You know when you hear some cheezoid song on the radio and for hours you can't seem to get it out of your head? That's kinda like I am now only I'm not hearing a song. I'm hearing the voices of the characters in my kid's favorite toy. I'm talking about the Bright Starts Around We Go Activity Center. If you've never seen one of these things (and if you don't have children under the age of two I can't imagine why you would), it's a pretty jazzy toy.
I guess you could say it's an activity table with a wheeled seat attached so the kid can scoot around to the different diversions. Meryl's favorite seems to be the five piano-like keys that make different sounds depending on what setting she has them on. Sure, she can play do re mi fa so and every possible combination thereof, but with the flip of a switch the friendly cartoon characters on the keys pipe up and either play a tune or say some catchy phrase.
There's a monkey, an elephant, a lion, a giraffe and a zebra, and they all play different styles of music. Furthermore they also have very distinct personalities and voices. The monkey has a Spanish or maybe an Argentinian accent. Oddly enough he's sporting a headdress kinda like Carmen Miranda only his is made up of blue balls. Blueberries maybe? I don't know. Anyway. He plays a salsa tune and when you flip the page of the music book that changes the settings, he says either I am a monkey; I love to swing from my tail, I am purple or I love to dance the salsa.
The elephant is orange and plays some New Orleans style jazz music. In addition to announcing his species, something they all do, he says I am orange and I have big ears.
The lion is yellow and he plays classical piano and sings Figaro figaro figaro.. His personality is probably the most distinct because he's clearly nelly. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying he's nelly. You can tell he's also kinda stuck on himself because before he announces his color he clears his throat like he's calling for your attention in a way the other animals don't. Also when he says I am a lion; I have a mane he makes it sound like he's better than the other animals because they don't have additional fur framing their faces the way he does. I don't know if he thinks his musical genre is more sophisticated than the others or if he just has king-of-the-jungle syndrome or what but there's definitely an air of superiority about him.
The giraffe is green. Go figure. Though I suppose this is no more out of the ordinary than a purple monkey or an orange elphant, huh? His accent is clearly Caribbean. I don't know if he's supposed to be Jamaican or a Trini or what but he's from somewhere in the West Indies. He plays reggae music complete with steel drums and says I have a loooong neck and I am a jammin' giraffe, Mon.
The blue zebra brings up the rear and he has a sort of thug quality about him. I don't just mean he has an urban dialect; I mean he comes across as militaristic or possibly just angry at The Man. He seems happy enough when he says I'm a hip hoppin' zebra, but when you press him again and he says I have stripes, it just sounds like he's annoyed that he had to deliver his line. Sure, his words say I have stripes but his tone says something more like Why don't you leave me alone and go bother that friend of Dorothy two doors down? Somehow though, I just picture him being the voice of reason. A protagonist caught up in the midst of animalia oblivion.
When Meryl bangs on the keys I hear them say these things over and over and over to the point that I think I'm hearing them when I'm not really hearing them anymore. Also, when my mind races I imagine them having conversations with each other kinda like the're acting out their own version of Toy Story. A scene might go something like this:
Setting: Backstage at the Bright Starts Round we Go
Lion: (clearing his throat as he runs his fingers through his mane) I am a lion. I have a mane.
Zebra: I don't know about these other people up in here but I for one am sick of your tired ass going on and on about your mane.
Lion: Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!
Elephant: Ha! I have big ears.
Zebra: (turning to Elephant) Let me ask you something. Why when Twinkle Toes and I are having a conversation do you have to butt in and go and announce something so nebulous as the fact that you have big ears? If we can see his mane, we can see your big ears. Hell, the Weebles down the street at Playskool can see your big ears.
Monkey: I am a monkey. I love to swing from my tail.
Lion: (oblivious to the conversation) I am yellow.
Zebra: (turning to Monkey) And let me guess, you're purple, right?
Monkey: I love to dance the salsa.
Zebra: We know. And swing from your tail. Why don't you go back to whatever jungle you came from? We have enough problems here with you people takin' all our jobs.
Giraffe: (playing a calipso beat on his steel drums) I am blue.
Lion: Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!
Zebra: (turning to Giraffe) What I said to monkey goes double for you. Who do you think you are anyway banging on that thing in here while some of us are trying to get ready for a show?
Giraffe: I am a jammin' giraffe, Mon.
Zebra: High on ganja is more like it.
Monkey: I am purple.
Elephant: Ha! I am orange.
Monkey: I love to swing from my tail.
Lion: (clearing his throat) I am yellow.
Zebra: Y'all can all just shut up.
Giraffe: I am blue.
Monkey: I love to dance the salsa.
Elephant: Ha! I have big ears.
Zebra: Can a zebra get a little respect around here? I said shut up.
Elephant: Ha! I am orange.
Giraffe: I am a jammin' giraffe, Mon.
Monkey: I am purple.
Zebra: (standing on his chair) SHUT UP!!!!!
(there is a brief moment of silence while all the animals fidget nervously at their dressing tables.)
Lion: (clearing his throat) I am yellow.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Shit happens
Why after my daughter comes down with her first urinary tract infection can we no longer smell her dirty diapers? Granted, I've known my shit didn't stink for years now, but when you've got a baby in diapers, especially a girl, you kinda appreciate it when you can smell the need for a diaper change. Sadly however in her time of need, I am constantly being surprised by a seemingly wet diaper that upon further inspection calls for the institutional sized box of wipes.
The funny thing is that until recently ever since we brought Meryl home from the hospital, her gas alone would cause paint to peel off the walls. My wife and I argue over who she takes after when it comes to this, but the fact is for months now we've been peeking into many a noxious diaper only to find it empty save a green cloud of escaping poisonous gas. Now that she's come down with a urinary tract indection, something we've identified she contracted from her craptacular diapers, our olfactory senses fail us. Or more accurately her shit don't stink.
A brief apology is in order for those who came to cocktailswithkevin.com today with the hopes of finding the meaning of life or the secret to world peace. Yes, I realize that my usual antics have over the past few posts been usurped by anecdotes on fatherhood. I promise to get back to my regularly scheduled rants soon, but someone is taking up quite a bit of my life lately and I feel the need to share. As my urologist informed me once he learned my wife had given birth, having kids really does change you. This he said after charging me $40 to finger my ass and tell me to lose weight, but that's another story.
Before having a kid, when I would express hesitancy over changing a dirty diaper, women would say You'll see, it's different when it's your own kid. You know what? These women were lying. I no more want to change my daughter's crap-filled diaper than I would Ronald McDonald's or Rush Limbaugh's. Well, considering what Ronald McDonald must eat, his diaper is probably worse. After all, I hear oxycontin is constipating. Anyway, I digress.
Garbage in our house has three degrees of separation. Closest to us are the trash cans in the kitchen, Meryl's room and the bathrooms. For large packaging and overly fragrant food waste, there's the trash bag in our garage. And outside the garage is our trash can which we reserve mainly for trash day but also visit when there's something so abhorrent that we can't stomach it being anywhere inside our home. Usually this is reserved for week-old cat litter and the severed body parts of fat-bottomed girls who won't put the lotion in the basket.
Crap-filled diapers are some of the few things that actually bypass the first two degrees of garbage and go straight outside into the big trash can. Come to think of it, if I suspected our trash man was within five blocks of our house when the crap filling occurred, I would probably run down the street holding the diaper as far away from my nose as I could with the hopes of chucking the thing directly in the back of his truck. I wouldn't even care if it was our garbage man really. Any garbage truck would do so long as he was driving away from my home.
Making matters worse is the antibiotic she's on. Not only does amoxicillin cause her to experience regularity on an irregularly frequent basis, it also makes her dumps the consistency of mashed potatoes. Instant. Mashed. Potatoes. Regardless of what goes in whether it be mango, peas, prunes or what have you, it turns into a greenish brown yuck that sometimes isn't even content to confine itself to her diaper. Today was one of those instances.
I picked her up and felt something spongy on her back so I started messing with it and squishing it. I thought maybe it was a sock or something stuck in her p.j.'s. Almost instantly I started to see a stain soak through her pyjamas where my fingers were. Then it dawned on me. I was fondling her moist dung through her clothes. Gross! I cannot possibly convey to you how disgusting these crap diapers are. Maybe I'm a poop phobe.
I know there are mothers out there who take pleasure in talking about their kids' bowel movements. I do not understand this, but you can click here and find the blog of one of my favorites. My wife is another one who likes getting the poop report. I've started emailing it to her or leaving it on her voice mail at work if I can't get in touch with her directly. It's basically just the shart chart for the day. Again gross! I can't believe I'm even typing this.
I have read Everyone Poops written by . . . ummm . . . hold on, let me ask my librarian wife . . . some Japanese person she says. Anyway, I know this is a normal function and all, but somehow discussing it after having had to come into close contact with it is bothersome.
Gone are the days when dads never had to change diapers. I understand that, and as I'm the one usually at home with her during the day it's pretty much a responsibility I can't shuck unless I want to try knocking on my neighbor's door and see if they'll oblige.
Wait a minute.
Maybe that's not a bad idea. The neighbors don't speak English, but I'm sure with the right body language and Meryl providing the visuals I could get the message across. I'll let you know how that goes.
The funny thing is that until recently ever since we brought Meryl home from the hospital, her gas alone would cause paint to peel off the walls. My wife and I argue over who she takes after when it comes to this, but the fact is for months now we've been peeking into many a noxious diaper only to find it empty save a green cloud of escaping poisonous gas. Now that she's come down with a urinary tract indection, something we've identified she contracted from her craptacular diapers, our olfactory senses fail us. Or more accurately her shit don't stink.
A brief apology is in order for those who came to cocktailswithkevin.com today with the hopes of finding the meaning of life or the secret to world peace. Yes, I realize that my usual antics have over the past few posts been usurped by anecdotes on fatherhood. I promise to get back to my regularly scheduled rants soon, but someone is taking up quite a bit of my life lately and I feel the need to share. As my urologist informed me once he learned my wife had given birth, having kids really does change you. This he said after charging me $40 to finger my ass and tell me to lose weight, but that's another story.
Before having a kid, when I would express hesitancy over changing a dirty diaper, women would say You'll see, it's different when it's your own kid. You know what? These women were lying. I no more want to change my daughter's crap-filled diaper than I would Ronald McDonald's or Rush Limbaugh's. Well, considering what Ronald McDonald must eat, his diaper is probably worse. After all, I hear oxycontin is constipating. Anyway, I digress.
Garbage in our house has three degrees of separation. Closest to us are the trash cans in the kitchen, Meryl's room and the bathrooms. For large packaging and overly fragrant food waste, there's the trash bag in our garage. And outside the garage is our trash can which we reserve mainly for trash day but also visit when there's something so abhorrent that we can't stomach it being anywhere inside our home. Usually this is reserved for week-old cat litter and the severed body parts of fat-bottomed girls who won't put the lotion in the basket.
Crap-filled diapers are some of the few things that actually bypass the first two degrees of garbage and go straight outside into the big trash can. Come to think of it, if I suspected our trash man was within five blocks of our house when the crap filling occurred, I would probably run down the street holding the diaper as far away from my nose as I could with the hopes of chucking the thing directly in the back of his truck. I wouldn't even care if it was our garbage man really. Any garbage truck would do so long as he was driving away from my home.
Making matters worse is the antibiotic she's on. Not only does amoxicillin cause her to experience regularity on an irregularly frequent basis, it also makes her dumps the consistency of mashed potatoes. Instant. Mashed. Potatoes. Regardless of what goes in whether it be mango, peas, prunes or what have you, it turns into a greenish brown yuck that sometimes isn't even content to confine itself to her diaper. Today was one of those instances.
I picked her up and felt something spongy on her back so I started messing with it and squishing it. I thought maybe it was a sock or something stuck in her p.j.'s. Almost instantly I started to see a stain soak through her pyjamas where my fingers were. Then it dawned on me. I was fondling her moist dung through her clothes. Gross! I cannot possibly convey to you how disgusting these crap diapers are. Maybe I'm a poop phobe.
I know there are mothers out there who take pleasure in talking about their kids' bowel movements. I do not understand this, but you can click here and find the blog of one of my favorites. My wife is another one who likes getting the poop report. I've started emailing it to her or leaving it on her voice mail at work if I can't get in touch with her directly. It's basically just the shart chart for the day. Again gross! I can't believe I'm even typing this.
I have read Everyone Poops written by . . . ummm . . . hold on, let me ask my librarian wife . . . some Japanese person she says. Anyway, I know this is a normal function and all, but somehow discussing it after having had to come into close contact with it is bothersome.
Gone are the days when dads never had to change diapers. I understand that, and as I'm the one usually at home with her during the day it's pretty much a responsibility I can't shuck unless I want to try knocking on my neighbor's door and see if they'll oblige.
Wait a minute.
Maybe that's not a bad idea. The neighbors don't speak English, but I'm sure with the right body language and Meryl providing the visuals I could get the message across. I'll let you know how that goes.
Friday, December 1, 2006
Baby walkers take off eh
Each time I take my baby to the doctor, a nurse runs through a slew of questions once we get into the examination room. I'm not talking about general run-of-the-mill questions an adult hears when going to the doctor like What hurts? or Would you please stop stealing our copies of Architectural Digest? These questions are more like an interrogation, the purpose of which, I fear, is to determine how my wife and I are doing as parents. If we answer enough questions correctly, our kid goes home with a sticker that says "Dr. So-and-So loves me"; if not our kid goes home with a social worker.
Sure, they always start out with the more banal questions like whether or not our baby is sleeping through the night, how many wet diapers she might have during the day and so forth, but eventually the questions get hairier. They ask things like whether or not she attends daycare, whether we have pets in the home and if so what kinds, and are there firearms in the home. This last one gets me because although a swimming pool poses a far greater risk of death than a firearm, we've yet to be asked whether or not we have a pool.
On this last visit we were asked a new question though, i.e. whether or not our daughter uses a baby walker. She doesn't, but the question threw me for a loop nonetheless. I remember babywalkers, not from my own use of them, but when I worked at the world's biggest toy store in my youth we sold them. It was basically a suspended vinyl seat with a plastic tray in front that rolled around as baby was learning to walk. The more upscale versions had little spinny things on the tray to keep baby entertained during those long stretches when he got stuck on an unwielding carpet strip or kitty's tail. After only a week's worth of use, the tray bore stains from upturned sippy cups and the seat was encrusted with secondhand Cheerios. Ah, the joys of babyhood.
When we got home that day (yes, apparently we answered enough questions correctly to take our kid home unescorted once again) I started looking up the straight dope on baby walkers. Indeed, the American Academy of Pediatrics states very clearly on their site "Throw away your baby walker."
When I ran across something that suggested they were now illegal in Canada, I looked that up too. Sure enough, according to the official website for Toronto, our neighbors to the north are advised they cannot buy, sell or give away baby walkers. A further directive goes on to say, "If you have a baby walker, take it apart and put it in the garbage."
I suppose another option for unscrupulous Canucks would be to sneak them down across the border and sell them to American parents not in the know. Or since they're technically not illegal here in the U.S. but only discouraged, maybe shady Canadians can only sell them on the black market in their own country. Can't you just see someone peddling them out of the back of a van alongside human kidneys and U.S.-bought cigarettes? A red-coated mountie would gallop up alongside and shout, "See here, you hoser, you can't be selling those here, eh!"
