talk about stuff like sex, religion or whether targeted tax breaks for businesses can stimulate large-scale economies.</span></b></div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7098157326690853" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Which is why we stick with face-licking contests between our dogs. Besides, our dog Tuna has a gift. His face licks are relaxing. It’s like a day spa treatment except it’s free - and the spa is located really, really close to a dog food factory.</span></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-10119483008585660812012-06-08T07:54:00.000-07:002012-06-08T08:07:15.899-07:00Le Frolic<br />
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I like swimming. If that’s not surprising to you, it’s way surprising for me.</div>
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I’ve been capable of swimming for most of my life, but I have never enjoyed it - which is odd, because I’ve lived most of my life near the beaches. I even lifeguarded at the city beach for an entire summer, watching pale Canadian tourists frolic in the surf.</div>
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And believe me, French Canadians love <span class="c4" style="font-style: italic;">le frolic</span>. You can tell by their love of really, really tight male swimsuits.</div>
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But if those careless, Speedo-clad Quebecois had any idea how much I hated swimming, they might have opted to move down the beach to another, more fish-like lifeguard.</div>
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A few weeks ago, though, I sat on my Florida back porch lamenting to my wife about my increasingly undependable right ankle.</div>
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“It hurts me when I run on it too much,” I said. “It’s interfering with my plans to use a few months of cardiovascular exercise to undo the 40 years of damage that I have inflicted on my body with snack foods. ”</div>
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Bridget gestured to the pool in our backyard.</div>
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“You could swim,” she said.</div>
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“No, seriously,” I said. “You know that Funyuns are the anti-anti oxidant, right?”</div>
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So, I swam 50 laps in our mid-sized inground pool. And I loved it. It elevated my heart rate and worked my muscles, but required very little movement of my ankle. During my best moments, I felt like Namor, the mighty Sub-Mariner, King of the Atlanteans.</div>
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Until I swam my board shorts off.</div>
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It turns out that I have an almost two dimensional ass, highly respected in geometry circles but not so much in keeping-your-swimsuit-on circles. Normal asses typically prevent board shorts from coming off during prolonged swimming. My ass, however, lets board shorts slip like butter on a skillet.</div>
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And there is only one cure. Well...two cures...but I’m going to need to save up for the implants. That leaves only one option.</div>
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I cannot muster the courage to walk outside to our pool in the dark blue Speedo swimsuit - even in the dark. Instead, i put on my manly orange board shorts over the Speedos, climb into the pool and then remove the board shorts.</div>
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And then I swim like a fish...no, like an Atlantean. It feels magnificent cutting through the water without the drag of board shorts. At the end of a swim I am winded, tired and euphoric. I am content in knowing one thing.</div>
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I love <span class="c4" style="font-style: italic;">le frolic</span>.</div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-42559913346588762902010-08-18T02:34:00.001-07:002010-08-18T02:34:41.265-07:00Like Good, American Raccoons<div style="background-color:transparent;font-family:'Times New Roman';margin-left:0px;margin-right:0px"><span id="k9wl" style="font-style:normal;vertical-align:baseline"><font face="arial"><font color="#000000"><font size="3"> My wife hates the raccoons in our neighborhood because they break into our trash cans in the middle of the night, eat the leftovers and leave food packaging strewn across our yard. It’s very festive, actually. It looks like a ticker-tape parade was held by Lean Cuisine.</font></font></font></span><font size="3"><br></font><span style="font-style:normal;vertical-align:baseline"><font face="arial"><font color="#000000"><font size="3"> “What are we going to do about these raccoons?” Bridget asked me the other night as we picked up frozen pizza wrappers, fish stick boxes and empty juice boxes.</font></font></font></span><font size="3"><br></font><span style="font-style:normal;vertical-align:baseline"><font face="arial"><font color="#000000"><font size="3"> Well, they’re eating our leftovers,” I said. “If we do nothing, they’ll eventually die of coronary heart disease.”</font></font></font></span><font size="3"><br></font></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-23372686799549486132010-07-02T03:28:00.001-07:002010-07-02T03:28:42.739-07:00Did I Say Finesse?<div> Talking with your kids about sex and sexuality requires a deft touch - a kind of "finesse" if you will. </div><div> Or you could just handle it the way I do.<br></div><div> Yesterday, Gabriel stopped me in the kitchen as I gathered towels and sunscreen for the pool.</div><div> "Hey, dad. What's a condom?"<br></div><div> "A what?" I asked - even though I had heard the question clearly. I folded the terry cloth towels to buy myself some time.<br></div><div> "A condom," Gabriel answered. "I saw a commercial for condoms. What are they?"<br></div><div> I paused and looked at my ten year-old. I considered lying for a moment because that's...what's the word I'm looking for....easier.<br></div><div> "It's a piece of rubber that men wear on their penises so that the women won't get pregnant."<br></div><div> He considered this for a moment.<br></div><div> "We live in a really weird world."<br></div><div> "Yes, we do," I replied.