...everyone has had jobs. Well...ok...maybe not that one douchy relative that seems to perpetually be overqualified or "disagreeing on some things" with the boss. But ALMOST everyone has had jobs. And usually people roll through a few jobs before landing in one that they stay with long enough to call it a "career". I'm no different. My most impressionable, however, took place in a drive through Taco John's on West Villard in Dickinson.
That job came at the end of my senior year in high school. (No, I didn't work before that. I had a lot of really important shit to do during the day and Musicland closed at 9). But that summer I had the enviable position as "taco delivery boy" for the local franchise. This job was so goddamned rad that they don't even allow it to be DONE anymore. In reality, I was actually no different from any other poorly-uniformed, grease-covered, teen-aged, Mexican food service employee with a "girlfriend-boss" except that every half-hour or so I got to load up a Coleman cooler with fresh Mexican food along with some "warmers" and deliver it. I italicize "warmers" because they were less "highly advance works of restaurant technology" and more just two large re-purposed Gatorade bottles filled with boiling hot water. And if this seems like steam heat would be a bad idea under those circumstances, let me guarantee that it most certainly was. Not only did it cruelly transform many a delicious hard-shell taco into an inedible, rubbery not-so-hard shell mess some 5 minutes later. But it left my vehicle smelling like hot, wet meat. And trust me when I tell you that once that smell gets into blue and gray upholstery of a 1990 Chevy Cavalier...it's there to stay. Ozium may work for pot smell and puke, but it's nothing but a Valtrex prescription to that sort of vehicular herpes. It keeps it under wraps for a while but it doesn't go away permanently. That car had flare ups well into college.
I became very familiar with the delivery guys in town. Most people (obviously myself excluded) had nice cars. Some of them had good stereos. Some of the more notorious and edgy ones had cool nicknames. And some, like the Candyman, had all three. He had the name, a Thunderbird with a custom, bright metallic purple paint job and a bitchin' stereo. In the mob of delivery men, Candy was a made man. We showed respect to each other with a simple nod of the head or the subtle but effective lifting of two fingers from the steering wheel. And at times, the only thing a person could see as they drove by another driver were those fingers. This is because it seemed as though, in our profession, there was an unannounced race to see who could tilt his/her seat back the farthest and still possess the ability to operate a vehicle. A strongly-tanned driver's side arm was worn like a gang tat and a stark difference between it and a ghostly white right arm meant he/she had serious driver cred. The fact that we did our jobs and never...I mean NEVER...got a tip, lent itself to an air of superiority over the well-compensated pizza guys. It was a tight brotherhood.
It was our mission to deliver quickly. And not because there was some sort of 30-minute corporate mandate (yeah I said it, punks) but because we had pride in our work and a deep seeded hatred of reasonable speed limits on public right-of-ways. The trips got increasingly competitive and thusly, more dangerous. We rode without apprehension or regret. We knew the streets of Dickinson like a Garmin. I remember taking South States to 6th Ave for a delivery and getting back in less than 10 minutes. For you poor bastards that know Dickinson and where TJ's used to be....yeah...fast. For those of you who don't have a clue where that is, it's even faster. I remember one prospective driver...Dan... didn't have the same kind of gumption. He once stopped, while on a delivery, to watch a house fire. He didn't deliver after that. There are stories that simply cannot be told in this forum. Sex, drugs, nachos....I feel every teenager should work food service at least once.
However, only the best of the best could do what we did.
Obviously, I could have taken many paths after Taco Johns...chef, INDY driver, competitive eater...but I chose Lawyering. The skills I learned while shucking tacos for man have come in useful in that career. The ability to speak in public? Honed manning the drive-up speaker phone thingy. "Would you like to try a Chicken Fajita Burrito and a Small Coke?" Exactly. The ability to survive on a tight budget (every public defender must perfect this skill)? Must I repeat...no tips. NONE. The ability to deal with stressful situations? There is no greater stress on the planet earth than watching 78 billion cars leave directly from the 4th of July Fireworks show at the rodeo grounds and seeing all of their headlights coming to and turning into your drive through. The ability to handle difficult people? Most of the fireworks attendees were hammered. "No, sir, we don't have spaghetti". Those pizza delivery guys were rascals. And the dude who insisted on having his fajitas ROLLED? Come on. Makes your average meth addicts and drunks seem like guidance counselors.
I'm not sure I could perform my current job without having gained the skills I did working for the almighty John. When you think about it, delivery tacos for Taco Johns is like ITT Tech and Harvard Law all combined. Kinda.
Just think about. Harder. There you go.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Checking in....yep....this thing is still here....
....ahoy my merry handful of readers. I was gone for some time on a spiritual sojourn (that incidentally has left me much much less spiritual) but like Odysseus, I have returned. Actually, what happened was less a self-searching journey and more a "bored with writing the blog" hiatus. Oh, and I got an iPhone and that TOTALLY took up a ton of my free time. So....anyway....
My wife and I love our house. It's a charming little bungalow in a good neighborhood. It has tons of character and seems to fit our personalities well. But it does have some negatives. It was built in the early 20's out of bricks that need tuck-pointing and white trim that needs yearly painting. If either material is left un-attended, the house begins to look all "Last House on the Left" and haunted. It has a 60 year-old boiler that runs at about 50% efficiency, smells like gas and looks like a green version of the B9 Robot from Lost in Space. It suffers from ice dams during the winter due to it's shitty gutter system and poorly insulated attic. A recent bout with ice dams resulted in the pantry's ceiling coming down, followed by portions of the dining room ceiling, four walls and the decimation of one original window sill. If not for State Farm's help, we would be living in a mold-infested deathtrap that would make a FEMA trailer seem like a Fijian Villa. It has electrical "issues" (read "wires and shit running everywhere downstairs"). The dude that owned the house before us was an electrical engineer and he did a lot of his own handiwork. Unfortunately for us, it was never documented and now the breaker for the dining room (the box for which looks like the lady who got eaten by the computer in Superman III) turns off the microwave and the outlet on the front porch is turned on and off according to a dimmer switch in Omaha. The sprinkler system had failed to operate since the neighbors decided to put a fence on their property and sever the line from the well thereby leaving our lawn looking like one of those agri-business weed test patches. And to top it off, the house is fairly drafty. Not like "George Bailey's House" drafty. But leaky enough to make it about as energy efficient as a coal-powered Hummer.
So considering the above, my wife and I began toying with the idea of selling our home. We had contemplated that with the money we would receive from the sale we could pay down some debt and put a significant amount of money down on a new home that had recently been built or was being built at the time. On paper, the plan was flawless. It didn't seem unreasonable. But we quickly learned that when it comes to real estate in southwestern North Dakota...check with your doctor to make sure you are healthy enough for a severe disconnect from reality.
