The Daily Trip

27 days ago Short URL Comments

college/feelings/feels/funny/humor/sad/sentimental/undergrad

Apr

The Difference Between. . .

“Nope. That’s not going to fit. Let’s change cars.”

. . . going alone to my Sunday morning refereeing assignment, and bringing my eleven year old daughter (Daughter Number Two) with me:

Going Alone Looks Something Like This:

1) Wake up early enough to eat breakfast before heading out the door. In reality, waking up at 6:30 a.m. is simply the third of fourth time I wake up during the night. The only difference is that I’m up for good.

2) Determine if I can walk, or resort to an immediate infusion of Extra Strength Tylenol in order to move.

3) Boil water.

4) Take medicine while water is boiling.

5) Make a pot of tea after water has boiled.

6) Make a bowl of oatmeal while tea is brewing.

7) Eat oatmeal and drink tea while watching the first half of whatever English Premier League Game is playing on Fox Soccer.

8) Realize it’s getting late, throw my bag in the car, and drive to field, stopping off for foo-foo coffee on the way.

9) Armed with Tylenol, medicine, oatmeal in my tummy, and caffeine, pretend I’m ten years younger than I really am while feeling ten years older than I really am, and act like a referee for the next four hours.

10) Walk very slowly back to the car, drive home, drink a cup of leftover tea warmed up in the microwave, and make myself a tasteless gluten-free sandwich.

11) Fall asleep on the couch while watching whatever PGA tournament happens to be on.

12) Finally figure out that it’s easier to nap in bed and curl up with a cat for an hour.

Going with an eleven year old looks something like this:

Steps 1-7 are exactly the same for me, taking into account Daughter Number Two (DNT) is already awake and has eaten breakfast.

8) Make sure Daughter Number Two is dressed. Grab my bag, a portable folding chair, blanket, water, snacks, paper and pencil.

9) Change cars to drive in Daughter’s Killer Cabrio, since all the crap in Number Eight above will not fit in my Miata.

10) Stop for foo-foo coffee and blueberry scone, chocolate croissant, and brownie.

11) While pretending to focus on refereeing, keep constant eye on wandering DNT.

12) Spend all available time between games looking for a restroom for DNT.

13) Forget to drink water between games because of restroom search.

14) Walk slowly back to the car, reload most everything we came with, and figure out where to stash all the wooden branches and other craft items DNT has gathered all morning.

15) Eat lunch at In-N-Out as a reward for being a good kid.

16) Pop a bowl of popcorn while watching PGA event, while trying to prevent DNT from eating more than me.

Steps 11 and 12 above are the same, and become Steps 17 and 18 in the second scenario.

The above accounts are true and almost completely accurate, missing only details I cannot remember or are too potentially gross to mention (thanks, Daughter).

Though I thought this morning might be a hassle, it was a lot of fun for both of us, as DNT was adored by the other two refs I was working with.

Unfortunately, they initially thought she was my granddaughter.

- Dad

28 days ago Short URL Comments

daughters/soccer

Apr

Pho Dat!

“No. I don’t want a fork and spoon, thank you. I realize it will take me ten times longer to eat with chopsticks, but I want to look authentic.”

One of my best friends in the world is of Vietnamese descent. I would normally write that he’s Vietnamese-American, but I am pretty sure he considers himself an American before all other classifications. No matter, as he is the guy responsible for introducing me to the underworld of Vietnamese cuisine.

Back in ancient times, sometime during the mid-90′s, my Vietnamese friend and I worked together on a military staff assignment in Texas. Since we were both forward thinkers and were somewhat bored with the dining options on base, we began a tradition where we visited a Vietnamese restaurant every Wednesday for lunch. *Memory Disclaimer: I don’t really remember if we actually went every week or if the chosen day was Wednesday — but both are close enough.

I couldn’t tell you the name of the place we used to go to, but it was in a rough part of town that featured run-down laundromats and scary looking used car lots. Neighborhood appearances (and appliances) aside, the food was great there, and we had safety in numbers since usually a group of four or five of us went together.