<br></div><br><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-81687542803659972262010-04-26T19:53:00.001-07:002010-04-26T19:53:11.879-07:00House of a Thousand Screws<div> This Christmas, my in-laws gave my six year-old daughter Riley a stained wood playhouse. And this playhouse isn't one of those ten-piece plastic playhouses that you can pick up at Target. No, sir. This playhouse has a porch. This playhouse has an actual porch with white wooden columns. This playhouse has a bay window on one side, for god sakes. </div><div> And though this playhouse is magnificent and my daughter really, really wants to play in it, I haven't even contemplated building this architectural treasure before now. Why, you ask?<br></div><div> This playhouse is held together by a thousand screws.</div><div> As I looked at the directions over eggnog last Christmas, I noticed that the manual clearly states that building this playhouse requires two adults about six to eight hours of work time. And it occurred to me to ask myself:<br></div><div> What have I done to piss off my in-laws?<br></div><div> Clearly, I did something.<br></div><div> I am famous in my town for not having tools. Hell, there are even some rumors flying about that I lack opposable thumbs with which to grasp tools. This is a lie, of course. I do have opposable thumbs. They just happen to be, God help me, on my feet. I sometimes even use my foot thumbs to pick up and eat Cheetohs that have fallen to the floor while I watch television. This is the real reason, if you must know, that my feet are vaguely burnished orange.<br></div><div> Whatever. The point is that I never, ever build stuff. <br></div> And yet Riley got the gift of this house and I got the gift of...screwing. My in-laws have even let me borrow a drill with a phillips-head driver on it, so that I don't have to screw screws in manually. I am grateful for that.<div> Because I am on hour seven right now...of screwing. All of the wood is pre-cut, so there is no measuring or cutting to distract you from, say, screwing screws into boards. Also, there's no painting of any kind, either, so you can pretty much just concentrate on the screwing.</div><div> You get the idea, probably.<br></div><div> This thing gets potentially worse, too. It's been raining in Florida, so I've been building the house inside of my garage. I've just realized that once I'm finished, I have to get this resined behemoth out of my garage, over a chain-link fence and into the back yard. I'm not even sure this thing will fit under the opened garage door. My 10 year-old son Gabriel suggested with a laugh that I might have to unscrew sections of the house in order to get it out the garage.<br></div><div> "Heh.That's pretty funny," I replied.<br></div><div> We laughed together for a moment.<br></div><div> And then I taught him how to use the drill.<br></div><div> </div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-45761471733219959792010-03-08T19:22:00.001-08:002010-03-08T19:22:19.216-08:00Burned-Out American Bulbs My wife and I built our kids from scratch. We started with the basic supplies, followed the time-honored blueprint and, after a period of incubation, manufactured three wiggly autonomous machines capable of intaking fuel in huge amounts and converting it directly into poop and frustration.<div> We built these machines but we cannot program them.</div><div> This weekend, for instance, I went into my sons' room. My 10 year-old son Gabriel sat on his bed playing a Nintendo DS game.</div><div> "Gabriel," I said clearly. "Put down the video and clean your room. Breakfast will be ready in 10 minutes and I want your room to be clean by then."</div><div> He gave me a look which, in retrospect, was very reminiscent of the hourglass I used to get whenever I started a Windows 95 program. I went back to scrambling eggs for breakfast. Ten minutes later, I walked back into the room and both Gabriel and his seven year-old brother were watching television. No work had been done. I decided to try another programming language.</div><div> I yelled.</div><div> Both boys jumped to their feet and started milling around their beds. They weren't actually picking anything up, but were confusedly making paths around the room, approximating the work of cleaning up. They looked like Roomba vacuum cleaners with broken sensors. I left them and went to eat my cold eggs.<br><div> A few minutes later, Gabriel walked up to me. He had a light bulb in his hand.</div><div> "Dad, what am I supposed to do with this burned-out light bulb?"<br></div><div> I stared at him for a moment. I considered legitimately answering his question, but I was no longer positive that clear English was the solution to our dilemma.<br></div><div> "Send it the Smithsonian Institute for their collection of burned-out American light bulbs."<br></div><div> He gave me a suspicious look.<br></div><div> "The Smithsonian has a collection of burned-out light bulbs?"<br></div><div> "Nope," I answered. "They just throw them away."<br></div><div> And then I walked away without waiting for his epiphany. When I imagine it now, I like to think the light bulb came on in his hand.<br></div><br><br><br></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-48118659064023955162009-12-22T04:46:00.001-08:002009-12-22T04:46:18.980-08:00Wild Yorkies So, the Grim Richard family went home to Virginia for the Thanksgiving holidays, where we stayed with my brother's family. Prior to leaving Florida, our family prepared by going over a huge list of traits that we should hide in order to appear normal when in proximity to other people.<br><br /><div> I started by looking to my wife.</div><div> "Bridget, we're already taking our dog on the trip. Do not adopt another dog while we're in another state, in someone else's house, for only four days...."<br></div><div> Bridget looked outraged, so I continued.<br></div><div> "... wait until we get home to adopt another dog against my wishes."<br></div><div> She smiled and relaxed.<br></div><div> "Kids, while we're in Virginia, you have to wear clothes. It's not Florida. You can't go "hanging brains" all over people's furniture and get away with it. Besides, it's 40 degrees there. Your brains will actually freeze to the furniture.<br></div><div> The three kids glumly nodded their approval.<br></div> "Finally, if someone hears my stomach rumbling, subtly waft your hand in front of your nose to remind me that most people hold their farts in."<div> My family nodded. One of my kids began subtly wafting his hand immediately.<br></div><div> "Nice try," I said and farted.