I am slowly recovering from an injury I sustained last week. I have been limping since the day after Thanksgiving because I managed to wound myself with a foot shaver. Twice. Dangerous things, those foot shavers.
If you've never seen one they work kinda like a vegetable peeler only for the soles of your feet. Ideally they're to be used to remove dead skin cells from around the heel or big toe or wherever else extra poundage and footwear friction have turned soft skin into alligator scales. The trouble is that because the tool is basically a razor blade on a stick, one wrong move and otherwise happy feet soon become butchered bloody feet.
I use the foot shaver often. My wife thinks I am addicted to it. I'm not though. I could quit at any time. Besides I have to foot shave in order to maintain my personally groomed existence. And this just isn't a good time to stop foot shaving. Not to mention I'm a funnier person when I foot shave. If she really wanted me to stop she'd throw it away and not leave it there in the soap dish. Such the enabler.
When I first bought the device I was briefly admonished by the saleslady at the beauty supply store. Notice it's called the beauty supply store and not the addiction supply store.
"Do you use that on your feet?" the woman asked with a scolding look, her eyes peering out over the rims of her eyeglasses.
"Yes."
"You know that's very bad for your feet, don't you?"
"Is it?"
"All you're doing is creating scar tissue on your feet every time you use it," she said.
"What do you recommend then?" I asked.
With this she smiled and went to try and find the products on the shelf she deemed appropriate for my feet as she explained each one. "You should start out with a foot moisturizer, " she said, "and then use a pumice stone and then finish with a foot buffer."
After she couldn't find the foot buffer she claimed they were out of them and told me that I should come back in a week. Frankly, the moisturizer alone cost more than I wanted to spend, and besides, her prescription didn't look like it would have done the job. Snaky saleslady always trying to upsell to the unwitting customer.
I wanted to ask her who she took me for. I'm not some queenie metrosexual type. I don't do moisturizers or even buffers for that matter. I want something just short of a weapon. Part of me wanted to tell her I'm hard core lady. There are things about me you couldn't understand. Things you shouldn't understand. Instead I just asked her to ring me up so I could get out of the beauty supply store before someone I knew walked in and saw me. The woman reluctantly sold me the shaver and blades.
Once outside I couldn't wait to break out my new gear. How strange would it be, I wondered, if I were to take my shoes off once I got to the car and get started? Nah, that nosy saleslady might spy on me through the store window and come harangue me on the appropriate techniques of proper foot grooming. Like she knows anything.
I could always drive around the back of the strip mall and hide out behind a dumpster and footshave. It wouldn't take me long to get a few good strokes in, I thought. Then again, that same buzzkill might step out back for a smoke break or something and catch me foot shaving. You know she probably smokes. Stupid gateway druggies. Come back in a week, my ass. That was probably just some trick to get me to come to one of her dumb meetings.
So I waited until I got home. That's how come I know I'm not addicted because I could wait until I got home. You see, I'm in control of my foot shaving.
Oddly enough, I never cared about what the bottoms of my feet looked like until I went through chemotherapy. One of the side effects of something they pumped into me was that the soles of my feet became extra soft. I don't know if it was one of the drugs I got or simply because of the amount of saline solution they put into me. I swear, when you undergo chemotherapy, they pump you so full of saline solution that you feel like getting Bausch and Lomb tattooed across your chest. For some people the extra soft feet are a hindrance. In extreme cases it hurts to walk or even put on shoes. Personally, I just basked in knowing my feet were baby smooth. Unfortunately, once the hair on my head grew back, so did the callouses on my feet.
Since that time, I've always yearned to have those same soft feet back. So now I foot shave. Is that so bad? It doesn't affect anyone but me.
I was first turned on to it by some woman in a nail salon that gave me a pedicure. Yeh, I've had a pedicure. So what! For twenty dollars it's the most socially acceptable way for a married man to peer down at the cleavage of a total stranger for ten minutes. Anyway, it was she who first taught me the steps to foot shaving. Turns out there are twelve of them. No correlation though. There just happen to be twelve steps.
Step one is soaking your feet. The second step is making sure you have a fresh clean blade on the foot shaver. That's important otherwise you end up with bloody butchered feet. Step three was . . . well, come to think of it I never did quite catch the last nine steps. The nail tech's English wasn't all that good. Come to think of it neither was her cleavage.
Regardless I now have two wounds on the heel of my right foot. Sadly one is on the right while the other is on the left, so I can't walk on one side of my arch and maintain a semi-normal gait. Instead I have to raise up and walk on the balls of my right foot and put my left foot firmly on the ground. I guess I could walk on the balls of both feet in order to stay parallel but then instead of hobbling I'd just be mincing. Which is worse?
In case you didn't know, the heel of your foot bleeds like a stuck pig. After I cut myself, I had to hop one legged around the house to fetch a couple of Band-Aids, leaving a trail of crimson dots on the tile floor. When I quickly bled through those I replaced them with more Band-Aids. I eventually put on a sock over them but it too soon became blood stained. Yuck.
The blood did stop after I covered it with enough Band-Aids and raised my foot above my chest. Like I said, I'm on the mend now. I'm fine. I know what some of you are thinking though. I can just hear it. You were lucky this time, Kevin. You've got to stop doing this to yourself. Find help. Don't wait to check off all the boxes.
Yeh yeh, blah blah blah . . . You people don't know me . . . You don't know how hard my life is right now . . . All I want is . . . a little something to keep my . . . feet . . . smooth at the end of the day . . . What's so wrong about that? Whatevah, whatevah . . . I do what I want.
Ouch!
Great, now it's my left heel.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Dining out with a baby
Meryl shows us how to use a lemon wedge as a utensil:
Meryl poses mid-dip for the camera:
Mmm, Mexican cheese dip!!!
Meryl poses mid-dip for the camera:
Mmm, Mexican cheese dip!!!
Monday, November 19, 2007
Commodore 64, my old friend
Have you ever thought about how much we use the innerweb, a modern technological tool, for satiating our hunger for nostalgia? You really need not click much further before you stumble onto sites that allow you to find a lost love, look up information on childhood tv shows, or even listen to your favorite song dating back to 8th grade year. Aside from corresponding with family, catching up on news stories, and ridding my inbox of pleas from financially displaced Nigerians, I spend a lot of my online time looking for information on people or things that were around long before there ever was an internet.
My recent walk down memory lane led me back to that old chestnut, the Commodore 64.
My first real introduction to personal computing came at a time when War Games was showing on HBO and Hall and Oates' Private Eyes was playing on Atlanta's Top 40 radio station, Power 99. Ronald Reagan was president, and the Tonight Show starred Johnny Carson. I knew people who greased up Rubik's Cubes with Vaseline in order to more quickly come up with the solution. Sadly, Ronald Reagan , Johnny Carson and Power 99 are now dead. The Rubik's Cube still lives on thanks to some partnered marketing between Target stores and Dustin Hoffman's expected box office flop, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, a.k.a. Willy Ishtar and the Toy Factory. We still got Vaseline too. I was 12 years old at the time. The year was 1984. How Orwellian!
While my family boasted a personal computer at this time, we wouldn't get an actual monitor for another two or three years. In the meantime, our Commodore was hooked up to an old black and white television set. A disk drive was another luxury we did without, instead making do with a tape drive that used standard audio cassettes to store data. Often I'd wait for almost an hour for a program to fully load from one of those tapes. Sometimes it worked; other times my patience was rewarded with that daunting message LOAD ERROR followed by a READY prompt and a blinking cursor. In other words, no program.
