Sometimes I like to go to the Laundromat. Not because I need to do my laundry. I get that done at home. What I don’t get at home is the chance to eavesdrop on people. I bring a few shirts, a pair of jeans, and maybe some underwear to make the ruse look realistic. Then I sit down and open a book I have no intention of reading. Nothing written by Robert B. Parker or Sue Grafton can compare with the conversations of people who are doing their laundry in public out of necessity.
I’ve heard about people kicking drug habits. I’ve seen drug addicts kick people. I’ve been privy to family squabbles that rival anything on “Wife Swap” or “Supernanny”. I’ve been thoroughly entertained as I listened to women in oversized army fatigue jackets and leggings discuss their plans for Saturday night. I had to struggle not to look up from my faux reading when one promised to “down at least 12 kamikazes and fuck the first thing that asks me to dance…”.
You can’t get this kind of stuff on any of the 280 satellite channels I aimlessly flip through everyday. The girls vying for the affection of Bret Michaels on “Rock of Love” come close, but am I really supposed to believe anyone under 30 is interested in him and shouldn’t I say “affliction” instead of “affection”? Not even on the Sci-Fi channel can I find anything like watching a guy lick the wall dispenser calmly before getting his mini box of Tide. Nor is there, as far as I know, anyone on any show on those channels whose mother screams “Goddamnit, for the last time, get out of that dryer, Talon!”.
Granted, I may have it wrong. When you are so FREAKING COOL that you name your kid after a part of a bird, or any animal, you probably don’t follow the cumbersome rules of conventional spelling. More than likely you grew up listening to Enuff Z’ Nuff, Phish, and Limp Bizkit so your kid’s name, though it’s pronounced the same as the word for an buzzard’s foot, is probably spelled Talyn. “He’s cute but he’s not as smart as his brother, Beaxk.” The “x” being silent.
Why would you do that to your kid? I guess you’re saving yourself the trouble of dressing him funny or walking him to school until he’s a sophomore to make sure he’s at the very least threatened with an ass kicking everyday. When I was little if me and my pals wanted to throw rocks at something, a kid named Talon would’ve taken precedence over houses, cars or even the aviary creatures who sported the very appendages after which the soon to be welted little guy was named.
What’s the process here? Do you first decide that Michael, Jason or even Tyler are simply too commonplace? Forget naming him after anyone in the family. Elliot or Harlan might make an OK middle name but it won’t look good tattooed in old English letters on his neck. “Of course we can’t name him Camaro! What are you, stupid?” No, you’ve got to be different. Forget the fact that your offspring will be the one to suffer for your rampant “outside-the-boxedness“. Do you run thru different animals? Why does Talon make the cut but “Antler”, “Snout” and “Hoof” don‘t? Are there kids in Australia named “Pouch”?
Even if the kid makes it out of high school alive, then what? You’ve limited his career choices with that moniker. Wanna have your colon exam done by a doctor named Talon? How’d you like to have your second grader taught P.E. by coach Talon? If he can’t be a VJ, a drummer, or a Knight, he’s pretty much screwed. Though I guess he might have some success as a divorce attorney or hairdresser.
And lastly, you’ve got to consider the last name. I might be inclined to think a guy named Talon Rexx was cool. Talon Simpson is just not the same, and Talon Goldfarb is a rock-throwing kid’s dream. Take it from someone named David Giovanni Mencarelli.
As I was moving my fake laundry from the washer to the dryer, Talon, who was probably four, sauntered over, unscrewed the lid of my brand new Diet Pepsi , and took a swig. When he was finished, he took it back to the spot where he was playing with his Hot Wheels. When his mother noticed she hollered at him to put it back.
“No, really it’s fine. I’m good.” I told her. “I’ll get another one. It’s the least I can do for him.”
“Ok. Thanks.” She half smiled. Then she noticed her daughter climbing out of her stroller.
“Get back in there, Crimson” she hissed.
I only wished I’d known if it were her idea or the daddy’s to saddle these kids with those names.
I didn’t wanna throw rocks at her if she didn’t deserve it.
Monday, November 3, 2008
To Tell The Truth
I’m not proud of it, the way I left my ex-wife. I should have been more forthcoming and I’m sorry I wasn’t. Hell, if I’m going to be honest, I’d known for more than a year it was over. I wouldn’t admit it to myself or say it out loud to even my closest friends, but I knew it. In the back of my mind and in the bottom of my heart. I ignored it, though. I didn’t have a bad marriage. She worked all day while I took care of the kid then I worked at night while she cared for the baby. I’d go out with my friends after work and come home long after she was asleep. It worked for both of us, I guess. We’d spend a few hours together on the weekends, if our schedules allowed for it, but we certainly weren’t religious about it. We just sort of fell into living separate lives. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened.
We’d had an incredibly difficult year leading up to our daughter’s birth. I got “the diabetes” and spent most of that September in the ICU and hospital. My wife was three months pregnant. In a time that should have been all about her and the baby, she was suddenly forced to take care of me, the household and our 12 year old son. By herself. I was utterly incapacitated. She handled it, all the while spending every possible moment at the hospital with me too.
About the time I was starting to get well, her father died. The doctors found a tumor in his chest and three weeks later, he was gone. She was five months pregnant and in the span of two months her husband had been extremely ill and her father died. I was barely able to muster up the strength to travel to the bay area with her for the funeral, but I felt I owed her that. So she loaded her sickly husband into the car and drove 200 miles to bury her father. He was 57. She handled that, too.
Right after Thanksgiving, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. I’d had a bit of a fever the night before, but I was feeling relatively good. Better, it turns out, than I should have. I’d grown a cyst on my pancreas, that along with the fever scared the docs a little. The words “surgery tomorrow” scared me, a lot. My first thought was how the hell could I call my wife and tell her they were admitting me to the hospital, again? Hadn’t she had enough? Not yet, apparently.
The surgery was successful and I spent another three weeks confined to a hospital bed. On the bright side, I’d lost close to 125 lbs over the last three months and besides being a maudlin shade of grey, I was looking good. My ex-wife once again weathered the storm. While I was watching Days of our Lives and getting daily sponge baths from a cute 24 year old nurse named Daisy, she went to work, took care of the house and continued to grow what would turn out to be one of the best things ever to come into this world.
The day after I got home from this hospital stay, she’d apparently reached her limit. As she laid out my pain medication on the nightstand that morning, she told me she was having what was probably a minor problem and was going to see her OBGYN at lunch. What I hoped was nothing turned out to be premature labor. 16 weeks premature. They admitted her and told her she would not be touching her feet to the floor until the baby was born. They’d try to prevent that as long they as they could. Now it was her turn to sit in a hospital room, but the difference was, I was in no shape to take care of things at home. In all honesty, had I been healthy that would have amounted to a monumental task for me. With the help of my best friend and my incredible family, I somehow managed. My sister came to stay and make sure I got off the futon for at least a half an hour a day and shove healthy food down my throat. My dad sent money. My friends at work took up a collection and brought groceries and other necessities. As the time stretched to near Christmas, two of my friends showed up with a box full of presents for my son. My mother and step-father were there everyday for my moral support and mental health.
I’d go visit my ex-wife at the hospital as much as I was able. I was weak from the surgery still and I’d make my mom or sister push me in a wheelchair until I was right outside her room, then I’d get up and walk in, trying to look like I was feeling good. I think she knew I wasn’t. Finally, in January with nine weeks left before the original due date, they couldn’t stop the baby from coming. She was born 3 lbs 3 oz and when she came out was hanging on to the umbilical cord like she was in a tug of war. We knew she’d be alright.