</div><div><br></div><div> Mostly, this worked. We passed as a normal family. No Virginia dogs were adopted and none of my kids got inappropriately nude. Gabriel, however, did have one small hiccup. </div><div> Gabriel loves watching documentary-style shows more than anything else - even the Cartoon Channel. Unfortunately, his ten year-old senses can't yet discern the difference between a Ken Burns documentary and, say, Ghost Hunters. This means that Gabriel is constantly spraying facts, figures and trivia that range from the tested and accurate through the wildly inaccurate and all the way into the batshit crazy insane. He's like my own amazingly pale Fox News Channel.</div><div> One morning Gabriel and I were sitting in the kitchen with Roger when Gabriel let loose with the following factoid:<br></div><div> "Did you know that in Mexico, people will often let their dogs loose in the wild because they can no longer afford to care for them? Eventually, they stop being domesticated and return to being wild creatures."<br></div><div> "I did not know that," Roger said in his best patient uncle manner. But Gabriel was not done.<br></div><div> "In fact, a wild Yorkie can easily kill a domesticated Pit Bull." He looked very scientific as he said this.<br></div><div> Uncle Roger stared hard at Gabriel. "A wild Yorkie?"<br></div><div> Gabriel nodded.<br></div><div> "Well, I don't believe that," said Roger, who is known world-wide for his tact and diplomacy.<br></div><div> Gabriel looked to me for help.<br></div><div> I obliged. "You know I'm going to kid you about this for a long time, right?"<br></div><div> Gabriel let out a sigh.<br></div><div><br></div><div> A few hours later, I kept my word. As Gabriel passed me in the hallway, I let out a soft rumble.<br></div><div> He responded by waving his hand subtly in front of his nose.<br></div><div> "That wasn't me, dude," I said.<br></div><div> He looked at me.<br></div><div> "I think it was a wild Yorkie."<br></div><div> <br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-55558444313633596032009-11-17T17:58:00.001-08:002009-11-17T17:58:48.238-08:00I'll Have What He's Having I had to get a testicular sonogram recently. I mention this for a few reasons. First, it's absolutely pertinent to the potentially humorous story I'm going to tell. Also, I believe in frank discussion about medical issues. Especially if it gets my readers squirming in front of their computers.<div> So, buckle up. This one's gonna be way testicley.</div><div> First some background. A testicular sonogram is just like the sonogram that a pregnant women gets, except it's lower. Warm gel is used as a conductive agent, a wand is applied to the area or areas and a grainy black and white picture is produced. An uncomfortable time is had by all. </div><div> This much I expected. Here's what I didn't expect:<br></div><div> When you're done, you get a DVD of the sonogram to take to the doctor who originally ordered the test. This DVD looks exactly like the "Hannah Montana" movie your brother-in-law pirated off of the Internet- a white-colored disc with the title written in permanent marker. Except it doesn't star Miley Cyrus. It stars your testicles.</div><div> After you take it to the doctor, you can do anything you want with that DVD. I, for instance, considered sending it to Netflix when I returned some of their movies - until I considered how angry this might make my wife.</div><div> So, I did what any responsible person would do with his intensely private medical record. I left it in my car. So my children could find it on the ride to school one morning.</div><div> "What's this?," Julian asked.</div><div> As I said, I believe in frankly discussing medical issues. It makes me feel like a rational adult.<br></div><div> "It's a DVD of my testicular sonogram."</div><div> My kids were instantly mesmerized.</div><div> "Can we see it?"</div><div> I realized that they thought this was a regular DVD - an actual movie of me being sonogrammed. I pictured a director in the room with me, the technician and my testicles.</div><div> "It's not a movie. It's just a black and white scan."</div><div> All three kids looked at me expectantly.<br></div><div> "You can't see anything."</div><div> "Oh," they said in unison and looked disappointed. For a second, I thought I might be off the hook.</div><div> "Did they have to scan your anus, too?" Gabriel asked.<br></div><div> "No. No, they didn't, Gabriel."<br></div><div> I looked in the rear-view mirror at my ten year-old son. "And where did you learn the word "anus"?"<br></div><div> "Playground," he answered.<br></div><div> Seven year-old Julian interrupted my next question.<br></div><div> "Hey," he said. "I got one of these sonograms when I hurt my testicles playing football."<br></div><div> "That's right," I said. "I remember that now."<br></div><div> "Did it hurt?" Gabriel asked.<br></div><div> Julian considered this for a second and smiled.<br></div><div> "Nope. It kinda felt good."<br></div><div> I must be going to the wrong sonogram place.<br></div><div> <br><div><br></div><br></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-51936534282007237882009-10-06T19:25:00.001-07:002009-10-06T19:25:03.822-07:00ROFLOL-BMH Three of my nieces recently added me as a friend on Facebook. This move posed little risk for my college-age nieces because I am old and my posts are soft and mushy - like my bones. Most of my status updates, for instance, involve napping. Also, I only know how to do two things: updates and clicking the little thumbs up button to show approval. There are no sharp edges to my Facebook updates. <div> The real risk is for people like me - elderly people in their early forties. Navigating Facebook for us is akin walking across the field during a rugby game. There's going to be injuries. Hips will be broken. But now that I've run across that metaphorical field for a few months, I do have some advice for newly-elderly people who want to befriend young people on Facebook.</div><div> First, do not read young people posts. They like to describe what they're doing in college. You, as a relative who cares for them, their education and their safety, do <i>not</i> want to know what they're doing in college. For instance, one of my nieces might hypothetically post something like the following:</div><div> "Skipping class today. I lost the car last night and need to find it quick before someone opens the trunk. Hope my parents don't find out."