We bought our house back in 2004 for a really good price. We bought it during the original "economic downturn" period when housing prices in the area were depressed. Now, however, North Dakota claims one of the nation's only growing economies, a billion dollar budget surplus and a surging building market. All of this on account of the always-popular liquefied dinosaurs flowing about underneath the state...Oil. Southwestern North Dakota's oil reserves are legendary. And now, with the addition of new technology combined with soaring petroleum prices, the companies have come in droves to suck it out of the ground. There are benefits and burdens abound. While the population influx has brought with it a stream of new money to this semi-rural economy, you can't find a freakin' hotel room within 100 miles. While there are more jobs to choose from in the oil patch, the local businesses are suffering. After all, it's hard to keep employees when your competition is offering 25 bucks an hour, a service vehicle and daily bjs. And while temporary housing and rental properties have begun popping up like Whackamoles to help shelter workers, the general moral compass of those people RENTING buildings in the area has taken a giant shit. Rent prices in Dickinson and the surrounding towns have soared to levels that rival those in Manhattan. A studio apartment in Hebron set up to house 4 guys in one room you ask? How's $3000/month sound? Hey HGTV, you want a show that people will watch? Drop that Selling New York ditty and replace it with a Selling North Dakota. Who WOULDN'T want to watch two transient oil workers from Alabama literally shit in their pants when the local realtor tells them they could rent a basement broom closet for 1500 bucks a month? I'm telling you...can't miss TV. And unfortunately for the people on our position...those looking for a newer home...the same thing has happened to the home purchasing and building prices. If a guy wants a new house or one that was recently built, he better prepare get to selling one of his unnecessary organs...cause that SOB is going to cost him. I remember a home in one the nicer neighborhoods in town going for 600K. The freakin' Silverdome just sold for 500K in Detroit. But people say "Come on Jay...that's Detroit!" Ummm...people...this is DICKINSON.
My analogy for the current housing market in Dickinson is this scenario:
"I'm looking for some new lawn decorations...ours are getting kinda bland and outdated. Still Ok, but older."
"Hey pal, you could buy this nice pile of scrap metal and crispy dog shit in my backyard!"
"Well, I was kind of hoping to upgrade"
"Hey, this scrap metal and dog shit is much newer than the decorations you have now and besides I heard if you sell YOUR decorations, you could make twice what you bought them for."
"It IS nice that I could get that much money for my decorations. And it IS nice that you have all that metal and dog shit for sale. What's the price?"
"It would be 3 times what you bought your original decorations for."
"But then I would be just taking the money I MADE on my adequate decorations and putting it into overpriced dog shit, right?"
"It's NEW overpriced dog shit though....don't forget."
"Noted. So, if I do this, what are the prospects of me selling it again in 15 years for full price?"
"Come on dude....it's fucking dog shit."
Needless to say, my wife and I ran like the Kenyan Olympic team from that idea. Instead, we've refinanced at a much lower percentage and taken out some money in equity. I thought we should blow it all on Miller High Life Lite and Space Camp. But Shanna said no....we paid down ALL of our non-law school and housing debt, fixed most of the problems stated above, replaced the musty old basement carpet and bought some new shiny crap for the kitchen. Probably the more responsible option. But seriously, I wanted to go on that weightless airplane thing SUPER bad.
Maybe next economic boom.
My wife and I love our house. It's a charming little bungalow in a good neighborhood. It has tons of character and seems to fit our personalities well. But it does have some negatives. It was built in the early 20's out of bricks that need tuck-pointing and white trim that needs yearly painting. If either material is left un-attended, the house begins to look all "Last House on the Left" and haunted. It has a 60 year-old boiler that runs at about 50% efficiency, smells like gas and looks like a green version of the B9 Robot from Lost in Space. It suffers from ice dams during the winter due to it's shitty gutter system and poorly insulated attic. A recent bout with ice dams resulted in the pantry's ceiling coming down, followed by portions of the dining room ceiling, four walls and the decimation of one original window sill. If not for State Farm's help, we would be living in a mold-infested deathtrap that would make a FEMA trailer seem like a Fijian Villa. It has electrical "issues" (read "wires and shit running everywhere downstairs"). The dude that owned the house before us was an electrical engineer and he did a lot of his own handiwork. Unfortunately for us, it was never documented and now the breaker for the dining room (the box for which looks like the lady who got eaten by the computer in Superman III) turns off the microwave and the outlet on the front porch is turned on and off according to a dimmer switch in Omaha. The sprinkler system had failed to operate since the neighbors decided to put a fence on their property and sever the line from the well thereby leaving our lawn looking like one of those agri-business weed test patches. And to top it off, the house is fairly drafty. Not like "George Bailey's House" drafty. But leaky enough to make it about as energy efficient as a coal-powered Hummer.
So considering the above, my wife and I began toying with the idea of selling our home. We had contemplated that with the money we would receive from the sale we could pay down some debt and put a significant amount of money down on a new home that had recently been built or was being built at the time. On paper, the plan was flawless. It didn't seem unreasonable. But we quickly learned that when it comes to real estate in southwestern North Dakota...check with your doctor to make sure you are healthy enough for a severe disconnect from reality.
We bought our house back in 2004 for a really good price. We bought it during the original "economic downturn" period when housing prices in the area were depressed. Now, however, North Dakota claims one of the nation's only growing economies, a billion dollar budget surplus and a surging building market. All of this on account of the always-popular liquefied dinosaurs flowing about underneath the state...Oil. Southwestern North Dakota's oil reserves are legendary. And now, with the addition of new technology combined with soaring petroleum prices, the companies have come in droves to suck it out of the ground. There are benefits and burdens abound. While the population influx has brought with it a stream of new money to this semi-rural economy, you can't find a freakin' hotel room within 100 miles. While there are more jobs to choose from in the oil patch, the local businesses are suffering. After all, it's hard to keep employees when your competition is offering 25 bucks an hour, a service vehicle and daily bjs. And while temporary housing and rental properties have begun popping up like Whackamoles to help shelter workers, the general moral compass of those people RENTING buildings in the area has taken a giant shit. Rent prices in Dickinson and the surrounding towns have soared to levels that rival those in Manhattan. A studio apartment in Hebron set up to house 4 guys in one room you ask? How's $3000/month sound? Hey HGTV, you want a show that people will watch? Drop that Selling New York ditty and replace it with a Selling North Dakota. Who WOULDN'T want to watch two transient oil workers from Alabama literally shit in their pants when the local realtor tells them they could rent a basement broom closet for 1500 bucks a month? I'm telling you...can't miss TV. And unfortunately for the people on our position...those looking for a newer home...the same thing has happened to the home purchasing and building prices. If a guy wants a new house or one that was recently built, he better prepare get to selling one of his unnecessary organs...cause that SOB is going to cost him. I remember a home in one the nicer neighborhoods in town going for 600K. The freakin' Silverdome just sold for 500K in Detroit. But people say "Come on Jay...that's Detroit!" Ummm...people...this is DICKINSON.
My analogy for the current housing market in Dickinson is this scenario:
"I'm looking for some new lawn decorations...ours are getting kinda bland and outdated. Still Ok, but older."
"Hey pal, you could buy this nice pile of scrap metal and crispy dog shit in my backyard!"
"Well, I was kind of hoping to upgrade"
"Hey, this scrap metal and dog shit is much newer than the decorations you have now and besides I heard if you sell YOUR decorations, you could make twice what you bought them for."
"It IS nice that I could get that much money for my decorations. And it IS nice that you have all that metal and dog shit for sale. What's the price?"
"It would be 3 times what you bought your original decorations for."
"But then I would be just taking the money I MADE on my adequate decorations and putting it into overpriced dog shit, right?"
"It's NEW overpriced dog shit though....don't forget."
"Noted. So, if I do this, what are the prospects of me selling it again in 15 years for full price?"
"Come on dude....it's fucking dog shit."