Each month we got a copy of Compute's Gazette and it was from the back pages of one issue that I ordered my first modem. 300 baud and that was big time back in the day, kids. With a modem the Commodore 64 served as a portal into the world beyond where you could find bootlegged software, MIDI music and my first introduction to cyber pr0n, much of which consisted of naughty pictures made up of ASCII characters. Mind you, this was back in the day before we had cool terms like pr0n or even cyber for that matter.
BBS's (or bulletin board services for those not in the know) were community run. Some guy who was geekier and more computer savvy than you dedicated one of his terminals to man the calls coming in from people throughout the area. Members exchanged messages, programs and text files. Because it tied up the phone line, the middle of the night was the best time to log on. I dreaded call waiting because an incoming call would bump you off right in the middle of a huge file transfer.
Fast forward to modern times and the innerweb is riddled with sites dedicated to everything dealing with the Commodore, from the synthetic tinny music it produced to the pixellated pictures featured in the most popular games. Some people still have one of the old terminals around and use it to run a model train layout or operate an amateur radio. You can even download an emulator that turns your bells and whistles Y2K compliant machine into a replica of a Commodore 64.
Careful with this last one though. This isn't the first time I've fallen prey to the Commodore 64 nostalgia, and the last time I took a stroll down this stretch of memory lane, I downloaded a similar program onto a work computer that wouldn't terminate. Like something from a Dr. Who episode my IBM classroom computer refused to display anything other than the welcome screen from a Commodore 64. I even tried turning the computer on and off a few times. Same thing. I was stuck in 1984.
I eventually had to confess my misdoings to the technology coordinator who in turn had to get a guy from the county level to come in and fix my computer. The guy who fixed it looked like he was probably too young to have ever seen a Commodore 64. He made the repair in a matter of 20 seconds and I felt stupid. Oh well, I was back to downloading non-work-related software that afternoon.
The Commodore came from a golden age and a quick perusal of eBay shows that for a mere $25 you can get one of the original antiques complete with a disk drive, a modem, a joystick and lots of software to boot. Or for $35 you can get a tshirt that says Commodore 64 whiz kid. I gotta confess that although the Commodore held a fond place in my heart for many years, I wouldn't want to go back to the days of only 64K ram and 38911 basic bytes free whatever that meant. I like my high-speed innerweb and streaming video.
I might get that Commodore 64 whiz kid tshirt though.
My recent walk down memory lane led me back to that old chestnut, the Commodore 64.
My first real introduction to personal computing came at a time when War Games was showing on HBO and Hall and Oates' Private Eyes was playing on Atlanta's Top 40 radio station, Power 99. Ronald Reagan was president, and the Tonight Show starred Johnny Carson. I knew people who greased up Rubik's Cubes with Vaseline in order to more quickly come up with the solution. Sadly, Ronald Reagan , Johnny Carson and Power 99 are now dead. The Rubik's Cube still lives on thanks to some partnered marketing between Target stores and Dustin Hoffman's expected box office flop, Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, a.k.a. Willy Ishtar and the Toy Factory. We still got Vaseline too. I was 12 years old at the time. The year was 1984. How Orwellian!
While my family boasted a personal computer at this time, we wouldn't get an actual monitor for another two or three years. In the meantime, our Commodore was hooked up to an old black and white television set. A disk drive was another luxury we did without, instead making do with a tape drive that used standard audio cassettes to store data. Often I'd wait for almost an hour for a program to fully load from one of those tapes. Sometimes it worked; other times my patience was rewarded with that daunting message LOAD ERROR followed by a READY prompt and a blinking cursor. In other words, no program.
Each month we got a copy of Compute's Gazette and it was from the back pages of one issue that I ordered my first modem. 300 baud and that was big time back in the day, kids. With a modem the Commodore 64 served as a portal into the world beyond where you could find bootlegged software, MIDI music and my first introduction to cyber pr0n, much of which consisted of naughty pictures made up of ASCII characters. Mind you, this was back in the day before we had cool terms like pr0n or even cyber for that matter.
BBS's (or bulletin board services for those not in the know) were community run. Some guy who was geekier and more computer savvy than you dedicated one of his terminals to man the calls coming in from people throughout the area. Members exchanged messages, programs and text files. Because it tied up the phone line, the middle of the night was the best time to log on. I dreaded call waiting because an incoming call would bump you off right in the middle of a huge file transfer.
Fast forward to modern times and the innerweb is riddled with sites dedicated to everything dealing with the Commodore, from the synthetic tinny music it produced to the pixellated pictures featured in the most popular games. Some people still have one of the old terminals around and use it to run a model train layout or operate an amateur radio. You can even download an emulator that turns your bells and whistles Y2K compliant machine into a replica of a Commodore 64.
Careful with this last one though. This isn't the first time I've fallen prey to the Commodore 64 nostalgia, and the last time I took a stroll down this stretch of memory lane, I downloaded a similar program onto a work computer that wouldn't terminate. Like something from a Dr. Who episode my IBM classroom computer refused to display anything other than the welcome screen from a Commodore 64. I even tried turning the computer on and off a few times. Same thing. I was stuck in 1984.
I eventually had to confess my misdoings to the technology coordinator who in turn had to get a guy from the county level to come in and fix my computer. The guy who fixed it looked like he was probably too young to have ever seen a Commodore 64. He made the repair in a matter of 20 seconds and I felt stupid. Oh well, I was back to downloading non-work-related software that afternoon.
The Commodore came from a golden age and a quick perusal of eBay shows that for a mere $25 you can get one of the original antiques complete with a disk drive, a modem, a joystick and lots of software to boot. Or for $35 you can get a tshirt that says Commodore 64 whiz kid. I gotta confess that although the Commodore held a fond place in my heart for many years, I wouldn't want to go back to the days of only 64K ram and 38911 basic bytes free whatever that meant. I like my high-speed innerweb and streaming video.
I might get that Commodore 64 whiz kid tshirt though.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Cyber pilgrims seek fashion advice and enlightenment
Every blogger can tell you that one of the simple pleasures to be had when you have a site meter at the bottom of your blog is to click and see how various readers found you on search engines. Because of the way search engines work, a site that contains a lot of text, such as the one you see before you now, might come up as a result of searching on any number of word combinations. Obviously because of the name of my blog, people who search for COCKTAILS along with any other number of words often find their way here, probably to their dismay as I generally do not provide cocktails recipes on my blog. More often though, people come here because they googled something that I have written about only in passing. Again, they're probably a little disappointed because I do not proclaim to be an expert on any of those subjects either and information on those subjects is usually sparse. For that reason, I decided I'd tip my hat to those cyber pilgrims and offer up some 411 on topics about which, according to my site meter, they're hungering for more information.
HOW TO WEAR SWEATPANTS - Indeed someone googled this one in just the time I was typing the above paragraph. I get a lot of these sweatpant requests because I once wrote about running into an ex while I was wearing them. How does one wear sweatpants, you ask? You don't. Unless you're with a bunch of your girlfriends and you're doing each other's nails and throwing pillows and administering magazine quizzes to each other, sweatpants should not be the garment of choice.
SWEAT PANTS IN SPANISH - Chica, please! Putting on even your best pair of sweatpants is no way to become the rose in Spanish Harlem or anywhere else for that matter. No one lives la vida loca in sweats. If you've been invited to a Quinceanera party at least you will certainly not outshine the young debutante if you're sporting even your best polyester fleece blend. If on the other hand you're wondering how to say sweatpants in Spanish, I should hope the Spaniards or their Spanish speaking cousins south of the border don't have a word for them. Somehow I doubt these are all the rage in Barcelona, and I'm also guessing there were no sweatpants at the Alamo.