I usually bungled my way through the meal, bravely brandishing chopsticks until my fingers cramped, forcing me then to retreat to fork and spoon. I never knew what we ordered since my friend did all the talking, and the language was not English. I was told we always received “authentic Vietnamese” as opposed to “Watered Down For Americans” Vietnamese, but I couldn’t really tell the difference anyway, as most of the ingredients of whatever dish sat in front of me usually defied my simple understanding.

This routine became a regular part of our working lives, and when we both moved to Southern California years later, we picked it right up again. This time we frequented a Vietnamese restaurant in a strip mall every Friday (previous disclaimer applies), and the entire routine was essentially duplicated. My friend did the ordering, and the rest of us stuffed down our Muggle gullets whatever found its way to the table in front of us.

One particular Friday, however, we pulled up to a different Vietnamese restaurant in the same strip mall. I guess it was not that unusual in and of itself, since all the stores in this shopping center were Vietnamese but, still, I wondered why we changed venues.

We all sauntered into the new place and grabbed a table. My friend didn’t seem to be forthcoming with any information, so I broached subject.

“Okay. What’s the deal? Why did we switch restaurants today?”

The response from my friend was simple: “It’s cleaner.”

Got it. Okay. That was that.

That incident took place probably about ten or twelve years ago, and my Vietnamese friend now lives on the east coast. But today one of my favorite meals remains Vietnamese noodle soup: pho.

And as luck or fate would have it, our little SoCal suburban enclave features not one, but two Vietnamese restaurants. Well, truthfully, we used to have only one here for many years, and that’s where I got my fix. The trouble was, this place featured the meanest, surliest servers that I ever experienced. They made the Soup Nazi look like Bambi.

You see, sometimes when you happen to be the owner of a monopoly, it can go to your head, regardless of how good your food is.

But two or three years ago, a second pho restaurant opened across town, which we immediately tried. The food was great at the new place, and we’ve never gone back to the original.

When Son came home for a weekend visit from college a few years ago, we bypassed our old haunt in favor of the new. Son was unaware that the landscape had changed.

“Where are we going? This is not the way to Pho,” he wondered.

“It is. These other guys have opened up a pho place just down the street,” I replied.

“But why are we going there?”

“Because they’re nicer to us.” End of story.

So as my Spouse, Daughter Number Two, and myself finished up a tasty Vietnamese dinner this evening, I remembered the journey that led to this destination. And as I’ve said many times previously, what goes around, comes around.

The trouble is, the original pho restaurant here is still doing gangbusters business. But, a-ha, so is the second one.

Go figure.

Anyway, after we finished our supper, I had to make a deposit at the ATM across the parking lot from the restaurant. After inserting the envelope into the machine, I turned to get back in the van and there on the ground in front of me was a shiny new penny lying heads up.

I picked it up and thought that, all in all, it doesn’t get much better.

Namaste!

- Dad

karma/pho/Vietnamese food

Apr

No Shame. . . .

“Not only is very white and of ample size, it can be used as a tent in times of natural catastrophe.”

As a part-time job and to help ensure my sanity and continued interaction with fellow Muggles, I teach several times a year at a local “for-profit” university. I recently finished up an “Introduction to College” course, that costs the students nothing to attend and, hopefully, gives them a good idea of what to expect going forward academically.

One of my favorite parts of the course, however, is the last night during which we spend time discussing the importance of having an overall career plan, thereby putting obtaining a degree in perspective. We even talk about resumes and interviews, which may seem like putting the cart before the horse, but the context is helpful since most everyone is pursuing a degree while simultaneously seeking a better job and, hopefully, more money.

I use lots of job-seeking examples from my own experiences over the years, and you might guess that most of them are bad.

Very bad.

And I don’t even have to include Daughter’s semi-recent attempts at landing gainful, long-term employment. For instance, I might ask:

“How did the interview, go, Daughter?”

“I nailed it, Dad. Just nailed it. They loved me.”

Three weeks later. “Whatever happened to that last company you talked to?”

“Dunno. Never heard back. I guess they hated me.”*

(*Just kidding, Daughter! I know you’re awesome and will soon be off the Family Dole.)