<br></div><div> See? There's nothing constructive that you can do after reading something like that. It's best that you never read it in the first place. Embracing your impending senility is a lot easier without being confronted with painful questions on Facebook.<br></div><div> Which brings me to my second tip. If you must read young people posts on Facebook, don't reply to them. Don't comment on them. You might think that you will fit in - that no one will know how old you are because the Internet gives you a measure of anonymity. </div><div> You would be wrong.</div><div> I wish I had a dime for every time I've popped out a witty bon mot on one of my niece's pages only to have three of her friends comment:<br></div><div> "Dude, your post smells like my grandmother's house."<br></div><div> That's right. On Facebook, old people posts literally smell like mothballs.<br></div><div> Sometimes, I can barely type ROFLOL through the tears. And that only intensifies the pain and irony - because I'm way too old to physically roll on the floor and laugh out loud like the youngsters do. Not without busting my hip. You know, ROFLOL-BMH.<br></div><div> Finally, never use the phrase "bon mot" on Facebook. Or in a blog post. You'll just look like a tool.<br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-70563868552184592612009-09-03T07:03:00.001-07:002009-09-03T16:26:17.424-07:00Because I'm Enjoying It...To new parents and prospective parents, I offer this bit of hard-earned advice about kids:<br /><div> Don't teach them to talk. There's no upside to letting children communicate. Oh sure, all the experts drone on and on about the importance of talking children, but the experts leave out some important points. For instance, did you know what the first thing kids do after learning to talk?<br /></div><div> They talk back.<br /></div><div> And they parse your words. They challenge everything you say, no matter how innocuous. Living with talking kids is like hiring lawyers to come live with you and sue you every second of the day.<br /></div><div> The other morning at the kitchen table, my sons had just started their daily harassment of their little sister. I wanted to shut this down quickly for a few reasons. First, I don't want my sons to grow up thinking it's okay to bully girls. But also, little Riley was starting to get mad - you could tell by the way she clenched her five year-old jaw. And her tiny fist. If this kept up, one or both of my sons was going to take a ride on Riley's Choo Choo Train of Pain.<br /></div><div> "Stop messing with Riley," I said clearly and simply.<br /></div> Six year-old Julian looked me squarely in the face, nodded in the affirmative to let me know that he definitely understood my instructions and then plucked his sister in the ear.<br /><div> So, I elaborated. "If you don't stop bullying your little sister, I will take away everything that you enjoy. Every video game. Every toy. Every single activity that you enjoy will be taken away for a week."<br /></div><div> All of the kids stopped for a moment and considered this. Riley was smiling in rich anticipation of her brothers' potential suffering, which I expected. She was, after all, on my side in this. But Julian was smiling, too, which I had not expected. And then he let me have it.<br /></div><div> "I enjoy going poop," he said matter-of-factly. "Are you gonna stop me from going poop?"<br /></div><div> And just like that - I had been rhetorically bested by a six year-old.<br /></div><div> "You know what I mean," I snapped back. I jabbed my finger for emphasis.<br /></div><div> This was some pretty weak sauce, as retorts go, and even Riley seemed embarrassed for me - so embarrassed, in fact, that she switched sides right in front of me. She started laughing along with the boys who had been tormenting her moments before.<br /></div><div> But that's okay. Julian can think he's won for now. He's gotta use the bathroom sooner or later. And then I'll knock on the door.<br /></div><div> "Julian?" I'll say quietly.<br /></div><div> "I'm going to the bathroom," he'll answer.<br /> "Julian?" I'll say again.<br /></div><div> "I said I'm going to the bathroom, Dad."<br /></div><div> "Julian?"<br /></div><div> "What?"<br /></div><div> "Julian?"<br /></div><div> "Dad! Stop It!" Julian will yell. "I'm trying to go to the bathroom!"<br /></div><div> "Julian?"<br /></div><div> "What!" he'll yell.<br /></div><div> And then I'll let him have it.<br /></div><div> "Are you enjoying yourself?"<br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-70465015838302362132009-08-24T07:42:00.001-07:002013-03-16T16:26:24.045-07:00Pencils Down!The new school year is here and parents KNOW what that means.<br />
<div>
Paperwork. And lots of it.</div>
<div>
This year is no exception. The teachers have again lobbed homework at the parents - giving us permission slips to sign, legal releases to initial and new rules to remember. And Bridget and I have three kids, which is like...cross out the two, carry the one...double the work.</div>
<div>
I wouldn't mind except that Bridget expects me to help.</div>
<div>
"Hypothetically speaking," Bridget said, "You're fifty percent of the parents in this house - not twenty-five percent of the kids."</div>
<div>
"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.</div>
<div>
"You're one of the parents..." she started.</div>
<div>
I stopped her. "No, I meant "hypothetically". What does that mean?"</div>
<div>
I was going to continue watching "Cheaters", but then I spied the questions on one of the colored papers we had to fill out for Riley's kindergarten teacher. It was one of those questionnaires where you describe your kid to her new teacher.</div>
<div>
"What," it asked, "is one of your child's favorite things to do?"</div>
<div>
I grabbed a pencil.</div>
<div>
"Riley enjoys installing NOX in her Power Wheels Barbie Jeep, heading down to Daytona for the weekend and racing for pinks. I guess you could say that she lives life a quarter mile at a time."</div>
<div>
I was starting to enjoy myself now.</div>
<div>
"What is one of your child's least favorite things to do?"</div>
<div>
Hmmm. "Power washing the house. She always cries about how the power washer is too big and it hurts her arms but I think when she looks at the clean house and driveway at the end of those eight hours, she probably feels the same pride I do."</div>
<div>