I did locate an article on the Health Canada website that outlines walker restrictions in several countries. The article's written en français but I think I can translate the highlights for the benefit of the non-francophone reader.
Canada - Walkers are made illegal as of some time in 2004. You can't even bring them into the country legally.
US - Doctors advise against their use, but you can still get one off Amazon.com if you can't find it in your local baby store. The Consumer Products Safety Commission suggests walkers only be used while baby is exposed to countless hours of television viewing.
New Zealand - Walkers are legal in kiwi country but parents are advised to keep an eye on baby and make sure he sticks to clean smooth floors and avoids running into hot surfaces like stoves and barbies.
Australia - Again, still legal to sell but must have caution labels on the packaging. Aussies are encouraged to closely monitor baby's activity in a walker when playing near stairs , hot surfaces or dingos.
France - French doctors don't recommend walkers any more than American doctors do, but in a spirit of anti-American sentiment tour operators hand them out at certain tourist destinations such as the Arc de Triomphe, on top of Notre Dame and on the third level of the Eiffel Tower.
Interestingly enough, in Canadian French a baby walker is referred to as a marchette while in French French it's called a trotteur or more colloquially a youpala. Go figure.
Kazakhstan: As if these people weren't already facing enough troubles as a result of this latest Borat movie, it seems as though they also are doomed to danger due to their lackadaisical attitude toward walker safety. While I wasn't able to find any printed information about the use of walkers in Kazakhstan (not that I could read it if I did), I was able to find a photo on the innerweb that depicts a baby in the former soviet bloc country in a walker. Don't believe me? Click here.
Tonga - Sadly not in the article mentioned or anywhere else on the internet was I able to find any pertinent information on the use of baby walkers in the kingdom of Tonga. Is it any wonder their population is declining?
In light of all this, I can't see us buying Meryl a walker even if they are still legal in the United States. I suffer enough parental guilt thanks to the slew of baby guides and unsolicted advice I get from well-meaning strangers in the grocery store. I don't want to add to my burden. I'm sure she'll learn to walk one of these days, and in the meantime she'll just have to be happy sitting on the floor chewing on carinogen-filled plush toys while Daddy wrestles with the frayed Christmas tree lights.
Sure, they always start out with the more banal questions like whether or not our baby is sleeping through the night, how many wet diapers she might have during the day and so forth, but eventually the questions get hairier. They ask things like whether or not she attends daycare, whether we have pets in the home and if so what kinds, and are there firearms in the home. This last one gets me because although a swimming pool poses a far greater risk of death than a firearm, we've yet to be asked whether or not we have a pool.
On this last visit we were asked a new question though, i.e. whether or not our daughter uses a baby walker. She doesn't, but the question threw me for a loop nonetheless. I remember babywalkers, not from my own use of them, but when I worked at the world's biggest toy store in my youth we sold them. It was basically a suspended vinyl seat with a plastic tray in front that rolled around as baby was learning to walk. The more upscale versions had little spinny things on the tray to keep baby entertained during those long stretches when he got stuck on an unwielding carpet strip or kitty's tail. After only a week's worth of use, the tray bore stains from upturned sippy cups and the seat was encrusted with secondhand Cheerios. Ah, the joys of babyhood.
When we got home that day (yes, apparently we answered enough questions correctly to take our kid home unescorted once again) I started looking up the straight dope on baby walkers. Indeed, the American Academy of Pediatrics states very clearly on their site "Throw away your baby walker."
When I ran across something that suggested they were now illegal in Canada, I looked that up too. Sure enough, according to the official website for Toronto, our neighbors to the north are advised they cannot buy, sell or give away baby walkers. A further directive goes on to say, "If you have a baby walker, take it apart and put it in the garbage."
I suppose another option for unscrupulous Canucks would be to sneak them down across the border and sell them to American parents not in the know. Or since they're technically not illegal here in the U.S. but only discouraged, maybe shady Canadians can only sell them on the black market in their own country. Can't you just see someone peddling them out of the back of a van alongside human kidneys and U.S.-bought cigarettes? A red-coated mountie would gallop up alongside and shout, "See here, you hoser, you can't be selling those here, eh!"
I did locate an article on the Health Canada website that outlines walker restrictions in several countries. The article's written en français but I think I can translate the highlights for the benefit of the non-francophone reader.
Canada - Walkers are made illegal as of some time in 2004. You can't even bring them into the country legally.
US - Doctors advise against their use, but you can still get one off Amazon.com if you can't find it in your local baby store. The Consumer Products Safety Commission suggests walkers only be used while baby is exposed to countless hours of television viewing.
New Zealand - Walkers are legal in kiwi country but parents are advised to keep an eye on baby and make sure he sticks to clean smooth floors and avoids running into hot surfaces like stoves and barbies.
Australia - Again, still legal to sell but must have caution labels on the packaging. Aussies are encouraged to closely monitor baby's activity in a walker when playing near stairs , hot surfaces or dingos.
France - French doctors don't recommend walkers any more than American doctors do, but in a spirit of anti-American sentiment tour operators hand them out at certain tourist destinations such as the Arc de Triomphe, on top of Notre Dame and on the third level of the Eiffel Tower.
Interestingly enough, in Canadian French a baby walker is referred to as a marchette while in French French it's called a trotteur or more colloquially a youpala. Go figure.
Kazakhstan: As if these people weren't already facing enough troubles as a result of this latest Borat movie, it seems as though they also are doomed to danger due to their lackadaisical attitude toward walker safety. While I wasn't able to find any printed information about the use of walkers in Kazakhstan (not that I could read it if I did), I was able to find a photo on the innerweb that depicts a baby in the former soviet bloc country in a walker. Don't believe me? Click here.
Tonga - Sadly not in the article mentioned or anywhere else on the internet was I able to find any pertinent information on the use of baby walkers in the kingdom of Tonga. Is it any wonder their population is declining?
In light of all this, I can't see us buying Meryl a walker even if they are still legal in the United States. I suffer enough parental guilt thanks to the slew of baby guides and unsolicted advice I get from well-meaning strangers in the grocery store. I don't want to add to my burden. I'm sure she'll learn to walk one of these days, and in the meantime she'll just have to be happy sitting on the floor chewing on carinogen-filled plush toys while Daddy wrestles with the frayed Christmas tree lights.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I might could bless your heart
Every southerner is familiar with the phrase bless your heart. Traditionally we use it when some tragedy has befallen you and we feel sorry for you but at the same time we're glad we're not in your shoes. If for instance you tell someone who was raised south of the Mason-Dixon line about how you were buying groceries for your ailing grandmother that person might answer back bless your heart. Likewise if you go on to talk about how when you got to Grandma's she was hunched over the toilet puking from a Jack Daniels hangover they might answer back well, bless her heart.
See how it works?
It also sometimes has a more backhanded connotation especially when referring to someone in the third person. In a coffee clatch one woman might say to another something like Did you see how homely that girl was? She'll never get a husband, bless her heart. This is an especially useful turn of phrase in this circumstance because it works like a linguistic washcloth, rinsing away any negativity someone might have otherwise taken as insulting. You can say just about anything bad about a person, and as long as you follow it up with bless their heart, you're in the clear. Kinda like the way some people use the follow-up phrase I don't mean that in a bad way, Southerners will sometimes use Bless their heart.
Still another way to use the phrase, and frankly this is the most condoling, is to bless someone's little heart. It works for adults and children alike; anyone's heart can be qualified as little. Saying something like well, bless her little heart means you honestly feel sorry for her and you want to convey that to the person you're talking to. When you say this, you leave no question as to how sincere you are.
Heart blessing is particularly southern much like grits and bible thumping. That's why I was caught offguard the other day when after telling my yankee mother-in-law over the phone that my daughter was sick, she responded with bless her little heart. Now, truth be told my wife's family is from Ohio, and they think that because they're not from the New England area that they're not yankees, bless their hearts, but in the South anyone who's not from the South is pretty much a yankee. I'm sorry, y'all, that's just the way it is.
Anyway, my mother-in-law who's only lived in Georgia for less than a year said bless her little heart. She not only used a phrase that up until recently I'd guess really wasn't a part of her vocabulary, she used it just like a native would. In fact, it didn't dawn on me that she said bless her little heart until afer I hung up the phone with her. The woman's just that good.
It's beneficial to add a few regionalisms to one's speech when visiting a new part of the country I think. Also learning some courtesy phrases in a foreign language can come in handy both abroad and here at home. I'm no Rosetta stone, but I can say hello, goodbye and thank you in several languages. I don't use them to show off, but I do find that native speakers are more polite to me if I mutilate their language by trying out the occasional friendly phrase on them. This is especially true for Asian languages. If you say hola to a Spanish speaker they just think you let Dora the Explorer babysit your kid for hours at a time. But if you say
to a Korean speaker, their eyes light up like a winter holiday tree.
I have to hand it to my wife's mom. Whether she did it on purpose or just unconsciously adopted the phrase after hearing it around town she fooled me into thinking she sounded local. Once her granddaughter is feeling better, I'll call to let her know. As quick a study as I reckon she is, when I call she'll probably tell me that she was fixin' to carry my father-in-law up to the store so he can pick up a possum and some sweet potato pie. When I ask her if I can ride along, she'll say you might could.
See how it works?
It also sometimes has a more backhanded connotation especially when referring to someone in the third person. In a coffee clatch one woman might say to another something like Did you see how homely that girl was? She'll never get a husband, bless her heart. This is an especially useful turn of phrase in this circumstance because it works like a linguistic washcloth, rinsing away any negativity someone might have otherwise taken as insulting. You can say just about anything bad about a person, and as long as you follow it up with bless their heart, you're in the clear. Kinda like the way some people use the follow-up phrase I don't mean that in a bad way, Southerners will sometimes use Bless their heart.
Still another way to use the phrase, and frankly this is the most condoling, is to bless someone's little heart. It works for adults and children alike; anyone's heart can be qualified as little. Saying something like well, bless her little heart means you honestly feel sorry for her and you want to convey that to the person you're talking to. When you say this, you leave no question as to how sincere you are.
Heart blessing is particularly southern much like grits and bible thumping. That's why I was caught offguard the other day when after telling my yankee mother-in-law over the phone that my daughter was sick, she responded with bless her little heart. Now, truth be told my wife's family is from Ohio, and they think that because they're not from the New England area that they're not yankees, bless their hearts, but in the South anyone who's not from the South is pretty much a yankee. I'm sorry, y'all, that's just the way it is.
Anyway, my mother-in-law who's only lived in Georgia for less than a year said bless her little heart. She not only used a phrase that up until recently I'd guess really wasn't a part of her vocabulary, she used it just like a native would. In fact, it didn't dawn on me that she said bless her little heart until afer I hung up the phone with her. The woman's just that good.
It's beneficial to add a few regionalisms to one's speech when visiting a new part of the country I think. Also learning some courtesy phrases in a foreign language can come in handy both abroad and here at home. I'm no Rosetta stone, but I can say hello, goodbye and thank you in several languages. I don't use them to show off, but I do find that native speakers are more polite to me if I mutilate their language by trying out the occasional friendly phrase on them. This is especially true for Asian languages. If you say hola to a Spanish speaker they just think you let Dora the Explorer babysit your kid for hours at a time. But if you say
to a Korean speaker, their eyes light up like a winter holiday tree.I have to hand it to my wife's mom. Whether she did it on purpose or just unconsciously adopted the phrase after hearing it around town she fooled me into thinking she sounded local. Once her granddaughter is feeling better, I'll call to let her know. As quick a study as I reckon she is, when I call she'll probably tell me that she was fixin' to carry my father-in-law up to the store so he can pick up a possum and some sweet potato pie. When I ask her if I can ride along, she'll say you might could.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Outside Big Canoe: a story of Christmas trees and non-criminal trespass
I love adventure. I used to make a weekend habit of charting unknown territories around me, often just getting in the car by myself and heading down a main road to see where it would lead. This was especially rewarding if doing so got me to some podunk town I had never heard of before. From my neck of the woods for instance a mere 20-mile ride will get you to either Struggleville, Rebelville, or Shakerag. Further out in one direction or the other will get you to Ball Ground, Whistleville, or Normaltown, the latter of which is referenced in the B-52's song Deadbeat Club.
Dirt roads, though diminishing in number, are especially intriguing to me, and left to my own devices I will go out of my way to drive down one no matter how rough and tumbled or overgrown it is. That's why this holiday weekend when I was schlepping my in-laws around in the back seat to go look for a Christmas tree, I jumped at the opportunity when my wife's mother leaned over the back of the driver's seat and said to me, "Let's just go a little farther and see where this leads."
She was talking about a tree-lined dirt road leading into the woods just past a sign for a Christmas tree farm, the very Christmas tree farm we were looking for. This dirt road wasn't just any dirt road. It was one of those trails consisting of two tire tracks and grass in the middle. The trees and the grass were beautifully manicured, so it looked like it might be an entrance to a tree farm. There was only one way to find out, so with wife, in-laws, and baby in tow, we started the journey down what was labeled Gibbs Dr.
The way leading into this place was beautiful. Plane trees planted at equal intervals along both sides of the path stood like model soldiers welcoming us to Toyland and when we ran out of those, we drove slowly along a leafy path through meticulously manicured shrubs and plants. Although we didn't see anything that resembled Christmas trees, we did see out in the middle of otherwise undisturbed forest, large livingroom-sized patches of the greenest grass you've ever seen. There were pagodas and stone walls with moss growing in them. As we rounded one curve on the path we passed a small flower garden surrounding a statue of St. Francis. This place was just one magical surprise after another.
Then it dawned on us.
"I think we're driving through someone's yard," my father-in-law said.
There was a small debate as to whether he was right. Only a few minutes earlier someone in the car suggested the place was a Sanitarium. I still wanted to believe it was the entrance to a Chrsitmas tree farm so that I could keep driving around. Backing up after all was a near impossibility and finding a place to turn around wasn't as easy as it sounds either, so we continued driving until we found the huge English manor-style home at the end of the driveway. Before I barely had the chance to wonder what kind of people lived here, my curiosity was satisifed soon after we spotted a truck that was also snaking it's way along the path in the oncoming direction.
I think the driver was probably the owner, and my father-in-law who had already hopped out of the car to help navigate asked for directions to get us out. The man in the truck happily obliged and we promptly made our way out of there a little more hastily than when we came in.
The internet is a wonderful thing, and when we got home after buying a Christmas tree at the farm which incidentally was right across the street, I made a beeline for my father-in-;aw's computer to dig up the scoop as to where we had been. With the help of Google, Mapblast and the Realtor tax database (yes, membership and a real estate license do have their privileges) I learned that the property belonged to a family that owned a large landscaping business whose customers include several major Atlanta corporations and a few hospitals. Mapblast provided a satellite image of the house and some orchards that we were unable to spot before we were caught trespassing on private property.
The North Georgia mountains are the birthplace of bootlegging corn liquor, and I'm sure it likely wasn't very long ago that stumbling onto someone else's property without their permission could have gotten me shot. To tell the truth, there are probably places today in the area where this is still the case. After all, Dawsonville hosts an annual Moonshine Festival and while there are no free samples (or pay samples for that matter), rumor has it one doesn't have to wander far to find the real stuff. Wander in without being invited and you might have to hobble out.
