Saturday, November 17, 2018

Throw Another Log on the Fire

It looks as if our woodpile is shrinking. And because we almost never have fires anymore I automatically assumed our neighbors are stealing wood from us. 

I am insane. 

The neighbors aren't stealing anything. That doesn't mean we think the neighbors are "ideal". At times their parking choices make it tough on our mail carriers and their dog barks too early or too late and, despite gestures we've made, they're not particularly friendly toward us. I'm sure if you had a conversation about us with them they'd also have complaints. But the point is, the problems we have are minor. Insignificant. Despite this, when we think about our new neighbors, we often think about how much we miss our old neighbors. 

This is dumb. I'm ashamed of how easily I can conjure thoughts of my neighbors dancing around our burning logs and laughing about how much they hate us and how they're going to burn our ugly patio furniture next (I kind of wish that last part was real). 

Truth is, it's not the imagined wood theft that really bothers me. It's the fact that there are people living next to me that don't particularly like me. I'm going to stop typing for a second and reflect on how egocentric that thought is. . .  Okay - I'm back. I feel bad that I have allowed myself to slightly demonize good people primarily because I'm convinced they're doing the same thing to us.

And I don't even know their names. 

The reality is I'm pretty sure they don't spend a lot of time thinking about us and it's clear we don't spend a lot of time thinking about them (until the dog barks at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday or we irrationally accuse them of trespasses that never really happened). 

If I was a decent person, the next paragraph would describe my plan to better communicate with our neighbors. I'd outline a few simple ways we could make an effort to get to know them and allow them to see we're nice and helpful neighbors (like we've done in the past). 

I'd relearn what their names are.

After that, I'd provide some bromide about how the world could be a better place if we'd all make an effort to reach out and get to know one another just a little bit better. 

Instead, I'm thinking of moving our motion-activated camera to the side of the house that has the woodpile.

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Ten Minutes

I left a small container of hummus residue in my daughter’s lunch bag. It must have been in there for at least four weeks. I popped the lid and it didn’t really have a smell and it just looked like leftover hummus inside. This makes me wonder if hummus is resistant to bacteria. I could test this. The next time I cut myself I’ll pack the open wound with Sabra.

My daughter’s lunch bag is primarily pink and covered in green leaves and multi-colored owls. Allie and Julie went through a very brief owl stage. I think the lunch box, some pajama bottoms and two wooden craft owls are all that remains of this period in our lives. I’m not sad or glad that it’s over. I suppose I should be thankful our home wasn’t overrun with reproductions and representations of owls but I could have lived with an owl proliferation if it had occurred.

I get comments from my coworkers when I bring the owl lunch bag to work. They try to rattle me with insinuations that the lunch bag isn’t age or gender appropriate. I don’t really think they believe this would bother me all that much particularly when my usual bag features a Batman symbol and a small, black cape that flaps in the wind if I walk fast enough. But that doesn’t stop the over-the-top gushing about how pretty my lunch bag is.

I love my Batman lunch bag, but its shape squishes my sandwiches. These days I usually pack a container of hummus with a generous squirt of sriracha, baby carrots to dig into the hummus, a sandwich, a piece of fruit and some chips or nuts. The pretty pink owl lunch bag is a better choice to haul this food to work.

I’ve thought about trying to find the perfect lunch bag, but because of the comments I get, I refuse to give up on the owls. I might even double down and try to find a pretty pink owl backpack. Truth is, I probably won’t because I’m currently toting my laptop in a backpack with NASA patches stitched to its exterior. If I left my gear unaccompanied, on a bench, you’d probably think it was the property of a twelve-year-old girl. That’s fine. It’s just the way my “everyday carry” has evolved.

I’m staring at my backpack and the lunch bag right now wondering why I just spent ten minutes thinking about them. 

I bet you are, too. 

Friday, August 17, 2018

Is it too late to bathe?

Nobody cares what you think, and that's okay.