HOW TO WEAR SWEATPANTS - I know what you're thinking, gentle reader. You suspect these first three are also from the same person. Nope. While they all happened within the same ten-minute interval, one searcher was from Illinois, one from Washington, and one from Oregon. Sadly, there are just that many people out there who want permission to model the elastic waistband outside the privacy of their own home. Just not good.
HAVE A BLESSED DAY WHAT DOES THAT MEAN - I wondered the same thing when I posed the question here. That entry received a new response as recently as yesterday evening when someone chimed in with their own answer. Sadly they used that opportunity not so much as a way of offering up additional information but instead to spew some xenophobic pablum which consisted largely of ethnic slurring and touting their own false and greatly misguided sense of superiority. I found it good for a chuckle though, so don't be afraid to indulge your funny bone by reading the response of someone who likely attends worship service with David Duke and Dog the Bounty Hunter.
CHARTER SUCKS - Admittedly I have on a few occasions written about a company that has pissed me off hoping that other people looking for information on that company will google them, hear my tales of woe and take them into advisement before doing business with the company. Charter Communications is one of these companies. While I've written extensibly about it here, words cannot convey the frustration I repeatedly felt when dealing with Charter. Firing them and hiring AT&T was one of the best consumer decisions I ever made. Whenever I click on my site meter and see that someone found me by searching Charter sucks I do a little jig.
BURGER KING CZECH - To be perfectly honest, I don't know if His Royal Highness is Czechoslovakian or not. The thought never really occurred to me until now. I guess he could be. I was in Prague, they eat hamburgers there too. I regret I can't even pretend to speak with any authority on this matter. If you're wondering whether there are Burger Kings in the Czech Republic, yes, there are. As to what they call a Royale with Cheese, I don't know. I never ate at a Burger King there. Sadly, my wife did snap some pictures of me eating Kentucky Fried Chicken on the Prague subway. At least I didn't have sweatpants on.
WHAT TO WEAR WITH SWEATPANTS - Do you people not get it? A bag over your head. Even then the bag would be the better wardrobe choice.
TRICHOTILLOMANIA - I've actually mentioned this odd a few times on here. It's the desire to pull out one's own hair. I'm always impressed when the people spell it correctly. Good job! In the meantime, call 1-800-DON'T PULL.
POWERFUL COCKTAILS - Like I said, I don't know enough cocktail recipes, powerful or otherwise, to list them on this site. Though when I was an exchange student in France, a fellow Yank I had a crush on suggested we buy a bottle of champagne and head out to a park to imbibe. When that didn't give me the courage I needed, she and I went back to buy a bottle of rum and some Cokes and polish those off. This combination did in fact make me overly courageous, but it also rendered me overly nauseous. Even if you've got your hand up someone's shirt, coming to in a puddle of your own vomit with a semi-circle of gawking Frenchmen looking at you is not the ideal way to broaden your horizons. It was powerful though.
KEVIN - With as broad a search as this yielded and as common a name as Kevin is (34th most common first name in the U.S. according to howmanyofme.com) I was surprised to see my sight come up on page 5 of this AOL search. To whoever did the searching, you're going to have to come up with a little more information for the search engine to go on if you really want to find your one true Kevin. Is it Kevin Bacon, Kevin Costner, Kevin Kubusheskie, or Saint Kevin of Glendalough? So many Kevins.
"RUE MCLANAHAN" DADS - Again, not an expert on this golden girl but I suspect she only had one father. As to the television preview she starred in of the show Dads that never made it on the airwaves, just be glad you haven't seen it. I got a copy in the mail from a research company that wanted me to watch it and answer some questions about the commercials I saw. That show was just plain bad.
RESTAURANTS SERVING THANKSGIVING DINNER IN NORFOLK, VA - Yes, I'm pretty sure they are.
HAD SEX WITH SOMEONE THAT HAD KELOIDS - What do you want? A medal? I once had sex with someone who had dandruff. You don't see me telling everyone on the innerwebs.
FREE MY SOUL GONNA GET LOST IN YOUR ROCK AND ROLL - And drift away, my friend. Drift away.
Clearly though the one that takes the cake is this one:
MY WIFE TEASES MY BECAUSE SHE HAS MUCH MORE PUBIC HAIR THAN I DO.
I can't make this stuff up people.
Further amended as of 11/25/07:
WHO SINGS THE SONG WHERE HE IS DANCING AROUND THE PURPLE ELEPHANT
PHILADELPHIA DERMATOLOGISTS WHO TREAT GENITAL WARTS
ARE BABY WALKERS ILLEGAL IN THE USA
COLLEGE WEAR SWEATPANTS
VENERAL[sic] WARTS
DOES AMOXICILLIN CHANGE YOUR POOP
FLICKR PHOTOS TAGGED WITH ASS GIRLS KLM
WEARING SWEATPANTS THANKSGIVING
PRETEND AND PLAY DOCTOR EXAM ROOM
SALESGIRL PICKED OUT MY PANTIES
COLLEGE CHEERLEADERS PICS SHOWING PUBIC HAIR DURING ROUTINES
HOW TO WEAR SWEATPANTS - Indeed someone googled this one in just the time I was typing the above paragraph. I get a lot of these sweatpant requests because I once wrote about running into an ex while I was wearing them. How does one wear sweatpants, you ask? You don't. Unless you're with a bunch of your girlfriends and you're doing each other's nails and throwing pillows and administering magazine quizzes to each other, sweatpants should not be the garment of choice.
SWEAT PANTS IN SPANISH - Chica, please! Putting on even your best pair of sweatpants is no way to become the rose in Spanish Harlem or anywhere else for that matter. No one lives la vida loca in sweats. If you've been invited to a Quinceanera party at least you will certainly not outshine the young debutante if you're sporting even your best polyester fleece blend. If on the other hand you're wondering how to say sweatpants in Spanish, I should hope the Spaniards or their Spanish speaking cousins south of the border don't have a word for them. Somehow I doubt these are all the rage in Barcelona, and I'm also guessing there were no sweatpants at the Alamo.
HOW TO WEAR SWEATPANTS - I know what you're thinking, gentle reader. You suspect these first three are also from the same person. Nope. While they all happened within the same ten-minute interval, one searcher was from Illinois, one from Washington, and one from Oregon. Sadly, there are just that many people out there who want permission to model the elastic waistband outside the privacy of their own home. Just not good.
HAVE A BLESSED DAY WHAT DOES THAT MEAN - I wondered the same thing when I posed the question here. That entry received a new response as recently as yesterday evening when someone chimed in with their own answer. Sadly they used that opportunity not so much as a way of offering up additional information but instead to spew some xenophobic pablum which consisted largely of ethnic slurring and touting their own false and greatly misguided sense of superiority. I found it good for a chuckle though, so don't be afraid to indulge your funny bone by reading the response of someone who likely attends worship service with David Duke and Dog the Bounty Hunter.
CHARTER SUCKS - Admittedly I have on a few occasions written about a company that has pissed me off hoping that other people looking for information on that company will google them, hear my tales of woe and take them into advisement before doing business with the company. Charter Communications is one of these companies. While I've written extensibly about it here, words cannot convey the frustration I repeatedly felt when dealing with Charter. Firing them and hiring AT&T was one of the best consumer decisions I ever made. Whenever I click on my site meter and see that someone found me by searching Charter sucks I do a little jig.