Needless to say, my wife and I ran like the Kenyan Olympic team from that idea. Instead, we've refinanced at a much lower percentage and taken out some money in equity. I thought we should blow it all on Miller High Life Lite and Space Camp. But Shanna said no....we paid down ALL of our non-law school and housing debt, fixed most of the problems stated above, replaced the musty old basement carpet and bought some new shiny crap for the kitchen. Probably the more responsible option. But seriously, I wanted to go on that weightless airplane thing SUPER bad.
Maybe next economic boom.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Mountains are for goats...
...They are not for skinny kids from that Great Plains who hate cold weather.
I was recently talking to a friend of mine about an incident that occurred during one of her family ski trips and it reminded me of all the ill-fated times that I had stupidly ventured out onto the snowy mountainside with wooden planks strapped to my feet. And while all of the ski trips were fun, the LEAST fun part of ALL of them was the skiing.
My high school girlfriend and her patient family had taken me with them on a couple trips to Montana. Before that, I had never done it, so suffice it to say...I was pretty terrible. I stayed on the easy runs...which I'm sure really enthused the rest of them. But despite this fact, I'm fairly certain that I dislocated my shoulder on a fall near the bottom of one of the said "easy" runs at one time. Of course, I didn't say anything for fear that her father would think I was a wuss. He was a man's man who worked on Diesel engines, did home construction, had giant hands with corn-dog-sized fingers and who was generally good at everything a dude was supposed to be good at. So instead of doing the sane thing (which would have probably been an MRI), I lifted my arm above my head and it slammed back into place. At the time I felt like Mel Gibson in "Lethal Weapon"...teetering on the edge of sanity but allthewhile distinctly "tough". But about 20 minutes later I was delirious with pain and my arm's range of motion would have been rivaled by most quadriplegics.
Everyone in their clan was better than I was, having all been skiing since they were neo-natal...including their youngest. Let me tell you, having a 4-year-old girl cruise past you on a bunny hill wearing skis that are no longer than a wiffle ball bat really does something to a young man's ego. When she got up the next morning she immediately began bounding around the condo and I had the sudden urge to lock her in the closet. And I totally would have too if my ass muscles would have stopped cramping up long enough for me to get up off the couch. I was wholeheartedly NOT a "natural". In fact, I firmly believe that the only reason they were able to convince me to continue trying was the fact that I was not yet legally able to drink. If I had been, I would have spent the entire time getting my drunk on at the little lodge thing they have in the middle of the mountain. After all, drinking is something at which I DO excel. And unlike skiing...if done correctly, there is little to no risk of injury.
I also went skiing in Aspen once. Yeah, that Aspen. In college my buddies all decided to go there for an "internship" at the airport. Their jobs included baggage handling and testing the effects of sleep deprivation and glycol contamination on a young adults ability to consume obscene amounts of alcohol. In a moment of weakness, they convinced me to come out there (again over spring break) to visit. And while they had spent the lion's share of THEIR time over the past few months SKIING, I had not. In fact, I had tried my hardest to spend the majority of the Grand Forks winter INdoors. But once again, over objection, I was forced to ski...this time on a mountain made for people who's pocket books AND skiing prowess greatly exceeded my own. I had evolved, however, and by then I WAS of legal drinking age. So after a couple brutal hours of black diamond punishment and taking a pebble in the cheek, I happened upon (read "took the cable cars to") the midway lodge and drank for the balance of the outing. I had thought I had averted disaster this time around. But of course, in my self-aggrandizing, slightly drunken state, I clipped into the wrong (MUCH LONGER) skis and jetted uncontrollably (and quite drunkenly) down the side of this mountain and nearly crashed into the grooming machine.
The final chapter, however, came when Shanna and I decided it would be a good idea to go skiing at Mount Hood Meadows while living in Portland, Oregon. As you can tell from my prior skiing experience, there was quite a lot yet to be mastered about daytime skiing. So it will forever stump me as to why we opted to go at night. That was mistake one. (Well, mistake two I guess...if you count "deciding to ski at all" as number one). Of course, the weather forecast that night was "cold as shit with a chance of fucking sleet". So in addition to the pricey rental equipment, we had to BUY goggles to keep from permanently damaging our corneas. It was terrible. This aside, we were determined to get our money's worth. And to be honest, drinking wasn't an option this time. Hell, I could barely see two feet in front of me. Seriously, Nick Cage couldn't have found the bar in that shitstorm.
Now, my wife and I had (notice the past tense) very contrasting skiing styles. I tended to be very careful. I kept from getting anywhere near "out of control" and was generally scared to death of pointing my skis straight downhill for fear that I may get going too fast. Shanna, on the other hand, tended to ski on the wrong side of "in control" and liked to take sweeping paths across the run like a blind person. Whether she did this for fun or to try and slow down I do not know. What I DO know, however, is that these two styles did not mix.
I remember that it was going fairly well. I may have actually been enjoying myself for a couple minutes when Shanna came up beside me. She was, as usual, gathering too much speed when she turned right...up the slope of the run. She went into the sleet further than I could see so I slowed down a bit...but continued down the mountain. Then I heard her scream "watch out" or "heads up" or "holy fuckin' shit we're going to die" or something to that effect and I turned my head to the right just milliseconds before she smashed directly into my knees...sending me flipping through the air like one of my son's worn stuffed animals. When I landed, the first thing I did was take inventory to make sure that all of my body parts were attached and that they still operated (at least generally) as they were supposed to. Everything seemed attached. However, I didn't have my goggles anymore, my skis were gone, my hat had been sucked halfway off my head, my coat was partially unzipped and I'm fairly certain that, underneath my snow pants, one of my legs had managed to make its way out of my underwear. The next priority was to find Shanna. She was sitting down just up the hill, very near where we collided. She had apparently tried to avoid me by falling to the ground onto her butt. However, her momentum and speed had made her slide right into me. People had stopped to assist her and to check her pulse I would imagine. I also remember the people on the lift yelling down to make sure that everyone was alright. We had single-handedly made the entire run come to a stop. Shanna was OK as well, but had developed quite the limp. I managed to find my skis...which was quite the feat. And imagine my surprise to find out that it had been broken. In fact, when Shanna smashed into me, her ASS had actually broken the tip of the ski OFF. I struggled not to tell her she deserved it.
Again, I had to ski the remainder of the way down the hill. Only this time, instead of a drunken adventure with someone else's equipment, it was on a ski with its tip dangling like a cigarette that needed to be ashed. I lied to the rental dude about hitting a rock on the slope and how he was lucky that I didn't seriously injury myself...lawsuit...blah blah blah. I could tell that he didn't quite believe the story. I mean, I would have to really smash into something to actually tear the tip off of the ski. I don't blame him. However, I'm POSITIVE he wouldn't have believed a story about my wife breaking it with her ass, either. So whatever.
That was the last time I went skiing and I really have no desire to ever do it again. It's ridiculous. I have since decided that while I may continue to backpack during the summer months, I will steer well clear of mountains in the winter. The only thing civilized people should do in snow is shovel and write in it with pee.
I was recently talking to a friend of mine about an incident that occurred during one of her family ski trips and it reminded me of all the ill-fated times that I had stupidly ventured out onto the snowy mountainside with wooden planks strapped to my feet. And while all of the ski trips were fun, the LEAST fun part of ALL of them was the skiing.