Oh well, these people were nice enough to point us the way out without gunfire.
Tune in next week when I report from the Koresh compound in Marblehill, Georgia.
Dirt roads, though diminishing in number, are especially intriguing to me, and left to my own devices I will go out of my way to drive down one no matter how rough and tumbled or overgrown it is. That's why this holiday weekend when I was schlepping my in-laws around in the back seat to go look for a Christmas tree, I jumped at the opportunity when my wife's mother leaned over the back of the driver's seat and said to me, "Let's just go a little farther and see where this leads."
She was talking about a tree-lined dirt road leading into the woods just past a sign for a Christmas tree farm, the very Christmas tree farm we were looking for. This dirt road wasn't just any dirt road. It was one of those trails consisting of two tire tracks and grass in the middle. The trees and the grass were beautifully manicured, so it looked like it might be an entrance to a tree farm. There was only one way to find out, so with wife, in-laws, and baby in tow, we started the journey down what was labeled Gibbs Dr.
The way leading into this place was beautiful. Plane trees planted at equal intervals along both sides of the path stood like model soldiers welcoming us to Toyland and when we ran out of those, we drove slowly along a leafy path through meticulously manicured shrubs and plants. Although we didn't see anything that resembled Christmas trees, we did see out in the middle of otherwise undisturbed forest, large livingroom-sized patches of the greenest grass you've ever seen. There were pagodas and stone walls with moss growing in them. As we rounded one curve on the path we passed a small flower garden surrounding a statue of St. Francis. This place was just one magical surprise after another.
Then it dawned on us.
"I think we're driving through someone's yard," my father-in-law said.
There was a small debate as to whether he was right. Only a few minutes earlier someone in the car suggested the place was a Sanitarium. I still wanted to believe it was the entrance to a Chrsitmas tree farm so that I could keep driving around. Backing up after all was a near impossibility and finding a place to turn around wasn't as easy as it sounds either, so we continued driving until we found the huge English manor-style home at the end of the driveway. Before I barely had the chance to wonder what kind of people lived here, my curiosity was satisifed soon after we spotted a truck that was also snaking it's way along the path in the oncoming direction.
I think the driver was probably the owner, and my father-in-law who had already hopped out of the car to help navigate asked for directions to get us out. The man in the truck happily obliged and we promptly made our way out of there a little more hastily than when we came in.
The internet is a wonderful thing, and when we got home after buying a Christmas tree at the farm which incidentally was right across the street, I made a beeline for my father-in-;aw's computer to dig up the scoop as to where we had been. With the help of Google, Mapblast and the Realtor tax database (yes, membership and a real estate license do have their privileges) I learned that the property belonged to a family that owned a large landscaping business whose customers include several major Atlanta corporations and a few hospitals. Mapblast provided a satellite image of the house and some orchards that we were unable to spot before we were caught trespassing on private property.
The North Georgia mountains are the birthplace of bootlegging corn liquor, and I'm sure it likely wasn't very long ago that stumbling onto someone else's property without their permission could have gotten me shot. To tell the truth, there are probably places today in the area where this is still the case. After all, Dawsonville hosts an annual Moonshine Festival and while there are no free samples (or pay samples for that matter), rumor has it one doesn't have to wander far to find the real stuff. Wander in without being invited and you might have to hobble out.
Oh well, these people were nice enough to point us the way out without gunfire.
Tune in next week when I report from the Koresh compound in Marblehill, Georgia.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Thanksgiving Macy's Day Parade
I was well into my second glass of champagne this morning as my wife and I were watching the Umpteenth Annual Macy's Day Parade. Actually my wife was in the kitchen preparing my daughter's first Thanksgiving dinner (Similac with Iron and water) when the star of the parade flashed across the screen.
It was Helen whose last name I don't recall even though it was announced just a commercial break ago, but apparently Helen's claim to fame is that she is over 100 years old.
"You just missed Helen!" I shouted into the kitchen.
"What?" my wife shouted back.
"Helen," I said, "you just missed her."
"Who's Helen?" my wife shouted.
"She's 101 years old," I said.
"I can't hear a word you're saying with this water running," she said.
As I take another sip of my California Chandon and watch Maria, Luis and Gordon dance with a slew of kids and some muppets under a Big Bird balloon, I can't help but think to myself that this is what Thanksgiving is all about.
Let's all raise our glasses to Helen, shall we?
It was Helen whose last name I don't recall even though it was announced just a commercial break ago, but apparently Helen's claim to fame is that she is over 100 years old.
"You just missed Helen!" I shouted into the kitchen.
"What?" my wife shouted back.
"Helen," I said, "you just missed her."
"Who's Helen?" my wife shouted.
"She's 101 years old," I said.
"I can't hear a word you're saying with this water running," she said.
As I take another sip of my California Chandon and watch Maria, Luis and Gordon dance with a slew of kids and some muppets under a Big Bird balloon, I can't help but think to myself that this is what Thanksgiving is all about.
Let's all raise our glasses to Helen, shall we?
Monday, November 20, 2006
770-452-0544 (Who is this?)
Has anyone else in the Atlanta area heard from this number? On my caller ID it shows up as FW Services, and whoever these people are they've called me on more than one occasion and left no message.
What does the FW stand for in FW Services? Feral wombats? Fancy wolverines? Frank women? Funny wigs? Funky whigs? Fisting wankers? First Wesleyans? Fisting Wesleyans? Fanny Wigginbotham? Fine wines?
If it's fine wines, tell them to call back. Ditto for Fanny Wigginbotham.
Incidentally what do pyjama-clad pillow-wielding teenage girls do during spend-the-nights now that we have caller ID?
What does the FW stand for in FW Services? Feral wombats? Fancy wolverines? Frank women? Funny wigs? Funky whigs? Fisting wankers? First Wesleyans? Fisting Wesleyans? Fanny Wigginbotham? Fine wines?
If it's fine wines, tell them to call back. Ditto for Fanny Wigginbotham.
Incidentally what do pyjama-clad pillow-wielding teenage girls do during spend-the-nights now that we have caller ID?
Adult novelties vs. frozen treats
I was pushing a cart through the grocery store this afternoon when it dawned on me that we use the same term for ice cream that we do for sex toys. Hanging over the last aisle of the grocery store is a placard that reads frozen novelties, and if you drive by any of the all-night porn emporiums across this great nation of ours you'll see that they sell adult movies and adult novelties. I only know from driving by of course.
Novelty is such a versatile word.
I think in the first instance the word denotes frozen treats that don't fall under the generic category of ice cream. Nutty Buddies, Eskimo Pies and rooty tooty bomb pops come to mind. In the case of adult novelties I'm thinking novelty is euphemistic for vibrator, inflatable partner and edible underwear. Come to think of it though rooty tooty bomb pop might fall under both categories as might edible underwear depending upon where your tastes lie. Please understand I'm not advocating any misuse of novelties, frozen, adult or otherwise, but what fellow shoppers do in the privacy of their home is none of my business.
When I say fellow shoppers I mean at the grocery store.
Napkin is another such word. For the most part it's something you wipe your face with, but this isn't the case with a sanitary napkin. You know, sanitary is also a word that you might think would only have one basic meaning, but actually has a couple. Sanitary napkins are in fact rather sanitary when they're in the box underneath the bathroom sink, but by the time they make it to the trash, they're anything but sanitary. Then they become unsanitary napkins. Adult novelties, if used correctly, also follow this same path of depurification.
What if toilet paper were referred to as adult wipes?
As a kid, I sometimes would bite the erasers off of pencils and chew on them. This was neither novel nor sanitary. When my grandmother saw me doing it one day she said, "Don't put your mouth on the rubber. It's nasty."
Isn't the English language a marvelous thing?
Novelty is such a versatile word.
I think in the first instance the word denotes frozen treats that don't fall under the generic category of ice cream. Nutty Buddies, Eskimo Pies and rooty tooty bomb pops come to mind. In the case of adult novelties I'm thinking novelty is euphemistic for vibrator, inflatable partner and edible underwear. Come to think of it though rooty tooty bomb pop might fall under both categories as might edible underwear depending upon where your tastes lie. Please understand I'm not advocating any misuse of novelties, frozen, adult or otherwise, but what fellow shoppers do in the privacy of their home is none of my business.
When I say fellow shoppers I mean at the grocery store.
Napkin is another such word. For the most part it's something you wipe your face with, but this isn't the case with a sanitary napkin. You know, sanitary is also a word that you might think would only have one basic meaning, but actually has a couple. Sanitary napkins are in fact rather sanitary when they're in the box underneath the bathroom sink, but by the time they make it to the trash, they're anything but sanitary. Then they become unsanitary napkins. Adult novelties, if used correctly, also follow this same path of depurification.
What if toilet paper were referred to as adult wipes?
As a kid, I sometimes would bite the erasers off of pencils and chew on them. This was neither novel nor sanitary. When my grandmother saw me doing it one day she said, "Don't put your mouth on the rubber. It's nasty."
Isn't the English language a marvelous thing?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The unedited incomplete ramblings of kevin
For your reading enjoyment, here is a summary of epistles that I began over the past year yet never got the gumption to complete. They are preserved here in their original non-paragraphed stream-of-consciousness psychopathic format.
11/18/05
I used to think travel wasn't travel uinless people spoke another language when you got off the plane. San Francisco changed my mind. It was the first US destination I visited that offered enough variety in people, places and culture that convinced me it was significantly foreign compared to my native Atlanta. I don't mean to imply foreign in that weird backward way. True, San Francisco has a reputation for being a magnet for the eccentric, but for the most part, the people are just as mild as the climate. San Francisco even has a certain down-home feel about it. But it also has a surprise around every corner. Whether it's Ghiradelli Square or The Castro, SF is booming with
11/13/06
This past weekend my wife and I entertained some friends who had flown in from San Francisco to visit. After eating at our favorite Cuban place, our guests had asked if we could stroll across Peachtree Road to check out St. Philips Cathedral. The day was overcast and mildly chilly, so Elaine and I were quick to agree and the four of us took temporary refuge in what was an amazingly beautiful church. No service was going on, but we could hear the organist practicing for a concert that was to take place later that evening. The music was mystifying and tranquil. The main chapel smelled of incense and hymnals, and I imagined what it must look like filled with parishoners. After peering through stained glass out into a marvelous flagstone-laden courtyard I decided to step out and experience it firsthand. There was a tree in memoriam of someone and a few benches. Even with the whir of Atlanta traffic inching down Peachtree Road, I found this place to be quite serene and it reminded me of the peaceful courtyard gardens of the Dohány Synagogue in Budapest, another house of worship that I had once visited and found awe-inspiring. The thing is . . . as wonderful and magical as these places are to be, religion is something I just don't get. As cynical as I can sometimes be, I do try and have the utmost respect for people's religion, but in all honesty I'd have to say that religion is a bandwagon that I just let pass me by. Yes, I know that its various practitioners will attest to how it has changed their lives for the better, and -- let's face it -- if people didn't hold it so dear, there wouldn't have been so many wars fought over it for so long. The opinion of someone not religious probably doesn't and maybe shouldn't matter to those who are, but I can't help but see religion as something that divides people more than it brings them together. It just seems like many faiths don't define themselves by what they believe but by what they believe differently from another group.
11/18/06
I confess I titled this post simply so that other likeminded potty mouths who voiced their frustrations via Google would come across my site to share their tales of woe and perhaps give me some insight or maybe just share in my misery of not being aboe to get my new gadget to do my bidding. I recently purchased a Linksys MediaLink so that I can play MP3's on my home stereo system through my wireless network. If this all sounds like technological jabberwocky far above your level of comprehension, join the crowd. I'm a stoop; you're a stoop. Wouldn't you like to be a stoop too? The concept sounded simple enough: This mini-boombox sits is supposed to sit in my living room and magically searches through the air for tunes on my hard drive and plays them. What could be more amazing? You'd think I would have learned though after recently replacing my Linksys router and spending who knows how much time on the phone with their technical support department that the purchase of yet another Linksys product would necessitate an additional 24 to 48 hours of frustrating short-tempered conversations with people in New Delhi who frankly couldn't care less about me getting my new toy to work because they get paid the same pocket change regardless of whether or not they've helped me listen to a bootlegged copy of Barry Manilow's greatest hits. Deep breath. It is getting late and I want to go to bed and forget all this, so I'll make this brief. In my lifetime I have purchased three products from Linksys. On all three occastions, I had to phone their call center to get the things up and running, sometimes more than once. I'm no techno-wiz but I'm no dumb-ass either. I can point and click with the best of them. Sadly however the Linksys printed directions (what little there are) and Navjot Singh Sidhu's spoken directions aren't quite that simple.
11/18/05
I used to think travel wasn't travel uinless people spoke another language when you got off the plane. San Francisco changed my mind. It was the first US destination I visited that offered enough variety in people, places and culture that convinced me it was significantly foreign compared to my native Atlanta. I don't mean to imply foreign in that weird backward way. True, San Francisco has a reputation for being a magnet for the eccentric, but for the most part, the people are just as mild as the climate. San Francisco even has a certain down-home feel about it. But it also has a surprise around every corner. Whether it's Ghiradelli Square or The Castro, SF is booming with
11/13/06
This past weekend my wife and I entertained some friends who had flown in from San Francisco to visit. After eating at our favorite Cuban place, our guests had asked if we could stroll across Peachtree Road to check out St. Philips Cathedral. The day was overcast and mildly chilly, so Elaine and I were quick to agree and the four of us took temporary refuge in what was an amazingly beautiful church. No service was going on, but we could hear the organist practicing for a concert that was to take place later that evening. The music was mystifying and tranquil. The main chapel smelled of incense and hymnals, and I imagined what it must look like filled with parishoners. After peering through stained glass out into a marvelous flagstone-laden courtyard I decided to step out and experience it firsthand. There was a tree in memoriam of someone and a few benches. Even with the whir of Atlanta traffic inching down Peachtree Road, I found this place to be quite serene and it reminded me of the peaceful courtyard gardens of the Dohány Synagogue in Budapest, another house of worship that I had once visited and found awe-inspiring. The thing is . . . as wonderful and magical as these places are to be, religion is something I just don't get. As cynical as I can sometimes be, I do try and have the utmost respect for people's religion, but in all honesty I'd have to say that religion is a bandwagon that I just let pass me by. Yes, I know that its various practitioners will attest to how it has changed their lives for the better, and -- let's face it -- if people didn't hold it so dear, there wouldn't have been so many wars fought over it for so long. The opinion of someone not religious probably doesn't and maybe shouldn't matter to those who are, but I can't help but see religion as something that divides people more than it brings them together. It just seems like many faiths don't define themselves by what they believe but by what they believe differently from another group.