BURGER KING CZECH - To be perfectly honest, I don't know if His Royal Highness is Czechoslovakian or not. The thought never really occurred to me until now. I guess he could be. I was in Prague, they eat hamburgers there too. I regret I can't even pretend to speak with any authority on this matter. If you're wondering whether there are Burger Kings in the Czech Republic, yes, there are. As to what they call a Royale with Cheese, I don't know. I never ate at a Burger King there. Sadly, my wife did snap some pictures of me eating Kentucky Fried Chicken on the Prague subway. At least I didn't have sweatpants on.
WHAT TO WEAR WITH SWEATPANTS - Do you people not get it? A bag over your head. Even then the bag would be the better wardrobe choice.
TRICHOTILLOMANIA - I've actually mentioned this odd a few times on here. It's the desire to pull out one's own hair. I'm always impressed when the people spell it correctly. Good job! In the meantime, call 1-800-DON'T PULL.
POWERFUL COCKTAILS - Like I said, I don't know enough cocktail recipes, powerful or otherwise, to list them on this site. Though when I was an exchange student in France, a fellow Yank I had a crush on suggested we buy a bottle of champagne and head out to a park to imbibe. When that didn't give me the courage I needed, she and I went back to buy a bottle of rum and some Cokes and polish those off. This combination did in fact make me overly courageous, but it also rendered me overly nauseous. Even if you've got your hand up someone's shirt, coming to in a puddle of your own vomit with a semi-circle of gawking Frenchmen looking at you is not the ideal way to broaden your horizons. It was powerful though.
KEVIN - With as broad a search as this yielded and as common a name as Kevin is (34th most common first name in the U.S. according to howmanyofme.com) I was surprised to see my sight come up on page 5 of this AOL search. To whoever did the searching, you're going to have to come up with a little more information for the search engine to go on if you really want to find your one true Kevin. Is it Kevin Bacon, Kevin Costner, Kevin Kubusheskie, or Saint Kevin of Glendalough? So many Kevins.
"RUE MCLANAHAN" DADS - Again, not an expert on this golden girl but I suspect she only had one father. As to the television preview she starred in of the show Dads that never made it on the airwaves, just be glad you haven't seen it. I got a copy in the mail from a research company that wanted me to watch it and answer some questions about the commercials I saw. That show was just plain bad.
RESTAURANTS SERVING THANKSGIVING DINNER IN NORFOLK, VA - Yes, I'm pretty sure they are.
HAD SEX WITH SOMEONE THAT HAD KELOIDS - What do you want? A medal? I once had sex with someone who had dandruff. You don't see me telling everyone on the innerwebs.
FREE MY SOUL GONNA GET LOST IN YOUR ROCK AND ROLL - And drift away, my friend. Drift away.
Clearly though the one that takes the cake is this one:
MY WIFE TEASES MY BECAUSE SHE HAS MUCH MORE PUBIC HAIR THAN I DO.
I can't make this stuff up people.
Further amended as of 11/25/07:
WHO SINGS THE SONG WHERE HE IS DANCING AROUND THE PURPLE ELEPHANT
PHILADELPHIA DERMATOLOGISTS WHO TREAT GENITAL WARTS
ARE BABY WALKERS ILLEGAL IN THE USA
COLLEGE WEAR SWEATPANTS
VENERAL[sic] WARTS
DOES AMOXICILLIN CHANGE YOUR POOP
FLICKR PHOTOS TAGGED WITH ASS GIRLS KLM
WEARING SWEATPANTS THANKSGIVING
PRETEND AND PLAY DOCTOR EXAM ROOM
SALESGIRL PICKED OUT MY PANTIES
COLLEGE CHEERLEADERS PICS SHOWING PUBIC HAIR DURING ROUTINES
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Mousetrap: a mystery blog entry in one act
Today I spent a large portion of my day chasing down a mouse, only this wasn't one of those pesky rodents that the cat drags in and drops at your feet. I was looking for the mouse to the computer. We have a wireless optical mouse for the desktop and the table it sits on is just the right height for my daughter to reach up and grab things off of. I know this sounds cute, and I guess it is if you're not the owner of the mouse, but crawling around the house on your hands and knees looking for a pointing device is no way to spend an afternoon.
After rescuing a feisty non-napping Meryl from her crib I went to go check my email. Alas, the mouse was nowhere in sight. I looked under the desk, around it, in the closet next to it and still no mouse. Meryl, who was watching me he whole time, finally said one of the new words in her growing vocabulary.
Mouse.
OK, so she knew what I was looking for, which I assumed to mean she also knew where I could find it. So I asked her, "Meryl, where's the mouse?"
Mouse.
"Yes, Sweetie, the mouse. For Dad's computer? Where is it?"
Mouse? This time she says it with an upward inflection as though she's asking me where it is.
I then proceded to wander throughout the house trying to put myself in the mind of a toddler so as to figure out where she might have deposited it. Because I, myself, am absent minded I soon start to wonder if in fact it was I who removed it from its regular spot. Would I have accidentally picked it up when I was looking for something else maybe? I quickly decided that even as scatter brained as I sometimes am, I'm not the type to have just carried a computer mouse around while doing my household bidness. A real mouse maybe but not a computer mouse.
I resorted to crawling around the floors of various rooms looking under beds and behind couches. All this time Meryl followed close behind taunting me by just saying over and over mouse mouse mouse mouse. I couldn't tell if she was implying that she too was looking for the mouse or if she remembered having the mouse or was she thinking of Goodnight Moon's young mouse in the little toyhouse [sic]? Then another time she quit saying mouse and instead said Chris, apparently claiming the mouse was taken by our termite guy whose name she learned earlier that day when she supervised him as he crawled behind our couch looking for bugs.
Cute as she was, she wasn't being much help. And to top things off this was moments before my wife was due to come home. This time is usually set aside for madly running around the house cleaning slash straightening slash kicking things under the beds and sweeping things under the rugs.
Then I had this fleeting sense of dread. You know that scene in Poltergeist where the parents are looking for little Carol Anne after her disappearance and the mom gets this contorted look on her face just before saying in this eerily quiet panick-stricken voice the swimming pool . . . oh my God . . . she's in the swimming pool ? Then Craig T. Nelson has to dive into that preconstruction mud pit that was to eventually become their pool in order to find his kid. While I wasn't concerned Meryl had fallen into a swimming pool or worse yet that I was going to have to swim around in mud with the skeletal remains of bewildered souls because someone only moved the headstones, I probably did have that same contorted look on my face.
THE POTTY!!! OH MY GOD, SHE THREW IT IN THE POTTY!!!
I dashed to the master bathroom where Meryl generally sits on the potty and I lifted the lid. Nothing but water and a bowl that I probably was supposed to have scrubbed clean before Elaine got home. I looked around the toilet thinking maybe Meryl just dunked the mouse in the potty a few times before throwing it down on the floor the way she likes to do with her rubber ducky, her socks or my toothbrush. Still no mouse.
I checked the other two bathrooms in the house. More toilets to clean but still no mouse. I looked in the shower and the bathtub. I opened bathroom cabinets, pulled open drawers, looked under folded washcloths. Nothing. Finally I gave up because time was running short and there was a bed to be made, dinner to plan for and stuff to sweep under the rug.
Once I checked the cursory house straightening off my list I went back into the room with the computer to check yet again to see if I could find the mouse. Apparently as I was tidying Meryl had taken it upon herself to bang on the keyboard just enough to bring up several blank search windows. Just seeing them made me all the more frustrated. I had no mouse to close them out. A motionless cursor poised in the upper right corner of the screen just sat their adding insult to injury. The screensaver came on but I still knew those unwanted windows were lurking behind it. I briefly tried remembering the ALT-key combinations that would work the various menus on the screen before giving up and just turning the damn thing off.