And she was better than alright. She spent 3 weeks in the neo-natal ICU and improved every day. I was still a little weak and sickly, and we were in the ICU everyday to visit our daughter but my ex-wife would get there before me and stay after I’d left, feeding her thru a tube, bathing her and pestering the doctors and nurses about her condition. When we took her home she weighed a hefty 4 lbs 6 oz and could eat and breathe all by herself. It had a been a hellish 4 months for everyone, but I suspect it was hardest on my ex-wife. She’d not only struggled thru my trials, she’d lost her Dad and suffered her own hospitalization. During those last six weeks she was stuck in bed, though we never spoke of it, we both wondered if our baby would make it.
She did. And we did. For a while longer. The next year went by before we knew it and by the baby’s first birthday I’d started to feel a little disconnected. I should have said something then but I told myself it was just the residue of all we’d been through. I wasn’t miserable by any stretch, just bored and restless. But by the end of the summer I was just looking for a reason to leave that wouldn’t make me feel like an asshole.
I finally got it. It was something minor that I blew up big enough to use as an excuse. I convinced myself my anger was justified, though I knew it wasn’t. I mustered up the courage and told her I was moving out. It must have seemed so out of the blue to her. I hadn’t said anything was bothering me or even acted like it. Now I was leaving. Just like that. I knew I wasn’t coming back, too. I’d already met someone and though we hadn’t acted on our feelings yet, I knew we would. I left that part out when I sprung this on my ex-wife. I let her believe we could work on things and maybe save our marriage. I let that go on entirely too long and probably would have let it go on even longer had she not found out on her own one day after I‘d moved out. After fifteen years together and especially all we’d been through in the last two - she deserved better than that. She exacted some revenge, and I hope some minor satisfaction, with a pretty good right cross. It was well deserved and I think I got off easy.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the whole truth back then. It made things more difficult in that first year or so after we split. She never knew what to believe. Had I been totally honest in the beginning maybe things would’ve gone more smoothly.
We made it through that time and we have a better relationship today than we’ve ever had. We’re both re-married to people we’re much more compatible with. She was lucky enough to find a guy who loves NASCAR and camping as much as she does, and I was lucky enough to find someone who’s beautiful, smart, funny and thinks I’m at least one of those things ( I hope its “funny” but I‘ll settle for “beautiful“). Our daughter is well adjusted, compassionate and most likely a genius. She’s by far the best thing we ever did.
And I can always be proud of that.
We’d had an incredibly difficult year leading up to our daughter’s birth. I got “the diabetes” and spent most of that September in the ICU and hospital. My wife was three months pregnant. In a time that should have been all about her and the baby, she was suddenly forced to take care of me, the household and our 12 year old son. By herself. I was utterly incapacitated. She handled it, all the while spending every possible moment at the hospital with me too.
About the time I was starting to get well, her father died. The doctors found a tumor in his chest and three weeks later, he was gone. She was five months pregnant and in the span of two months her husband had been extremely ill and her father died. I was barely able to muster up the strength to travel to the bay area with her for the funeral, but I felt I owed her that. So she loaded her sickly husband into the car and drove 200 miles to bury her father. He was 57. She handled that, too.
Right after Thanksgiving, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. I’d had a bit of a fever the night before, but I was feeling relatively good. Better, it turns out, than I should have. I’d grown a cyst on my pancreas, that along with the fever scared the docs a little. The words “surgery tomorrow” scared me, a lot. My first thought was how the hell could I call my wife and tell her they were admitting me to the hospital, again? Hadn’t she had enough? Not yet, apparently.
The surgery was successful and I spent another three weeks confined to a hospital bed. On the bright side, I’d lost close to 125 lbs over the last three months and besides being a maudlin shade of grey, I was looking good. My ex-wife once again weathered the storm. While I was watching Days of our Lives and getting daily sponge baths from a cute 24 year old nurse named Daisy, she went to work, took care of the house and continued to grow what would turn out to be one of the best things ever to come into this world.
The day after I got home from this hospital stay, she’d apparently reached her limit. As she laid out my pain medication on the nightstand that morning, she told me she was having what was probably a minor problem and was going to see her OBGYN at lunch. What I hoped was nothing turned out to be premature labor. 16 weeks premature. They admitted her and told her she would not be touching her feet to the floor until the baby was born. They’d try to prevent that as long they as they could. Now it was her turn to sit in a hospital room, but the difference was, I was in no shape to take care of things at home. In all honesty, had I been healthy that would have amounted to a monumental task for me. With the help of my best friend and my incredible family, I somehow managed. My sister came to stay and make sure I got off the futon for at least a half an hour a day and shove healthy food down my throat. My dad sent money. My friends at work took up a collection and brought groceries and other necessities. As the time stretched to near Christmas, two of my friends showed up with a box full of presents for my son. My mother and step-father were there everyday for my moral support and mental health.
I’d go visit my ex-wife at the hospital as much as I was able. I was weak from the surgery still and I’d make my mom or sister push me in a wheelchair until I was right outside her room, then I’d get up and walk in, trying to look like I was feeling good. I think she knew I wasn’t. Finally, in January with nine weeks left before the original due date, they couldn’t stop the baby from coming. She was born 3 lbs 3 oz and when she came out was hanging on to the umbilical cord like she was in a tug of war. We knew she’d be alright.
And she was better than alright. She spent 3 weeks in the neo-natal ICU and improved every day. I was still a little weak and sickly, and we were in the ICU everyday to visit our daughter but my ex-wife would get there before me and stay after I’d left, feeding her thru a tube, bathing her and pestering the doctors and nurses about her condition. When we took her home she weighed a hefty 4 lbs 6 oz and could eat and breathe all by herself. It had a been a hellish 4 months for everyone, but I suspect it was hardest on my ex-wife. She’d not only struggled thru my trials, she’d lost her Dad and suffered her own hospitalization. During those last six weeks she was stuck in bed, though we never spoke of it, we both wondered if our baby would make it.
She did. And we did. For a while longer. The next year went by before we knew it and by the baby’s first birthday I’d started to feel a little disconnected. I should have said something then but I told myself it was just the residue of all we’d been through. I wasn’t miserable by any stretch, just bored and restless. But by the end of the summer I was just looking for a reason to leave that wouldn’t make me feel like an asshole.
I finally got it. It was something minor that I blew up big enough to use as an excuse. I convinced myself my anger was justified, though I knew it wasn’t. I mustered up the courage and told her I was moving out. It must have seemed so out of the blue to her. I hadn’t said anything was bothering me or even acted like it. Now I was leaving. Just like that. I knew I wasn’t coming back, too. I’d already met someone and though we hadn’t acted on our feelings yet, I knew we would. I left that part out when I sprung this on my ex-wife. I let her believe we could work on things and maybe save our marriage. I let that go on entirely too long and probably would have let it go on even longer had she not found out on her own one day after I‘d moved out. After fifteen years together and especially all we’d been through in the last two - she deserved better than that. She exacted some revenge, and I hope some minor satisfaction, with a pretty good right cross. It was well deserved and I think I got off easy.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the whole truth back then. It made things more difficult in that first year or so after we split. She never knew what to believe. Had I been totally honest in the beginning maybe things would’ve gone more smoothly.
We made it through that time and we have a better relationship today than we’ve ever had. We’re both re-married to people we’re much more compatible with. She was lucky enough to find a guy who loves NASCAR and camping as much as she does, and I was lucky enough to find someone who’s beautiful, smart, funny and thinks I’m at least one of those things ( I hope its “funny” but I‘ll settle for “beautiful“). Our daughter is well adjusted, compassionate and most likely a genius. She’s by far the best thing we ever did.
And I can always be proud of that.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Humor Me
Back when I used to be serious about comedy, I’d write ideas for bits on scraps of paper, napkins, the backs of keno tickets or whatever was handy. I have hundreds, maybe thousands of these potential bits in a briefcase sitting near my desk. More than 90% of them never turned into a full fledged part of my act. Some never made it because they just weren’t funny when I looked at them later.