11/18/06
I confess I titled this post simply so that other likeminded potty mouths who voiced their frustrations via Google would come across my site to share their tales of woe and perhaps give me some insight or maybe just share in my misery of not being aboe to get my new gadget to do my bidding. I recently purchased a Linksys MediaLink so that I can play MP3's on my home stereo system through my wireless network. If this all sounds like technological jabberwocky far above your level of comprehension, join the crowd. I'm a stoop; you're a stoop. Wouldn't you like to be a stoop too? The concept sounded simple enough: This mini-boombox sits is supposed to sit in my living room and magically searches through the air for tunes on my hard drive and plays them. What could be more amazing? You'd think I would have learned though after recently replacing my Linksys router and spending who knows how much time on the phone with their technical support department that the purchase of yet another Linksys product would necessitate an additional 24 to 48 hours of frustrating short-tempered conversations with people in New Delhi who frankly couldn't care less about me getting my new toy to work because they get paid the same pocket change regardless of whether or not they've helped me listen to a bootlegged copy of Barry Manilow's greatest hits. Deep breath. It is getting late and I want to go to bed and forget all this, so I'll make this brief. In my lifetime I have purchased three products from Linksys. On all three occastions, I had to phone their call center to get the things up and running, sometimes more than once. I'm no techno-wiz but I'm no dumb-ass either. I can point and click with the best of them. Sadly however the Linksys printed directions (what little there are) and Navjot Singh Sidhu's spoken directions aren't quite that simple.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
Shattastic television
After only five minutes of over-the-shoulder television viewing this evening, I decided that any further time spent in front of the boob tube would be a total waste of my eyesight. Before I go any further, let me fill you, the beloved reader, in on some antiquated and useless backstory regarding my TV viewing habits as a youngster.
Enter Captain Exposition.
Until I was in my early twenties, I spent the largest portion of my day in front of the television. Indeed when I was a teenager during the summers, if I was awake at any time during a 24-hour day, I knew of a program that I could watch. To compensate for this sloth, I could exercise with Joanie Greggains back when she hosted Morning Stretch which came on at like 5:15 in the morning. Normally though I just sat on the couch and watched her do her squats while I inhaled a box of Smurfberry Crunch and a couple of Cokes.
After that I'd watch the morning news programs, then morning talk shows. This was back during the time when a person could get all the Hollywood gossip and self-help they needed within a few hours by watching Hour Magazine, Phil Donahue, and The Oprah Winfrey Show. That was when Oprah was fat and Phil had a career. Game shows came on after that, and let me tell you there were a couple of times where I could have easily won both showcases on The Price is Right. I watched soap operas, afternoon talk shows, evening news, primetime sitcoms, late-night talk shows, the USA up-all-night movie, Burns and Allen and The Jack Benny Show on CBN, and I would even watch Ron Popeil paint his bald spot with spray-on hair. Those were the days, my friend.
Tonight however when my wife was waiting for the last episode of Lost to come on, I was treated to the final few minutes of Dance With the Stars.
Dance with the stars?
Could there possibly be a stupider idea for a show than this? If you haven't seen this drivel, first of all count yourself among the lucky. Secondly, these people aren't really stars. Joey from Gimme a Break's post-shark-jumping years and Slater from Saved by the Bell used to be stars. Now they are has-beens This is like when back in the mid-80s Family Feud had "celebrities" on the show from Dukes of Hazzard, and the only characters to show up were Bo and Luke's stand-in cousins Coy and Vance, Boss Hog's wife and a couple of other tertiary peeps I can't recall off hand. Or remember Circus of the Stars? Those stoops were usually out-of-work actors hard up for a paying gig too.
I would love to have seen The Facts of Life's Jeri Jewell juggling plates though.
Remember Cousin Oliver from The Brady Bunch? What's with all these cousins on TV shows anyway?
But back to Dance with the Stars . . . I really got sick of hearing Joey Lawrence say over and over about his dance partner "she's a blessing." The show is cheezoid. Don't watch.
During commercial breaks they played some promo for a show William Shatner's going to be on soon. They claim the show is "SHAT-TASTIC" (capitalization theirs; not mine). Excuse me? Shat-tastic? Has no one told these producers what shat means? Even UrbanDictionary.com defines shattastic as "something incredibly shitty." I'm not saying the program's not going to be shitty, but shouldn't there at least be some pretense of quality about the show? To me this is like saying This stuff is nasty. Here, taste it.
No, thank you. In my day-to-day life, I try and avoid crap. I don't wish to invite more into my home via the television. If I wanted to watch something shattastic, I'd turn on CSI- Sandusky or whatever city they're up to these days.
If television caters to the average American, that really doesn't say much for our country or culture. Maybe now that Democrats have taken control of the House and Senate, there can be some new programming in the upcoming Spring line-up.
Don't miss it. It's sure to be Bush-tastic.
Enter Captain Exposition.
Until I was in my early twenties, I spent the largest portion of my day in front of the television. Indeed when I was a teenager during the summers, if I was awake at any time during a 24-hour day, I knew of a program that I could watch. To compensate for this sloth, I could exercise with Joanie Greggains back when she hosted Morning Stretch which came on at like 5:15 in the morning. Normally though I just sat on the couch and watched her do her squats while I inhaled a box of Smurfberry Crunch and a couple of Cokes.
After that I'd watch the morning news programs, then morning talk shows. This was back during the time when a person could get all the Hollywood gossip and self-help they needed within a few hours by watching Hour Magazine, Phil Donahue, and The Oprah Winfrey Show. That was when Oprah was fat and Phil had a career. Game shows came on after that, and let me tell you there were a couple of times where I could have easily won both showcases on The Price is Right. I watched soap operas, afternoon talk shows, evening news, primetime sitcoms, late-night talk shows, the USA up-all-night movie, Burns and Allen and The Jack Benny Show on CBN, and I would even watch Ron Popeil paint his bald spot with spray-on hair. Those were the days, my friend.
Tonight however when my wife was waiting for the last episode of Lost to come on, I was treated to the final few minutes of Dance With the Stars.
Dance with the stars?
Could there possibly be a stupider idea for a show than this? If you haven't seen this drivel, first of all count yourself among the lucky. Secondly, these people aren't really stars. Joey from Gimme a Break's post-shark-jumping years and Slater from Saved by the Bell used to be stars. Now they are has-beens This is like when back in the mid-80s Family Feud had "celebrities" on the show from Dukes of Hazzard, and the only characters to show up were Bo and Luke's stand-in cousins Coy and Vance, Boss Hog's wife and a couple of other tertiary peeps I can't recall off hand. Or remember Circus of the Stars? Those stoops were usually out-of-work actors hard up for a paying gig too.
I would love to have seen The Facts of Life's Jeri Jewell juggling plates though.
Remember Cousin Oliver from The Brady Bunch? What's with all these cousins on TV shows anyway?
But back to Dance with the Stars . . . I really got sick of hearing Joey Lawrence say over and over about his dance partner "she's a blessing." The show is cheezoid. Don't watch.
During commercial breaks they played some promo for a show William Shatner's going to be on soon. They claim the show is "SHAT-TASTIC" (capitalization theirs; not mine). Excuse me? Shat-tastic? Has no one told these producers what shat means? Even UrbanDictionary.com defines shattastic as "something incredibly shitty." I'm not saying the program's not going to be shitty, but shouldn't there at least be some pretense of quality about the show? To me this is like saying This stuff is nasty. Here, taste it.
No, thank you. In my day-to-day life, I try and avoid crap. I don't wish to invite more into my home via the television. If I wanted to watch something shattastic, I'd turn on CSI- Sandusky or whatever city they're up to these days.
If television caters to the average American, that really doesn't say much for our country or culture. Maybe now that Democrats have taken control of the House and Senate, there can be some new programming in the upcoming Spring line-up.
Don't miss it. It's sure to be Bush-tastic.
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
Cancer cult resistor
When I began this blog a little over a year ago, one of the first things I chose to write about was something that irked me the most. I'm talking about our culture's unhealthy obsession with professing a favorite Nascar driver, political affiliation or noteworthy cause via our vehicles. Lurking at the base of this compulsion is an ever-growing social movement that I like to call the Awareness Cult. These ribbon followers top the charts, but there are several other people out there who think you should care as much about their cause as they do, and they will focus all their missionary-like zeal into promoting it and perhaps at the very least guilt you in to donating by making a purchase, a portion of the proceeds from which will go to help fight XYZ.
I remember the day that I walked into my oncologist's office to have my blood drawn and saw that they too had fallen prey to the breast cancer ribbon gurus and were selling their magnetic and plush fetishes at the receptionist's window. When I made some snide comment during that visit about accepting the pink ribbon as one's lord and savior I was met with a stern look from the nurse. She then scolded me and told me that the cancer movement serves as a healthy outlet for the energies of the families who've lost someone to breast cancer.
I am not coldhearted. I empathize with the pain and hardships of other cancer sufferers. During chemotherapy I sat next to and befriended women with breast cancer and I have heard the stories as to what it does to one's body and spirit. Beyond the individual it also eats away at family, and it can truly test the vow, in sickness and in health. Cancer itself is deadly and, trust me, undergoing the treatment sometimes makes one wish he were head. Some breast cancer sufferers have to undergo the treatment for so long that the chemicals pumped into their bodies make their fingernails and toenails fall out, not to mention the hair loss, fatigue, endless nausea, phlebitis and so on. It is this very ugliness that makes me upset at the whole cutesy kitchy cancer cult.
I hesitate to be so forthright because my intent honestly isn't to piss people off or step on feelings, but if you're experiencing either of those things after reading this, let me point out that I'm not alone. Barbara Ehrenreich, a columnist and breast cancer sufferer herself, has written an article entitled "Welcome to Cancerland" about her own experiences and why she dislikes this whole momement. She writes:
But on the eight day Lance created the yellow bracelet.
Lance Armstrong falls into the same category as Martin Luther, Joseph Smith and David Koresh as far as I'm concerned. He wasn't content to just join the trendy religious movement of his time, so he had to go and piggyback on it, put his twist on it and start his own. So as to maximize the number of followers, he proclaims that his livestrong bracelets aren't just in support of one particular cancer (after all, who wants to wear a piece of jelly jewelry to support ball cancer?) but instead all cancers.
Splinter sects are already forming. I once found an internet sight dedicated to testicular cancer and the graphic in the upper left corner was a bicyclist complete with yellow jersey and helmet. It wasn't Lance Armstrong nor did it have any affiliation with him other than the fact that these people were obviously trying to ride his coattails (or whatever professional bicyclists have in lieu of coattails.)
I think most people who wear those cheesy bracelets have no clue what they're for. Though does it really matter? If you're really wanting to make your "non-profit" charity take off, you may as well aim for some bauble that will eventually be looked at as trendy and au courrant.
As soon as I start my own religion, Kevin Black and the Church of the Latter Day Miscreants, I'm going to come up with a fad that will sweep the nation.
Nay, the globe.
I remember the day that I walked into my oncologist's office to have my blood drawn and saw that they too had fallen prey to the breast cancer ribbon gurus and were selling their magnetic and plush fetishes at the receptionist's window. When I made some snide comment during that visit about accepting the pink ribbon as one's lord and savior I was met with a stern look from the nurse. She then scolded me and told me that the cancer movement serves as a healthy outlet for the energies of the families who've lost someone to breast cancer.
I am not coldhearted. I empathize with the pain and hardships of other cancer sufferers. During chemotherapy I sat next to and befriended women with breast cancer and I have heard the stories as to what it does to one's body and spirit. Beyond the individual it also eats away at family, and it can truly test the vow, in sickness and in health. Cancer itself is deadly and, trust me, undergoing the treatment sometimes makes one wish he were head. Some breast cancer sufferers have to undergo the treatment for so long that the chemicals pumped into their bodies make their fingernails and toenails fall out, not to mention the hair loss, fatigue, endless nausea, phlebitis and so on. It is this very ugliness that makes me upset at the whole cutesy kitchy cancer cult.
I hesitate to be so forthright because my intent honestly isn't to piss people off or step on feelings, but if you're experiencing either of those things after reading this, let me point out that I'm not alone. Barbara Ehrenreich, a columnist and breast cancer sufferer herself, has written an article entitled "Welcome to Cancerland" about her own experiences and why she dislikes this whole momement. She writes:
I have to agree. She also brings up an interesting point about how there's a certain infantilizing to the whole thing what with the teddy bears and all. I've had testicular cancer. No one gave me a matchbox car."Culture" is too weak a word to describe all this. What has grown up around breast cancer in just the last fifteen years more nearly resembles a cult—or, given that it numbers more than two million women, their families, and friends-perhaps we should say a full-fledged religion.
But on the eight day Lance created the yellow bracelet.
Lance Armstrong falls into the same category as Martin Luther, Joseph Smith and David Koresh as far as I'm concerned. He wasn't content to just join the trendy religious movement of his time, so he had to go and piggyback on it, put his twist on it and start his own. So as to maximize the number of followers, he proclaims that his livestrong bracelets aren't just in support of one particular cancer (after all, who wants to wear a piece of jelly jewelry to support ball cancer?) but instead all cancers.
Splinter sects are already forming. I once found an internet sight dedicated to testicular cancer and the graphic in the upper left corner was a bicyclist complete with yellow jersey and helmet. It wasn't Lance Armstrong nor did it have any affiliation with him other than the fact that these people were obviously trying to ride his coattails (or whatever professional bicyclists have in lieu of coattails.)
I think most people who wear those cheesy bracelets have no clue what they're for. Though does it really matter? If you're really wanting to make your "non-profit" charity take off, you may as well aim for some bauble that will eventually be looked at as trendy and au courrant.
As soon as I start my own religion, Kevin Black and the Church of the Latter Day Miscreants, I'm going to come up with a fad that will sweep the nation.
Nay, the globe.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Yahoo Answers crack me up
Have you seen that new section on Yahoo.com where people can post questions and anybody on the planet with an internet connection can then go and offer up answers? I'm quickly taking to this like a street whore to crack. I've heard some people cruise MySpace in a similiar fashion, but I never really got into that. YahooAnswers however is clearly da bomb.
When you first click onto the site you're met with some meaningful and often interesting questions. Today for instance one of the first ones is how a guy can find out his genetic make-up if he's adopted. Yawn. Another asks what someone can do to treat their cat's allergies. Don't let these legitimate questions fool you into outclicking. The real gems are only a few mouse clicks away.
At first I thought the best questions would be in the sexuality department and being somewhat of a perve I quickly checked to find out. It takes a little bit of investigative work to find it. They don't just label a subsection "perverse questions." You have to first click on Health and then Men's Health or Women's Health or something similar. You'll soon find yourself asking where the hell these people come from. Here's a few examples:
Where can i download hot voice, like woman having sex, just audio????
What is the substitution for masturbation who is not married?
I haven't had sex with a girl yet. now im 24. will it be a problem for my future?
I can only surmise many of these are asked by people whose first language is not English. But some of them almost sound like they were asked by someone not of this planet. What kind of answers are these people expecting really? To the lonely bachelor looking for an onanism substitute, might I suggest a cup of General Foods International Instant Coffees? Surely Cafe Vienna will induce the same sensations.
A little more clicking though proves that there are yet stupider people out there asking yet stupider and hence more amusing questions. In dental, one guy asks Will super glue mess up your teeth?. Is he using it to brush his teeth? T he answers are as varied as you might imagine. While there are some caring sad saps out there discouraging the consumtion of high-adhesive airplane glue, there are also people like me suggesting he consume large quantites in hopes that natural selection will run its course. One respondent who identifies himself as John answers back with a good compromise saying if you really have to eat an adhesive, stick to kid glue; its pretty non-toxic. Does John speak from experience?
CalexicoD wants to know Why do people get all retarded when I say the word "retard"? Am I allowed to laugh at this without feeling guilty? Or should I feel ashamed? Speaking of shame, go to the site and search "I am ashamed" and see what strange things people are ashamed of. I promise you will feel much better about your own closeted skeletons.