My high school girlfriend and her patient family had taken me with them on a couple trips to Montana. Before that, I had never done it, so suffice it to say...I was pretty terrible. I stayed on the easy runs...which I'm sure really enthused the rest of them. But despite this fact, I'm fairly certain that I dislocated my shoulder on a fall near the bottom of one of the said "easy" runs at one time. Of course, I didn't say anything for fear that her father would think I was a wuss. He was a man's man who worked on Diesel engines, did home construction, had giant hands with corn-dog-sized fingers and who was generally good at everything a dude was supposed to be good at. So instead of doing the sane thing (which would have probably been an MRI), I lifted my arm above my head and it slammed back into place. At the time I felt like Mel Gibson in "Lethal Weapon"...teetering on the edge of sanity but allthewhile distinctly "tough". But about 20 minutes later I was delirious with pain and my arm's range of motion would have been rivaled by most quadriplegics.
Everyone in their clan was better than I was, having all been skiing since they were neo-natal...including their youngest. Let me tell you, having a 4-year-old girl cruise past you on a bunny hill wearing skis that are no longer than a wiffle ball bat really does something to a young man's ego. When she got up the next morning she immediately began bounding around the condo and I had the sudden urge to lock her in the closet. And I totally would have too if my ass muscles would have stopped cramping up long enough for me to get up off the couch. I was wholeheartedly NOT a "natural". In fact, I firmly believe that the only reason they were able to convince me to continue trying was the fact that I was not yet legally able to drink. If I had been, I would have spent the entire time getting my drunk on at the little lodge thing they have in the middle of the mountain. After all, drinking is something at which I DO excel. And unlike skiing...if done correctly, there is little to no risk of injury.
I also went skiing in Aspen once. Yeah, that Aspen. In college my buddies all decided to go there for an "internship" at the airport. Their jobs included baggage handling and testing the effects of sleep deprivation and glycol contamination on a young adults ability to consume obscene amounts of alcohol. In a moment of weakness, they convinced me to come out there (again over spring break) to visit. And while they had spent the lion's share of THEIR time over the past few months SKIING, I had not. In fact, I had tried my hardest to spend the majority of the Grand Forks winter INdoors. But once again, over objection, I was forced to ski...this time on a mountain made for people who's pocket books AND skiing prowess greatly exceeded my own. I had evolved, however, and by then I WAS of legal drinking age. So after a couple brutal hours of black diamond punishment and taking a pebble in the cheek, I happened upon (read "took the cable cars to") the midway lodge and drank for the balance of the outing. I had thought I had averted disaster this time around. But of course, in my self-aggrandizing, slightly drunken state, I clipped into the wrong (MUCH LONGER) skis and jetted uncontrollably (and quite drunkenly) down the side of this mountain and nearly crashed into the grooming machine.
The final chapter, however, came when Shanna and I decided it would be a good idea to go skiing at Mount Hood Meadows while living in Portland, Oregon. As you can tell from my prior skiing experience, there was quite a lot yet to be mastered about daytime skiing. So it will forever stump me as to why we opted to go at night. That was mistake one. (Well, mistake two I guess...if you count "deciding to ski at all" as number one). Of course, the weather forecast that night was "cold as shit with a chance of fucking sleet". So in addition to the pricey rental equipment, we had to BUY goggles to keep from permanently damaging our corneas. It was terrible. This aside, we were determined to get our money's worth. And to be honest, drinking wasn't an option this time. Hell, I could barely see two feet in front of me. Seriously, Nick Cage couldn't have found the bar in that shitstorm.
Now, my wife and I had (notice the past tense) very contrasting skiing styles. I tended to be very careful. I kept from getting anywhere near "out of control" and was generally scared to death of pointing my skis straight downhill for fear that I may get going too fast. Shanna, on the other hand, tended to ski on the wrong side of "in control" and liked to take sweeping paths across the run like a blind person. Whether she did this for fun or to try and slow down I do not know. What I DO know, however, is that these two styles did not mix.
I remember that it was going fairly well. I may have actually been enjoying myself for a couple minutes when Shanna came up beside me. She was, as usual, gathering too much speed when she turned right...up the slope of the run. She went into the sleet further than I could see so I slowed down a bit...but continued down the mountain. Then I heard her scream "watch out" or "heads up" or "holy fuckin' shit we're going to die" or something to that effect and I turned my head to the right just milliseconds before she smashed directly into my knees...sending me flipping through the air like one of my son's worn stuffed animals. When I landed, the first thing I did was take inventory to make sure that all of my body parts were attached and that they still operated (at least generally) as they were supposed to. Everything seemed attached. However, I didn't have my goggles anymore, my skis were gone, my hat had been sucked halfway off my head, my coat was partially unzipped and I'm fairly certain that, underneath my snow pants, one of my legs had managed to make its way out of my underwear. The next priority was to find Shanna. She was sitting down just up the hill, very near where we collided. She had apparently tried to avoid me by falling to the ground onto her butt. However, her momentum and speed had made her slide right into me. People had stopped to assist her and to check her pulse I would imagine. I also remember the people on the lift yelling down to make sure that everyone was alright. We had single-handedly made the entire run come to a stop. Shanna was OK as well, but had developed quite the limp. I managed to find my skis...which was quite the feat. And imagine my surprise to find out that it had been broken. In fact, when Shanna smashed into me, her ASS had actually broken the tip of the ski OFF. I struggled not to tell her she deserved it.
Again, I had to ski the remainder of the way down the hill. Only this time, instead of a drunken adventure with someone else's equipment, it was on a ski with its tip dangling like a cigarette that needed to be ashed. I lied to the rental dude about hitting a rock on the slope and how he was lucky that I didn't seriously injury myself...lawsuit...blah blah blah. I could tell that he didn't quite believe the story. I mean, I would have to really smash into something to actually tear the tip off of the ski. I don't blame him. However, I'm POSITIVE he wouldn't have believed a story about my wife breaking it with her ass, either. So whatever.
That was the last time I went skiing and I really have no desire to ever do it again. It's ridiculous. I have since decided that while I may continue to backpack during the summer months, I will steer well clear of mountains in the winter. The only thing civilized people should do in snow is shovel and write in it with pee.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
I scream, you scream, we ALL scream....for HYGIENE!!!!
...Sometime last year I finally convinced myself to go to the dentist again. It had been roughly 8 years since my last appointment and something told me that a time span approaching a decade wasn't in compliance with the recommended regularity of visits. Truth be told, my kids were due for a visit and I figured I couldn't lambaste them for their dental hygiene unless I kept up with my own. But I absolutely hate it there. And the weird thing is that I haven't had a cavity...ever. In fact, other than braces, I've never had anything wrong with my teeth that required any real work. And even the braces were pretty tame. I didn't have any rubber bands, or headgear or Frankenstein-esque bolts that required tightening. Outside of the occasional stray wire, resulting in a bloody cheek, there wasn't much to them. So why, then, do I absolutely loath having them work on me? I'll tell you why...because even routine check-ups hurt like a bitch, that's why.
It makes me squirm just thinking about those seemingly-gentle ladies jabbing into my face with their little mouth sickles and manhandling my teeth with an orbital sander as though they were weathered planks of an oak floor. Have you ever seen a knee surgery on video? The way they just bend and contort the leg all over the place as if there wasn't a human attached to it? Well, they do that same thing with your mouth when you get your teeth cleaned. The only difference is, you are awake the whole time so you can see, hear and FEEL every poke, prod and bludgeon. You get to smell your enamel being sanded off your teeth. And you get to taste the bloody mess they've made of your gums right before you get your tongue sucked out of your mouth by the hand-held Dyson they cram in there. All this work to make sure your teeth are pretty and functional. To me, this seems to be the equivalent of keeping one's car running smoothly by every six months having a mechanic dump a toolbox full of wrenches into the open engine compartment and driving around the block.