Like these:
“I traveled thru Indiana recently. I was in Gary for about an hour. I gotta tell ya, he didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as I did…”
“Now that I’m single I live with two other guys and they have cats. They piss on the carpet, shed constantly, and rub all over my legs any chance they get. Thank God the cats are well behaved.”
“I made a mistake and got my kid the “Hooked on Phonics” program. Now he’s completely strung out. I found a baggie full of scrabble tiles in his room. Not the cheap stuff either, it was full of X’s and Q’s.”
“I have a smart dog. I taught him to heel and he cured my mom’s glaucoma.”
Some things I can’t do because I lost a bunch of weight. When I first started in stand-up I was sometimes over three hundred pounds. Being that fat lends itself to a specific set of jokes.
“You know, being a fat dude, the question I get asked most is ‘You want that for here or to go?’”
“I’m so fat, on Halloween, sumo wrestlers go dressed as me.”
“I’m so fat, when I go to Arkansas for my family reunion the cows go Dave tipping.”
“I’m so fat there’s a book coming out called ‘Women are from Venus, Dave is Mars.”
Other stuff never got in because I was afraid it was too insensitive or offensive to do in front of an audience. Nothing makes ME laugh like inappropriate humor mind you, it’s just not usually something I’m comfortable admitting or doing at a corporate gig in front of uptight business executives. I won’t give specific examples here obviously. Suffice it to say that jokes about mongoloids, paraplegics, or republicans are rarely funny to the masses.
A lot of stuff never made it because when I looked at two or three weeks later, I had no fucking idea what it meant. Some of it was just illegible. Most of it just didn’t make sense.
On the back of a check from Applebee’s: Blow me and cheese sandwich.
On a cocktail napkin from a club: Clean your floors? Buff my hardwood.
At the bottom of an old grocery list: Porn movies / scaring the fish. AND… Hooker - Ranch - Pro - How’s my f’ing. (I’m not editing here, I actually wrote “f’ing”)
There’s a whole bunch more. These are things that must have struck me as potentially funny at the time. I’ve been sitting here for 10 minutes trying to make jokes out of these and I can’t come up with any. None that are funny anyway. I guess that’s why I don‘t do stand up much anymore. Writing funny jokes is hard. I only wish the inability to write funny stuff would stop other comics from performing. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
All of the above examples of humor are either juvenile, don’t have a punch line, or they’re just plain not funny.
Maybe I should be writing for “Frank TV”?
Like these:
“I traveled thru Indiana recently. I was in Gary for about an hour. I gotta tell ya, he didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as I did…”
“Now that I’m single I live with two other guys and they have cats. They piss on the carpet, shed constantly, and rub all over my legs any chance they get. Thank God the cats are well behaved.”
“I made a mistake and got my kid the “Hooked on Phonics” program. Now he’s completely strung out. I found a baggie full of scrabble tiles in his room. Not the cheap stuff either, it was full of X’s and Q’s.”
“I have a smart dog. I taught him to heel and he cured my mom’s glaucoma.”
Some things I can’t do because I lost a bunch of weight. When I first started in stand-up I was sometimes over three hundred pounds. Being that fat lends itself to a specific set of jokes.
“You know, being a fat dude, the question I get asked most is ‘You want that for here or to go?’”
“I’m so fat, on Halloween, sumo wrestlers go dressed as me.”
“I’m so fat, when I go to Arkansas for my family reunion the cows go Dave tipping.”
“I’m so fat there’s a book coming out called ‘Women are from Venus, Dave is Mars.”
Other stuff never got in because I was afraid it was too insensitive or offensive to do in front of an audience. Nothing makes ME laugh like inappropriate humor mind you, it’s just not usually something I’m comfortable admitting or doing at a corporate gig in front of uptight business executives. I won’t give specific examples here obviously. Suffice it to say that jokes about mongoloids, paraplegics, or republicans are rarely funny to the masses.
A lot of stuff never made it because when I looked at two or three weeks later, I had no fucking idea what it meant. Some of it was just illegible. Most of it just didn’t make sense.
On the back of a check from Applebee’s: Blow me and cheese sandwich.
On a cocktail napkin from a club: Clean your floors? Buff my hardwood.
At the bottom of an old grocery list: Porn movies / scaring the fish. AND… Hooker - Ranch - Pro - How’s my f’ing. (I’m not editing here, I actually wrote “f’ing”)
There’s a whole bunch more. These are things that must have struck me as potentially funny at the time. I’ve been sitting here for 10 minutes trying to make jokes out of these and I can’t come up with any. None that are funny anyway. I guess that’s why I don‘t do stand up much anymore. Writing funny jokes is hard. I only wish the inability to write funny stuff would stop other comics from performing. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
All of the above examples of humor are either juvenile, don’t have a punch line, or they’re just plain not funny.
Maybe I should be writing for “Frank TV”?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Home Sweet Home
It was the smallest place I’d ever lived. The whole house was only slightly bigger than the room I’d rented from my sister. It had a tiny well kept yard and was right across the street from a movie theater. My landlords lived in the Victorian mansion right next door. In fact my place had belonged to the carriage driver back in the early 1900’s when there were still carriages. I wasn’t lucky enough to live there in exchange for driving them around, but the rent was reasonable and I didn’t have to clean up horse shit. The landlords treated me like family, but not in the overbearing, meddling way my REAL family did. Not once did they accuse me of being lazy, irresponsible or “fresh” (my grandmother). Don’t get me wrong. I love my meddling, overbearing family and if it weren’t for them I’d more likely have been living on the streets instead of in this little house. This little house where I finally got well.
I wasn’t sick physically when I moved in. I didn’t have the flu or chicken pox. Nope. My illness was much, much worse. It couldn’t be treated with bed rest or calamine lotion. I was nuts. Whacko. A fruitcake (my grandmother again). Not the “put him in a strait jacket, wipe the drool off his chin once in awhile, oh my god he likes James Blunt” kind of crazy. More of a “functional manic depressive, fluctuating between extreme narcissism and crippling low self esteem, cries during certain episodes of ‘Full House‘” kind. There’s no pill for that, trust me.
This was the first time I’d ever really lived alone. I’d always had a wife or a roommate or both. Up until recently, I’d lived in a room in my sister’s house. When I moved in to the little house, I felt like a genuine adult for the first time since I’d gotten divorced. I had my own place, decorated the way I wanted it - leather couch, brick-a-brack carefully selected to look slapdash, and wrought iron patio furniture in the 5 x 5 square foot dining room. My “Singing In The Rain” movie poster hung proudly above the TV in the bedroom. This place was all me and I could do what I wanted here. I could stay in my boxer shorts all day and play Madden football. I could eat the ice cream right out of the container. I could let the dishes pile up in the sink and never, ever plug in the vacuum.
The funny thing was, I didn’t do those things. The playstation stayed mostly unused, save for some penniless weekends. I bought an ice cream scoop and ate no sugar added butter pecan out of the bowls I’d bought at Ross. I did the dishes every few days (manually, with no automatic dishwasher, thank you very much) and I vacuumed more than Alice from the Brady Bunch. I didn’t realize it then, but those were the first steps in me taking control of my own life. Finally.
It was like this carriage house was magic. I had a tight circle of friends who would stop by occasionally and I was proud of my place. It made for a great spot to gather for events in the downtown area, two blocks away. You could see the fireworks on 4th of July perfectly from my yard. One of the reasons I tried to keep the place clean was in case I was lucky enough, or un-lucky enough in some cases, to get a girl back there. I definitely felt cooler just by having my own place and that translated into the opportunity to actually get a few girls over there. They’d be nervous or excited about what might happen next and I’d be asking if they liked where I had the TV. To most guys, getting the girl to come over was the penultimate step. For me it was the only important one. As long as they complimented my decorating skills, I felt validated. Whatever happened after that was all gravy.