Not being the center of the universe takes a huge load off your shoulders. Unfortunately, it also means that many of your ideas and thoughts about this and that won't amount to much. Sure, you can put time and energy behind the stuff you care about and it'll make a dent, but all the throw-away thoughts just evaporate.

That's too bad, because my idea to provide universal health care was a good one despite the fact it relied on me having supernatural powers. 

Yes - I'm depressed. I'm feeling crappy and I almost certain it's the meds that I'm on for high blood pressure. Also, I'm wondering what life is going to be like when my kid leaves for college.

Lately, I don't have much of a problem with it because she's not being very considerate around the house. Cleaning up her messes and glaring at her when she's being rude isn't fun. But, I know those feelings are going to vanish as soon as I drive away from her dorm. Of course, they'll return quickly when she's back in the house, but in the mean time I'll walk by her empty room and wonder what she had for dinner or if she's keeping warm.

She's not going to school across the country. She'll be 25 minutes away. -I know, right?- I will see her when she wants to see us. She will need things or want to know about the huge number of fun activities we'll be doing now that she's out of the house.

Julia is standing next to me wondering what she should make for dinner. She has no idea what's in store for her. Neither do I, for that matter. She will become the only child and Deb and I will invest all of our time scrutinizing her every move and offering ample amounts of criticism and advice to get her through her days without a sibling.

It could wind up being the opposite. We'll completely ignore her. That might be incredibly liberating. The freedom of finishing out her high school days with little or no parental intervention. She'll experiment with all sorts of drugs and dangerous behaviors like mascara and Fortnite on an Android phone.

Scary.

Finding a new refrigerator is just as scary. Our 20 year-old G.E. has a bacterial incubator for a water reservoir and it's incontinent in that its drainage lines get clogged and it pees on our laminate floors.

Laminate floors and refrigerator pee are a bad combo and that's enough to get me to try to find a fridge that's less that 68" high and 33.5" wide. Try it. You'll find refrigerators that will fit, but we'll need to hire an iceman to come by everyday and fill the cooler box so Allie's cranberry juice can be served at the proper temperature.

She drinks a lot of diet cranberry juice. It's always flavored with grapes, lemons or something that makes it taste unlike cranberry juice. I pray that her food service provider knows Allie is coming and that diet cranberry will be made available. But, I'd also like to see what her dining hall would look like in flames - so I'm torn.

I went to the local (as in four blocks away) appliance dealer to try to find a fridge. While I was there a dog came up to me and licked the awful rash that's on my shins. I felt awful, for the dog and for myself. I'm guessing he was trying to heal me and that made me feel a little sorry for myself.

I told you I was depressed.

Should I go to bed? I haven't bathed. It's 7:23 p.m. That's not too late to take a shower. I'll take a bath, put on one of the many ridiculous t-shirts that I own and try to sleep the fog and ache away.

Trust me - I'm not as bad as I think I am. I'm just trying to get you to lick the rash on my shins.   

Thursday, March 08, 2018

Pardon me, kind sir, but you won't find Pop-Tarts there. . .

I am a deeply flawed person with many bad habits. One of my bad habits is being fed by the availability of old Supermarket Sweep episodes. Deb and I used to watch the show when we were first married. We’d tell each other we watched for the program's high kitsch value. The truth is, we love the excitement of watching people scramble around a grocery store trying to grab as many gold-wrapped hams or four-foot salamis as they could in two or three minutes.

Now that reruns of the show are available to us, we’re watching them with the girls. The difference now is I’m screaming obscenities at the screen. I noticed that when I said something horrible about one of the contestants, it seemed to amuse Deb and the girls. If a little was funny, then a lot had to be hilarious - so I escalated. Now I find myself ranting, yelling and saying some truly awful stuff about everyone on the screen. 

It's not necessary. There are exceptions, like the guy who was looking for Pop-Tarts in the freezer section. We all have carte blanche to roast this useless moron. But, most of the time, I’m just mean and obscene.