Of course, after they're done and my mouth feels like I ate a razor blade pie covered in minty sand, they asked the question..."do you floss?". My thought was "Lady, it took me 8 frickin' years to get into the dentist, do you actually think I've taken the time to run a waxed rope through my teeth every day?" And I don't think for a second that she actually wants to know whether I floss. I think she knows she just detonated a bomb in my mouth and she wants to shift the blame to me. Like "Sir, if you would floss then I wouldn't have to use this rusty metal hook and you wouldn't leave here feeling like you spent an hour chewing on thumbtacks." I'm on to them.
And perhaps what scares me even more than enduring that "cleaning" shitstorm is that there is a chance they MIGHT actually find something wrong and have to do "major" work as well. But after my experiences with "routine" cleanings, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be around when they get into the heavy duty shit. During the light stuff they scrape invisible goo off your teeth with a sharpened hook and blast your face with a super-sonic mini water cannon. So for a cavity do they roll a fuckin' Bobcat next to you and hammer away at your face like they were busting up a sidewalk? The fear is rational people.
And now it seems as though my daughter has inherited the gene that allows one to sense the danger these sadists represent. I know this because the last time I took her and Max to the dentist (their second check-up) Lucy absolutely LOST. HER. SHIT. Everything was fine when we got there. Her and Max went straight to the little play area that they have set up next to the gigantic fish tank where they promptly made a mess. They were happy and enjoying the day...and then they called their names. Max went into his room and began the process. But she immediately froze up. It was like someone had called her into Orwell's "Room 101". I went over to her to try and help her move along and she grabbed onto my leg and would not let go. Now we were both immobilized. I tried to pick her up and she yelped. I tried to kneel down but her grasp tightened and she wouldn't let me bend my legs. So I bent over and asked her what was wrong. It was at that very moment that it started.
Somewhere within her tiny frame a connection was made with the depths of hell and, as though her throat was an expressway from the lakes of fire, demons POURED from her mouth. She writhed. She gasped. She flailed. She screamed. I kept looking around to see if Max von Sydow was outside the door. She would not let the hook-lady touch her. And every time she said something like "It's OK Lucy, we just want to count your teeth", she got louder and more incoherent. I think she started sweating. I knew I had. The hook-lady said "maybe I'll step outside and you can have a moment". (my thought was that instead of taking a "moment", she could be "taking" me to where they kept all the liquor.) So she left the room and I tried to get my daughter to calm down. But she wouldn't even look at me. Instead, she kept thrashing her arms around and kicking her legs out. At one point she kicked me in the chin. Now, my chin is pretty large and hard to miss, so I didn't get too bent out of shape at that point. But then she kicked again and plugged her baby brother in the head and knocked him over. Now HE'S crying, she's having a freakin' seizure and I'm starting to get pretty pissed off. I mean, like "in about 10 seconds I'm taking away birthdays and Christmas"-type pissed off. And to top it off, my lovely wife, who was supposed to have been there 10 minutes prior to this little shit show, was nowhere to be found. So there I was with a crying baby, another toddler (who was bravely enduring everything in another room thank GOD) and this frickin' SPAZ curled up in a ball on the dentists chair sobbing and kicking like a drugged rodeo horse. Nice.
Then the lady came back in and gave her the word..."the doctor said that we'll have to try again next time. He can't see her if she's like this". And as though the director had screamed "SCENE"...the show ended. She straightened up, gathered herself, de-wrinkled her dress and went into the other room where her brother sat with sunglasses on (I was in no position to care why), getting his teeth sealed. And then her mother showed up. I left.
I was so torqued at my daughter that I momentarily began looking for toddler military schools on my blackberry "Point" app. But in the back of my mind, I could not stop thinking about how well her antics had worked and how absolutely flawless her execution was. She didn't want to go to the dentist and by letting all that evil come out of her and by laying waste to the entire dentist's office, she prevented me from making her go. And to top it off, I'm scared to even try again. GENIUS!!!
So now I have a safety net. If I ever go to their office and they tell me I have to have something major done I'm going to go succumb to my inner demons and go to a very dark place. Let's see those bastards jab me in the tongue after I start chanting in Aramaic and bite one of their fingers off.
It makes me squirm just thinking about those seemingly-gentle ladies jabbing into my face with their little mouth sickles and manhandling my teeth with an orbital sander as though they were weathered planks of an oak floor. Have you ever seen a knee surgery on video? The way they just bend and contort the leg all over the place as if there wasn't a human attached to it? Well, they do that same thing with your mouth when you get your teeth cleaned. The only difference is, you are awake the whole time so you can see, hear and FEEL every poke, prod and bludgeon. You get to smell your enamel being sanded off your teeth. And you get to taste the bloody mess they've made of your gums right before you get your tongue sucked out of your mouth by the hand-held Dyson they cram in there. All this work to make sure your teeth are pretty and functional. To me, this seems to be the equivalent of keeping one's car running smoothly by every six months having a mechanic dump a toolbox full of wrenches into the open engine compartment and driving around the block.
Of course, after they're done and my mouth feels like I ate a razor blade pie covered in minty sand, they asked the question..."do you floss?". My thought was "Lady, it took me 8 frickin' years to get into the dentist, do you actually think I've taken the time to run a waxed rope through my teeth every day?" And I don't think for a second that she actually wants to know whether I floss. I think she knows she just detonated a bomb in my mouth and she wants to shift the blame to me. Like "Sir, if you would floss then I wouldn't have to use this rusty metal hook and you wouldn't leave here feeling like you spent an hour chewing on thumbtacks." I'm on to them.
And perhaps what scares me even more than enduring that "cleaning" shitstorm is that there is a chance they MIGHT actually find something wrong and have to do "major" work as well. But after my experiences with "routine" cleanings, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be around when they get into the heavy duty shit. During the light stuff they scrape invisible goo off your teeth with a sharpened hook and blast your face with a super-sonic mini water cannon. So for a cavity do they roll a fuckin' Bobcat next to you and hammer away at your face like they were busting up a sidewalk? The fear is rational people.
And now it seems as though my daughter has inherited the gene that allows one to sense the danger these sadists represent. I know this because the last time I took her and Max to the dentist (their second check-up) Lucy absolutely LOST. HER. SHIT. Everything was fine when we got there. Her and Max went straight to the little play area that they have set up next to the gigantic fish tank where they promptly made a mess. They were happy and enjoying the day...and then they called their names. Max went into his room and began the process. But she immediately froze up. It was like someone had called her into Orwell's "Room 101". I went over to her to try and help her move along and she grabbed onto my leg and would not let go. Now we were both immobilized. I tried to pick her up and she yelped. I tried to kneel down but her grasp tightened and she wouldn't let me bend my legs. So I bent over and asked her what was wrong. It was at that very moment that it started.