Elaine arrived home happy to see a smiling baby and the beginnings of Shrimp Scampi laid out on the kitchen counter. I explained to her that Meryl had run off with the mouse and I had looked everywhere for it to no avail. "It'll turn up," she said.
It did.
Elaine found it in Meryl's toy basket that we keep in the living room. I guess I should be happy she's the kind of kid who puts things up when she's through playing with them. She gets that from her mom. As much time as I spend playing on the computer it would make sense that my daughter saw it fit to put the mouse in the toybox. After all, that basket serves as one of my old standbys for an easy place to quickly get rid of something. Oh well.
Shrimp scampi was good. Meryl spent the evening playing and laughing in spite of not having napped. My wife and I enjoyed a good bottle of Australian Outback backseat wine and I can point and click again.
This house. Is clean.
After rescuing a feisty non-napping Meryl from her crib I went to go check my email. Alas, the mouse was nowhere in sight. I looked under the desk, around it, in the closet next to it and still no mouse. Meryl, who was watching me he whole time, finally said one of the new words in her growing vocabulary.
Mouse.
OK, so she knew what I was looking for, which I assumed to mean she also knew where I could find it. So I asked her, "Meryl, where's the mouse?"
Mouse.
"Yes, Sweetie, the mouse. For Dad's computer? Where is it?"
Mouse? This time she says it with an upward inflection as though she's asking me where it is.
I then proceded to wander throughout the house trying to put myself in the mind of a toddler so as to figure out where she might have deposited it. Because I, myself, am absent minded I soon start to wonder if in fact it was I who removed it from its regular spot. Would I have accidentally picked it up when I was looking for something else maybe? I quickly decided that even as scatter brained as I sometimes am, I'm not the type to have just carried a computer mouse around while doing my household bidness. A real mouse maybe but not a computer mouse.
I resorted to crawling around the floors of various rooms looking under beds and behind couches. All this time Meryl followed close behind taunting me by just saying over and over mouse mouse mouse mouse. I couldn't tell if she was implying that she too was looking for the mouse or if she remembered having the mouse or was she thinking of Goodnight Moon's young mouse in the little toyhouse [sic]? Then another time she quit saying mouse and instead said Chris, apparently claiming the mouse was taken by our termite guy whose name she learned earlier that day when she supervised him as he crawled behind our couch looking for bugs.
Cute as she was, she wasn't being much help. And to top things off this was moments before my wife was due to come home. This time is usually set aside for madly running around the house cleaning slash straightening slash kicking things under the beds and sweeping things under the rugs.
Then I had this fleeting sense of dread. You know that scene in Poltergeist where the parents are looking for little Carol Anne after her disappearance and the mom gets this contorted look on her face just before saying in this eerily quiet panick-stricken voice the swimming pool . . . oh my God . . . she's in the swimming pool ? Then Craig T. Nelson has to dive into that preconstruction mud pit that was to eventually become their pool in order to find his kid. While I wasn't concerned Meryl had fallen into a swimming pool or worse yet that I was going to have to swim around in mud with the skeletal remains of bewildered souls because someone only moved the headstones, I probably did have that same contorted look on my face.
THE POTTY!!! OH MY GOD, SHE THREW IT IN THE POTTY!!!
I dashed to the master bathroom where Meryl generally sits on the potty and I lifted the lid. Nothing but water and a bowl that I probably was supposed to have scrubbed clean before Elaine got home. I looked around the toilet thinking maybe Meryl just dunked the mouse in the potty a few times before throwing it down on the floor the way she likes to do with her rubber ducky, her socks or my toothbrush. Still no mouse.
I checked the other two bathrooms in the house. More toilets to clean but still no mouse. I looked in the shower and the bathtub. I opened bathroom cabinets, pulled open drawers, looked under folded washcloths. Nothing. Finally I gave up because time was running short and there was a bed to be made, dinner to plan for and stuff to sweep under the rug.
Once I checked the cursory house straightening off my list I went back into the room with the computer to check yet again to see if I could find the mouse. Apparently as I was tidying Meryl had taken it upon herself to bang on the keyboard just enough to bring up several blank search windows. Just seeing them made me all the more frustrated. I had no mouse to close them out. A motionless cursor poised in the upper right corner of the screen just sat their adding insult to injury. The screensaver came on but I still knew those unwanted windows were lurking behind it. I briefly tried remembering the ALT-key combinations that would work the various menus on the screen before giving up and just turning the damn thing off.
Elaine arrived home happy to see a smiling baby and the beginnings of Shrimp Scampi laid out on the kitchen counter. I explained to her that Meryl had run off with the mouse and I had looked everywhere for it to no avail. "It'll turn up," she said.
It did.
Elaine found it in Meryl's toy basket that we keep in the living room. I guess I should be happy she's the kind of kid who puts things up when she's through playing with them. She gets that from her mom. As much time as I spend playing on the computer it would make sense that my daughter saw it fit to put the mouse in the toybox. After all, that basket serves as one of my old standbys for an easy place to quickly get rid of something. Oh well.
Shrimp scampi was good. Meryl spent the evening playing and laughing in spite of not having napped. My wife and I enjoyed a good bottle of Australian Outback backseat wine and I can point and click again.
This house. Is clean.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Georgia governor praying for rain?
I had vowed to myself that I would try and make my blog more uplifting from now on and not be such a Negative Nelson. I will revisit that ideal at some time in the near future, but I just can't go without sharing my views on this new hullabaloo going on at the Georgia Capitol building. Governor Sonny Perdue and some other muckety mucks along with a number of bible thumpers who have cashed in their common sense in exchange for piety are gathering together in order to pray for rain. Sadly, I am not making this up.
Many protesters have shown up claiming this is a violation of the First Amendment. I don't know that I buy that either. The governor's not establishing a religion. Whose to say he's not on his lunch break? If he wants to pray, that's no sweat off my back. I just think praying for rain is just plain silly.
If you believe there's a higher power that's all knowing and all powerful, doesn't said higher power already know you wish it would rain without you making a show of it? Furthermore, if the higher power (let's just call it H.P. from now on so as not to offend anyone) changes its mind and causes it to rain simply because a few political clowns down here on earth want it to, is H.P. really all powerful? Sure, H.P. could make it rain and that's a pretty neat and powerful trick, but if his opinion was swayed by Earthling petitioners, that's not evidence of omnipotence. That's evidence to the fact that others have power over H.P. You follow me?
I also am amused at the request in this case. Rain. Let's face it. It's gonna rain here in Georgia someday. We're not sure when. No one knows that. Not even WSB Channel 2 meteorologist David Chandley. But it's gonna rain. Now once it happens Governor Perdue and all his friends can take credit. Can't you just hear them all now?
It rained!
Huzzah!
Thanks to our prayer.
Glory be to Sonny and H.P. and WSB Channel 2 meteorologist David Chandley.
Praying for rain is like praying for nightfall.
Because the conservatives in this country have bedded down with the mindless theocrats, and both Democrats and Republicans often prefer shooting down the other's views as opposed to standing up for their own, I can't help but wonder if this will now become a party issue. Will Democrats encourage us to pray for continued drought simply to oppose their neighbors to the right? Or better yet, will those rebel flag-waving hayseeds crawl out of their doublewides to further share their dismay for a governor who said he'd let them vote on getting the Dukes of Hazzard emblem put back on the state flag and then reneged? They can carry signs that say SONNY LIED! SHOUT FOR DROUGHT!
Will it end up like the opening of a high school football game where two teams are each praying for their own win? Parenthetically, how does H.P. rectify that one? Is it whichever team has the most skilled players? Best looking cheerleaders? What?