I don’t give the house all the credit. I met some people at just the right time. People who became role models and motivating forces in my life. People who reinforced the feelings living in that house had planted. I started to realize that I was a likeable person with something to offer to friends, women and the world in general. I started looking forward to waking up in the morning instead of dreading what each new day might hold.
The house made me a better father, too. I’d relied on my ex-wife, my sister, and even some roommates to provide a home for my daughter. That wasn’t an option living alone. My kid loved the little house and I wanted it to feel like a home to her. It had to be tough enough shuttling between her mother and me, and even tougher when I never stayed anywhere for long. I staked out a corner in the dining room for her toy box and made sure to prominently display her school artwork, not just on the fridge, but everywhere in the house. We played in the yard in the summertime, and built snowmen in the winter. She learned how to climb the door frame in the living room and neither of us ever stopped enjoying that.
About the time I started to feel a little cramped in the house, my life changed forever and I met the final piece of the puzzle. I’d never have been in shape, mentally, to impress a woman of her caliber before. Living in the little house had stopped me from feeling like a pinball bouncing around the machine and allowed me to relax and eventually stumble across my soul mate. I wasn’t astonished that this person could fall in love with me like I would have been just a year earlier. I was confident and secure.
I don’t usually believe in sentimental mumbo jumbo, but I think there was something special about that house. Something intangible and magic. Something that made me right again.
Or maybe right for the first time.
I wasn’t sick physically when I moved in. I didn’t have the flu or chicken pox. Nope. My illness was much, much worse. It couldn’t be treated with bed rest or calamine lotion. I was nuts. Whacko. A fruitcake (my grandmother again). Not the “put him in a strait jacket, wipe the drool off his chin once in awhile, oh my god he likes James Blunt” kind of crazy. More of a “functional manic depressive, fluctuating between extreme narcissism and crippling low self esteem, cries during certain episodes of ‘Full House‘” kind. There’s no pill for that, trust me.
This was the first time I’d ever really lived alone. I’d always had a wife or a roommate or both. Up until recently, I’d lived in a room in my sister’s house. When I moved in to the little house, I felt like a genuine adult for the first time since I’d gotten divorced. I had my own place, decorated the way I wanted it - leather couch, brick-a-brack carefully selected to look slapdash, and wrought iron patio furniture in the 5 x 5 square foot dining room. My “Singing In The Rain” movie poster hung proudly above the TV in the bedroom. This place was all me and I could do what I wanted here. I could stay in my boxer shorts all day and play Madden football. I could eat the ice cream right out of the container. I could let the dishes pile up in the sink and never, ever plug in the vacuum.
The funny thing was, I didn’t do those things. The playstation stayed mostly unused, save for some penniless weekends. I bought an ice cream scoop and ate no sugar added butter pecan out of the bowls I’d bought at Ross. I did the dishes every few days (manually, with no automatic dishwasher, thank you very much) and I vacuumed more than Alice from the Brady Bunch. I didn’t realize it then, but those were the first steps in me taking control of my own life. Finally.
It was like this carriage house was magic. I had a tight circle of friends who would stop by occasionally and I was proud of my place. It made for a great spot to gather for events in the downtown area, two blocks away. You could see the fireworks on 4th of July perfectly from my yard. One of the reasons I tried to keep the place clean was in case I was lucky enough, or un-lucky enough in some cases, to get a girl back there. I definitely felt cooler just by having my own place and that translated into the opportunity to actually get a few girls over there. They’d be nervous or excited about what might happen next and I’d be asking if they liked where I had the TV. To most guys, getting the girl to come over was the penultimate step. For me it was the only important one. As long as they complimented my decorating skills, I felt validated. Whatever happened after that was all gravy.
I don’t give the house all the credit. I met some people at just the right time. People who became role models and motivating forces in my life. People who reinforced the feelings living in that house had planted. I started to realize that I was a likeable person with something to offer to friends, women and the world in general. I started looking forward to waking up in the morning instead of dreading what each new day might hold.
The house made me a better father, too. I’d relied on my ex-wife, my sister, and even some roommates to provide a home for my daughter. That wasn’t an option living alone. My kid loved the little house and I wanted it to feel like a home to her. It had to be tough enough shuttling between her mother and me, and even tougher when I never stayed anywhere for long. I staked out a corner in the dining room for her toy box and made sure to prominently display her school artwork, not just on the fridge, but everywhere in the house. We played in the yard in the summertime, and built snowmen in the winter. She learned how to climb the door frame in the living room and neither of us ever stopped enjoying that.
About the time I started to feel a little cramped in the house, my life changed forever and I met the final piece of the puzzle. I’d never have been in shape, mentally, to impress a woman of her caliber before. Living in the little house had stopped me from feeling like a pinball bouncing around the machine and allowed me to relax and eventually stumble across my soul mate. I wasn’t astonished that this person could fall in love with me like I would have been just a year earlier. I was confident and secure.
I don’t usually believe in sentimental mumbo jumbo, but I think there was something special about that house. Something intangible and magic. Something that made me right again.
Or maybe right for the first time.
Paradise Lost?
Maybe it was the hype. Like that movie that everyone raved about but when you saw it you thought “Eh.” That’s what Hawaii was like for me. I moved there when I was eighteen, spurred on by the logic that I may never have the chance to do this again. My parents had moved there and I’d at least have a place to stay for a bit. I wasn’t particularly interested in leaving Reno. I liked my life. I was living in my first apartment with a good friend of mine. We’d spend our off time eating chicken wings and playing “Super Bowl Sunday” on the commodore 64. On the weekends we’d cruise up and down Virginia Street until we met some girls, got in a fight, or decided we wanted to some pancakes. It was good times. I started working the graveyard shift at the restaurant and though there wasn’t as much “Super Bowl Sunday” anymore, I was still having fun.
I’d get home from work around 7 a.m. and sleep ‘til around 2:30 or 3. Then I’d get up and eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes while I watched “Days of our Lives”. At 4 o’clock I’d switch over to channel 2 and watch re-runs of “Magnum P.I.” That’s where I got my images of what Hawaii would be like. But not everyone on the island lives on a private estate, drives a Ferrari and can pull off a moustache like Tom Selleck. In fact, not even Tom Selleck did those things, except for the moustache. I didn’t know this yet. I’d watch it everyday and imagine all the fun we’d have in this tropical paradise. My roommate was moving there too. We were able to have a blast in Reno, how could two handsome, funny, intelligent guys like us not have a great time living in Hawaii? There turned out be lots of reasons.
We got off the plane in Oahu around 1 a.m. My parents greeted us and were amused by our wardrobe. Both of us were wearing denim shorts, short sleeve button up shirts (I believe mine was also denim, but I make no certain admissions), white shoes with no socks and white Swatch watches. “Abbot and Costello go to Hawaii” could have been the title of the movie. My parents decided, even though it was so late, they’d take us downtown before going home.
Waikiki at one o’clock in the morning is breathtaking. It’s 71 degrees and there’s not a soul on the beach. The water is crystal clear even in the dark and the sand is soft and comfortable. I imagined myself lying out there, tan and fit, wearing my white Swatch watch and chatting up local girls and tourists alike. My roommate was lamenting the fact that Hawaii had just raised the legal drinking age from 18 to 21 and wondering if he’d be able to get a fake ID as good as the one he’d had in Reno, where his name was Spike and he was 23. Hey, it worked. As we drove to my parents house right outside of downtown Waikiki I wondered if I’d be able to sleep.
When we boarded the bus the next morning to go downtown, I was still excited and dressed funny. It occurred to me that my roomie and I were two of only five white people on the bus, which was packed. I didn’t feel threatened by all the islanders and Asians, just different. I’d never been in the minority before. I’m guessing it wasn’t as much my pale skin as my green pastel shirt that made some of them stare. Maybe they thought I was Sonny Crockett? That’s what I was going for.