Somewhere within her tiny frame a connection was made with the depths of hell and, as though her throat was an expressway from the lakes of fire, demons POURED from her mouth. She writhed. She gasped. She flailed. She screamed. I kept looking around to see if Max von Sydow was outside the door. She would not let the hook-lady touch her. And every time she said something like "It's OK Lucy, we just want to count your teeth", she got louder and more incoherent. I think she started sweating. I knew I had. The hook-lady said "maybe I'll step outside and you can have a moment". (my thought was that instead of taking a "moment", she could be "taking" me to where they kept all the liquor.) So she left the room and I tried to get my daughter to calm down. But she wouldn't even look at me. Instead, she kept thrashing her arms around and kicking her legs out. At one point she kicked me in the chin. Now, my chin is pretty large and hard to miss, so I didn't get too bent out of shape at that point. But then she kicked again and plugged her baby brother in the head and knocked him over. Now HE'S crying, she's having a freakin' seizure and I'm starting to get pretty pissed off. I mean, like "in about 10 seconds I'm taking away birthdays and Christmas"-type pissed off. And to top it off, my lovely wife, who was supposed to have been there 10 minutes prior to this little shit show, was nowhere to be found. So there I was with a crying baby, another toddler (who was bravely enduring everything in another room thank GOD) and this frickin' SPAZ curled up in a ball on the dentists chair sobbing and kicking like a drugged rodeo horse. Nice.
Then the lady came back in and gave her the word..."the doctor said that we'll have to try again next time. He can't see her if she's like this". And as though the director had screamed "SCENE"...the show ended. She straightened up, gathered herself, de-wrinkled her dress and went into the other room where her brother sat with sunglasses on (I was in no position to care why), getting his teeth sealed. And then her mother showed up. I left.
I was so torqued at my daughter that I momentarily began looking for toddler military schools on my blackberry "Point" app. But in the back of my mind, I could not stop thinking about how well her antics had worked and how absolutely flawless her execution was. She didn't want to go to the dentist and by letting all that evil come out of her and by laying waste to the entire dentist's office, she prevented me from making her go. And to top it off, I'm scared to even try again. GENIUS!!!
So now I have a safety net. If I ever go to their office and they tell me I have to have something major done I'm going to go succumb to my inner demons and go to a very dark place. Let's see those bastards jab me in the tongue after I start chanting in Aramaic and bite one of their fingers off.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Twins v. White Sox II tonight...
...and after last night's thrashing, there may be some questions as to how THIS particular White Sox team has managed to keep the race tight. I'm going to go with my own theory here: It's a liberal left conspiracy. There isn't any other way to explain it. The god-hating, morally-devoid members of the Obama administration and their White Sox adoration have done something nefarious to upgrade the White Sox pitching staff and to keep their no-hitting, no-defense squad of degenerates in the race. In the same vein, it's undoubted that these same dirty tricks have led to a rash of early-inning exits by starting pitchers, bad mustaches/goatees and Blue Jay's second baseman come saboteur John McDonald's flying knee smash to Justin Morneau's head. It's cold-war shit here people, with espionage, bow-tie cameras and antidotes...and the Twins are Russia.
But despite the efforts of the imperialists; last night's game was like one of those crazy Red Army parades with all the straight-legged, marching robot soldiers, giant missile trucks and tanks. It was an exhibition of might, intended to frighten the opponent. The Twins teed off on Chicago starter Freddy Garcia, chasing him out of the game before the conclusion of the third inning, and tallied 12 runs total. Ozzie Guillen didn't care that we were coming to town. The Twins made sure to remind Ozzie that he SHOULD care.
Tonight may prove to be a different story, however. The Twins send Glenn Perkins to the mound to face the steady force that is John Danks. And while Scott Baker was anything but sparkling in last night's game, Glenn Perkins will be making his first Major League start in over a year. Further, his MINOR league starts this season have been less-than-stellar as well. Danks has been pretty good this season and Twins batters may struggle to score runs. And further still, other than the fact that his LATEST starts have been better and that he may feel he has something to prove tonight, there is little to make Twins fans confident that Perkins will pitch with any success. Hopefully the squad didn't use up all of it's bullets in last night's smash-fest...because they may need some for tonight's game.
Well, let's just say that Glenn Perkins was anything but sharp, John Danks was more than adequate, the Twins defense was less than stellar and the outcome was short of desirable.
But despite the efforts of the imperialists; last night's game was like one of those crazy Red Army parades with all the straight-legged, marching robot soldiers, giant missile trucks and tanks. It was an exhibition of might, intended to frighten the opponent. The Twins teed off on Chicago starter Freddy Garcia, chasing him out of the game before the conclusion of the third inning, and tallied 12 runs total. Ozzie Guillen didn't care that we were coming to town. The Twins made sure to remind Ozzie that he SHOULD care.
Tonight may prove to be a different story, however. The Twins send Glenn Perkins to the mound to face the steady force that is John Danks. And while Scott Baker was anything but sparkling in last night's game, Glenn Perkins will be making his first Major League start in over a year. Further, his MINOR league starts this season have been less-than-stellar as well. Danks has been pretty good this season and Twins batters may struggle to score runs. And further still, other than the fact that his LATEST starts have been better and that he may feel he has something to prove tonight, there is little to make Twins fans confident that Perkins will pitch with any success. Hopefully the squad didn't use up all of it's bullets in last night's smash-fest...because they may need some for tonight's game.
Update:
Well, let's just say that Glenn Perkins was anything but sharp, John Danks was more than adequate, the Twins defense was less than stellar and the outcome was short of desirable.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Twins send Ramos to Nats for Capps and Cash...
...you have to admit...that has a great ring to it.
That's the big news this morning regarding the Twins and the trade deadline. Capps, the closer for the cellar-dweller Nats, has notched about 26 saves and only blown a handful in the process. The web's all atwitter about whether this was a good trade for the Twins. Gleeman and Kneeland say it's terrible to just bad, respectively. Seth Stohs, on the other hand, has warmed to it. We're all over the map here.
My take? Kind of the same as Stohs'...meh. We needed pitching help. Big Jon ain't a closer and with Deunsing moving to the rotation and Blackburn just plain sucking, there were holes. This fills one. We don't need catching help. We have a more-than-serviceable backup in Butera (no bat, good glove) and we have that one Mauer dude. Ramos was good and he was definitely better than Capps valuable, but he isn't going to get much of a sniff here in Minnesota. If you don't have any Ken Griffey Jr. rookie cards and I have three of them, you value them much more than I do, right? Blah.
So all 3 Twins fans that read this blog are going to wonder....why was I so opposed to the Hicks/Ramos for Cliff Lee deal and then AOK with the Ramos/Testa for Capps deal? After all, Cliff Lee is a better pitcher with much more value than Matt Capps. This is true...but. First off, that's too much to trade for almost anyone. And especially since Cliff Lee would have been a 2 month rental with his eyes perpetually on the Bronx. Capps is 26 and under Twins control until through 2011 (read "not a rental"). He can provide exclusive closer duties this year and into the post-season. He can also provide a decent fallback to Joe Nathan next year should Nathan struggle to recover from Tommy John. So as for this year and next...the Twins are a better team. I, for one, am excited the Twins decided to make a move that improves the team. I'm also excited that they did so by making a move that, although not a "bargain" (Ramos might be the next Johnny Bench and Capps might have a terrible psych-me-up video for the Target-Field jumbotron), it also wasn't asinine (like giving up TWO top prospects for a 2 month rental in Lee, whom I've never liked anyway 'cause I always thought he was a bit douchey for scowling at a two-strike bunt).