This whole pray-for-rain business is just such a bunch of rubbish. Here's an idea: Instead of meeting up at the Capitol to pray for rain, head further up Peachtree St. to the Federal Reserve Bank and just lollygag around the flagpole there a while. When security comes out and asks you what you're doing, tell them you're praying for $20.
In H.P. we trust.
Many protesters have shown up claiming this is a violation of the First Amendment. I don't know that I buy that either. The governor's not establishing a religion. Whose to say he's not on his lunch break? If he wants to pray, that's no sweat off my back. I just think praying for rain is just plain silly.
If you believe there's a higher power that's all knowing and all powerful, doesn't said higher power already know you wish it would rain without you making a show of it? Furthermore, if the higher power (let's just call it H.P. from now on so as not to offend anyone) changes its mind and causes it to rain simply because a few political clowns down here on earth want it to, is H.P. really all powerful? Sure, H.P. could make it rain and that's a pretty neat and powerful trick, but if his opinion was swayed by Earthling petitioners, that's not evidence of omnipotence. That's evidence to the fact that others have power over H.P. You follow me?
I also am amused at the request in this case. Rain. Let's face it. It's gonna rain here in Georgia someday. We're not sure when. No one knows that. Not even WSB Channel 2 meteorologist David Chandley. But it's gonna rain. Now once it happens Governor Perdue and all his friends can take credit. Can't you just hear them all now?
It rained!
Huzzah!
Thanks to our prayer.
Glory be to Sonny and H.P. and WSB Channel 2 meteorologist David Chandley.
Praying for rain is like praying for nightfall.
Because the conservatives in this country have bedded down with the mindless theocrats, and both Democrats and Republicans often prefer shooting down the other's views as opposed to standing up for their own, I can't help but wonder if this will now become a party issue. Will Democrats encourage us to pray for continued drought simply to oppose their neighbors to the right? Or better yet, will those rebel flag-waving hayseeds crawl out of their doublewides to further share their dismay for a governor who said he'd let them vote on getting the Dukes of Hazzard emblem put back on the state flag and then reneged? They can carry signs that say SONNY LIED! SHOUT FOR DROUGHT!
Will it end up like the opening of a high school football game where two teams are each praying for their own win? Parenthetically, how does H.P. rectify that one? Is it whichever team has the most skilled players? Best looking cheerleaders? What?
This whole pray-for-rain business is just such a bunch of rubbish. Here's an idea: Instead of meeting up at the Capitol to pray for rain, head further up Peachtree St. to the Federal Reserve Bank and just lollygag around the flagpole there a while. When security comes out and asks you what you're doing, tell them you're praying for $20.
In H.P. we trust.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Reading is fundamental
My 18-month-old daughter loves to be read to. This is reason to rejoice of course because it means that instead of turning on the television to entertain her, she brings me books to read , climbing up into my lap while wearing a big smile across her face. Sometimes she likes to be read the same books over and over several times in a row.
If you've not had the occasion to read children's books recently, specifically those geared toward toddlers, I can assure you that there are some old favorites from way back when that still remain. Margaret Wise-Brown must have a cult following with Goodnight Moon. I don't even know if she's still alive but I can assure you the three bears sitting in chairs are. So is the young mouse. Incidentally, where does the author get off making toy house one word as in "a young mouse and a little toyhouse [sic]"? I'm not passing judgment; I just think she should quote a source.
Meryl also is a fan of Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi. Really though, if you're a toddler, what's there not to like about a book that features illustrations of people pooping? Whenever I turn the page to the picture of the man pooping on the potty as he smokes a pipe and reads a newspaper, Meryl points to the picture and says Dada Dada. For the record I don't smoke a pipe.
I love the line that says, "Some poop and pay no attention." According to the picture hippopotamuses are in this category. Who knew?
There are of course other books in my kid's collection that make me cringe when she hands them to me. This may come as a surprise to many, but baby books aren't always what I would classify as page turners. This is especially true for the lift-the-flap books which without fail seem to evolve into rip-the-flap books. The books must be well written for the intended audience though because Meryl continues to bring them to me. I have to confess I'm really getting tired of Karen Katz's Where is Baby's Belly Button?
First of all, does this really qualify as a brainteaser? My kid's not two years old and she knows where her belly button is. She also likes to lift my shirt and show me where mine is. The girl knows her belly buttons. And even if she didn't, reading this book more than once seems like rereading a mystery novel over and over. I don't mean to spoil it for anyone who hasn't yet read the book but it's UNDER HER SHIRT! You find out on the last page if in fact your last page of the book still has a shirt. For us, the shirt is one of the ripped flaps, having been long retired to the trash can.
Where is Baby's Mommy? is by the same author and offers an equally intriguing storyline. When I first saw this book I thought it looked like something you might pick up off the table in the waiting room at the Department of Family and Children's Services. Turns out the baby's mommy hasn't abandoned the baby or anything; she's just playing hide-and-seek. The reader follows baby through several rooms of the house looking for Mommy. Where's Mommy? Behind the plant? No, the ball is behind the plant. Is Mommy in the closet? No, the wagon is in the closet. Yadda yadda yadda. The book has similar looking characters to those you find in Where is Baby's Belly Button? They all have gigantic baby foreheads and look a little like poorly drawn Japanime stills. Yawn.
That being said, Meryl loves it.
Personally I'm still waiting for the Montelesque heart-warming sequel Who is Baby's Daddy?
Now that's one to grown on.
If you've not had the occasion to read children's books recently, specifically those geared toward toddlers, I can assure you that there are some old favorites from way back when that still remain. Margaret Wise-Brown must have a cult following with Goodnight Moon. I don't even know if she's still alive but I can assure you the three bears sitting in chairs are. So is the young mouse. Incidentally, where does the author get off making toy house one word as in "a young mouse and a little toyhouse [sic]"? I'm not passing judgment; I just think she should quote a source.
Meryl also is a fan of Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi. Really though, if you're a toddler, what's there not to like about a book that features illustrations of people pooping? Whenever I turn the page to the picture of the man pooping on the potty as he smokes a pipe and reads a newspaper, Meryl points to the picture and says Dada Dada. For the record I don't smoke a pipe.
I love the line that says, "Some poop and pay no attention." According to the picture hippopotamuses are in this category. Who knew?
There are of course other books in my kid's collection that make me cringe when she hands them to me. This may come as a surprise to many, but baby books aren't always what I would classify as page turners. This is especially true for the lift-the-flap books which without fail seem to evolve into rip-the-flap books. The books must be well written for the intended audience though because Meryl continues to bring them to me. I have to confess I'm really getting tired of Karen Katz's Where is Baby's Belly Button?
First of all, does this really qualify as a brainteaser? My kid's not two years old and she knows where her belly button is. She also likes to lift my shirt and show me where mine is. The girl knows her belly buttons. And even if she didn't, reading this book more than once seems like rereading a mystery novel over and over. I don't mean to spoil it for anyone who hasn't yet read the book but it's UNDER HER SHIRT! You find out on the last page if in fact your last page of the book still has a shirt. For us, the shirt is one of the ripped flaps, having been long retired to the trash can.
Where is Baby's Mommy? is by the same author and offers an equally intriguing storyline. When I first saw this book I thought it looked like something you might pick up off the table in the waiting room at the Department of Family and Children's Services. Turns out the baby's mommy hasn't abandoned the baby or anything; she's just playing hide-and-seek. The reader follows baby through several rooms of the house looking for Mommy. Where's Mommy? Behind the plant? No, the ball is behind the plant. Is Mommy in the closet? No, the wagon is in the closet. Yadda yadda yadda. The book has similar looking characters to those you find in Where is Baby's Belly Button? They all have gigantic baby foreheads and look a little like poorly drawn Japanime stills. Yawn.