Bridget took my pencil.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-87532044681604544102009-08-17T08:28:00.001-07:002009-08-17T08:28:11.221-07:00Pee On It!<div> I've been on vacation for the last couple of weeks. I live in Florida, so I don't actually have to fly anywhere to visit a tropical paradise filled with exotic locales, strange plants and fascinating animals. Basically, I just walk out my door and - bam! - I'm standing in a friggin' paradise.</div><div> In turns out, ironically, that the only inconvenient thing about living and vacationing in Florida is the exotic locales, strange plants and fascinating animals.</div><div> On my second day of vacation, for example, I stepped on a Sea Urchin while climbing onto the stern ladder of my father-in-law's boat. I don't recommend it. It really hurts. It kinda feels like stepping on 20 needles and then breaking them off in your foot. Mostly because that's actually what you're doing.<br></div><div> I did learn something interesting about the Internet, though, as I sat on the boat wincing in pain. While my wife and mother-in-law used tweezers to pull urchin spines out of the sole of my foot, I used my phone to surf the Internet and pull up information about treating urchin spine impalements. And that's when I learned this:<br></div><div> The cure for everything on the Internet involves peeing on it.<br></div><div> Punctured by urchin spines? Pee on it. Sunburn? Pee on it. Jellyfish sting? Pee on it. Shark bite? Pee on it. Cancer? Pee on it.<br></div><div> Because I'm one of those deluded fools who worships science at the cost of ignoring the homeopathic bounty that nature provides, I chose to go with antibiotics instead.<br></div><div> My children are like-minded. The other day our lilliputian Boston Terrier bit into a toads in our yard. This started a mini-panic in our house because Florida is home to Bufo toads whose skin secretes a venom that deadly to small dogs. And our dog loves to chomp some amphibians.<br></div><div> Nine year-old Gabriel examined our dog and pronounced everything okay. As he cradled the dog, he cooed to her.<br></div><div> "You know what cures Bufo venom, Marnie?"<br></div><div> The dog looked uncomfortable. I stifled the urge to yell out, "Pee on it!"</div><div> "Love," Gabriel answered. "Love and lots and lots of drugs."<br></div><div> <br></div><div> <br></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-49581504785781016272009-08-04T09:06:00.001-07:002009-08-04T09:08:31.611-07:00...And That's a Fascist BeltThe current political conversation summed up:<br /><br /><div> <b>Obama</b>: Thousands of people die every year because our current insurance system is inadequate. In addition, tens of thousands of families go bankrupt even if they have insurance. Both Republicans and Democrats agree that we need to discuss how to fix this before it breaks America socially and financially. What do you think?<br /></div><div> <b>Crazy People</b>: That is a very, very important issue but your zipper is down.<br /></div><div> <b>Obama</b>: Oh, thanks...no, wait, my zipper is up.<br /></div><div> <b>Crazy People</b>: No, your zipper is down.<br /></div><div> <b>Obama</b>: I just checked it. My zipper is up.<br /></div><div> <b>Crazy People</b>: You've never shown proof that your zipper is up.<br /></div><div> <b>Obama</b>:You and I are standing three feet apart and both of us can see that my zipper is clearly up.</div><div> <b>Crazy People</b>: (Pause) Those are socialist pants.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-90935939935754714702009-07-13T17:54:00.001-07:002009-07-13T17:56:12.648-07:00Burning Ring of TruthRegular readers may remember that I recently mocked my eldest son because he wanted to learn how to play the recorder. Chiefly, I judged the wind instrument to be a less-than-manly instrument much unsuited to rocking out. Because I wanted Gabriel to lose interest in the recorder quickly - I did what any smart parent would do in order to force his kid to drop something like a hot potato - or in this case, a hot cross bun.<div> I fully supported him.</div><div> I bought him a new recorder. I forced him to play for me. I forced him to play for other people. And once my son sensed my enthusiasm, he walked away from his plastic recorder like it was radioactive. </div><div> Mission accomplished. And yet, a month later, my nine year-old would have his revenge when I came across a Julia Nunes ukulele-version of Weezer's "Keep Fishin' on YouTube. </div><div> To begin with, Julia Nunes clearly rocked the song. I liked it even better than the original Weezer version. But I was also dumbstruck by how much her little ukulele rocked. And more than that, the tingy melodies reminded me of the mandolin my grandmother used to play before she passed away. And that's apparently the recipe that gets me hooked - two parts rocking and one part dearly-missed grandmother.</div><div> So I bought a soprano ukulele, the smallest you can get, about a week later and tried to hide my new obsession from everyone including my family. I retreated to the tiny, dark re-purposed closet that is my office, shut the door and started practicing ukulele chords, some of which require only one finger to play.<br /></div><div> Occasionally, my wife would knock on the door.<br /></div><div> "Uh, Richard? What's that noise?" she would ask.<br /></div><div> I would look at my beautiful 20 inch uke and back toward the door. I considered shoving aside my masculinity and admitting my fondness for the tiny four-stringed powerhouse in my hands - maybe even busting out some Cashian "Ring of Fire" to make my wife understand. And then I said:<br /></div><div> "I'm looking at pornography on the computer! Could I have some privacy, please!"<br /></div><div> The best lies have the ring of truth.<br /></div><div> Later, when I finally sat down and discussed my ukulele problem with Bridget, she did something I didn't expect her to do.<br /></div><div> She fully supported me.<br /></div><div> Clever, clever woman.<br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div> Editor's Note : For those of you who want to see Julia Nunes' <a id="q6st" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6NHPrYcJpo" title="great cover">great cover</a> of Weezer's "Keep Fishin""<br /><div> <br /></div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-29685773137053958722009-06-29T16:14:00.001-07:002009-06-29T16:14:54.663-07:00Eye Rolling<div> There is a huge population of retired people in Florida. I am, of course, being politically correct when I say "retired people". I'm actually mean that Florida has a huge population of old, wrinkly people who will sometimes forget that they're driving - even though they're in the middle of of an intersection and have just run over a Guatemalan guy on a bicycle.