It’s time to stop. I’ve taken shock value and inflated that balloon until it burst. Now I’m just pumping foul smelling air into shredded latex. I will miss the catharsis but I should be getting that at the gym. The real problem is, my game show rants are seeping into everyday life with regularity. I always swear a little during my morning commute, but today I unleashed a string of truly foul words on a person in a Ford Escape. She didn’t hear me, but that only made it worse. I wasn’t just a lout, I was a cowardly lout. Plus, it was clear she didn’t really deserve any hatred at all.

I put my hand on my chest and said, “Whoa.”

It’s clearly time to clean my act up. It will be difficult but, I think a kinder, more civil Greg is worth it.


So, the next time you’re at the store and you hear that beep, think of all the genteel and supportive things you’ll hear me softly say when I watch Supermarket Sweep!

Sunday, September 17, 2017

These Headlines Just In

I don't think in complete sentences anymore. Short, meaning-charged headlines are the best I can do. If that wasn't bad enough, most of these short bursts seem a little cranky. Here are a few related to kids:
  • Local Teen's Bathroom Draws Fire from Critical Parents
  • Internet Usage Spikes as Teen Detaches from World at Large
  • Growth and Maturity Rob Area Man of Once Cuddly Babies
Here are some related to my well being:
  • Man Attributes Couch Sitting Record to YouTube Video Addiction
  • Area Man's Deadly Fart Traced to Nutritionally Bereft Eating Habits
  • Apple Watch's Inability to Produce Fitness Results Noted by Owner
[These are horrible. I want to take them down but I also want to leave them as a reminder that I should avoid posting just because I haven't done it in a while. Really bad. So very bad.]

I try to move beyond thinking in headlines, but it's so dull and exhausting. I never really was very patient and now I've moved beyond no patience at all. Now, I'm in a constant state of feeling like everything is keeping me from something extremely important. I don't want things immediately. I want glimpses into the future that reveal the crap I didn't even anticipate wanting is lined up and ready for me to consume. 

Notice I typed, "wanting". The things I "need" have to be almost autonomic. If anything on Maslow's hierarchy gets delayed or denied my addled, entitled brain can't comprehend the situation. 

I'm exaggerating for the purposes of entertaining myself, but I do feel. . . soft. Sometimes my outlook seems as squishy as my waistline. I'm not quite a passenger on the Axiom but I often feel like I'm just a few cheeseburgers and "8-Bit Guy" videos away from something close to it. 

I've often declared that I'm going to do something about this situation because that's what people recommend. You should make your intentions public and that will help you reach a goal. It's never worked for me and that's certainly not what this post is about. 

This post is about a list I made at work on Thursday. The list had about ten items and among things like "Clean Litter Boxes", "Pay Bills" and "Strength Training" was, "Do Something Creative". 

I'm not sure this post warrants a line through that last one - but I'm going to cross it off anyway. . . right after one more game of Disco Bees.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Weiner Dogs

At what point did I decide that writing about the girls growing up wasn't worth my time? There aren't as many mishaps to report on these days. The girls have learned to speak English fairly well and their motor skills are somewhat developed. "U Nork" for New York and "Port Chucks" for pork chops have disappeared (although mispronouncing minestrone as "mine - strone" was a fairly recent thing).

Truth is, they're just not as cute as they used to be.

Nah. That's not it. They're cute enough. It just seems that I'm not in their faces quite as much. Julia is no longer interested in spending much time outside of her room these days and Allie's reply to just about anything is, "I have homework".

I'm not being maudlin. It's just that the girls are smart now. There's not a lot that they don't know how to do on their own. What's more, reporting conversations about politics or pop culture is dull. A post about someone eating crayons - now that's gold. The problem is, Allie and Julia don't eat crayons very often anymore.

It's almost 2:00 a.m. and I've been considering my digital footprint. I spent most of my time using Deb's Facebook account to look at people from high school. I even pulled my yearbook from the shelf and started typing in names. Most of the people from that time were little more than acquaintances who I may have shared one or two bonding experiences with. But those were formative years. Years when my lizard brain was developing and the proteins etched at that time are indelible.