That being said, Meryl loves it.
Personally I'm still waiting for the Montelesque heart-warming sequel Who is Baby's Daddy?
Now that's one to grown on.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Rome and Tuscany: an outsider's perspective
Still caught up in the last throws of jetlag, wife and I have returned from a ten-day sojourn to the birthplace of Western civilization. When I say Western I don't mean like Bonanza. I mean like people whose ways aren't backward and strange.
Anyway we went to Italy, and as you can possibly imagine, my stories are many. Because I could go on for days about how wonderful the trip was, I'll try and limit myself to only a brief epistle and hit the highlights.
Anyway we went to Italy, and as you can possibly imagine, my stories are many. Because I could go on for days about how wonderful the trip was, I'll try and limit myself to only a brief epistle and hit the highlights.
Our journey started with Alitalia. I wanted to like this airline. Really I did, but the cabins were in various stages of disrepair depending on what seat you were in, and the flight attendants were some surly bitches. The women flight attendants weren't any better. At one point I walked back to their secret hiding area behind the curtain to return my meal tray and utensils. One stewardess just looked at me abruptly and said NO before returning her attention to her own piss-poor airline food. Oh well, at least they got us to our destination and then stepped in to help when those lazy Air France people went on strike.
A few days in Rome proved to be a remarkable experience. I'm not normally one for monuments and museums, but this city has relics older than any I'd ever seen. It wasn't out of the ordinary to see modern buildings constructed around two thousand-year-old pillars that still remain. As I stood in the Colosseum gazing out into the arena I thought to myself you're in a building that dates back 30 years after the death of Christ.
Speaking of Rabbi Jesus, I did add yet another country to my list of places that have welcomed me with open arms, namely Vatican City. I opted against going into St. Peter's Basilica as the line was almost as long as the one at the airline ticket counter in the Rome airport thanks to those anti-work numbnuts at Air France (my wife had to wait in line eleven hours).
I did make it into the Vatican museum though. Individual artworks in this place were incredible and even the gardens it overlooks were beautiful, but a travelling friend of mine put it well when he said, "It's no wonder they had a Protestant Reformation." In just fifteen minutes the Vatican museum starts to get a little overwhelming. So much stuff. Too many notes.
In Florence I did little other than pick up a rental car and buy a few clothing items (our suitcase would not arrive for another three days). I did end up going to the large market in the center of town where I had a yummy panini and Coke Zero, or as they say in Italian Coke Zero but that was on the return trip. Florence was an easy train ride up from Rome and made for a great jumping off point for the trip through Tuscany.
Not enough wonderful things could be said about Montestigliano, the site of the restored farm house we stayed in for the bulk of our stay. Same goes for Susan Pennington who, in addition to running the place, went to great lengths to help us retrieve our suitcase from Alitalia. Because she was a native English speaker (the Queen's though; not W's) she was able to share her passion for the area with us and help us drum up some wonderful ways to spend our holiday. If you've stumbled across my innerweb site by googling Montestigliano, please oh please feel free to email me at cocktailswithkevin@hotmail.com and I'll tell you all the wonderful things about it. Better yet, just go ahead and book the place. There are eleven guest homes in all and of the people we met during our stay, everyone loved where he was staying.
In the days that followed I visited (not necessarily in this order) Chianti, Assisi, Pisa, Perugia, Sovana, Orbitello, Ercolo, Porto San Stefano, Pitigliano and You Mixed Up Sicialiano. Just kidding. I never went to Sicily. Maybe next trip.
Words cannot describe the mayhem that was this festival. The entire downtown was closed off to traffic so that pedestrians could roam freely and eat their weight in chocolate. It was just surreal.
The Strada Panoramica around the coast of Porto San Stefano lead us to a frightful knuckle whitening journey bordering both the sea and our own deaths. Views were spectacular but so were our lives flashing before our eyes. If we weren't staring down a quarter mile into a watery abyss we were trying to maneuever a Mercedez A class across dangerously rough terrain without getting stuck in no-man's land without any way to call for help other than honking at passing ships.
Castelina in Chianti is a quaint little town to stop in and have a glass of its namesake, but interestingly enough the SR222, or Chianti Highway as it's affectionately known, on the way from Siena to Florence is lined with hookers. It's weird because the beautifully scenic drive is essentially desolate of people with the exception of a lone woman in tight fitting clothes and an ill fitting wig at every other pull-off. We passed.
In Assisi I saw the Cathedral of St. Francis. Now I wasn't raised Catholic so my knowledge of St. Francis before this trip was limited to what I had learned about him at Pike Nursery. He's made of indoor outdoor resin and likes birds. I do know the story of how he had preached to birds and animals, but if you think about it televangelists across the country preach to flocks of mindless sheep everyday so what's the big deal.
The cathedral, though Gothic in style, had a more modern appearance than many in the country perhaps because it underwent major restoration after an earthquake in 1997. The patron saint of animals, birds and the environment is buried in a tomb that is accessible via a double staircase going down from the nave. We saw a monk on his knees praying while he extended one hand through the grating onto the tomb. Upstairs a priest with a North American accent was giving mass in English. Again we passed.
All in all, Italy was a country I had not been particularly crazy about visiting and yet I'm so glad I took the opportunity to go. I had assumed it would be like many other Western European countries in that it has the major items on the checklist: cathedrals, castles, a famous bridge slash monument and pricey food and accomodations. Indeed Italy does have all those things, but there's something magical about the country in a way there isn't about many others. From the time of the Etruscans to the Romans to the early Church there's just a vibrancy about the place. It's like its own Mesopotamia for what we like to think of as the modern world.
Belgium is a country I've been to and won't necessarily feel the need to revisit. Same goes for Chile. They're fun places and all; I've just put a check mark by them and that's that. Italy is a country I hope to go back to. This time Elaine and I will take our kid. Hopefully she won't want to climb that bell tower in Siena. Rarely have I ever felt so sick.
Chocolate panini on its second time around is not a pretty sight.
Castelina in Chianti is a quaint little town to stop in and have a glass of its namesake, but interestingly enough the SR222, or Chianti Highway as it's affectionately known, on the way from Siena to Florence is lined with hookers. It's weird because the beautifully scenic drive is essentially desolate of people with the exception of a lone woman in tight fitting clothes and an ill fitting wig at every other pull-off. We passed.
In Assisi I saw the Cathedral of St. Francis. Now I wasn't raised Catholic so my knowledge of St. Francis before this trip was limited to what I had learned about him at Pike Nursery. He's made of indoor outdoor resin and likes birds. I do know the story of how he had preached to birds and animals, but if you think about it televangelists across the country preach to flocks of mindless sheep everyday so what's the big deal.
The cathedral, though Gothic in style, had a more modern appearance than many in the country perhaps because it underwent major restoration after an earthquake in 1997. The patron saint of animals, birds and the environment is buried in a tomb that is accessible via a double staircase going down from the nave. We saw a monk on his knees praying while he extended one hand through the grating onto the tomb. Upstairs a priest with a North American accent was giving mass in English. Again we passed.
All in all, Italy was a country I had not been particularly crazy about visiting and yet I'm so glad I took the opportunity to go. I had assumed it would be like many other Western European countries in that it has the major items on the checklist: cathedrals, castles, a famous bridge slash monument and pricey food and accomodations. Indeed Italy does have all those things, but there's something magical about the country in a way there isn't about many others. From the time of the Etruscans to the Romans to the early Church there's just a vibrancy about the place. It's like its own Mesopotamia for what we like to think of as the modern world.