When we got off the bus, I wondered if we were in the right place. What had been so beautiful and serene just hours ago now looked like Detroit with a nice beach. Thousands of people were crowding the street. You could barely move inside some of the shops and the restaurants all had at least 30 minute waits. It was noisy and it was raining. It rains every morning on Oahu. People in Seattle jump off buildings or OD on lattes because it rains everyday. People in Hawaii don’t. There’s a general lack of reaction to everything there from the locals. The only thing they get even a little riled up about is all the goddamn howlies, of which I was one. One wearing a girly colored shirt and a white watch. I started to feel a little silly as I saw that most of the obvious tourists were dressed just like me. I’d have to make an effort to fit in, I thought. Maybe get a Ferrari and grow a moustache. We had fun those first few days in spite of everything. We hung out on the beach, spent too much money and I of course, kept my eyes peeled for Thomas Magnum.
About the time we needed to start looking for jobs and a place to live, my roommate bailed. One week of paradise had been enough for him and he went home. I was a little bit pissed but more than anything I was envious. I already knew this wasn’t for me either. I couldn’t live in a place where I couldn’t pronounce the street names. What did these people have against consonants, for chrissakes? I called home one day, lost, to get directions.
“I’m on the corner of Kalakua and Pheeliapas…” I told my mom.
“Do you mean Kalakua and Phillips?” she said, barely containing her amusement.
All the vowels broken up by an occasional K or W wasn’t the only thing that I came to hate. I couldn’t stand living with my parents. And they couldn’t stand me. I was miserable. Their apartment was made of cinder blocks painted a pale yellow. The living room was long and narrow. It was like a jail cell with a lanai. Lanai is a fancy word for what we here in the real world call a balcony. Everything in Hawaii has a fancy word. Our lanai was just big enough for you to stand on, as long as you stood sideways with both feet pointed in the same direction.
Job hunting in paradise sucks just as much as job hunting anywhere. It wasn’t long before I realized I’d have to work at least two jobs just to survive. A 300 square foot studio apartment over a McDonalds with a broken hot plate and a view of the dumpster was $600 bucks a month. And there was no lanai. Milk was something like $31 dollars a gallon. On the bright side, Spam and corned beef hash were cheap and abundant, and at least they were in cans so the roaches couldn’t get to them.
And then there was the island fever. I was petrified to fly so I felt more isolated than even a normal person would. I was getting more and more difficult to be around everyday. I wouldn’t go to the beach or to visit all the beautiful places on Oahu. Instead I’d lie on the floor, my head propped against the couch with my feet touching the “far” wall and watch Stryper and Poison videos on MTV. My parents were disgusted with me, imploring me to go out and do something. I missed “Super Bowl Sunday” and chicken wings more than ever now.
I got a job working for a restaurant in downtown Honolulu. My boss was a lesbian, and a mean one. My other two co-workers were a gay couple. Roger was a white guy about 45 and Angelo was a Pilipino kid about 22. My white Swatch didn’t seem so weird around these people. I made the best of it and socked away every dime I made so I could go home, where the states were connected and people got pissed when you accidentally bumped them on the bus. I actually liked my boss and “the girls”. They were funny and easy to work with. My parents still harped me about getting out and doing things. My mother would say “Why don’t you go out and have some fun? You should make friends! Stop lying around the house all the time!” So the night I went out with everyone after work, I thought she’d be happy. When I got home at 2:30 in the morning, she was waiting up.
“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!?! I WAS ABOUT TO CALL THE POLICE!!!” she informed me. She obviously had not adopted the lassez-faire attitude of the islands.
Before I could save even a fifth of what I’d need to move back to the mainland, my parents decided to help me. They gave me all the money I needed, and a little more, to make sure I wouldn’t come back. I’d miss them and I felt badly, but I took it. I strapped on my white Swatch, and steeled myself for the plane ride home.
When I tell people now how I hated Hawaii and explain why, the general response is “But wasn’t it just so beautiful?” The best way I can explain it is, living in Hawaii is like dating Paris Hilton. Sure it’s good to look at, but it’s expensive, loud, boring and lot’s of people are in and out of there all the time.
Who wants to live like that?
I’d get home from work around 7 a.m. and sleep ‘til around 2:30 or 3. Then I’d get up and eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes while I watched “Days of our Lives”. At 4 o’clock I’d switch over to channel 2 and watch re-runs of “Magnum P.I.” That’s where I got my images of what Hawaii would be like. But not everyone on the island lives on a private estate, drives a Ferrari and can pull off a moustache like Tom Selleck. In fact, not even Tom Selleck did those things, except for the moustache. I didn’t know this yet. I’d watch it everyday and imagine all the fun we’d have in this tropical paradise. My roommate was moving there too. We were able to have a blast in Reno, how could two handsome, funny, intelligent guys like us not have a great time living in Hawaii? There turned out be lots of reasons.
We got off the plane in Oahu around 1 a.m. My parents greeted us and were amused by our wardrobe. Both of us were wearing denim shorts, short sleeve button up shirts (I believe mine was also denim, but I make no certain admissions), white shoes with no socks and white Swatch watches. “Abbot and Costello go to Hawaii” could have been the title of the movie. My parents decided, even though it was so late, they’d take us downtown before going home.
Waikiki at one o’clock in the morning is breathtaking. It’s 71 degrees and there’s not a soul on the beach. The water is crystal clear even in the dark and the sand is soft and comfortable. I imagined myself lying out there, tan and fit, wearing my white Swatch watch and chatting up local girls and tourists alike. My roommate was lamenting the fact that Hawaii had just raised the legal drinking age from 18 to 21 and wondering if he’d be able to get a fake ID as good as the one he’d had in Reno, where his name was Spike and he was 23. Hey, it worked. As we drove to my parents house right outside of downtown Waikiki I wondered if I’d be able to sleep.
When we boarded the bus the next morning to go downtown, I was still excited and dressed funny. It occurred to me that my roomie and I were two of only five white people on the bus, which was packed. I didn’t feel threatened by all the islanders and Asians, just different. I’d never been in the minority before. I’m guessing it wasn’t as much my pale skin as my green pastel shirt that made some of them stare. Maybe they thought I was Sonny Crockett? That’s what I was going for.
When we got off the bus, I wondered if we were in the right place. What had been so beautiful and serene just hours ago now looked like Detroit with a nice beach. Thousands of people were crowding the street. You could barely move inside some of the shops and the restaurants all had at least 30 minute waits. It was noisy and it was raining. It rains every morning on Oahu. People in Seattle jump off buildings or OD on lattes because it rains everyday. People in Hawaii don’t. There’s a general lack of reaction to everything there from the locals. The only thing they get even a little riled up about is all the goddamn howlies, of which I was one. One wearing a girly colored shirt and a white watch. I started to feel a little silly as I saw that most of the obvious tourists were dressed just like me. I’d have to make an effort to fit in, I thought. Maybe get a Ferrari and grow a moustache. We had fun those first few days in spite of everything. We hung out on the beach, spent too much money and I of course, kept my eyes peeled for Thomas Magnum.
About the time we needed to start looking for jobs and a place to live, my roommate bailed. One week of paradise had been enough for him and he went home. I was a little bit pissed but more than anything I was envious. I already knew this wasn’t for me either. I couldn’t live in a place where I couldn’t pronounce the street names. What did these people have against consonants, for chrissakes? I called home one day, lost, to get directions.
“I’m on the corner of Kalakua and Pheeliapas…” I told my mom.
“Do you mean Kalakua and Phillips?” she said, barely containing her amusement.
All the vowels broken up by an occasional K or W wasn’t the only thing that I came to hate. I couldn’t stand living with my parents. And they couldn’t stand me. I was miserable. Their apartment was made of cinder blocks painted a pale yellow. The living room was long and narrow. It was like a jail cell with a lanai. Lanai is a fancy word for what we here in the real world call a balcony. Everything in Hawaii has a fancy word. Our lanai was just big enough for you to stand on, as long as you stood sideways with both feet pointed in the same direction.