Now, I'm no nut. This isn't a blockbuster, by any means. But you'd never know that from the tone of the spin machine over at Kirby Puckett Way. Most notably, they keep referring to Capps as "All-Star Closer Matt Capps". Bill Smith has been repeating this meme and Twins mouthpiece Kelly Thesier has been using it as well. Come on now people..."All-Star Closer"? He plays for the Nats. Who the hell else is going to fill the "everyone has to have a player" roster spot from the damn Nats besides Capps? Christian Guzman? Capps is a "good young closer" or "National League Save-Leader" etc., but "All-Star Closer" is trying too hard. It's a good sounding jingle for the uninformed rubes in desperate need for justification. Knock it off.
So, we bid adieu to Wilson Ramos: "It was nice knowing you Wilson. Have fun in DC...gag"
And we say hello to Matt Capps: "Welcome kind sir. We enjoy fishing and winning. Just ask Livan."
That's the big news this morning regarding the Twins and the trade deadline. Capps, the closer for the cellar-dweller Nats, has notched about 26 saves and only blown a handful in the process. The web's all atwitter about whether this was a good trade for the Twins. Gleeman and Kneeland say it's terrible to just bad, respectively. Seth Stohs, on the other hand, has warmed to it. We're all over the map here.
My take? Kind of the same as Stohs'...meh. We needed pitching help. Big Jon ain't a closer and with Deunsing moving to the rotation and Blackburn just plain sucking, there were holes. This fills one. We don't need catching help. We have a more-than-serviceable backup in Butera (no bat, good glove) and we have that one Mauer dude. Ramos was good and he was definitely better than Capps valuable, but he isn't going to get much of a sniff here in Minnesota. If you don't have any Ken Griffey Jr. rookie cards and I have three of them, you value them much more than I do, right? Blah.
So all 3 Twins fans that read this blog are going to wonder....why was I so opposed to the Hicks/Ramos for Cliff Lee deal and then AOK with the Ramos/Testa for Capps deal? After all, Cliff Lee is a better pitcher with much more value than Matt Capps. This is true...but. First off, that's too much to trade for almost anyone. And especially since Cliff Lee would have been a 2 month rental with his eyes perpetually on the Bronx. Capps is 26 and under Twins control until through 2011 (read "not a rental"). He can provide exclusive closer duties this year and into the post-season. He can also provide a decent fallback to Joe Nathan next year should Nathan struggle to recover from Tommy John. So as for this year and next...the Twins are a better team. I, for one, am excited the Twins decided to make a move that improves the team. I'm also excited that they did so by making a move that, although not a "bargain" (Ramos might be the next Johnny Bench and Capps might have a terrible psych-me-up video for the Target-Field jumbotron), it also wasn't asinine (like giving up TWO top prospects for a 2 month rental in Lee, whom I've never liked anyway 'cause I always thought he was a bit douchey for scowling at a two-strike bunt).
Now, I'm no nut. This isn't a blockbuster, by any means. But you'd never know that from the tone of the spin machine over at Kirby Puckett Way. Most notably, they keep referring to Capps as "All-Star Closer Matt Capps". Bill Smith has been repeating this meme and Twins mouthpiece Kelly Thesier has been using it as well. Come on now people..."All-Star Closer"? He plays for the Nats. Who the hell else is going to fill the "everyone has to have a player" roster spot from the damn Nats besides Capps? Christian Guzman? Capps is a "good young closer" or "National League Save-Leader" etc., but "All-Star Closer" is trying too hard. It's a good sounding jingle for the uninformed rubes in desperate need for justification. Knock it off.
So, we bid adieu to Wilson Ramos: "It was nice knowing you Wilson. Have fun in DC...gag"
And we say hello to Matt Capps: "Welcome kind sir. We enjoy fishing and winning. Just ask Livan."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
My daughter, the party girl...
...Every morning we go through the same routine at my house. My wife wakes up much earlier than I and undertakes all the morning "chores" including making coffee, putting the dogs outside and bitching at me about sleeping in past 7. Then, after I stumble out of bed, spend 10 minutes trying to find where I dropped my glasses, search through the sheets for the alarm going off on the Blackberry that I took to bed with me and try to figure out why my mouth tastes and smells like I ate a plate of wet cigarettes the night before...I head downstairs to wake my oldest two children from THEIR slumber. On this particular morning I tugged my robe from my wife's closet door. Despite it being my wife's door (or closet), it is usually where MY robe can be found. In other, more specific words, despite my wife hating it when I dare wear a pair of her booty socks to work out, she readily commandeers my robe. And sometimes when she's really courteous, she leaves it on the hook without the part that keeps it wrapped around my body...as she did on this day. This brought to mind two things. First, it made me wonder what the hell my wife was doing with a wide open robe in front of our bedroom window (where her closet is located). Second, it made it fairly impossible to use it for it's intended purpose of covering up my unmentionables. But being in a sleep-drunken, recently-revived state, I didn't really care. I put it on and went downstairs...banking on the off chance that I might run across the belt part on my way through the house. Sure enough, I ran across it near the bottom of the stairs near my child's teddy bear. It's at that point that I remember that he was using it the night before as he was demonstrating to my wife and I about how he planned to go on an expedition to the Theodore Roosevelt National Park where he would "strangle buffalo", which is another blog post entirely.
So I tied my robe at the waist and spared those people who happened to walk past our egress window the shocking, sight-robbing horror show that is my bare chest and legs. I continued to the room where my kids slept so that I might discontinue their doing so. They have bunk beds that are located right next to another egress window. My normal routine is to turn on the light in their room and open the shade on the egress window, taking the room from "slightly dark" to "really freakin' bright" in a matter of seconds. When I was young, I used to think my mom was an evil despot for doing the same thing to me. Now, as a father of two children who refuse to listen to anything I say and who have grown quite fond of staying up past their bedtime only to struggle to get up in the morning...I find this particular method GENIUS. That being said, like so many other mornings, it didn't work. They stayed in bed for another 10 minutes despite the beaming sunlight, my repeated requests for them to get out of bed and the draft caused by me removing all of the blankets from their beds at minute 7 (request 5 I believe)...also a method my mother used and about which I have gained respect.
Normally, while I wait for them to de-zombie, I will get their clothes ready for the day. Understand, at this point I'm still not completely awake most days and sometimes I do a rather crappy job of picking out color-coordinated, season-appropriate outfits. In fact, on this 85 degree day in particular, I was able to pick out (for my oldest son) a nice long-sleeved polo shirt and two pairs of his brother's shorts. Needless to say, other than the underwear, we had to find a different ensemble. However, I picked out a complete outfit for Lucy. Kept it simple. Underwear and a dress. Simple. Dare I say "fool-proof".
Of course, after the kids actually got out of their beds and dragged themselves to the living room, it took another 10 minutes and 45 threats of physical harm to get them to get dressed in the outfits that I have picked out. But I have at least made it commonplace for them to get these clothes on while I am busy taking a shower and getting myself dressed. Therefore, if all goes to plan, they are fully clothed when I emerge from the bathroom. I was able to do this by making "getting dressed" into a ridiculous game. Today's game was the same as every other day...they "race" me to get dressed. Really, when you think of it, that's totally unfair. I have to shower, shave (sometimes) and dress and all they have to do is put on shorts and a t-shirt. A normal person with any motivation whatsoever would be able to kick my ass on every occasion. But due to Nickelodeon, my children have a tendency to get distracted. And oddly enough, sometimes they don't complete the steps necessary to "win". This is why making "winning" a fluid concept is crucial in making sure kids actually continue to play. You gotta think on your feet. And there's a lot of sandbagging involved too. For example, today I came out and my daughter was dressed but my son (who stood, drooling, in front of a Spongebob episode he has undoubtedly seen before) didn't have a shirt on. He was dissapointed when I told him that he was losing. Miraculously, he was still able to "win" due to the fact that I suddenly developed a palsy that made it impossible for me to tie my shoes, I kept twitching and falling down...and he bought it. He took his new-found time and rushed to get his shirt on. All it took was me being pathetic. But bluntly...I'm not above looking like an asshole if it means that my kids will try to be even REMOTELY self-sufficient.