Well, I’ve been on both sides of that table, and when I’m interviewing someone for a job, I can usually tell within about three minutes if they are going to be a good fit for us.

A couple of years ago I was screening a middle-aged lady for a position in my office, and the entire discussion went well until it was time for her to leave. Though she had been a bit nervous throughout, I thought she presented herself fairly well.

When she stood up to go, unfortunately her skirt did not accompany her — let’s just say I discovered she was a Hane’s Girl and leave it at that.

The sad part about it was that I was very nonplussed about the whole thing. Whether it’s because I’ve been around for so long that it’s hard to shock me anymore, I don’t know, but the display of Underwear Nudity did not strike me as that big of a deal. I was simply more concerned about filling the open position and making sure the lady didn’t die of embarrassment (which she didn’t).

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective), she didn’t land the job because of her lack of specific skills we needed. However, she did land a permanent place in the Pantheon of Unforgettable Life Experiences and Underwear Nudity, which is probably better than working for my company anyway.

And so it goes.

Today, much to my chagrin, the Pantheon was graced by a new member (maybe I shouldn’t use that particular word): Me.

On my way to work this morning, I stopped off at the local medical clinic for my quarterly blood draw and fluid sample. The phlebotomist (derived from the Latin word, phleboto, which means “painful vampire”) on duty was quick to her task and then pointed me to the men’s room so I could execute the second part of the evolution.

The restroom is what we call a “one-holer” in the hills of Southern California, and it was basic; no more, no less, except the door lock seemed a bit sketchy to me.

That is to say, I couldn’t really tell if I locked it properly after closing said door.

And even though it was very early in the morning, there was a gathering of old codgers in the waiting room going through the same motions as me. Yep, it sucks getting old.

You might guess what happened to me next — in mid-stream, as it were, the restroom door swung open, and there stood one of said codgers.

No “excuse me,” or “sorry,” or “what the hey?” When he saw me, he just sort of backed off and didn’t pull the door shut behind him.

So there I was, executing a delicate balancing act between specimen cup, blue jeans, and doorknob.

And they say judo is demanding.

I can happily report, however, that I successfully pulled off the above trifecta, without spilling a drop!

As I exited the restroom and passed the queue of codgers lined up against the corridor wall outside like they were staged for a firing squad, I simply smiled and said, “It’s all yours,” and made my way out of the clinic.

I didn’t feel the least bit self-conscious, and I simply chalked it up to another one of Life’s Experiences.

In these types of situations, it’s always best to leave on a high note. I would have bid the old guys in line a hardy “Namaste!” but they would have probably thought I was swearing at them in French.

- Dad

29 days ago Short URL 3 Comments

Embarrassing Stories/Family/Humor/The Daily Trip

blood/job interviews/pantheon/vampire

Apr

Job Searching is Demoralizing

Oh gosh, I hope he calls me back. I would die of joy if he called me back. Literally, I might die so be ready to call 911 because dying is a distinct possibility.

No, these are not the thoughts of a lovelorn person, this is me, waiting to hear back from a job. I am just waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Nay, not just waiting. PINING. Literally, pining. I’m pining so hard I turned into a pine tree. (That was so bad, sorry.) I have checked my e-mail every five seconds for the last week to see if the job people will tell me *thumbs-up sign here* or *thumbs-down sign here*. I sent a follow-up e-mail today with no response so far. I mean, seriously, this is the worst. THE WORST.

I have all these made-up plans in my head that just gets worse when I have time to daydream about what will happen in my life if I actually got the job. Psychological torture.

If the job people – you know who you are – happen to read this, I just want to say that I am super smart and have a way with kittens and homo sapiens. I am also adept at burning things in the oven and painting my nails. I successfully pulled out my own tooth twice at ages 8 and 9, respectively. I once saved four people from a life of boredom by showing them the wonders of YouTube cat videos. I can order takeout without messing up the order that much. I can almost follow directions half of the time. Sometimes, I pay attention. I am real, real good at grammar and such. I have a special fondness for really fancy water with bubbles and herbal infusions. I don’t know how to use a staple gun, but I try, and that is what counts. I’m a fun-first, safety-second type of person. I’m funny to some people on the internet. AM I HIRED, YET?