Job hunting in paradise sucks just as much as job hunting anywhere. It wasn’t long before I realized I’d have to work at least two jobs just to survive. A 300 square foot studio apartment over a McDonalds with a broken hot plate and a view of the dumpster was $600 bucks a month. And there was no lanai. Milk was something like $31 dollars a gallon. On the bright side, Spam and corned beef hash were cheap and abundant, and at least they were in cans so the roaches couldn’t get to them.
And then there was the island fever. I was petrified to fly so I felt more isolated than even a normal person would. I was getting more and more difficult to be around everyday. I wouldn’t go to the beach or to visit all the beautiful places on Oahu. Instead I’d lie on the floor, my head propped against the couch with my feet touching the “far” wall and watch Stryper and Poison videos on MTV. My parents were disgusted with me, imploring me to go out and do something. I missed “Super Bowl Sunday” and chicken wings more than ever now.
I got a job working for a restaurant in downtown Honolulu. My boss was a lesbian, and a mean one. My other two co-workers were a gay couple. Roger was a white guy about 45 and Angelo was a Pilipino kid about 22. My white Swatch didn’t seem so weird around these people. I made the best of it and socked away every dime I made so I could go home, where the states were connected and people got pissed when you accidentally bumped them on the bus. I actually liked my boss and “the girls”. They were funny and easy to work with. My parents still harped me about getting out and doing things. My mother would say “Why don’t you go out and have some fun? You should make friends! Stop lying around the house all the time!” So the night I went out with everyone after work, I thought she’d be happy. When I got home at 2:30 in the morning, she was waiting up.
“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!?! I WAS ABOUT TO CALL THE POLICE!!!” she informed me. She obviously had not adopted the lassez-faire attitude of the islands.
Before I could save even a fifth of what I’d need to move back to the mainland, my parents decided to help me. They gave me all the money I needed, and a little more, to make sure I wouldn’t come back. I’d miss them and I felt badly, but I took it. I strapped on my white Swatch, and steeled myself for the plane ride home.
When I tell people now how I hated Hawaii and explain why, the general response is “But wasn’t it just so beautiful?” The best way I can explain it is, living in Hawaii is like dating Paris Hilton. Sure it’s good to look at, but it’s expensive, loud, boring and lot’s of people are in and out of there all the time.
Who wants to live like that?
Monday, October 27, 2008
Beauty is in the Eye of Me and You
I can’t deny I’m superficial. I don’t want to. Why should I, it’s not a negative trait. It’s human nature. EVERYONE is superficial. From Angelina Jolie to the guy in the Sav-Mart parking lot with the wispy beard and the hump. It’s ok to be attracted to someone based on their on looks. And we all are. If Angelina Jolie had some patchy facial hair and scoliosis “Lara Croft: Tombraider” goes straight to DVD.
Superficial is defined by Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary as “ concerned only with the obvious or apparent : shallow, concerned only with an appearance without regard to substance or significance”.
Think about why you bought your car? Was it because it offered the best functionality and value or was it because it was metallic flake silver and had pretty wheels? Sure, if you can get great gas mileage, reliability and comfort, you’ll buy that car too. But you’ll want it to make your genitals tingle when you look at it.
Just like when you’re picking a mate.
Have you ever overheard a girl say her to friend “That guy looks like he’d be sweet and funny. Yeah, the one over there with the comb-over, in the Members Only jacket.“? I doubt it. They’re looking for the guy with his hair moussed to just the right haphazard angle (it is NOT haphazard at all of course, but painstakingly made to look so), the square jaw, and the expensive watch. They’re not concerned, originally at least, about whether or not he can speak meaningfully about politics or literature. No. “You work out how many times a week?” is a more important question. Ask ten women what the most important quality in a man is, and at least nine of them will say “sense of humor”. Well, there must be a lot of hysterical firemen and investment bankers out there. I’m funnier than a lot of guys but if it comes down to me and a Navy fighter pilot driving a Vette - who do you think is getting laid? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Not me.
Men are no better. In fact we’re probably worse. We can be downright crude. We’ll say things like “Check out red sweater over there. I wonder how she shaves her vagina…” or “Hey, lookit blonde, black glasses. She looks smart. I’d like to Shake-spear her.” We don’t care if a woman can carry on intelligent conversation or knows who the Speaker of the House is. As long as she fits into size 4 jeans comfortably - we’re good. We don’t care if they think “Forest Gump” was a true story. We don’t care if they form all of their opinions about the world based on what they read in the Chatter section of “Us” magazine. If they’re blessed with good genes, they’ll have no shortage of fighter pilots and Corvettes.
Certainly there are exceptions. Remember Angelina Jolie, back there? Hell she married Billy Bob Thornton. Ellen DeGeneres and Portia De Rossi. Who can forget Paulina Porizkova and Ric Ocasek? He must be HILARIOUS.
And of course I’m not completely superficial. I’d never stay in a relationship with a beautiful woman who’s only draw was her looks. Not for longer than 6 or 8 months, tops.
There’s a popular saying among guys that goes like this: Show me the best looking woman in the world and I’ll show you a guy who’s tired of nailing her. There’s a lot of truth to that. That initial attraction, the one based on the superficial nature of a person, will not be the cornerstone of a wonderful relationship. It’s only the spark. But the spark is a necessary part of what, hopefully, becomes the fire. Sometimes that spark fizzles out, sometimes it becomes a small ember that burns brightly for a second or two and then there’s that rare occasion where it turns into a five alarm job. That occasion when you find that guy with the nurturing spirit, a love of children, and 6 pack abs. Or that girl who is compassionate, likes Major League Baseball, and has watermelon sized knockers. Whatever it is about your significant other that you love now would never have become apparent to you unless you were first attracted to them physically. It’s why online dating sites show you pictures. It’s why you spend hours getting ready to go out. It’s why people who otherwise might have nothing obvious in common meet, fall in love, and get married. If I listed the top five things I love to do on a Saturday afternoon (1. Sleep 2. Watch baseball 3. Feel sorry for myself 4. Sleep 5. Go bowling) and the top five things my wife loves to do (1. Work in the yard 2. Clean house 3. Watch QVC 4. Tell me to stop feeling sorry myself 5. Take a walk) you wouldn’t think we‘d be happily married would you? But we are and it’s because we found each other attractive in the beginning. HEY. Some women like bald guys with abnormally large noses and an abundance of ear hair.
And I will admit women are generally less superficial than men. All those examples back there of celebrity couples were ugly dudes with hot chicks ( I assume Ellen is the man). Good looking men rarely date ugly women. We’re not as evolved as broads. Well some of us are. Take a look at Jon Bon Jovi’s wife.
I love my wife more than anything in the world. She is beautiful, smart, funny and she’s the sole breadwinner. What’s not to love. But I’d never have had the opportunity to find out all these thing about her if I wasn’t initially physically attracted to her. If she’d been a dog - there’d never have been a second date. Now that I know her, she could grow a beard and I’d still love her. And that’s saying something because she’s Italian. She might REALLY grow a beard.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not superficial to a fault. I think we’re all a little superficial and that shouldn’t be considered a bad thing.
So the next time you feel badly because you’re just not attracted to that heavy girl at work who keeps coming on to you or the guy at the gym with mole cluster on his forehead who’s always asking you to spot him, remember it’s not because you’re a bad person…
It’s because they’re ugly.
Superficial is defined by Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary as “ concerned only with the obvious or apparent : shallow, concerned only with an appearance without regard to substance or significance”.
Think about why you bought your car? Was it because it offered the best functionality and value or was it because it was metallic flake silver and had pretty wheels? Sure, if you can get great gas mileage, reliability and comfort, you’ll buy that car too. But you’ll want it to make your genitals tingle when you look at it.
Just like when you’re picking a mate.