<br></div><div> But here's the advantage to this skewed surplus of wrinkly people in Florida: being 40 years-old in Florida is like being 20 anywhere else. And we middle-aged people take full advantage of that down here. We drive around listening to Ting Tings songs way too loud. We drink like college freshmen and we curse the old people who just don't "get us."<br></div><div> The only thing that spoils the illusion is when we run into actual young people in Florida. A few weeks ago,for instance, I was driving through the supermarket parking lot when I locked eyes with a young woman with tan skin.</div><div> Because I'm married to an easily-riled woman with a formidable right hook, I am unusually good at <i>not noticing</i> women. When I'm with my wife, in fact, I could walk past a naked Monica Bellucci and never move my gaze from the floor.<br></div><div> But my natural instincts were overcome at the supermarket for a few reasons. First, this particular woman sported what car enthusiasts might refer to as "aftermarket parts". If I make take the euphemism further, someone had mistakenly ordered truck parts for the young woman's sub-compact chassis.<br></div><div> Further, thieves had clearly stolen this woman's clothes and replaced them with tiny, midget versions that did not properly cover the delicate, tasteful tattoo that graced the small of her back. Also, I was looking for a parking space, so my guard was down.<br></div><div> In any case, I locked eyes with the twenty-something woman. A little embarrassed, I smiled, which was intended to say, "Excuse me for staring. My eyes are just passing through". Or something to effect.<br></div><div> I expected her to smile back and shrug. Instead, she gave me an eye roll. This, in turn, gave me an unwanted epiphany which caused me to hit the brakes.<br></div><div> "Oh, just freakin' terrific," I said. "I'm a creepy old guy."<br></div><div> My wife off-handedly confirmed this a few days ago, while my family munched on donuts at a table outside of a Dunkin' Donuts.</div><div> "Did you notice," I said as I sipped decaf coffee, "that our cashier looked exactly like Phoebe Cates? The resemblance was amazing. I almost asked her if anyone else had mentioned that before."<br></div><div> "You mean Phoebe Cates, the actress from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High?," my said wife answered. "Yeah, I wouldn't do that."</div><div> "Why?" I asked. "She might find it flattering."<br></div><div> "Hmmm. She might find it flattering that she reminds you, a guy twenty-five years her senior, of an actress whose most famous scene involves playing an underage high school student who walks in on an older guy masturbating to the image of her in a bathing suit?"<br></div><div> "You make an excellent point," I conceded.</div><div> "She's probably never heard of Phoebe Cates. That would be like a senior citizen coming up to me and saying that I remind him of Bette Davis or Lana Turner. It's just creepy."<br></div><div> "Enough," I said. "You can stop making sense anytime now."<br></div><div> And yet, the reminders of my newly-discovered creepiness keep coming.<br></div><div> Yesterday, I sat in my car at a stoplight. I looked out the passenger window, lost in thought, when a car rolled up next me and stopped exactly in my sight line. The blonde driver turned to her left, saw me staring in her direction and quickly eye-rolled me.<br></div><div> I lost it.<br></div><div> "Hey," I called. "I'm not looking at you. I was thinking about lunch. I thought I saw a french fry on our dashboard left over from a trip to McDonald's."<br> She didn't turn around.<br></div><div> "In fact," I yelled," I'm totally gay and completely uninterested in you. Seriously. I was checking out the hot guy on the other side of you. You're in the way of my...hot...guy..checking...stuff."</div><div> The blonde did not look around. But my wife did turn around to face my kids in the backseat.</div><div> "You know Dad's just joking right?"<br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> <br></div><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-62959041282147624202009-06-22T13:19:00.001-07:002009-06-22T13:38:16.106-07:00Facebooked!I've been at peace with this whole social communications thing for a while now. I'm LinkedIn. I'm down with the MySpace. I get deviant on DeviantART. I'll sometimes even Twitter when no one is watching.<br /><div> And I used to like Facebook. Lately, though, Facebook has evolved into something terrifying.</div><div> My wife is on Facebook now.<br /></div><div> At work a few months ago, I sat with my co-workers and checked my Facebook account via my phone. On my "wall", my wife had posted this:</div><div> "Please stop at the store on the way home and buy some milk. Love Bridget."<br /></div><div> "What the..!" I said<br /></div><div> One of my co-workers looked over at my screen and shook his head.<br /></div><div> "That's too bad," he said matter-of-factly.<br /></div><div> "What's too bad?," I asked.<br /></div><div> "Your wife just made you her Facebook bitch."<br /></div><div> A few nights later, I sat in my office writing. By "office" I mean that I sat in the dark little bedroom closet where I keep my desk and computer. By "writing" I mean that I was surfing the Internet - which still officially counts as writing because there was no porn involved. I got a Facebook notification that someone had posted to my wall. </div> "Sweetie, come out on the porch...Marnie's doing something really cute."<br /><div> Excellent. My wife, who sat fifty feet away on the porch, was using Facebook on her wireless laptop to send a message to the Facebook servers three thousand miles away in California, which in turn routed that message through seven or eight far-flung computers and back to me - all to command me to come out to the porch to watch our Boston Terrier do tricks.</div><div> My wife is one of those people who treats a dog exactly like a human, which leads to some pretty bizarre experiences. I am, for instance, not allowed to call the dog "stupid" in front of the dog. When people ask me how many kids I have in the family, Bridget forces me to include the dog in the count. Occasionally, Bridget even dresses the dog up.<br /></div><div> I walked out to the porch.<br /></div><div> "Bridget, you can't use Facebook to call me out to the porch to look at the dog."