As for me, I have to get back to Yahoo Answers. Somebody's got to give these stoops the straight dope.
When you first click onto the site you're met with some meaningful and often interesting questions. Today for instance one of the first ones is how a guy can find out his genetic make-up if he's adopted. Yawn. Another asks what someone can do to treat their cat's allergies. Don't let these legitimate questions fool you into outclicking. The real gems are only a few mouse clicks away.
At first I thought the best questions would be in the sexuality department and being somewhat of a perve I quickly checked to find out. It takes a little bit of investigative work to find it. They don't just label a subsection "perverse questions." You have to first click on Health and then Men's Health or Women's Health or something similar. You'll soon find yourself asking where the hell these people come from. Here's a few examples:
Where can i download hot voice, like woman having sex, just audio????
What is the substitution for masturbation who is not married?
I haven't had sex with a girl yet. now im 24. will it be a problem for my future?
I can only surmise many of these are asked by people whose first language is not English. But some of them almost sound like they were asked by someone not of this planet. What kind of answers are these people expecting really? To the lonely bachelor looking for an onanism substitute, might I suggest a cup of General Foods International Instant Coffees? Surely Cafe Vienna will induce the same sensations.
A little more clicking though proves that there are yet stupider people out there asking yet stupider and hence more amusing questions. In dental, one guy asks Will super glue mess up your teeth?. Is he using it to brush his teeth? T he answers are as varied as you might imagine. While there are some caring sad saps out there discouraging the consumtion of high-adhesive airplane glue, there are also people like me suggesting he consume large quantites in hopes that natural selection will run its course. One respondent who identifies himself as John answers back with a good compromise saying if you really have to eat an adhesive, stick to kid glue; its pretty non-toxic. Does John speak from experience?
CalexicoD wants to know Why do people get all retarded when I say the word "retard"? Am I allowed to laugh at this without feeling guilty? Or should I feel ashamed? Speaking of shame, go to the site and search "I am ashamed" and see what strange things people are ashamed of. I promise you will feel much better about your own closeted skeletons.
As for me, I have to get back to Yahoo Answers. Somebody's got to give these stoops the straight dope.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Have a blessed day how?
I keep getting solicitations fom this local church inviting me to join them for some happening event they're sponsoring. Today's was a color flier advertising a revival with Pastor So & So and his family, all of whom are pictured on the color glossy in what I can only imagine is sadly their Sunday best. There are seven members all together, and while the boys look smashing enough in their basic blue button-ups and gold neckties, the two youngest girls look like they're modeling something their great-grandmother hand sewed for herself during the Great Depression and has since handed down through the generations. Looking at the advertisement I feel a little sorry for these girls. I mean Laura Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie donned nicer frocks than these.
According to the ad, Pastor So & So's family is very talented and is "sure to be a blessing." When I first pulled this thing out of the mailbox, I assumed they sang gospel music. They look like one of those families from the 70s that went around selling their music to various congregations and who's since been forgotten except for some obscure mention in a kitschy book on vintage album covers. Further investigation of the flier though reveals no hint as to what exactly their talent is. Do they breakdance? Do palm readings? Lipsync to Liza Minelli?
Are they The Aristocrats?
And what makes them a blessing? Or more generally, when someone says that someone or something is a blessing, what does that mean? Is this a regional saying? Do we only hear this in the southeast United States, the area commonly referred to as the Bible Belt, or have born-agains the world over begun to use this new catchphrase? And really, what exactly does it mean?
If there is one creator who can rightfully take credit for the Heavens and the earth, aren't all things therefore of equal benefaction? Or was there a lot of crap thrown in at the dawn of time also such that blessings are few and far between? Diamonds in the rough, so to speak?
What would this septet have to do in order to not merit being called a blessing? Sing off key? Miss a step? Fart the theme to Jaws? If the youngest member of the family (I'd say he looks to be about two and a half years old) were to suddenly do any of these things in the middle of their routine and someone in the Amen Corner said aloud Bless his heart could he then retain his blessing status? Or would the simple blasphemy of breaking wind in church cause him then to be labeled a curse instead of a blessing?
Likewise I don't understand the phrase Have a blessed day which is also something I hear periodically. What does it mean to have a blessed day? If you believe in blessings, is there ever a day that goes unblessed? If not, how could someone not have a blessed day. If indeed one can't avoid running into blessings throughout the day, telling him to have a blessed day is like telling him to have a 24-hour day.
I understand have a nice day really isn't any more descriptive, but I can safely say I've had days that weren't nice. Can someone who says Have a blessed day say they've had days that weren't blessed? Or maybe what they're implying is that they themselves have the power to bestow blessings on others so that when they say Have a blessed day it's kinda like saying Here, have five dollars.
I'm not knocking blessings or those that say Have a blessed day. I just don't think I fully understand it. Feel free to offer your explanations.
P.S. I just sneezed.
According to the ad, Pastor So & So's family is very talented and is "sure to be a blessing." When I first pulled this thing out of the mailbox, I assumed they sang gospel music. They look like one of those families from the 70s that went around selling their music to various congregations and who's since been forgotten except for some obscure mention in a kitschy book on vintage album covers. Further investigation of the flier though reveals no hint as to what exactly their talent is. Do they breakdance? Do palm readings? Lipsync to Liza Minelli?
Are they The Aristocrats?
And what makes them a blessing? Or more generally, when someone says that someone or something is a blessing, what does that mean? Is this a regional saying? Do we only hear this in the southeast United States, the area commonly referred to as the Bible Belt, or have born-agains the world over begun to use this new catchphrase? And really, what exactly does it mean?
If there is one creator who can rightfully take credit for the Heavens and the earth, aren't all things therefore of equal benefaction? Or was there a lot of crap thrown in at the dawn of time also such that blessings are few and far between? Diamonds in the rough, so to speak?
What would this septet have to do in order to not merit being called a blessing? Sing off key? Miss a step? Fart the theme to Jaws? If the youngest member of the family (I'd say he looks to be about two and a half years old) were to suddenly do any of these things in the middle of their routine and someone in the Amen Corner said aloud Bless his heart could he then retain his blessing status? Or would the simple blasphemy of breaking wind in church cause him then to be labeled a curse instead of a blessing?
Likewise I don't understand the phrase Have a blessed day which is also something I hear periodically. What does it mean to have a blessed day? If you believe in blessings, is there ever a day that goes unblessed? If not, how could someone not have a blessed day. If indeed one can't avoid running into blessings throughout the day, telling him to have a blessed day is like telling him to have a 24-hour day.
I understand have a nice day really isn't any more descriptive, but I can safely say I've had days that weren't nice. Can someone who says Have a blessed day say they've had days that weren't blessed? Or maybe what they're implying is that they themselves have the power to bestow blessings on others so that when they say Have a blessed day it's kinda like saying Here, have five dollars.
I'm not knocking blessings or those that say Have a blessed day. I just don't think I fully understand it. Feel free to offer your explanations.
P.S. I just sneezed.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Mindless banter with a political twist
Today I had to request that a college transcript go to a potential employer. While it ended up costing me $10 on a credit card which sucks, I was amazed at how easy it was to get the thing ordered.
When I was a student at Georgia State University I found getting any one of those nitwits down there to take care of my administrative bidding was a horrid nightmare that usually resulted in things getting further screwed than they already were. I lived 45 minutes from college and on many occasions I would end up just driving down there to talk with someone face to face as opposed to have some financially aided know-nothing transfer my phone call hither and yon until finally one of his buddies accidentally on purpose hung up on me.
I'm not knocking the financially aided; just the financially aided know-nothings. Some of my best friends are finanacially aided. I'm just saying.
I'm hoping to get a job teaching English to forners at a local community college. This is slightly ironic because I just got through reading Pat Buchanan's book, State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America in which he outlines why he thinks this country and the Western world for that matter are facing utter demise because of the increasing emigration from the Third World into industrialized nations. I enjoyed the book and thought it brought out some interesting points. Too bad it was written by a right-wing nutjob.
I try not to get overly political here because I would hope if you care anything about politics you don't come to my website looking for me to validate your opinion or tell you what to think. That being said, I just want to slap people around who talk about getting rid of our "ilegal" population so we can put these jobs back in the hands of hard-working Americans. How much do they think they would have to pay for the produce they buy at the grocery store every day if American citizens picked it? If everyone who had a hand in building your house had to receive taxable earnings no less than minimum wage plus the insurance payout they would necessitate coming from the builder's pocket, what do you think your home would cost? Let me let you in on a little secret. Unless you're living vastly below your means, you couldn't begin to afford it.
Alright. Enough about that. Anyway.
For those now appalled that I actually purchased and enjoyed a book by Pat Buchanan (it also came from some First Baptist Church in Missouri who doubles as an Amazon book dealer -- go figure) I'm now reading Hegemony or Survival: America's Quest for Global Dominance by Noam Chomsky. You know. It's the book the Venezuelan president was going aroud New York talking about and held up in the United Nations during his speech. Again, a great book, one which brings up points that every American should be aware of. Why our government makes noises like it's celebrating freedom and yet throws money, weapons and political backing to the destruction of freedom in other nations is beyond me. Oh well.
I'm not trying to change the planet, and I don't think a blog could do that anyway. This ain't the cyber version of We Are the World. This would be a much greater place to live if everyone would just come to accept me as their Lord and Savior, but that's probably not going to happen, so I'll just move on.
Oh yeh, about those nitwits at Georgia State University -- they sure did suck.
You know another thing I wonder about though? At what point did subtitles become mandatory on non-fiction books?
When I was a student at Georgia State University I found getting any one of those nitwits down there to take care of my administrative bidding was a horrid nightmare that usually resulted in things getting further screwed than they already were. I lived 45 minutes from college and on many occasions I would end up just driving down there to talk with someone face to face as opposed to have some financially aided know-nothing transfer my phone call hither and yon until finally one of his buddies accidentally on purpose hung up on me.
I'm not knocking the financially aided; just the financially aided know-nothings. Some of my best friends are finanacially aided. I'm just saying.
I'm hoping to get a job teaching English to forners at a local community college. This is slightly ironic because I just got through reading Pat Buchanan's book, State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America in which he outlines why he thinks this country and the Western world for that matter are facing utter demise because of the increasing emigration from the Third World into industrialized nations. I enjoyed the book and thought it brought out some interesting points. Too bad it was written by a right-wing nutjob.
I try not to get overly political here because I would hope if you care anything about politics you don't come to my website looking for me to validate your opinion or tell you what to think. That being said, I just want to slap people around who talk about getting rid of our "ilegal" population so we can put these jobs back in the hands of hard-working Americans. How much do they think they would have to pay for the produce they buy at the grocery store every day if American citizens picked it? If everyone who had a hand in building your house had to receive taxable earnings no less than minimum wage plus the insurance payout they would necessitate coming from the builder's pocket, what do you think your home would cost? Let me let you in on a little secret. Unless you're living vastly below your means, you couldn't begin to afford it.
Alright. Enough about that. Anyway.
For those now appalled that I actually purchased and enjoyed a book by Pat Buchanan (it also came from some First Baptist Church in Missouri who doubles as an Amazon book dealer -- go figure) I'm now reading Hegemony or Survival: America's Quest for Global Dominance by Noam Chomsky. You know. It's the book the Venezuelan president was going aroud New York talking about and held up in the United Nations during his speech. Again, a great book, one which brings up points that every American should be aware of. Why our government makes noises like it's celebrating freedom and yet throws money, weapons and political backing to the destruction of freedom in other nations is beyond me. Oh well.
I'm not trying to change the planet, and I don't think a blog could do that anyway. This ain't the cyber version of We Are the World. This would be a much greater place to live if everyone would just come to accept me as their Lord and Savior, but that's probably not going to happen, so I'll just move on.
Oh yeh, about those nitwits at Georgia State University -- they sure did suck.
You know another thing I wonder about though? At what point did subtitles become mandatory on non-fiction books?
Monday, October 23, 2006
Kevin of cocktailswithkevin still alive and well
Since my postings have become about as infrequent as comprehensible state of the union addresses, I've decided to try something new: timed writings. Well, not exactly timed writings as in I start writing and 30 minutes later a woman at the front of the room announces OK everybody pencils down. More like I've got about an hour between the time my kid goes down for a nap and the time she wakes up, so I'm gonna see if I can get something done online during that time besides making my internet Scrabble rating abysmally lower.
My life has been outright busy lately. I can't blame work because I left the job I so enjoyed once it no longer meshed with my fatherhood schedule. I do have a home listed once again after taking a real estate hiatus. If anyone knows someone wanting to move to Roswell, GA, and they have $209,000 I have the house for them. I interview this evening for a side gig I wouldn't mind having, but none of these things are particularly time consuming in and of themselves. I don't really have any active hobbies right now other thandownloading internet porn reading a couple good books, so it's not as though I can blame that. Even still my time seems to pass faster than Roseanne Barr down a waterslide.
It's this kid.
Now not to worry. I'm not going to let this blog get all daddified. I'm just not about that, but not only is my daughter the most amazing thing to come my way since Reese's peanut butter cups, she grows so fast. Watching her develop is like being a spectator at a Formula One race. There's always something happening. She's always doing something different or making new sounds. One of my weekly highlights is trying out a new food. I can't wait to boil up and puree sweet potato.
What does that say about me?
Speaking of food, I've pretty much made everything solid Meryl's eaten thus far and I really think that's the way to go. Now I don't mean my wife and I grew the food on our compound and then brought it in from the garden, but rather than spending the money on jarred babyfood, I've taken a liking to picking up something in the produce section and dumping it in the food processor. I don't slight anybody who still prefers the Gerber stuff and it's not like we're a granola holistic family. I don't buy the organic stuff riddled with soft spots and fruit flies. But so far Meryl's enjoyed pumpkin, green beans, squash, banana and mango. She's liked everything so far, though she did make this odd face and a hacking sound whenever I tried to feed her the green beans. You'd think I was feeding her dirt.
It just dawned on me (now that she's waking up) that if I write with a very limited time to dedicate to it, my writing tends to be rambling and without focus.
Oh well. You get what you pay for.
My life has been outright busy lately. I can't blame work because I left the job I so enjoyed once it no longer meshed with my fatherhood schedule. I do have a home listed once again after taking a real estate hiatus. If anyone knows someone wanting to move to Roswell, GA, and they have $209,000 I have the house for them. I interview this evening for a side gig I wouldn't mind having, but none of these things are particularly time consuming in and of themselves. I don't really have any active hobbies right now other than
It's this kid.
Now not to worry. I'm not going to let this blog get all daddified. I'm just not about that, but not only is my daughter the most amazing thing to come my way since Reese's peanut butter cups, she grows so fast. Watching her develop is like being a spectator at a Formula One race. There's always something happening. She's always doing something different or making new sounds. One of my weekly highlights is trying out a new food. I can't wait to boil up and puree sweet potato.
What does that say about me?
Speaking of food, I've pretty much made everything solid Meryl's eaten thus far and I really think that's the way to go. Now I don't mean my wife and I grew the food on our compound and then brought it in from the garden, but rather than spending the money on jarred babyfood, I've taken a liking to picking up something in the produce section and dumping it in the food processor. I don't slight anybody who still prefers the Gerber stuff and it's not like we're a granola holistic family. I don't buy the organic stuff riddled with soft spots and fruit flies. But so far Meryl's enjoyed pumpkin, green beans, squash, banana and mango. She's liked everything so far, though she did make this odd face and a hacking sound whenever I tried to feed her the green beans. You'd think I was feeding her dirt.