Belgium is a country I've been to and won't necessarily feel the need to revisit. Same goes for Chile. They're fun places and all; I've just put a check mark by them and that's that. Italy is a country I hope to go back to. This time Elaine and I will take our kid. Hopefully she won't want to climb that bell tower in Siena. Rarely have I ever felt so sick.
Chocolate panini on its second time around is not a pretty sight.
Language lessons for travelling abroad
In less than a week now my wife and I take off to Italy. As with any international trip I try and learn a few key phrases before I go so that I don't come across as a dumbass to everyone under the Tuscan sun. With a little practice anybody can learn to fake a few phrases well enough to get what he wants provided expectations are kept to a minimum. Czech and Hungarian were each a real doozie , but Italian seemsto me to be less problematic.
When I was teaching French I once had a band director come up to me and ask what tape series he could use to become fluent in Spanish. I held back my guffaw but I did let him know that language learning wasn't something that generally takes place through audiocassettes. To a good listener the tapes can provide a sampling of what the individual phonemes of the language sound like, but that's about it. To someone who already has a vague idea what the language sounds like, I think phrase books are more useful, but even they are quite limited.
The Berlitz phrasebook I picked up for instance has translations for Where is the passport control?; I'm here alone; and artificial sweetener. Let's just take these three for example:
No one really needs to know how to ask where passport control is. If you don't find passport control shortly after going through the customs line, passport control will most likely find you. That's if the country you're going to even cares that you've entered. On more than one occasion I've entered Europe without going through passport control. One time passport control consisted of four kepi-wearing Frogs who had their feet propped up on a table. Three of them apparently just studied the travel fashion trends of American tourists while the fourth guy just kept waving us all through the corridor with his hand. If no one asks to stamp your passport, just enjoy living off the grid.
The phrase about being here alone is found in the Romance section of the book. I'm sure there are people who venture overseas and start a budding romance, but something tells me their language skills would be above that of phrasebook level. If not, I'd fear the romance I was starting was going to end with me waking up alone and penniless in some third-rate motel or worse yet a back alley. And then there'd be that lasting itch. Yuck.
Artificial sweetener? Don' get me wrong. I use artificial sweetener too. Hell, I've already had cancer. What's the worst thats going to happen? But traveling abroad is a time to throw caution to the wind and leave some petty comfort slash obsessions at home. I'm sorry, but for me going to Italy and asking for artificial sweetener is like going to Italy and saying, "Hey, do y'all have any grits?" Until you get back home, let that shit go.
Here's what you need to know before going to a country where they speak another kind of talk. You won't likely be invited to join in on any conversations dealing with international politics or nuclear physics. You probably won't have too many conversations with locals period other than the short routine service-oriented discussions. So keep it simple.
Figure out how to say these things:
Hello (there's usually only about fourteen different ways to say this depending on time of day)
Thank you, Sir
Thank you, Ma'am
Please
Those biggies will get you much further than you think because most Americans won't even bother to learn those. You will stand out among your tennis shoe and sweatpant wearing comrades because you made an effort to be polite. Politesse always goes a long way in Europe because they frankly don't always expect it of Americans,. Of course the definition of polite varies from culture to culture but that's a whole 'nother issue.
Once you've got those phrases down you can pick up a phrasebook or look on the innerwebs to find out how to say the things you'll most likely want or need. Here are a few suggestions:
room, bed, and shower (that takes care of the hotel);
water, wine list, menu, Coke, Diet Coke (everything else will be listed on the menu once you get it)
Check please? (if you don't get this one down, just practice that fake scribbling on your hand -- as stupid as it looks this is an internationally recognized symbol.)
Other than a few other nouns that might come in handy, those are all you really need. You can always ask a question by saying the thing it is you want and tacking on please at the end. I'll be visiting the Vatican so I'll probably also try and learn The street will flow with the blood of the nonbelievers. Just kidding.
Passenger watch list, here I come.
When I was teaching French I once had a band director come up to me and ask what tape series he could use to become fluent in Spanish. I held back my guffaw but I did let him know that language learning wasn't something that generally takes place through audiocassettes. To a good listener the tapes can provide a sampling of what the individual phonemes of the language sound like, but that's about it. To someone who already has a vague idea what the language sounds like, I think phrase books are more useful, but even they are quite limited.
The Berlitz phrasebook I picked up for instance has translations for Where is the passport control?; I'm here alone; and artificial sweetener. Let's just take these three for example:
No one really needs to know how to ask where passport control is. If you don't find passport control shortly after going through the customs line, passport control will most likely find you. That's if the country you're going to even cares that you've entered. On more than one occasion I've entered Europe without going through passport control. One time passport control consisted of four kepi-wearing Frogs who had their feet propped up on a table. Three of them apparently just studied the travel fashion trends of American tourists while the fourth guy just kept waving us all through the corridor with his hand. If no one asks to stamp your passport, just enjoy living off the grid.
The phrase about being here alone is found in the Romance section of the book. I'm sure there are people who venture overseas and start a budding romance, but something tells me their language skills would be above that of phrasebook level. If not, I'd fear the romance I was starting was going to end with me waking up alone and penniless in some third-rate motel or worse yet a back alley. And then there'd be that lasting itch. Yuck.
Artificial sweetener? Don' get me wrong. I use artificial sweetener too. Hell, I've already had cancer. What's the worst thats going to happen? But traveling abroad is a time to throw caution to the wind and leave some petty comfort slash obsessions at home. I'm sorry, but for me going to Italy and asking for artificial sweetener is like going to Italy and saying, "Hey, do y'all have any grits?" Until you get back home, let that shit go.
Here's what you need to know before going to a country where they speak another kind of talk. You won't likely be invited to join in on any conversations dealing with international politics or nuclear physics. You probably won't have too many conversations with locals period other than the short routine service-oriented discussions. So keep it simple.
Figure out how to say these things:
Hello (there's usually only about fourteen different ways to say this depending on time of day)
Thank you, Sir
Thank you, Ma'am
Please
Those biggies will get you much further than you think because most Americans won't even bother to learn those. You will stand out among your tennis shoe and sweatpant wearing comrades because you made an effort to be polite. Politesse always goes a long way in Europe because they frankly don't always expect it of Americans,. Of course the definition of polite varies from culture to culture but that's a whole 'nother issue.
Once you've got those phrases down you can pick up a phrasebook or look on the innerwebs to find out how to say the things you'll most likely want or need. Here are a few suggestions:
room, bed, and shower (that takes care of the hotel);
water, wine list, menu, Coke, Diet Coke (everything else will be listed on the menu once you get it)
Check please? (if you don't get this one down, just practice that fake scribbling on your hand -- as stupid as it looks this is an internationally recognized symbol.)
Other than a few other nouns that might come in handy, those are all you really need. You can always ask a question by saying the thing it is you want and tacking on please at the end. I'll be visiting the Vatican so I'll probably also try and learn The street will flow with the blood of the nonbelievers. Just kidding.
Passenger watch list, here I come.
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First off, hello from a reader/lurker who has enjoyed your blog the past few weeks.
I agree with you that learning the most basic phrases of a foreign language will put you great lengths ahead of most Americans abroad.
I have to say, though, that when I was visiting in Rome and browsing a shop of sundries, the shopkeeper and I conducted our entire transaction of my purchase of a lighter with several nods and smiles. I think I probably was able to choke out Italian "Good morning" and "thank you." I treasure that lighter now more for the way we transacted our business that the lighter itself for function or beauty.
Haven't you been on the watch list for, like, years now?
give the pope a shout out for those you are leaving in the BC to watch your baby!!