So I got them upstairs, got their 11-month-old brother dressed and changed, got them into the car, got them buckled and took them to daycare. I got them inside, gave them a kiss and hug, waved goodbye and got out of there before my son could crap his pants. I normally try to hurry in and out of the daycare place. My wife takes eons when she picks them up. And for the life of me, I cannot understand what the fuck she talks about in there. The heartland food program only has about 3 minutes of good conversation material and I can only listen to so many theories on exchange-student Asians shoplifting from Walmart. I, for one, am not one to linger, because in addition to the aforementioned "wanna get out before my son soils himself again" reason, I'm also fairly certain she thinks I am the world's WORST parent ever. After all, I don't always have my daughter's hair tightly harnessed in a pony tail and I don't make my kids wear snowsuits and moon boots when it's 45 degrees outside. I can tell this by her poorly-veiled comments, not to me, but to my kids. Such as: "Dad should put boots on you Lucy..." and "Max, tell your dad he's lazy". That and the silent judging at my infant son's lack of shoes and the fact that I wear jeans to work on Fridays.
So imagine my horror when I received the following phone call from my daycare lady, not 2 minutes after dropping the kids off at her house:
Me: Hello
Her: Yeah, Jay? This is _____. We have a problem.
Me: Oh God, what did I do?
Her: Nothing, but we just realized that Lucy isn't wearing any underwear.
Me: Oh man. Sorry. I will bring some as soon as I can.
Jesus. Tap dancing. Christ. There really are very few ways to better start the morning than having to walk into a daycare with the underwear your daughter was supposed to be wearing in public but was not. And if I was in danger of losing her vote for "North Dakota Parent of the Year - 2010", I sure as shit wasn't going to get it after letting my daughter go commando at her daycare.
So, moral of the story, no matter how ridiculous it sounds...make sure your kids are wearing underwear when they leave the house. And, unfortunately, do it well before they are promiscuous, hormone-addled teenagers.
So I tied my robe at the waist and spared those people who happened to walk past our egress window the shocking, sight-robbing horror show that is my bare chest and legs. I continued to the room where my kids slept so that I might discontinue their doing so. They have bunk beds that are located right next to another egress window. My normal routine is to turn on the light in their room and open the shade on the egress window, taking the room from "slightly dark" to "really freakin' bright" in a matter of seconds. When I was young, I used to think my mom was an evil despot for doing the same thing to me. Now, as a father of two children who refuse to listen to anything I say and who have grown quite fond of staying up past their bedtime only to struggle to get up in the morning...I find this particular method GENIUS. That being said, like so many other mornings, it didn't work. They stayed in bed for another 10 minutes despite the beaming sunlight, my repeated requests for them to get out of bed and the draft caused by me removing all of the blankets from their beds at minute 7 (request 5 I believe)...also a method my mother used and about which I have gained respect.
Normally, while I wait for them to de-zombie, I will get their clothes ready for the day. Understand, at this point I'm still not completely awake most days and sometimes I do a rather crappy job of picking out color-coordinated, season-appropriate outfits. In fact, on this 85 degree day in particular, I was able to pick out (for my oldest son) a nice long-sleeved polo shirt and two pairs of his brother's shorts. Needless to say, other than the underwear, we had to find a different ensemble. However, I picked out a complete outfit for Lucy. Kept it simple. Underwear and a dress. Simple. Dare I say "fool-proof".
Of course, after the kids actually got out of their beds and dragged themselves to the living room, it took another 10 minutes and 45 threats of physical harm to get them to get dressed in the outfits that I have picked out. But I have at least made it commonplace for them to get these clothes on while I am busy taking a shower and getting myself dressed. Therefore, if all goes to plan, they are fully clothed when I emerge from the bathroom. I was able to do this by making "getting dressed" into a ridiculous game. Today's game was the same as every other day...they "race" me to get dressed. Really, when you think of it, that's totally unfair. I have to shower, shave (sometimes) and dress and all they have to do is put on shorts and a t-shirt. A normal person with any motivation whatsoever would be able to kick my ass on every occasion. But due to Nickelodeon, my children have a tendency to get distracted. And oddly enough, sometimes they don't complete the steps necessary to "win". This is why making "winning" a fluid concept is crucial in making sure kids actually continue to play. You gotta think on your feet. And there's a lot of sandbagging involved too. For example, today I came out and my daughter was dressed but my son (who stood, drooling, in front of a Spongebob episode he has undoubtedly seen before) didn't have a shirt on. He was dissapointed when I told him that he was losing. Miraculously, he was still able to "win" due to the fact that I suddenly developed a palsy that made it impossible for me to tie my shoes, I kept twitching and falling down...and he bought it. He took his new-found time and rushed to get his shirt on. All it took was me being pathetic. But bluntly...I'm not above looking like an asshole if it means that my kids will try to be even REMOTELY self-sufficient.
So I got them upstairs, got their 11-month-old brother dressed and changed, got them into the car, got them buckled and took them to daycare. I got them inside, gave them a kiss and hug, waved goodbye and got out of there before my son could crap his pants. I normally try to hurry in and out of the daycare place. My wife takes eons when she picks them up. And for the life of me, I cannot understand what the fuck she talks about in there. The heartland food program only has about 3 minutes of good conversation material and I can only listen to so many theories on exchange-student Asians shoplifting from Walmart. I, for one, am not one to linger, because in addition to the aforementioned "wanna get out before my son soils himself again" reason, I'm also fairly certain she thinks I am the world's WORST parent ever. After all, I don't always have my daughter's hair tightly harnessed in a pony tail and I don't make my kids wear snowsuits and moon boots when it's 45 degrees outside. I can tell this by her poorly-veiled comments, not to me, but to my kids. Such as: "Dad should put boots on you Lucy..." and "Max, tell your dad he's lazy". That and the silent judging at my infant son's lack of shoes and the fact that I wear jeans to work on Fridays.
So imagine my horror when I received the following phone call from my daycare lady, not 2 minutes after dropping the kids off at her house:
Me: Hello
Her: Yeah, Jay? This is _____. We have a problem.
Me: Oh God, what did I do?
Her: Nothing, but we just realized that Lucy isn't wearing any underwear.
Me: Oh man. Sorry. I will bring some as soon as I can.
Jesus. Tap dancing. Christ. There really are very few ways to better start the morning than having to walk into a daycare with the underwear your daughter was supposed to be wearing in public but was not. And if I was in danger of losing her vote for "North Dakota Parent of the Year - 2010", I sure as shit wasn't going to get it after letting my daughter go commando at her daycare.
So, moral of the story, no matter how ridiculous it sounds...make sure your kids are wearing underwear when they leave the house. And, unfortunately, do it well before they are promiscuous, hormone-addled teenagers.
Missing Missy...
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