It just dawned on me (now that she's waking up) that if I write with a very limited time to dedicate to it, my writing tends to be rambling and without focus.
Oh well. You get what you pay for.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Are toenails really romantic?
I think these emailed newsletters have probably jumped the shark a couple of times, but I have one that comes to a tertiary email address that I check every once in a blue moon. The subscription is to LovingYou.com's romantic ideas newsletter where every so often (I think it's once a week) my inbox gets injected with the latest submission of romantic ideas.
Most of these are quite sophomoric in my opinion and are just variations on the same few themes. There's the love coupons idea, ten reasons I love you idea, trail of secret notes throughout the house idea, etc. Many of them incorporate rose petals or Hershey's kisses. How original! I also get the impression lots of the ideas are submitted by girls between the ages of 12 and 16 who have a crush on the guy who lives three trailers down. I don't know why I think this, but if you read a few of them I think you'll agree.
They're all fairly tame, but this one particular submission I found to be very disturbing.
Jose, do you mean to tell me your idea of a romantic evening is trimming your wife's toenails while she feeds you? Did your wife really enjoy this or was she just endulging you in another one of your bizarre sexual fetishes that she could only tolerate after a healthy dose of Franzia? How exactly did that work anyway? Were you under the table with a bottle of Vamp and some nail clippers?
Please tell me you used nail clippers.
Most of these are quite sophomoric in my opinion and are just variations on the same few themes. There's the love coupons idea, ten reasons I love you idea, trail of secret notes throughout the house idea, etc. Many of them incorporate rose petals or Hershey's kisses. How original! I also get the impression lots of the ideas are submitted by girls between the ages of 12 and 16 who have a crush on the guy who lives three trailers down. I don't know why I think this, but if you read a few of them I think you'll agree.
They're all fairly tame, but this one particular submission I found to be very disturbing.
One cold Friday evening I surprised my wife with her favorite home-cooked dinner, good wine, and a pedicure and manicure as she enjoyed her meal. I turned off the TV and radio so we could talk the entire time. Since I was doing the pedicure, she enjoyed feeding me my food. We didn’t share any physical intimacy, but there was closeness that only two people can truly share. This lasted hours and there was much work on my part, but then it was all worth it because it was so wonderful.
--submitted by Jose
Jose, do you mean to tell me your idea of a romantic evening is trimming your wife's toenails while she feeds you? Did your wife really enjoy this or was she just endulging you in another one of your bizarre sexual fetishes that she could only tolerate after a healthy dose of Franzia? How exactly did that work anyway? Were you under the table with a bottle of Vamp and some nail clippers?
Please tell me you used nail clippers.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Talking to toddlers on the phone
I love children. I really do. My favorite child of course is my own, but even being around other people's kids brings a certain degree of joy that nothing else can. My favorite part of teaching was making a room full of children laugh. Children really are wonderous things.
That being said, don't put your toddler on the phone with me while you tend to some routine household chore. No really. Just say something's come up and that you'll call me back. Yes, even if it's just for a minute or so. I really don't want to listen to your child's barely intelligible toddler babble or worse yet his slobbery labored breathing. Sure, to you he looks so adorable standing there in the kitchen awkwardly holding the phone to his ear, but to me his gagagoogoo is no more enjoyable to listen to than automated voicemail prompts or nails on a chalkboard.
What sort of dialogue do you expect me to have with him anyway? Sure, I could ask about his day or his favorite TV show or his latest bowel movement, but funnily enough I don't have near the interest in these things that you do. If he wants to talk on the phone, maybe he has a grandparent who'd be more than willing to listen. Maybe you could just get the kid the Mickey Mouse Talking Phone. Remember that one?
Hey, Mickey, come over for a party.
That being said, don't put your toddler on the phone with me while you tend to some routine household chore. No really. Just say something's come up and that you'll call me back. Yes, even if it's just for a minute or so. I really don't want to listen to your child's barely intelligible toddler babble or worse yet his slobbery labored breathing. Sure, to you he looks so adorable standing there in the kitchen awkwardly holding the phone to his ear, but to me his gagagoogoo is no more enjoyable to listen to than automated voicemail prompts or nails on a chalkboard.
What sort of dialogue do you expect me to have with him anyway? Sure, I could ask about his day or his favorite TV show or his latest bowel movement, but funnily enough I don't have near the interest in these things that you do. If he wants to talk on the phone, maybe he has a grandparent who'd be more than willing to listen. Maybe you could just get the kid the Mickey Mouse Talking Phone. Remember that one?
Hey, Mickey, come over for a party.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Keep your germy paws off my kid
Many apologies for my sudden absence. I know I'm basically only addressing a few family members when I say that, but with my new position at work, I have absolutely no time on the bossman's nickel for creative writing. Can you imagine? Working? The whole time you're at work even?
With the new part-time position comes the added responsibility of parenting my daughter during the day. And let me just tell you, she's another one that's quashed my efforts at casting out my demons via the keyboard. I had planned to use the time that I was home with a four-month-old to write the great American novel or at the very least a few scripted postings about my stuff, but no. She needs bottles, and she needs diaper changes, and she needs interactive time with her dad. Why I thought she'd be content to sit and babble while I endulge in a harmess pasttime I have no idea. That's what my cat does. I guess I thought a baby wouldn't be much different. Oh well. So begins the journey of fatherhood.
Speaking of fatherhood, when my wife first warned me that a man with a baby out in public is a magnet for women, I thought she meant the scantily clad variety whose clothes are as tight as her morals are loose. Sadly, I have yet to be approached by such a gal when I'm out pushing Meryl in her stroller or a grocery cart. We do get approached by women however. They're just not the people I was hoping for.
For example, the other day I was at Kroger minding my own business and trying to locate the numerous items on my list when out of nowhere some frumpy weird teenage store clerk with a dustmop and a personality disorder makes a beeline for me and my daughter. "Awwwwww, look at the baby. Hey sweeeeeetie. You're so cute," she says grabbing my infant daughter's hands. Then sensing my shock at some stranger taking hold of my first born she says to me with a smile, "Don't worry. My hands are clean."
Yeh, as clean as that filthy dustmop.
I didn't say this but I wanted to. Furthermore a baby is not like an adult. If I were to meet you in the street and shake your hand, the last thing I'm going to do is then put my fingers in my mouth. But you see, Psycho Kroger Clerk, this is exactly what babies do. They put their hands right in their mouth. Then all your germs and the dustmop's germs and the germs of everyone who's touched the dustmop or your pudgy hands jump right onto my daughter who will immediately suck on her fingers thus initiating a struggle between the plethora of alien germs and her newly developing immune system. Not only that, Psycho Kroger Clerk, but even if your hands were freshly Purelled, you're still frumpy and weird. That alone is reason enough that I don't want you accosting me in the store.
Not five minutes and three grocery items later some woman whose older than dirt does practically the same thing. This woman wreaks of mothballs and who knows where her hands have been? And she wants to make small talk with me next to the frozen fish section. Meryl, not yet being totally aware of stranger danger, smiles and coos which just eggs the old bird on. Great.
When I get up to my favorite cranky oldster cashier (who by the way will then shame me by making me openly admit that I'm too cheap and stingy to round up to the next dollar and donate to whatever stupid charity Kroger has buddied up with this week) she notices that Meryl is starting to get cranky. I tell Meryl that it's still 45 minutes until her bedtime and the cashier says to me in her volume ten voice, "She's probably hungry." Like I really need additional parental guilt laid on me from the Kroger lady.
Today I return to Kroger and a group of girls is out washing cars for a fundraiser. Cleverly they nominated the most buxom to stand on the corner and shimmy for passing motorists with the hopes of luring them into making a donation. As luck would have it, this time Meryl was home with my wife.
Just my luck.
With the new part-time position comes the added responsibility of parenting my daughter during the day. And let me just tell you, she's another one that's quashed my efforts at casting out my demons via the keyboard. I had planned to use the time that I was home with a four-month-old to write the great American novel or at the very least a few scripted postings about my stuff, but no. She needs bottles, and she needs diaper changes, and she needs interactive time with her dad. Why I thought she'd be content to sit and babble while I endulge in a harmess pasttime I have no idea. That's what my cat does. I guess I thought a baby wouldn't be much different. Oh well. So begins the journey of fatherhood.
Speaking of fatherhood, when my wife first warned me that a man with a baby out in public is a magnet for women, I thought she meant the scantily clad variety whose clothes are as tight as her morals are loose. Sadly, I have yet to be approached by such a gal when I'm out pushing Meryl in her stroller or a grocery cart. We do get approached by women however. They're just not the people I was hoping for.
For example, the other day I was at Kroger minding my own business and trying to locate the numerous items on my list when out of nowhere some frumpy weird teenage store clerk with a dustmop and a personality disorder makes a beeline for me and my daughter. "Awwwwww, look at the baby. Hey sweeeeeetie. You're so cute," she says grabbing my infant daughter's hands. Then sensing my shock at some stranger taking hold of my first born she says to me with a smile, "Don't worry. My hands are clean."
Yeh, as clean as that filthy dustmop.
I didn't say this but I wanted to. Furthermore a baby is not like an adult. If I were to meet you in the street and shake your hand, the last thing I'm going to do is then put my fingers in my mouth. But you see, Psycho Kroger Clerk, this is exactly what babies do. They put their hands right in their mouth. Then all your germs and the dustmop's germs and the germs of everyone who's touched the dustmop or your pudgy hands jump right onto my daughter who will immediately suck on her fingers thus initiating a struggle between the plethora of alien germs and her newly developing immune system. Not only that, Psycho Kroger Clerk, but even if your hands were freshly Purelled, you're still frumpy and weird. That alone is reason enough that I don't want you accosting me in the store.
Not five minutes and three grocery items later some woman whose older than dirt does practically the same thing. This woman wreaks of mothballs and who knows where her hands have been? And she wants to make small talk with me next to the frozen fish section. Meryl, not yet being totally aware of stranger danger, smiles and coos which just eggs the old bird on. Great.
When I get up to my favorite cranky oldster cashier (who by the way will then shame me by making me openly admit that I'm too cheap and stingy to round up to the next dollar and donate to whatever stupid charity Kroger has buddied up with this week) she notices that Meryl is starting to get cranky. I tell Meryl that it's still 45 minutes until her bedtime and the cashier says to me in her volume ten voice, "She's probably hungry." Like I really need additional parental guilt laid on me from the Kroger lady.
Today I return to Kroger and a group of girls is out washing cars for a fundraiser. Cleverly they nominated the most buxom to stand on the corner and shimmy for passing motorists with the hopes of luring them into making a donation. As luck would have it, this time Meryl was home with my wife.
Just my luck.
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
Golem teaches us to enjoy the little things life has to offer
This morning I was reading to my four-month-old daughter. With a children's librarian for a mom, Meryl has a slew of books and did have long before she was ever conceived (which by the way happened almost a year ago to the day -- just thought I'd let you know.) Actually it was my wife who had the books before but we'll tell Meryl we got them in preparation for her arrival. My wife and I were always fans of children's books long before we were considering parenthood so our collection is quite varied and includes small board books like Doggy Dog by Chris Raschka and more elaborate tales like The Three Little Javelinas* by Wutzer Nehm. Ok, that's not really who wrote it but I don't feel like getting up off the couch right now to find out who did. I'll give her credit in a minute.
This morning's story was Golem by David Wisniewski . The book's sitting right by me, otherwise I never would have guessed at the author's name much less spelled it correctly. Anyway, the story is based on an old Czechoslovakian Jewish legend in which the people of Prague are harrassing Jews and spreading rumors that they're mixing Christian children's blood with flour and water to make matzah bread. Now you and I know that if those Czech fundamentalist xenophobes had ever eaten matzah bread they'd know that surely if it had been made with the blood of Jan Hus's followers it might taste slightly better than styrofoam, but this was the Middle Ages and intelligence hadn't been invented yet. To solve the problem Rabbi Loew creates a giant man out of clay named Golem whose job it is to stop the goys from spreading such nasty rumors about the Hebrew people.
Golem, while gargantuan and thus intimidating, has a gentler side kinda like a Lou Ferrigno who keeps the Sabbath. At one point in the story Rabbi Lowe sees Golem staring at the sunrise. When he asks Golem what he's doing Golem says he's admiring the beauty of the night sky as it changes from black to blue. "It's so beautiful," Golem says.
Golem takes great pleasure in something as simple as watching the sun come up. Likewise my daughter has developed quite a fascination for ceiling fans. When she's lying underneath one that's not on, she sometimes will let out a single quiet coo. When you turn it on for her she smiles and babbles at it. Hearing Elaine's voicemail greeting makes her smile too. She is also entranced by the spiraling colors that dance on the screen when we listen to lounge-radio via Windows Media Player. I like to think this is somehow educational for her and that someday she'll grasp fractals and chaos mathematics as a result. A dad can dream, can't he? My point is that the seemingly simplest things bring her pleasure.
Do you think there's something to be learned from this? I'm not suggesting we all lie on the floor and stare at ceiling fans for personal enjoyment, but maybe somewhere in the rat race there's something we take for granted on a daily basis that otherwise might bring us pleasure. My brother enjoys fishing for example. Now I've never understood the appeal to fishing but the conept is simple enough and requirements are minimal. I think some people do it for hours on end.
My mother has always been an avid reader. Whether she enjoys delving into new worlds or temporarily escaping her own I don't know, but what cheaper pasttime is there? Books are free at your public library, and the people there'll even go so far as to put them on hold for you and call you once they arrive.
As for me, I like to write.
I have yet to find the secret to eternal happiness, but I can't help but wonder if the key lies somewhere within us as opposed to outside us. Have you ever noticed that consumerism isn't really so much an economical term for Westerners as it is their dominant religion? We are drowning ourselves in our own stuff? Perhaps happiness comes not from getting all the things we want but from seeking personal enjoyment in all the things we have. After all, if you were to randomly pick a close relative out of your family tree, can you then remember what they got you last Christmas? Sure, there were those socks of mine but I mean besides that.
Golem is told by the rabbi shortly after he's created that once everything's kosher with the Jews and the Bohemians are put back in check, Golem will be returned to clay. Presumably his appreciation for the otherwise mundane can be traced back to this knowlege that his days are numbered. But really now, don't we all know our days are numbered? I've said this before, but none of us is going to live forever. The clay waits for no man.
My wife and I traveled to Prague a few years back and saw the synagogue where Golem's clay remains are rumored to reside. Just outside is the cemetery where the famous rabbi is buried. All along the streets in that sector of town vendors' stalls are decked out with yarmulkes and miniature replicas of the Golem. I made do with the free paper yarmulke but I did fork out a few crowns so that I could have my own little Golem. I'm sure if some people familiar with the Golem legend were to spot it they would tell you the moral of the story is that good triumphs over evil or more simplistically put don't mess with the Jews. I on the other hand like to think a more befitting message is that beauty and the enjoyment thereof can be found in the things right around us and that in the search for pleasure, we need not venture far.