Have you ever overheard a girl say her to friend “That guy looks like he’d be sweet and funny. Yeah, the one over there with the comb-over, in the Members Only jacket.“? I doubt it. They’re looking for the guy with his hair moussed to just the right haphazard angle (it is NOT haphazard at all of course, but painstakingly made to look so), the square jaw, and the expensive watch. They’re not concerned, originally at least, about whether or not he can speak meaningfully about politics or literature. No. “You work out how many times a week?” is a more important question. Ask ten women what the most important quality in a man is, and at least nine of them will say “sense of humor”. Well, there must be a lot of hysterical firemen and investment bankers out there. I’m funnier than a lot of guys but if it comes down to me and a Navy fighter pilot driving a Vette - who do you think is getting laid? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Not me.
Men are no better. In fact we’re probably worse. We can be downright crude. We’ll say things like “Check out red sweater over there. I wonder how she shaves her vagina…” or “Hey, lookit blonde, black glasses. She looks smart. I’d like to Shake-spear her.” We don’t care if a woman can carry on intelligent conversation or knows who the Speaker of the House is. As long as she fits into size 4 jeans comfortably - we’re good. We don’t care if they think “Forest Gump” was a true story. We don’t care if they form all of their opinions about the world based on what they read in the Chatter section of “Us” magazine. If they’re blessed with good genes, they’ll have no shortage of fighter pilots and Corvettes.
Certainly there are exceptions. Remember Angelina Jolie, back there? Hell she married Billy Bob Thornton. Ellen DeGeneres and Portia De Rossi. Who can forget Paulina Porizkova and Ric Ocasek? He must be HILARIOUS.
And of course I’m not completely superficial. I’d never stay in a relationship with a beautiful woman who’s only draw was her looks. Not for longer than 6 or 8 months, tops.
There’s a popular saying among guys that goes like this: Show me the best looking woman in the world and I’ll show you a guy who’s tired of nailing her. There’s a lot of truth to that. That initial attraction, the one based on the superficial nature of a person, will not be the cornerstone of a wonderful relationship. It’s only the spark. But the spark is a necessary part of what, hopefully, becomes the fire. Sometimes that spark fizzles out, sometimes it becomes a small ember that burns brightly for a second or two and then there’s that rare occasion where it turns into a five alarm job. That occasion when you find that guy with the nurturing spirit, a love of children, and 6 pack abs. Or that girl who is compassionate, likes Major League Baseball, and has watermelon sized knockers. Whatever it is about your significant other that you love now would never have become apparent to you unless you were first attracted to them physically. It’s why online dating sites show you pictures. It’s why you spend hours getting ready to go out. It’s why people who otherwise might have nothing obvious in common meet, fall in love, and get married. If I listed the top five things I love to do on a Saturday afternoon (1. Sleep 2. Watch baseball 3. Feel sorry for myself 4. Sleep 5. Go bowling) and the top five things my wife loves to do (1. Work in the yard 2. Clean house 3. Watch QVC 4. Tell me to stop feeling sorry myself 5. Take a walk) you wouldn’t think we‘d be happily married would you? But we are and it’s because we found each other attractive in the beginning. HEY. Some women like bald guys with abnormally large noses and an abundance of ear hair.
And I will admit women are generally less superficial than men. All those examples back there of celebrity couples were ugly dudes with hot chicks ( I assume Ellen is the man). Good looking men rarely date ugly women. We’re not as evolved as broads. Well some of us are. Take a look at Jon Bon Jovi’s wife.
I love my wife more than anything in the world. She is beautiful, smart, funny and she’s the sole breadwinner. What’s not to love. But I’d never have had the opportunity to find out all these thing about her if I wasn’t initially physically attracted to her. If she’d been a dog - there’d never have been a second date. Now that I know her, she could grow a beard and I’d still love her. And that’s saying something because she’s Italian. She might REALLY grow a beard.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not superficial to a fault. I think we’re all a little superficial and that shouldn’t be considered a bad thing.
So the next time you feel badly because you’re just not attracted to that heavy girl at work who keeps coming on to you or the guy at the gym with mole cluster on his forehead who’s always asking you to spot him, remember it’s not because you’re a bad person…
It’s because they’re ugly.
Friday, October 24, 2008
From the Mouths of Babes
The following is a piece of a conversation between my wife and one of my daughter Maya's friends. His name is Martin. He's seven.
Martin: Do you play Warcraft?
My Wife: Oh, no. No.
Martin: Why not?
My Wife: I don't have time. I have to go to work, do laundry, vacuum, pick up dog crap, help Maya with her homework, do the dishes and lots of other stuff.(1)
Martin: Does Maya's Dad help you?
My Wife: Not really, no.
Martin: Uh... Well... He's still a cool guy, right?
My Wife's response was something along the lines of "Yes". That is, if you consider a loud snort followed by hearty laughter along the lines of "Yes", which I do.
I think I am still a cool guy, even though I could certainly do more around the house, help more with Maya, and get a job. Not that I don't do anything. In fact I just baked Chunky Peanut Butter Squares. Really. I took out some trash and put some dishes in the dishwasher. It's not a lot of work, I know. I'm pacing myself. Maybe this afternoon I'll take all my shoes upstairs.
The whole thing got me thinking about what makes someone a "cool guy". I realized everyone's definition is different. Martin, for instance, thinks I'm a cool guy because we talk Warcraft and I play tag with the other kids before school. Martin is seven. He's easily impressed.
My Wife, despite the fact that I don't do much housework and currently only bring in $32 a month in net income, still thinks I am a cool guy. I make her laugh and... I also... Um... Making someone laugh goes a long way, I guess.
The thing is, I think I'm a cool guy. That's what really counts. I don't let my job, or possesions, or what someone else thinks define me. Not anymore. I learned you have to be comfortable with yourself. You have to be lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love and support you, no matter what. You could hang around with 7 year olds, but that is not only missing the point, it's probably a misdemeanor.
And "cool" is relative.
You still closely follow the career of an 80's teen idol? Better than being lined up for the first showing of "HSM3: Senior Year" (I'll wait for the DVD). Tivo every episode of "Gossip Girl"? At least you're not clearing your schedule to watch it when it's on. You've seen "Caddyshack" 31 times? There are people who've seen "Caddyshack II". All the way through.
It's easy to get caught up in feeling like you're no good. You're your own worst critic. (Unless you're James Blunt, then I'm your worst critic). I struggle daily with how I got to be 40 years old and I have no idea what I want to do for a living. It bothers me that I wasn't a very good Dad to my son when he was growing up. It gnaws at me that I can't forgive my own father for the mistakes he's made, some of which are no worse than my own. I'm lazy. I don't keep in touch with people like I should. I could lose a few pounds, take better care of myself. Etcetera. I accept these and the thousands of other flaws in me. I work on the ones I can, when I can.
Nobody is perfect. Lots of people are cool. You don't have to be perfect to be cool. You just have to be you.
Perfectly you.
It probably wouldn't hurt to do your own laundry once in awhile, too.
(1) "other stuff" would be defined as ordering stuff from QVC. It's not all dog crap and vacuuming.
Martin: Do you play Warcraft?
My Wife: Oh, no. No.
Martin: Why not?
My Wife: I don't have time. I have to go to work, do laundry, vacuum, pick up dog crap, help Maya with her homework, do the dishes and lots of other stuff.(1)
Martin: Does Maya's Dad help you?
My Wife: Not really, no.
Martin: Uh... Well... He's still a cool guy, right?
My Wife's response was something along the lines of "Yes". That is, if you consider a loud snort followed by hearty laughter along the lines of "Yes", which I do.
I think I am still a cool guy, even though I could certainly do more around the house, help more with Maya, and get a job. Not that I don't do anything. In fact I just baked Chunky Peanut Butter Squares. Really. I took out some trash and put some dishes in the dishwasher. It's not a lot of work, I know. I'm pacing myself. Maybe this afternoon I'll take all my shoes upstairs.