- Daughter

30 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Humor

college/demoralized/fail/funny/humor/job/job searching/post-college life/unemployment

Apr

I Have Instincts

Or, rather, my body does. I swear, every time my body senses I am going to have fun or something like it, it shuts that sh stuff down so fast.

I was bouncing around yesterday, happily doing my laundry (“happily” = I had no clean clothes left so I had to) and, while I was folding my underwear, I realized I didn’t have that much to do on my thesis before the deadline next week. Therefore, I could definitely fit in time to go hang out with a friend at a bar that night. And then horror struck. My body, sensing that fun was imminent, immediately – and I mean, within the hour of deciding to have fun – shriveled up and receded into itself… like some sort of sick hermit crab.

I developed some sort of chest cold (although, I said “infection” to other people because it sounded worse and more worthy of pity) and was coughing all over the place. I cursed my lungs and the virus infecting them (?) (/I’m not a pathologist) and begrudgingly texted said friend and said I couldn’t go. I was very displeased.

So displeased, in fact, that I tunneled into my bed covers and sat there for a while, thinking dark thoughts about my lungs and their various treacheries.

My new plan to have fun is to focus on achieving a surprise attack. I am only going to have unplanned fun so as to not tip off my body that fun is in the near future. I’m hoping that when I walk down the street I will randomly be pulled into a bar where I will proceed to fun. (Yeah, it’s a verb now.) Or, maybe while I’m writing my thesis a llama and a mariachi band will pop in and again, unplanned funning will happen!! I’m really looking forward to surprise funning.

- Daughter

31 days ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor

college/fail/fun/funning/humor/NOOO/sick/ugh

Apr

Witty Professors

I got a paper back today from my carpentry professor. The paper was describing a partner project in my carpentry class that involved lots of headaches and general stupidity (on the part of me and my untrusty carpenter pal). We had to build a device that dropped snow from the ceiling of our theater onto a hypothetical actor below.

My professor was there to witness it all. In fact, he was right there when I couldn’t figure out how to use a staple gun. In case you didn’t know, a staple gun consists of a trigger and an end where the staple comes out – that’s it. I guess my education in the liberal arts only gets me so far these days.

Speaking of education, and back to the main story, my carpentry professor SCHOOLED me via essay feedback today. He left this zinger on the paper:

“Oh, you two. Thanks for remaining enthusiastic during your many trials and errors.

Ultimately, you made something resembling a snow drop which somewhat effectively made snow fall. So congratulations!

Your collective senses of humor were, I think, your greatest asset during this project. MY sense of humor is your greatest asset to your grade. A”

I put a copy of the actual paper below so you could see the proof for yourself.

A for effort!! But really, it was an A for effort. It definitely wasn’t an A for execution.

You know, I may not have no dignity or real life skills, but I have an A and that counts for something. Somewhere. Maybe.

- Daughter

31 days ago Short URL Comments

33 days ago Short URL Comments

carpentry/college/fail/funny/humor/professor/schooled/student/witty

Apr

Settling for Less

As I have mentioned before, I am really out of shape. Because of this, I congratulate myself for the smallest of efforts. Today, it got ~~a bit~~ ridiculous.

I vowed that I would exercise today as it seems to help me sleep and feel better about life in general. So, I did.

Sort of.

I guess you could call what I did working out. I ellipticalled while watching the Food Channel… seems sort of weird to have that channel on in a gym but I digress. As I watched people shove donuts down their undiscerning gullets on the tv, I ellipticaled my way into fitness history.

Actually, I didn’t. I made it to about fifteen minutes and called it a day. I patted the elliptical with affection and washed the non-existent sweat off the hand-holds (I didn’t stay on long enough to actually sweat) and moved on to another machine. I told myself that I wasn’t actually tired from being on an elliptical for only fifteen minutes, I was simply “bored” of being on it. I like to give myself the benefit of doubt.