I'd like to think I'm not big on material goods. There are few things I possess that I couldn't live without if I had to. You can take my souvenir postcards, my disposable furniture from Ikea, or my Mona Lisa socks. That stuff is truly that: just stuff. You're not getting my miniature Golem though.
He's mine.
* The Three Little Javelinas was written by Susan Lowell. See, I told you I'd give her credit.
This morning's story was Golem by David Wisniewski . The book's sitting right by me, otherwise I never would have guessed at the author's name much less spelled it correctly. Anyway, the story is based on an old Czechoslovakian Jewish legend in which the people of Prague are harrassing Jews and spreading rumors that they're mixing Christian children's blood with flour and water to make matzah bread. Now you and I know that if those Czech fundamentalist xenophobes had ever eaten matzah bread they'd know that surely if it had been made with the blood of Jan Hus's followers it might taste slightly better than styrofoam, but this was the Middle Ages and intelligence hadn't been invented yet. To solve the problem Rabbi Loew creates a giant man out of clay named Golem whose job it is to stop the goys from spreading such nasty rumors about the Hebrew people.
Golem, while gargantuan and thus intimidating, has a gentler side kinda like a Lou Ferrigno who keeps the Sabbath. At one point in the story Rabbi Lowe sees Golem staring at the sunrise. When he asks Golem what he's doing Golem says he's admiring the beauty of the night sky as it changes from black to blue. "It's so beautiful," Golem says.
Golem takes great pleasure in something as simple as watching the sun come up. Likewise my daughter has developed quite a fascination for ceiling fans. When she's lying underneath one that's not on, she sometimes will let out a single quiet coo. When you turn it on for her she smiles and babbles at it. Hearing Elaine's voicemail greeting makes her smile too. She is also entranced by the spiraling colors that dance on the screen when we listen to lounge-radio via Windows Media Player. I like to think this is somehow educational for her and that someday she'll grasp fractals and chaos mathematics as a result. A dad can dream, can't he? My point is that the seemingly simplest things bring her pleasure.
Do you think there's something to be learned from this? I'm not suggesting we all lie on the floor and stare at ceiling fans for personal enjoyment, but maybe somewhere in the rat race there's something we take for granted on a daily basis that otherwise might bring us pleasure. My brother enjoys fishing for example. Now I've never understood the appeal to fishing but the conept is simple enough and requirements are minimal. I think some people do it for hours on end.
My mother has always been an avid reader. Whether she enjoys delving into new worlds or temporarily escaping her own I don't know, but what cheaper pasttime is there? Books are free at your public library, and the people there'll even go so far as to put them on hold for you and call you once they arrive.
As for me, I like to write.
I have yet to find the secret to eternal happiness, but I can't help but wonder if the key lies somewhere within us as opposed to outside us. Have you ever noticed that consumerism isn't really so much an economical term for Westerners as it is their dominant religion? We are drowning ourselves in our own stuff? Perhaps happiness comes not from getting all the things we want but from seeking personal enjoyment in all the things we have. After all, if you were to randomly pick a close relative out of your family tree, can you then remember what they got you last Christmas? Sure, there were those socks of mine but I mean besides that.
Golem is told by the rabbi shortly after he's created that once everything's kosher with the Jews and the Bohemians are put back in check, Golem will be returned to clay. Presumably his appreciation for the otherwise mundane can be traced back to this knowlege that his days are numbered. But really now, don't we all know our days are numbered? I've said this before, but none of us is going to live forever. The clay waits for no man.
My wife and I traveled to Prague a few years back and saw the synagogue where Golem's clay remains are rumored to reside. Just outside is the cemetery where the famous rabbi is buried. All along the streets in that sector of town vendors' stalls are decked out with yarmulkes and miniature replicas of the Golem. I made do with the free paper yarmulke but I did fork out a few crowns so that I could have my own little Golem. I'm sure if some people familiar with the Golem legend were to spot it they would tell you the moral of the story is that good triumphs over evil or more simplistically put don't mess with the Jews. I on the other hand like to think a more befitting message is that beauty and the enjoyment thereof can be found in the things right around us and that in the search for pleasure, we need not venture far.
I'd like to think I'm not big on material goods. There are few things I possess that I couldn't live without if I had to. You can take my souvenir postcards, my disposable furniture from Ikea, or my Mona Lisa socks. That stuff is truly that: just stuff. You're not getting my miniature Golem though.
He's mine.
* The Three Little Javelinas was written by Susan Lowell. See, I told you I'd give her credit.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Ode to the anonymous poster
You know those things that are on your to-do list that just never seem to get done? One of mine is responding to comments left on my blog. I thoroughly enjoy reading all of your comments. I really do, but I'm not good at quipping back. Originally I saw blogging not as a way to engage in conversation but simply to promote the International Society for Kevin Consciousness. I also wanted people to feel free to say whatever they wanted to say without concern that I would post ridicule about them and their lesser -- I mean different -- opinions. I enjoy reading the occasional feisty comment and I wouldn't want to stifle that. But one anonymous poster has helped me change all that and become a better person.
In early July I wrote about the hits I get from people seeking photos of tricholtillomania, or the urge to pull out one's own hair. They land on my blog because of this post. Specifically I said that writing in a blog about the urge to pull out one's own eyelashes and eyebrows was effed up. Just yesterday this anonymous poster bent my ear with this:
I feel like I should use some caution here because I once got a similarly scolding comment when I wrote about the limbless wrestler who wrote a book. I called him a freak. So what? Anyway I got a comment from an anonymous poster who said some of my postings were crude. My sister responded with a follow-up comment saying that whoever that preceding anonymous poster was, he was probably just self-conscious about his club foot and coincidentally she was willing to pay five bucks to see it. As it turned out the anonymous finger shaker was my mother. You can imagine how proud she must be of her two youngest children. You can click here to learn about the whole debaucle. Anyway I've learned you never know who the anonymous poster is, so I feel I should be somewhat mindful of what I say in response.
My dearest anonymous poster, I am duely glad that you have found your way to enlightenment via
cocktailswithkevin.com. However it concerns me that you think poking fun at self-mutilators should be discouraged. Perhaps when you look in the mirror you see a person devoid of any eyelashes or eyebrows because of your constant urge to pull them out. Maybe you have pulled to the point that you resemble a cancer patient currently undergoing chemotherapy (You know they're a laugh riot.) Maybe you're one of those who makes a meal of your own scabs. I don't know. What I do know is that your inability to see the humor in writing about freakish habits is unsound. You will be a happier person if you flush the psychotropic contents of your medicine cabinet down the toilet and just accept me as your Lord and Saviour.
Frankly what I found most interesting about the whole hair-pulling situation wasn't so much the actual act of pulling out the hairs. Like I said in my original post, I too am guilty of that. What I found bothersome to the point of being amusing was that people feel it necessary to write about their hair pulling. Not just write about it in their own personal diary but write about it for all to see. Why do they think we should care? If they were writing about family, human anomalies or their sock drawer I could understand it. But pulling out their hair? That's not newsworthy, is it?
I also find it funny that this poster passively claims that pulling your hair out is a condition. Does anyone remember at what point in human history we started recategorizing personal choices as conditions? Is D.A.D. (Disorder Addiction Disorder) a cultural universal or is this strictly an American thing? International readers, please fill us Yanks in.
Anyway, I do wish to thank this poster for helping me to be a better blogger. I will now make it a point to respond to comments that I get. And I promise not to be so uppity all the time.
In early July I wrote about the hits I get from people seeking photos of tricholtillomania, or the urge to pull out one's own hair. They land on my blog because of this post. Specifically I said that writing in a blog about the urge to pull out one's own eyelashes and eyebrows was effed up. Just yesterday this anonymous poster bent my ear with this:
No Kevin, the uninformed individuals like yourself are what's "effed" up aboutWhere do I begin?
this world. The fact that you make fun of medical conditions affecting millions
of people makes you the weirdo, not them.
I feel like I should use some caution here because I once got a similarly scolding comment when I wrote about the limbless wrestler who wrote a book. I called him a freak. So what? Anyway I got a comment from an anonymous poster who said some of my postings were crude. My sister responded with a follow-up comment saying that whoever that preceding anonymous poster was, he was probably just self-conscious about his club foot and coincidentally she was willing to pay five bucks to see it. As it turned out the anonymous finger shaker was my mother. You can imagine how proud she must be of her two youngest children. You can click here to learn about the whole debaucle. Anyway I've learned you never know who the anonymous poster is, so I feel I should be somewhat mindful of what I say in response.
My dearest anonymous poster, I am duely glad that you have found your way to enlightenment via
cocktailswithkevin.com. However it concerns me that you think poking fun at self-mutilators should be discouraged. Perhaps when you look in the mirror you see a person devoid of any eyelashes or eyebrows because of your constant urge to pull them out. Maybe you have pulled to the point that you resemble a cancer patient currently undergoing chemotherapy (You know they're a laugh riot.) Maybe you're one of those who makes a meal of your own scabs. I don't know. What I do know is that your inability to see the humor in writing about freakish habits is unsound. You will be a happier person if you flush the psychotropic contents of your medicine cabinet down the toilet and just accept me as your Lord and Saviour.Frankly what I found most interesting about the whole hair-pulling situation wasn't so much the actual act of pulling out the hairs. Like I said in my original post, I too am guilty of that. What I found bothersome to the point of being amusing was that people feel it necessary to write about their hair pulling. Not just write about it in their own personal diary but write about it for all to see. Why do they think we should care? If they were writing about family, human anomalies or their sock drawer I could understand it. But pulling out their hair? That's not newsworthy, is it?
I also find it funny that this poster passively claims that pulling your hair out is a condition. Does anyone remember at what point in human history we started recategorizing personal choices as conditions? Is D.A.D. (Disorder Addiction Disorder) a cultural universal or is this strictly an American thing? International readers, please fill us Yanks in.
Anyway, I do wish to thank this poster for helping me to be a better blogger. I will now make it a point to respond to comments that I get. And I promise not to be so uppity all the time.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Welcome to my stuff again
Long overdue is this fourth installation of Welcome to My Stuff™. This one comes almost as a response to a dare in which I jovially mentioned that if I were not able to come up with any more stuff of mine to write on, I may have to resort to the sock drawer. Some fellow bloggers held me to it. Here goes.Obviously the six pair shown here don't constitute my entire sock collection. My other socks are hidden under that Tiffany blue bathing suit that I wear to look chic at the beach. I just pulled a few pair that I thought served as a decent representation of my hosiery. So as to provide you with an even more detailed description of what you're looking at, I'll rate the six pair you see here on four factors: attractiveness, practicality, comfort and frequency of wear.
I purchased the pair on the far left during our honeymoon in Paris. Specifically they were acquired from a little overpriced boutique in the subway underneath the Louvre museum. For the most part the Paris Metro is functional at best and some stations smell of bodily fluids. The station underneath the Louvre though fancies itself a tourist-infested mini-mall complete with calendars, sweatshirts and Japanese camera-wielders.
What's the name of that station? Surely if I just walk backwards in
Attractiveness: 5 - They look cool and get comments.
Practicality: 3 - Worked great when I taught French. Not my first choice for job interviews.Comfort: 2 - Way too tight! Feels like I'm wearing tourniquets.
Frequency: 2 - I like the way they look in the sock drawer and their uncomfortable.
The doodoo brown socks lying next to Mona Lisa were a gift from my mother-in-law which she bought from her local Brooks Brothers store. No, they don't heat up or vibrate -- that's the Brookstone store. These are just your average thin sock labeled truly as men's hosiery. Men's hosiery looks great for the first few wears and after that falls like Bea Arthur's cleavage. I think these were a Christmas present.
Attractiveness: 1 - What can I say, they're doodoo brown and they attract lint in the dryer.
Practicality: 4 - They work with jeans, khakis, suits, you name it.
Comfort: 5 - I admit that once you shake out these sad forlorn socks, they're comfy.
Frequency: 2 - I wore them more often when they were new. They're just so . . . flimsy.
The socks in the very middle have seen me through many a day in the office or at play. They are always a pair that makes it into my suitcase when I travel. Sometimes they'll go for two, maybe even three days at a time without being changed I like them so much. They too were a gift from my mother-in-law, and these socks just look sharp, feel sharp. I could go on.
Attractiveness: 5 - They're jazzy but not too busy. This picture doesn't capture they're beauty.
Practicality: 4 - They're starting to show some wear and tear in the heel but they're still a staple.
Comfort: 5 - Not too tight. Fit just right.
Frequency: 5 - Like I said, these see a lot of foot action.
You can't really see it from the photo, but the second to last pair of socks actually have little Ralph Lauren teddy bears on them. These were a gift from my own mother who happily catered to one of my wardrobe phases, wild socks. Aside from the one instance where I forked out twenty bucks for a pair on vacation, I typically wouldn't spend enough on my footwear to justify owning a pair of Ralph Lauren socks. This is why it's nice to have generous parents. These were also a hit when I was teaching elementary school.
Attractiveness: 5 - Again, these spark comments without being too gaudy. I like that in a sock.
Practicality: 5 - Ralph Lauren equals suit; teddy bears equal jeans. How can I go wrong?
Comfort: 5 - These socks have seen just enough wear that they're comfy and supportive.
Frequency: 5 - These socks score big in all 5 categories.
The little white ankle-high pair is one I think I stole from my father-in-law. Florida summers call for shorts and not even the octagenarians wear them with long socks anymore. The problem was I didn't own any suitable Florida socks and rather than venture into the local discount store, I just ventured into my father-in-law's sock stash. He has about a thousand.
Attractiveness: 2 - The only way they'd be a one is if they weren't easily bleachable. Practicality: 3 - I reserve these mainly for when I mow the lawn
Comfort: 5 - Socks really don't get more comfortable than these.
Frequency: 3 - They're good with shorts and slash or tennis shoes. That's about it.
Lastly that Christmas pair was also a gift from my mom. Thanksfully she gave them to me before Christmas that year. I don't mean to sound ungrateful but one of my pet peeves is receiving Christmasy things on Christmas day. How exactly is a guy really supposed to get full enjoyment out of such a gift? That's like giving a woman a pair of white shoes on Labor Day.
Unlike the Brooks Brothers socks my mother-in-law gave me that don't do anything special, the Santa socks did in fact make music. The little gadget inside the one of them stopped working a few Christmases ago so I eventually removed it, but when I first got them they had one of those music makers inside that makes the high-pitched electronic music like what you hear in musical greeting cards. Along with this pair I probably own at least three other pair of Christmas socks, all of which make it out at least once every holiday season.
Attractiveness: 4 - Well, this is in the eye of the beholder, but I like them.
Practicality: 1 - Other than Christmas, they're only use would be as a dog toy. You couldn't even make a decent sock puppet out of these.
Comfort: 4 - Now that the little noise maker is gone, they're much more comfy.
Frequency: 1 - The Chrismakuh season is it for these guys.
Well, that about does it for my sock drawer. Like I said, I do own more socks than these, but I think if I were empty out the whole drawer for the sake of a picture, you'd pretty much just see more of the same. Not only that but then my wife would walk in to the bedroom and say something like You better pick everyone of those up before I come back in this room.
Yeh, I think we'll just stick with these six.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Making call center phone calls short and sweet
. . . unlike this post.