Everyone I found on Facebook looks healthier and richer than me. I don't have an account anymore. If I did, I'm sure I'd try to make myself look healthy and rich. A lot people seem to pull that off by posing with their families and a cluster of palm trees behind them. I don't have any pictures of the four of us in front of palm trees. I have pictures of us in the living room holding cats in painful positions or recording the massive amounts of ketchup we consume at Five Guys.

That's who I am on the interwebs. Along with those oft-repeated images of cats and ketchup on Flickr, I have this blog. That's my digital footprint. I don't think anyone thinks that palm tree encrusted photos are his/her legacy. But it's clear that one of the first things we all do when someone dies is Google their names. We clamor for any information that tells us who they were. And, apparently, many of my high school classmates were people who spent a lot of time on beaches.

If someone can find me via Google, I suppose I'm willing to share more than a group shot near an ocean. It's almost an obligation - particularly when I consider how it makes me feel better when the information about a dead person's life is somewhat robust. I didn't care enough to make a call when these people were alive, but it's important to me, now that they are dead, I'm aware they bred dachshunds for many years.

I'm serious.

That's why at 2:00 a.m. I'm trying to record something about the family. You see, it won't be long before the girls will be disturbingly more than two flights of stairs away. I want them to be able to read about what life used to be like. Maybe remind them that I secretly bred dachshunds for many years.

Bottom line is, I'm thinking about death. These keystrokes are probably going to outlast me. When someone finds out that I died, probably pulling a huge number of babies out of a burning orphanage, I want them to know that I loved my family just like they continue to love theirs. After all, I'm the one who got caught in the orphanage, they're all still alive. . . breeding dachshunds.  

Friday, December 09, 2016

12:00 a.m. Outside My Window

A man and a woman walking two small dogs. The little dogs are wearing sweaters. The man and woman are wearing long, puffy coats and matching headlamps. It's midnight and 22 degrees. I can see precisely where the man and woman are looking because those areas are illuminated. About every ten steps they stop and watch their little dogs smell and pee on things. It's all brightly lit by the headlamps. 

Walking tiny dogs in the middle of the night isn't all that strange (even in the cold). Dressing alike happens to couples more times than anyone wants to admit. It's the headlamps that have led me to try and work out what I've seen here, in this blog. 

Have I witnessed my future? I can see Deb getting me the latest in headlamp tech for Christmas. I can see me reciprocating and getting her one of her own. Now what? We have the gear and now we need an excuse.

Tuesday, May 03, 2016

The Pack

I can't think of anything to write about but I want to use this new keyboard so badly. 

I went on Craigslist looking for a used IBM Selectric. I learned to type on a Selectric. I was nostalgic about what it felt like to push each key. The sound and the feel was very satisfying. Each stroke would activate the little metal font ball that would strike the ribbon to leave the letter of your choice on a nice, sturdy piece of paper. It wasn't like now, when we're all basically typing into the ether. You were making something, building a document that could potentially outlast you like a painting or a sculpture. 

Yeah, I'm over romanticizing, but I did like that feeling. That's why I was going to buy an old typewriter. Then I remembered that my writing style requires that I erase entire sentences just to correct a lowercase letter I accidentally left at the start of it. The typewriter would never tolerate that kind of frivolity. If you were going to use it you'd better have your shit together, usually in the form of a handwritten outline scrawled on a yellow legal pad. 

I'm not too keen on the idea of doubling my effort when I write so I bought a gaming keyboard instead of a typewriter. The new keyboard features:

Mechanical keys that deliver gaming-grade responsiveness and tactile feedback superior to rubber-domed keys. With an actuation force and distance of 50 g and 2.2 mm, respectively, the keys are optimized for rapid command entry. Plus, the keys have been tested for durability to a 50 million cycle life.

In the biz, I think these type of keys are referred to as "Cherry MX Switches". I'm typing on them and while they do deliver some of the experience I was after, I'm still typing into the ether. I'm not striking and chiseling a flat, paper sculpture that will be found by an archeological dig a few thousands years from now. The clicks and clacks are just leaving marks on some pixels. And, in a few minutes, when I'm done those same pixels will probably be flashing cat videos or items on Amazon that I don't need. 