I moved on to some strange machine that was vaguely elliptical-like but more exciting. Because of the excitement factor, I thought I would be able to go for a longer period of time and actually work out. But no, a minute in, and I realized that, no, I wasn’t bored. I was tired. I made it to five minutes and then called it quits.

I proceeded to lay out a yoga mat with the intention of doing ab exercises. Good intentions were not enough to get me to actually complete any ab exercises, however. I half-heartedly stretched for probably a total of thirty seconds and then laid motionless on the mat in the yoga position I call “beached narwhal.”

- Daughter

34 days ago Short URL Comments

funny/gym/humor/out of shape

Apr

Not My Skink. Not Today!

“I may be ugly to some, but I am loved!”

Today, Sunday, was an absolutely superbly beautiful day here. If I could figure out a way to squeeze in more adjectives describing just how spectacularly wonderful the weather was, I would.

It was so nice that it just made you feel better about being alive.

It was so nice you could, for a moment, forget about the 24-hour news cycle we’ve all been on this week.

It was so nice that it gave you hope for the future.

And I wasn’t the only one that felt that way, apparently. One of my neighbors up the street texted me about the glorious morning and how he spent the entire previous day working in his yard, like me. I am fairly certain he is less suspect to Rube Goldberg influences than I am since he is an engineer by trade. Still, you can never be sure.

Even Daughter texted me springtime photos from the campus of her east coast Lesbian Den of Iniquity Cult College. The trees there wore their new blossoms as if they had been high-fiving a million angels and, in return, were blessed with these tiny points of light.

Yep. That last comparison was quite a stretch, I admit. Still. You get the picture.

However, I was determined not to ~~waste~~ spend another day working in the yard, so I steeled myself to actually run some errands, get things accomplished, and visit those places regularly frequented by the females in my family — Target, Wal-Mart, Foo-F00 Coffee — I threw in Home Depot on my trip to maintain some sanity.

First stop, coffee. But while I was sipping my drink on the outside patio, a small sparrow lighted on the chair next to me not a foot away. She was soon joined by one of her babies, whom she promptly fed some type of insect. Then they both flew away so close to my face that I felt the gentle wind of their beating feathers.

Sickening, I know, but it was that kind of day.

Much later I found myself back home, performing some minor maintenance on my classic Alfa, when I saw a commotion in the street out in front of the house. There were a couple of large ravens or crows making a racket, bouncing up and down trying to carry something away. After staring for a few moments, I realized they were battling over a lizard.

A big one.

After some more squawking and hopping, I noticed their prey was still alive and putting up quite a fight. I mean these crows were ten times its size.

Though I knew I was about to violate Star Trek’s prime directive of non-interference, it’s the time of year when the crows are busy decimating the songbird population around here, and I’d seen enough baby birds carried away over the years not to feel too badly about saving this lizard, if I could.

As I approached the quarry and the predators, I recognized the ”lizard” to be a large skink — one that lives in our yard.

Okay. Gentle Ben Disclaimer Time: I cannot really distinguish individual skinks, but I do know that several make their home in and around our house, and they are both beneficial and quite harmless. Plus, they have their hands (?) full avoiding our elderly cats, so we’ve seen their left-behind tails now and again.

So I was on a Skink Saving Mission, but the crows weren’t giving up that easily. Upon my approach, one of them grabbed their prey and made a run for it — literally. He scampered over to the next driveway with my Skink. Eventually he got the picture that I was a Muggle and pretty large, and he took off for easier hunting grounds.

I gathered up the Skink, who had already lost his tail. He was battered but alive, and still his hissing for all he was worth.

I love a fighter.

I found a safe, quiet place for him in the bushes, and he scampered away through the underbrush.

Whether I got to him in time, I suppose I’ll never know. But I do know one thing — today was not his day to succumb to the crows.

Not on my watch. Not in my yard.

Namaste.

- Dad

35 days ago Short URL 2 Comments

crows/skinks/spring/star trek

Apr

I Am A Dog Scientist

“Knowing how it could change the lives of canines everywhere, the dog scientists struggle diligently to understand the Doorknob Principle.”