Since I accepted this call center job over a year ago I have acquired a knack for dealing quickly and efficiently with people over the phone. I have since accepted a position with another department in the company, one which sadly no longer entails dealing with bewildered chaps on the phone, but for the sake of my fellow compatriots and cube-mates I want to leave with a few hints and tips for efficiently but politely wrapping up a call. For those readers who are not my compatriots and cube-mates, I invite you to have a candid glimpse into the wonderful world of call centers so that perhaps you too can use this information to your advantage. I'll try and avoid specialized vocabulary and company jargon.
When a consumer calls in, simply say Thank you for calling XYZ, this is so-and-so. How may I help you?
Sometimes we're tempted to begin the conversation by asking the consumer for his consumer number. In theory this would be acceptable because in theory people don't call our line unless they have already received their reports in the mail. That theory also assumes people will love calling up a robot, one that seldom understands the spoken word no less, to leave their personal information including their prized Social Security number.
Most people who call in have not yet received their reports in the mail and therefore do not have a consumer number. Of those few consumers who have received their reports in the mail, a very select minutia actually even realize what a consumer number is or where to locate it on their paperwork. Undoubtedly these few savvy consumers will NOT call on your shift. Therefore when you begin the conversation with the request for a consumer number, you are asking the caller for something they likely don't have and don't understand. Doing so will simply aggrevate the caller and thus prolong your time on the phone with them.
Every second you spend aggravating the caller is an additional thirty seconds they will want to stay on your phone asking you to solve a problem you cannot solve. Since you are not permitted to prematurely disconnect the call, you will be making your job harder by starting the conversation any other way than simply asking how you can be of service.
Surprisingly, another way to shorten the time on the phone with someone is remaining silent while they tell you their tales of woe. It doesn't matter that they are the third person within the hour who has told you the same tale of woe. They each think their problem is unique, and frankly to them it is. Here is a deep dark secret that most people do not understand or appreciate:
At least 90% of people who call don't want you to do anything other than LISTEN to their problem. Therapy is a costly luxury, one which the everyday Joe can't afford. Therefore that same everyday Joe calls the first 1-800 number he can find. If that 1-800 number is yours, rejoice in knowing that all you need do is surf the internet, check your email, or read something on cocktailswithkevin.com while this guy boohoos about whatever it is he wants to complain about. Nine times out of ten you can let him go on for thirty seconds and follow up with I understand exactly and I appreciate you calling XYZ; If there's anything further we can do to assist you, please don't hesitate to call back.
This accomplishes several things in a matter of seconds. Many people who call in will assume you're trying to hurry them off your phone so you don't have to talk to them anymore. If you assure them they're welcome to call back, that fear is alleviated. If you've done a good job letting them vent, trust me, they won't call back, and even if they do it's not likely you're going to be the one to intercept the call.
Also if you use an assuring, comforting and closing tone, they will naturally feel obligated to take you up on your invitation to end the conversation. By closing tone I mean that same voice you use on the phone with a tertiary relative when you've shared all you wanted to share and therefore start saying things like Well, I'm glad you called or Well, I better get these kids to bed or Well, my prostate's acting up again. If you use this same friendly but conclusive tone when you've done all you can do for a caller AND YOU SOUND SINCERE, that caller will most often be content to hang up happy. If on the other hand you deliver this line sounding like you're not interested and can't wait for him to hang up, I guarantee you, he will prolong your time on the phone simply because he thinks he's never going to have a live person on the phone again.
Taking control of the call is another important part of working in a call center. So many times we add significant amounts of time to our phone calls simply because we allow the caller to take control of the conversation, many times without even realizing it until it's too late. Some callers actively try and bulldoze their way into the driver's seat through intimidation and others will just usurp control once they sense insecurity or they think they're not going to get the answer they want.
Regardless of how uncomfortable a consumer makes you feel on the phone, make sure you come across as knowing what you're talking about (even if you don't.) In spite of how little you may feel you know, because let's face it -- there's actually a lot to keep up with in this business -- you know more than the caller does. Use that knowledge to your advantage. Be polite but be assertive. As long as you sound like you know what you're talking about, the caller will trust you and let you take control.
Most everyone who calls this department needs one of two things. They either need us to order their reports so that they can file a dispute once they receive them or they need to file their dispute now that they've received the report. You likely can decypher which of these two things they need within the first few seconds of their phone call. People who need their reports ordered will often start the phone call with one of the following phrases:
I found that telling the consumer their credit score has nothing to do with their insurance company's decision sometimes makes them feel better even if they still don't understand what's going on. At times I even said politely Your insurance company does not care how good your credit score is or that you pay all your bills on time; they are simply trying to assess your risk by looking at various factors on your credit report. Now, after you say this you can rest assured some stoop will answer back "but I pay all my bills on time." Just politely keep repeating what you said.
Insurance score calls do not have to be intimidating or even lengthy for that matter provided you have some well-scripted explanations and polite rebuttals.
Speaking of lengthy, this how-to guide has gotten to be somewhat long, and there's still plenty I could say. Let me finish off with some suggested things you can say in different circumstances to keep things short and sweet.
Since I accepted this call center job over a year ago I have acquired a knack for dealing quickly and efficiently with people over the phone. I have since accepted a position with another department in the company, one which sadly no longer entails dealing with bewildered chaps on the phone, but for the sake of my fellow compatriots and cube-mates I want to leave with a few hints and tips for efficiently but politely wrapping up a call. For those readers who are not my compatriots and cube-mates, I invite you to have a candid glimpse into the wonderful world of call centers so that perhaps you too can use this information to your advantage. I'll try and avoid specialized vocabulary and company jargon.
When a consumer calls in, simply say Thank you for calling XYZ, this is so-and-so. How may I help you?
Sometimes we're tempted to begin the conversation by asking the consumer for his consumer number. In theory this would be acceptable because in theory people don't call our line unless they have already received their reports in the mail. That theory also assumes people will love calling up a robot, one that seldom understands the spoken word no less, to leave their personal information including their prized Social Security number.
Most people who call in have not yet received their reports in the mail and therefore do not have a consumer number. Of those few consumers who have received their reports in the mail, a very select minutia actually even realize what a consumer number is or where to locate it on their paperwork. Undoubtedly these few savvy consumers will NOT call on your shift. Therefore when you begin the conversation with the request for a consumer number, you are asking the caller for something they likely don't have and don't understand. Doing so will simply aggrevate the caller and thus prolong your time on the phone with them.
Every second you spend aggravating the caller is an additional thirty seconds they will want to stay on your phone asking you to solve a problem you cannot solve. Since you are not permitted to prematurely disconnect the call, you will be making your job harder by starting the conversation any other way than simply asking how you can be of service.
Surprisingly, another way to shorten the time on the phone with someone is remaining silent while they tell you their tales of woe. It doesn't matter that they are the third person within the hour who has told you the same tale of woe. They each think their problem is unique, and frankly to them it is. Here is a deep dark secret that most people do not understand or appreciate:
At least 90% of people who call don't want you to do anything other than LISTEN to their problem. Therapy is a costly luxury, one which the everyday Joe can't afford. Therefore that same everyday Joe calls the first 1-800 number he can find. If that 1-800 number is yours, rejoice in knowing that all you need do is surf the internet, check your email, or read something on cocktailswithkevin.com while this guy boohoos about whatever it is he wants to complain about. Nine times out of ten you can let him go on for thirty seconds and follow up with I understand exactly and I appreciate you calling XYZ; If there's anything further we can do to assist you, please don't hesitate to call back.
This accomplishes several things in a matter of seconds. Many people who call in will assume you're trying to hurry them off your phone so you don't have to talk to them anymore. If you assure them they're welcome to call back, that fear is alleviated. If you've done a good job letting them vent, trust me, they won't call back, and even if they do it's not likely you're going to be the one to intercept the call.
Also if you use an assuring, comforting and closing tone, they will naturally feel obligated to take you up on your invitation to end the conversation. By closing tone I mean that same voice you use on the phone with a tertiary relative when you've shared all you wanted to share and therefore start saying things like Well, I'm glad you called or Well, I better get these kids to bed or Well, my prostate's acting up again. If you use this same friendly but conclusive tone when you've done all you can do for a caller AND YOU SOUND SINCERE, that caller will most often be content to hang up happy. If on the other hand you deliver this line sounding like you're not interested and can't wait for him to hang up, I guarantee you, he will prolong your time on the phone simply because he thinks he's never going to have a live person on the phone again.
Taking control of the call is another important part of working in a call center. So many times we add significant amounts of time to our phone calls simply because we allow the caller to take control of the conversation, many times without even realizing it until it's too late. Some callers actively try and bulldoze their way into the driver's seat through intimidation and others will just usurp control once they sense insecurity or they think they're not going to get the answer they want.
Regardless of how uncomfortable a consumer makes you feel on the phone, make sure you come across as knowing what you're talking about (even if you don't.) In spite of how little you may feel you know, because let's face it -- there's actually a lot to keep up with in this business -- you know more than the caller does. Use that knowledge to your advantage. Be polite but be assertive. As long as you sound like you know what you're talking about, the caller will trust you and let you take control.
Most everyone who calls this department needs one of two things. They either need us to order their reports so that they can file a dispute once they receive them or they need to file their dispute now that they've received the report. You likely can decypher which of these two things they need within the first few seconds of their phone call. People who need their reports ordered will often start the phone call with one of the following phrases:
- I just go off the phone with my insurance company . . .
- I need to order an XYZ report . . .
- My insurance agent said something's showing up on my record . . .
- You people are reporting some erroneous information about me (oh how people love the word erroneous)
- Let me ask you something. Who is XYZ?
On the other hand people who say these things likely have already received their reports and just need a dispute filed:
- I just got something from you people in the mail . . .
- I called last week and spoke with some lady. I don't remember her name.
- Hi so-and-so, my consumer number is . . .
- What do you need from me off of this report?
- I called last week for an XYZ report and instead I got an ABC report . . .
A primary key to getting people on your phone and quickly off is figuring out which of these two things they need and guiding the rest of the conversation in the direction you need to get that task accomplished. In spite of how hard the caller might try to get you off track by filling your ears with their irrevelant backstory, stay focused. A seasoned veteran will likely tell you most of what these people say has absolutely nothing to do with your job description with the exception of you having to be polite and trying to extrapolate any splinter of information you'll actually need.
If the caller needs his reports ordered, politely take the first opportunity you have to interrupt and ask for his last name. If on the other hand he needs a dispute filed, politely take the first opportunity you have to ask for the date of the claim that's showing up incorrectly. In either case, be ready once they answer to quickly BUT NOT RUDELY ask for your next piece of needed information. You being concise and polite is key to them trusting that you know what you're doing.
The moment you insert a pregnant pause they will assume you either don't know how to help them, don't want to help them or worse yet, you want them to start telling you their tales of woe. Save this pregnant pause for when you are actually ordering the reports or filing the dispute. This way you're getting something done while they think you're listening to them tell you about a deer coming out of nowhere or how bitter their divorce was or that they think because QRS insurance company wants to charge them extra money for their auto policy someone must have stolen their identity. Oh, how they love to think their identity's been stolen.
Once you've done what you need to do, stay focused on your goal. If at all possible give simple noncommital responses to their rambling such as In that case let me go ahead and get your reports ordered and mailed out to you so that we can get that disputed. If you're filing the dispute, you might follow up with something like I'm glad you brought that to my attention so I can go ahead and dispute this with the insurance company. You'll get that reponse in 30 business days. In either case start using that polite but conclusive tone so that they get the message that you've done everything you can. Otherwise you'll have to sit through more about the deer, the divorce or the stolen identity.
Most people who call us are polite. Some are confused, others frustrated and still a select few are angry. For the most part, even the angry ones are polite if you come across as polite on the phone to them. On rare occasions however you get the people who are just plain beligerent or worse yet lonely. These are the Chatty Cathys and Chatty Charlies. Dealing with them successfully takes practice, but here are a couple of tips:
- Don't get caught up in their game of 20 questions. If their questions have nothing to do with your goal or your job description be prepared to give very short, preferably one-word, answers or no answers at all.
- Don't be afraid to use silence to your advantage. A savvy Chatty Cathy will intentionally use silence with the hopes that you will feel intimidated and fill the conversational void with your nervous mumblings. Don't give them the satisfaction. Instead let silence prevail. You remaining silent or inserting a hefty pause before answering them sends the message that you're not quaking in your boots the way they hope. Their pride will dwindle and they will eventually hang up.
- Do not under any circumstances let your tone convey that you are irritated with them. They are trying to get under your skin. If you give them any hint that they are succeeding, they will keep going. There is no reason they should get to you anyway. They are only a voice on the phone.
Regarding insurance scoring . . . this is something I could write endlessly on and we all know there many different types of insurance scoring. Using a consumer's credit report to try and determine how likely they are to file a claim or how many claims they're likely to file is something many people find difficult to understand. Many times those who understand it, don't like that their insurance company is doing it or don't think they should. Here's a quick breakdown of what insurance scoring is:
This is difficult for people to understand because everyone assumes the only thing their credit report is used for is to determine whether or not they pay their bills. Furthermore they associate their credit score with their integrity. People would rather you say horrible things about their mother and then spit on them than say their credit report wasn't good enough. Throw in the fact that some insurance companies tell 99% of their insureds their credit report was the reason they didn't get the best rate and you can see where a lot of their frustrations come from.An insurance company looks at a consumer's credit report. Then they look at the credit reports of those people whose credit reports look like the consumer's (similar types of accounts, similar usage of accounts, similar number of accounts, etc.) The insurance company looks at the number of claims those other people file, assumes that the consumer will file a similar number (or dollar amount worth) of claims. And then the insurance company rates them accordingly.
I found that telling the consumer their credit score has nothing to do with their insurance company's decision sometimes makes them feel better even if they still don't understand what's going on. At times I even said politely Your insurance company does not care how good your credit score is or that you pay all your bills on time; they are simply trying to assess your risk by looking at various factors on your credit report. Now, after you say this you can rest assured some stoop will answer back "but I pay all my bills on time." Just politely keep repeating what you said.
Insurance score calls do not have to be intimidating or even lengthy for that matter provided you have some well-scripted explanations and polite rebuttals.
Speaking of lengthy, this how-to guide has gotten to be somewhat long, and there's still plenty I could say. Let me finish off with some suggested things you can say in different circumstances to keep things short and sweet.
- What's the date of the claim that's showing up incorrectly?
- I'm going to go ahead and ask the insurance company to correct that. By law theyhave 30 business days to respond and then you'll get a new report in the mail letting you know it's been corrected / taken care of. (Notice this sounds to the consumer like you're going to make it say what they want even though you're really just saying it will be corrected.)
- I notice the claim says the driver was at fault. If you weren't at fault, I'll ask the insurance company to change it. Would you like me to do that?
- ABC insurance company didn't say whether or not you were at fault for the claim and because xyz insurance company doesn't see not at fault, they're assuming it's an at-fault claim. But if you'd like I'll ask ABC if they'll put "not at fault" in there?
- I believe that's got you taken care of, and I appreciate you calling. Is there anything else I can do for you?
Now in closing I'll just say that although many of you cube-mates knew I could be crabby at times, I absolutely loved talking to those consumers on the phone. I really did. Likewise working with all of you was a great pleasure each and every day I sat down in the Tiki cube. When the callers weren' making me smile, all of you made me smile.
If I can ever be of further assistance to any of you, please don't hestate to call back.
I mean . . . let me know.
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