Later this week Julia is going to have her eyes checked. Glasses betray our weakness. If she has to get them she will be ostracized by the pack. She will be the decoy that is left behind to distract predators from the more viable members of the group. If she wears glasses, eventually she will be eaten. 

Later this month, Allie is going to take her driver's test. She's ready but doesn't know it. I think this is the case for a lot of things. Some things I will try to let her know about, other things I will keep to myself. . . at least for a little while longer. Otherwise she will wander from the pack and eventually she will be eaten. 

I'm wondering what to do with my wife for Mother's Day. I've always maintained that she's not my mother so it's not really my responsibility to remind her that she's a good mom. But that's not how it works, at least no in our house. And if I forget Mother's day I have a feeling that I will put myself in danger. I could, potentially be forced out of the pack and eventually I will be eaten.

Friday, March 04, 2016

Hippy Hobo Baloney

There is no punchline to this story:

When I was seven I was sitting on my front porch. It was a very hot day.

I watched a man walk by our house. He was dressed, from head to toe, in blue denim. This was strange because it was so hot and the outfit looked heavy and ornate with little metal studs. He seemed young. He had long blonde hair and a scruffy beard. It was clear to me, back then, that this person was something special.

His jeans were flared at the bottom. Bell bottoms were the style back then. I wore them, too. They often were chewed up by our bicycle chains. This guy's bell bottoms were enormous (my memory may be embellishing this fact, but in my head - they were big and floppy). 

He was barefoot. I'll always remember he didn't have shoes on because the hot tar on the road had coated the bottom of his feet. He had pink skin on the top of his feet and the bottoms were blackened with oozing, sticky tar. 

This was back when they would spray the roads with tar and then follow up with gravel. Often there was much more tar than gravel. I remember wondering how he could stand to walk on the little stones and whether or not the tar would eat through the soles of his feet.

He was eating baloney as he walked. The yellow, plastic packaging let me know he was eating Oscar Meyer bologna. It was the kind of stuff we had in our fridge. Not the substandard Eckridge Farms pickle loaf that was gross but somehow made its way into our sandwiches every now and again.  

He was eating the entire stack of sliced meat. He didn't take individual slices. He bit through them all, simultaneously. 

This seemed outrageous back then. It still does today.

I know I stared at this person for a very long time because he is seared into my memory. He never noticed me. He just kept walking down the road on his magic, heat-resistant feet. 

I used to think he was a hobo. I thought he was on a journey of thousands of miles and just happened to pass by our house on the way to the other side of the country. Now that I think of it, he was headed east - probably to be a hobo in Manhattan, eventually.

The truth is, he was more than likely living just down the road in his parents' basement. He had probably had the munchies from smoking weed and he was so high the hot tar didn't have much of an impact until he woke up to two bloody stumps at the ends of his legs. 

But I'm going to hold on to the hobo idea. I like it better. 

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

C is for Cookie$

It’s Girl Scout Cookie season again. This year, if we don’t make our quota (250 boxes), the troop has asked all the families to write a check to make up for the cookies they are unable to sell.

I was at the meeting when they unveiled the new rule. I told them that as long as there were no negative consequences for any scout who refused to write a check I was fine with it. After all, if there are repercussions their plan is tantamount to extortion. I don’t think there’s a badge the girls can earn for extortion. If there is, I’d like to see the design. Maybe I could submit some ideas for the Pyramid Scheme and Racketeering badges, too. 

The more I think about this cash compensation requirement the more resentful I get. I know the Troop Leaders put in a lot of time and effort coordinating these sales. I know the desire to build up the Troop’s coffers comes from a good place. Providing an excellent experience for all the girls can get expensive and I’m sure there’s pressure brought to bear from the Council. But I’m still not on board.