<br /></div><div> I pointed at the dog for emphasis.<br /></div><div> Bridget looked around at the tableau - me standing on the porch looking at the dog - and she bit her lip. Lip biting is one of the many reasons I love my wife.<br /></div><div> "Look," I said. "You're new to Facebook, so you don't understand. Facebook is a dangerous place. Facebook is like the Old West, except gunslingers don't shoot you down. Instead, your friends judge you. When my friends see you sending me on errands for milk on Facebook, they assume that I'm a whipped husband."<br /></div><div> "That's ridiculous," my wife answered. "Now look at Marnie. Isn't that cute?"<br /></div><div> I could sense that my wife wasn't taking me seriously.</div><div> "Besides," she said. "How exactly is that different from exaggerating the foibles and eccentricities of your family to spice up a blog posting?"</div><div> This seemed like a good time to change the subject.</div><div> "Omigod. Is the dog using your Iphone? That's amazing."</div><div> A few weeks later, my wife learned the hard way after we spent an enjoyable Saturday night at a friend's party. The party had great food, little shots of some flavored alcohol and someone roving around with a camera. It was a recipe for disaster that was missing only one ingredient:</div><div> Facebook.<br /></div><div> The following Monday, Bridget's friend Monica provided exactly that. I called Bridget at work.<br /></div><div> "Hi, Sweetie," she said. "What's up?"<br /></div><div> I tried not to sound panicked.<br /></div><div> "Monica posted the party photos on Facebook."<br /></div><div> "Oh, cool. I'll look at them a little later. Are they good?"<br /></div><div> I said nothing for a moment and then jumped in.<br /></div><div> "You know how they took that picture of you with your arms around Monica's shoulders? You're both smiling and you're wearing that sleeveless blouse?"<br /></div><div> "Yes..."<br /></div><div> I continued. "Well, whoever took the picture kinda messed up the...I think it's called "depth of field" or something...and it makes your arms look...elephantine."<br /></div><div> "Elephantine?"<br /></div><div> Bridget wasn't getting it.<br /></div><div> "The photo makes your arms look like your Nana's arms."<br /></div><div> I swear she screamed.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And a parting gift....</div><div><br /></div><div>Lee Evans from "There's Something About Mary" and the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPNxTCp9mEQ">Lee Evans Trio</a>.</div><div> <br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-28206340983659845202009-06-15T19:24:00.001-07:002009-06-15T20:17:12.007-07:00Overwhelm<div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I began writing this in the ICU unit of children's hospital in Florida. Ten feet away, my wife was sleeping in a hospital bed, curled around my five year-old daughter Riley. Riley was hooked to two IVs - one for steroids and one for blood pressure medication - so she had to sleep with her arms straightened at her sides.</div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Riley had been diagnosed with something called Nephrotic Syndrome. Her blood pressure was high - within the stroke range even for an adult - and the doctors and nurses had been trying different medications in the hope that her blood pressure would go down to normal. At around 2 a.m. in the morning, they would find the right medicine.<br /><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But at that moment, we didn't know that.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I thought about different things there in the dark ICU room, as one of Riley's favorite Scooby Doo DVDs played over an over. I thought about a ritual that Riley performs when I pick her up from pre-school on Mondays. As soon as I walk through the gate to her school yard, she backs up, plants her feet and races toward me. Then she jumps. My only job is to catch this lanky, golden juggernaut girl and then stagger back - as if she has almost knocked me over. Riley doesn't like it as much if I don't stagger. The purpose of her leap is to overwhelm me.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And she does.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>That night I also thought about health insurance. What if we didn't have it? Riley didn't seem that sick at first, but we took her to the doctor's office just in case. What if we had waited because we didn't have the money?<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Two weeks after Riley left the hospital, I was repairing a computer at customer's house when the customer began talking politics. In general, he felt that President Obama was going to bankrupt the country. I've heard this stuff before, sometimes from friends, and I try to keep my responses measured. I do this because it's the polite thing to do, but I also do this because even though I voted for Obama, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I'm not an economist.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But then the customer started talking about socialized medicine. I tried to steer him away from the conversation. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"My daughter just got out of the hospital," I said. "Every time I see something about universal coverage on the news, I think about her. I'm probably not the most rational about the subject."<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The man persisted. "You're living proof, though. You've got a job and you've got medical coverage. Almost everyone can afford medical coverage. The problem is that you've got people who would rather spend the premium on other things..."<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I flinched because I thought he might be the kind of person to end that sentence with "...like spinners and rims."<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But he didn't. He seemed to sincerely believe that our medical system was in great shape.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I didn't try to change his mind. I'm not a preacher, either.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Riley is doing better now. Her medicine costs, thanks to health insurance, only about $300 a month. We're happy to pay this. The money is not the tough part for us. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Riley's medicine gives her something called "moonface" - meaning that her thin, sweet face has become almost round. Her cheeks are hard to the touch and her stomach swells out, too. And for the first time in my five year-old's life, she is afraid to be seen in a bathing suit. She is like Eve just after she was thrown out of the Garden of Eden - only Riley never stole an apple. We think she might be able to stop the medicine in a few weeks. </div><div> <br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I've written this column for something like five years now. I try to keep it humorous; I exaggerate a little here; I poke a little fun there. Every now and then I make a pee pee joke for the kids and husbands. But this thing with Riley has changed me. I can't stand the national conversation about health coverage. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Most of the debate is generated by interest groups with something to sell. The purpose of their talk is not to inform us or educate us; their purpose is to overwhelm us - and they do.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>So, I'm not an economist, but I'm gonna say a few things about the economy. Nor am I a preacher; but I'm gonna fucking preach a few things.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Someone you know - someone you like and admire - is going to tell you in the next few months that America doesn't need "socialized" medicine. They might even be an actual doctor. They're going to spout talking points about how it will affect job growth in a faltering economy. They might talk about how doctors will actually leave the field of medicine because they can't pay their bills. This is what you should say:</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Almost nine million kids don't have health insurance, part of the almost 45 million people in the United States without any kind of health coverage. It's estimated that at least 18,000 people die each year because they lack medical insurance.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>If your friend talks about America becoming Socialist - whatever that means - appeal to their rationality and point out that our libraries, police departments and fire departments are already socialized. They have been since the beginning of our country. Tell your friend that our medical infrastructure needs to be exactly like a fire department - because the health of America is dangerously close to being on fire. Appeal also to their common sense. When the next pandemic rolls through, do we really want nearly 20% of America avoiding a doctor's office?<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I don't. But then, I'm not an epidemiologist. I could be wrong.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I'm just a father haunted by the thought of all the uninsured families out there that have a daughter like Riley with an undiagnosed problem. The girl is feeling a little sick, but is otherwise okay. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I wonder how long they wait.<br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8795973.post-20441872796373279482009-05-11T17:50:00.001-07:002009-05-12T12:46:22.327-07:00Wrong Banana LeafLife in the jungles of South America can be brutal, brief and deadly. Survival means always being aware of your surroundings. You never know which banana leaf might be hiding a deadly Bushmaster or, God forbid, a Brazilian Wandering Spider.<br /><div> Marriage is a lot like that, too.<br /></div><div> A few weekends ago, for instance, I let my wife sit in the car while I ran into the house for something. This was a stupid move because my wife was already displaying the classic spousal signs of unrest. Bridget had,for instance, already referred to me as an "ass" twice that morning when, honestly, I had only deserved being called an "ass" once. Also, she had started to blame me for problems that were probably outside the traditional scope of my husbandly duties - like the swine flu pandemic and the resurgence of bedbugs in the hotels of America.<br /></div><div> So, I was clearly out of my freakin' mind when I ran back inside the house to get my sunglasses and left my wife and family in my car with nothing constructive to do. In the space of few minutes, my wife had rifled the contents of my car and had discovered in the glove box a - wait for it - deadly Brazilian Wandering Spider.<br /></div><div> Actually, it was a Taylor Swift CD.<br /></div> And when I came out, there was cold silence in the car until I buckled in. And my wife said the following nonchalantly:<div> "So, whose Taylor Swift CD is in your glove compartment?"</div><div> She pointed to a CD half hidden under auto handbooks and garage receipts.<br /><div> "Uh, who is Taylor Swift?" I responded.</div><div> Wrong banana leaf.</div><div> "Why would you have a Taylor Swift CD in your glove compartment if you don't even know that she's a multi-platinum recording artist who's currently enjoying great success with her song "Love Story" - which is very likely on that CD sitting in your glove box."</div><div> This was actually a good question - and one for which I did not have an answer. I improvised.</div><div> "Isn't it yours?"</div><div> "I don't like Taylor Swift. Apparently you know someone who does.</div><div> Improvisation clearly wasn't working, so I decided to try it again.<br /></div><div> "Where are you going with this?" I asked.</div><div> "Nowhere. I just want to know whose CD that is."</div><div> I had no idea whose Taylor Swift CD it was. I needed more time to think.</div><div> "I forgot to go to the bathroom," I said and jumped out of the car. I ran inside and feigned going to the bathroom for twenty minutes. This gave me plenty of time to think but I was unfortunately distracted by a copy of "People Magazine" that had, from the look of it, been in the bathroom since before our house was built.</div><div> I returned to the car, prepared for the worse but very, very up-to-date on what Suri Cruise was wearing.</div><div> Bridget smiled at me and kissed me.</div><div> "I have to apologize," she said. "It's not a Taylor Swift CD; it's a Shakira CD. I didn't pull it all the way out and look at it before."</div><div> "Why is there a Shakira CD in my car?" I asked.</div><div> "Oh," she giggled. "It's mine. I left it in here."</div><div> Life in the South American rainforest. It's deadly. It's dangerous. It's very mercurial.<br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /><div> <br /></div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3