The whole thing got me thinking about what makes someone a "cool guy". I realized everyone's definition is different. Martin, for instance, thinks I'm a cool guy because we talk Warcraft and I play tag with the other kids before school. Martin is seven. He's easily impressed.
My Wife, despite the fact that I don't do much housework and currently only bring in $32 a month in net income, still thinks I am a cool guy. I make her laugh and... I also... Um... Making someone laugh goes a long way, I guess.
The thing is, I think I'm a cool guy. That's what really counts. I don't let my job, or possesions, or what someone else thinks define me. Not anymore. I learned you have to be comfortable with yourself. You have to be lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love and support you, no matter what. You could hang around with 7 year olds, but that is not only missing the point, it's probably a misdemeanor.
And "cool" is relative.
You still closely follow the career of an 80's teen idol? Better than being lined up for the first showing of "HSM3: Senior Year" (I'll wait for the DVD). Tivo every episode of "Gossip Girl"? At least you're not clearing your schedule to watch it when it's on. You've seen "Caddyshack" 31 times? There are people who've seen "Caddyshack II". All the way through.
It's easy to get caught up in feeling like you're no good. You're your own worst critic. (Unless you're James Blunt, then I'm your worst critic). I struggle daily with how I got to be 40 years old and I have no idea what I want to do for a living. It bothers me that I wasn't a very good Dad to my son when he was growing up. It gnaws at me that I can't forgive my own father for the mistakes he's made, some of which are no worse than my own. I'm lazy. I don't keep in touch with people like I should. I could lose a few pounds, take better care of myself. Etcetera. I accept these and the thousands of other flaws in me. I work on the ones I can, when I can.
Nobody is perfect. Lots of people are cool. You don't have to be perfect to be cool. You just have to be you.
Perfectly you.
It probably wouldn't hurt to do your own laundry once in awhile, too.
(1) "other stuff" would be defined as ordering stuff from QVC. It's not all dog crap and vacuuming.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
That's a Fine Specimen
I normally appreciate a little small talk. At the grocery store, in line at the bank, camping out for Skid Row tickets (there was a time), whatever. I don't mind exchanging small pleasantries like "S'posed to rain tomorrow!" or "Where did you get those shoes?" or "Didja see the rack on the broad in the first pugh?" I think it's important to engage in idle chit-chat if the occasion calls for it.
But what do you say to a woman holding a cup "filled to the top line" with your urine? Difficult to discuss weather, wardrobe or whatever in that instance.
See, I don't know the protocol here. Sans the fact the lab tech was wearing rubber gloves, she acted like she could've been fumbling with a cup of gatorade to hand to a thirsty marathon runner. It didn't seem to phase her and I guessed she'd been doing this awhile. But there had to have been a time when packing up someone else's urine was not commonplace for her. That's all I could think of. That and the fact that, apparently, now it WAS commonplace for her! I was acutely aware that it was piss. My piss. I started to feel more uncomfortable. I scanned her face for any hint of reaction. Was it the right color? Temperature? Volume? Was I out of line if I asked? This seemed like it was a pretty intimate thing to take place between two total strangers, the handling of one another's bodily fluids. Could I now ask this girl to help me move?
I winced noticably when, after she taped the lid shut, she flipped the cup haphazardly on it's side to initial the tape. If it spilled, who would be responsible for the clean up? Thankfully it didn't and she handed me the pen and pointed to where I should initial. This was becoming more surreal by the moment. What if I pressed too hard and punctured the cup or popped the lid off? Again, who would be responsible for the clean up? It was, after all, my pee. Or was it? I decided it was NOT. Once she taped that lid shut and put her initials on it - it was hers. Plus she had on the gloves. I handed her pen back and checked my pockets for my keys and cell phone for the forty third time, pretending to really care if I had them just so I wouldn't be standing slack-jawed, watching her, in awe that she had probably 5 more hours of handling stranger's wee-wee today alone.
When I thought I might actually scream, or at least start whistling the theme from Miami Vice, she spoke.
"So... gettin' a job at Best Buy, huh?"
I nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Suddenly taping up cups of piss didn't seem so bad.
But what do you say to a woman holding a cup "filled to the top line" with your urine? Difficult to discuss weather, wardrobe or whatever in that instance.
See, I don't know the protocol here. Sans the fact the lab tech was wearing rubber gloves, she acted like she could've been fumbling with a cup of gatorade to hand to a thirsty marathon runner. It didn't seem to phase her and I guessed she'd been doing this awhile. But there had to have been a time when packing up someone else's urine was not commonplace for her. That's all I could think of. That and the fact that, apparently, now it WAS commonplace for her! I was acutely aware that it was piss. My piss. I started to feel more uncomfortable. I scanned her face for any hint of reaction. Was it the right color? Temperature? Volume? Was I out of line if I asked? This seemed like it was a pretty intimate thing to take place between two total strangers, the handling of one another's bodily fluids. Could I now ask this girl to help me move?
I winced noticably when, after she taped the lid shut, she flipped the cup haphazardly on it's side to initial the tape. If it spilled, who would be responsible for the clean up? Thankfully it didn't and she handed me the pen and pointed to where I should initial. This was becoming more surreal by the moment. What if I pressed too hard and punctured the cup or popped the lid off? Again, who would be responsible for the clean up? It was, after all, my pee. Or was it? I decided it was NOT. Once she taped that lid shut and put her initials on it - it was hers. Plus she had on the gloves. I handed her pen back and checked my pockets for my keys and cell phone for the forty third time, pretending to really care if I had them just so I wouldn't be standing slack-jawed, watching her, in awe that she had probably 5 more hours of handling stranger's wee-wee today alone.
When I thought I might actually scream, or at least start whistling the theme from Miami Vice, she spoke.
"So... gettin' a job at Best Buy, huh?"
I nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Suddenly taping up cups of piss didn't seem so bad.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
For the Honor Of Stormpike! Or something like that.
As I sit here waiting for the Blizzard Updater to finish it's work I realize this would be a good time to start mine. My "work" that is. See, once the Blizzard Updater is done, I'll be back to goofing off playing World of Warcraft. The "work" I want to get done is some substantiative writing. Something provocative, something that'll evoke anger or sadness or laughter. It's much easier to click the WoW icon instead of logging on to blogger.com and writing something that seems pithy and wise. See, in WoW (World of Warcraft) it's easy to get a sense of accomplishment. Writing is not like that. It's hit or miss. In WoW, I can earn gold, rack up kills and advance my character's skill set. Everytime. When I sit down to write something, sometimes, nothing happens, or should I say nothing gets written. LOTS of things happen. I curse myself for not getting out of the bathtub last night and jotting down the great idea I had for an essay that I can't for the life of me recall now. I wonder what made me think I could write anything that anyone would want to read in the first place. I spend 15 or 20 minutes realizing that it's easier to sit around and say to yourself "Oh sure I could write something compelling if I wanted to..." than to ACTUALLY write something. The sense of accomplishment I get from WoW though is fleeting. It's like the Chinese food of accomplishment. No matter how many honor points you get, an hour later you want more. You NEED more. I don't blame WoW for being a distraction. If it wasn't some MMORPG, it'd be something else. A tv show, a book, a playstation game, lunch with someone I don't even like. Anything other than trying to create something, and failing. That's scary.
I see that Blizzard is done updating, and thank God. This blog was rocketing unsteadily toward that failing I mentioned back there. If you've read this far, please don't give up. I plan to have more interesting things to say in the future. But right now, I've got to go save the Mage Tower from the wrath of the Horde army.
Wish me luck.
I see that Blizzard is done updating, and thank God. This blog was rocketing unsteadily toward that failing I mentioned back there. If you've read this far, please don't give up. I plan to have more interesting things to say in the future. But right now, I've got to go save the Mage Tower from the wrath of the Horde army.
Wish me luck.
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