I’ll admit there’s more we could probably do to try to get people to buy cookies. But it’s not as if we don’t try at all. We put the word out in social media, we annoy our relatives and colleagues. We warehouse our 250 boxes of cookies in our kitchens, dining rooms or wherever they’ll fit. We stand outside in -5 degree windchill trying to get people to buy Thin Mints and Thanks Alots (which was really dumb, by the way – holy shit).

It’s not as much as the Troop Leaders do but I maintain that it is enough. Mandating compensation not only pushes boundaries, it alienates. Or maybe it’s just me. Regardless, I won’t be writing a check if we don’t sell all 250 boxes that are sitting in our dining room right now.

In other news:

Julia showed me the cat-collecting app, Neko Atsume a few weeks ago. It’s basically a Tamagotchi for animated cats. You leave food and toys in your yard and cats come visit. In return, they leave you fish, allowing you to buy more toys and cushions and empty boxes and buckets and heaters and whatever you need to attract more cats.

I’m not clear on the goal. Julia has amassed a number of yard extensions and has redecorated her spaces several times. After two weeks I’m still on my first yard. I’m desperately trying to earn enough gold fish to expand it. I check it constantly. I buy the expensive food to attract more cats and get them to like me enough to leave me the fish necessary to achieve the elusive (for me, at least) yard expansion.

Julia tells me that I don’t need to buy the pricey food. Just keep feeding them the basic, unlimited and free “Thrifty Bits”. The sashimi that I provided was probably welcome, but these are animated cats and Julia has assured me that they will settle. There’s no denying her success so I’ll stick with the cheap stuff for the time being.

I pay more attention to this app than our real cats. 

Tuesday, November 03, 2015

Logan's Run

I didn’t go Trick or Treating this year. Julia and her friend went without me and Allie, for the first time, decided not to wander the neighborhood begging for candy.

When I take a moment to think about it, I realize that with each Halloween I stood farther away from each front porch. When the girls were babies, I held them, basically to show the neighbors how cute they were in whatever costume we forced on them. Then, a few years later, I’d stand next to them and coach them on what to say to get a treat. After that, I’d remain within earshot to make sure they said, “Thank you” after a fun-sized Snickers hit the bottom of their plastic pumpkins. In later years, I’d stand in the driveway and eventually I found myself in the street, pretending that I had no affiliation with the kid on the porch.

This year I stayed on my own porch while I waited for Julia to come back. I kept myself busy. We had a giant spider, rear-projected ghoulies on the big window and a masked brother-in-law stationed next to the front walk ready to wave at the little kids and frighten the big ones. At times, there were seven of us watching the parade of costumes go by.

We had fun, but I couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. I’m sure the elaborate fright show on the front porch was me overcompensating – trying to fill the gap left by not walking around with my daughters. Unfortunately, for all of my efforts, the kid count was kind of low; around 210. In the past, we easily broke 300 each year. It could be that our pool of Halloweenies is aging out. I picture Allie with one of those hand crystals they had in Logan’s Run. All the kids in the neighborhood looked down and their crystals were red this year. Time to stop trick or treating and get a 401K.

I’m not sad. The end of October is usually cold and wet. Fighting for space on the sidewalk to avoid being trampled is no longer my problem. Time spent avoiding adults who think clown masks are fun and not at all creepy is probably a thing of the past. Plus, I trade the bulk of the candy for dollars these days so Halloween really means more Twix with less effort for me.

None of that means I wouldn’t hit the streets with Julia in a heartbeat if she asked.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

My Pickle

The lunch lady gave me a pickle with my turkey wrap today. She said, "Greg, your pickle is huge!". Then a woman behind me said, "That's a long pickle you got there." 

We all paused and then giggled like Japanese schoolgirls. 

Friday, August 21, 2015

Hit & Run

Allie is learning to drive.

Last night Deb took her out for some practice.

That's when Allie killed a little boy's soccer ball. She popped it right in front of the kid and his father.

From what I understand, "I'M SORRY!" is what Allie screamed out the window as she drove away.