The adults in my house bemoaned that fateful day when Gary Larson stopped creating his Far Side comics because so many of them, we found, described many aspects of our own Human Lives.

For instance, I frequently consider myself something of a Dog Scientist because I seem to toil ceaselessly on chores and projects around the house for which I am eminently not qualified. And never finish.

Some days (or weeks) I find that Discretion is, in fact, the better part of Valor, and we call in The Professionals. Case in point was our recent termite invasion. It turns out that vacuuming the swarming insects only has limited effect.

“They are all God’s Creatures,” I said.

“I don’t care who the hell they belong to,” was the reply, “Call the termite guy. This is disgusting.”

And so it goes.

At the end of the day, keeping in mind my genetic Presbyterian thriftiness (Yes, I’m cheap, and, no, I’m more Buddhist/Bullet Proof Monk than Presbyterian now anyway), I will heroically attempt many of the handyman repairs around the house myself, buoyed by the battle cry, “No Professionals!”

Perhaps that explains why our home is slowing moldering into dust, and we are the bane of the neighborhood — not really, but I do have to get cracking on a new coat of paint, and soon.

But one of the battles I’ve fought time and again is with our demon-possessed sprinkler system. In a good month, I spend, perhaps, thirty percent of my free time chasing down leaks, trying to figure out why particular sprinkler heads are or are not working, and delving into the Mother of All Sprinkler Repairs, the Broken Pipe.

It’s for that reason the winter in Southern California can be a blissful time for me, since we can go four or five months without turning the damn system on at all. But when Spring is in the air, so is the Sense of Impending Doom.

I know I will have to return the Sprinkler System to full operational status after a season of slumber. It’s downright frightening, and I delay the event for as long as possible.

“Isn’t the grass looking a little yellow, Dad?”

“Nope. That’s just the way the sun is hitting it. Don’t worry about it.”

Maybe ten days ago someone in the house — not me — broke the spell and energized the sprinklers. Although all hell did not exactly break loose, one major pipe break in the front yard did, unfortunately. And of course the offending pipe is buried in a nearly inaccessible corner of the lot, and I had to hack my way through trees and shrubbery to expose the offending cylinder.

After confirming the Niagara Falls Pipe Syndrome, I did nothing. Though I may have hoped the thing would miraculously fix itself, truth was I just wasn’t prepared for the onslaught in front of me: pvc cement, pvc saws, pvc elbows, dirt, roots, crap. You name it; just about everything except the kitchen sink is potentially involved in sprinkler repairs.

But for some reason — possibly shame — I decided to give it a whirl today. I may have been inspired by my Spouse’s dedication to massive yard work in the back of the house, or I may have simply felt guilty because she was working so hard.

Whatever it was, I went for it. Unfortunately, the particular section of the broken pipe contained no less that two elbows and two additional adapters. It was an elaborately designed intersection between the remains of the legacy system in the front bank and the new system we had installed almost ten years ago now that covered the rest of the lawn.

I was going to need reinforcements for this one: I packed my bags to visit the local Big Box Hardware Store.

Normally this trip is cause for celebration and rumination about what “might be” as I wander the aisles and imagine our forty-year-old suburban box transformed into Oz.

Today, I just needed some fittings. This was all business.

Rather than detail and bore you with the measurements (none), the fittings, and the guesswork involved (just about everything I did fell into this category), about two hours after beginning my task, I was done.

As I looked down at my handiwork, I marveled at the two forty-five degree elbows and the various adapters and extensions that I glued together to make the system whole again. But as I stared at my creation, I realized that in my zeal to replicate the exact fittings that were there previously, I overlooked the basic layout of the pipes themselves.

I surmized then that I could have done the whole thing with one 90-degree elbow and a couple of sleeves. My elegant Rube Goldberg design might work, but it took me three times as long to put together and also introduced multiple possible leak locations because of the various joints involved.

This had all the earmarks of a disaster and afternoon wasted.

So, I did what any guy would do in this situation. I let the glue set, and I mowed the lawn.

My logic was that no matter what happened the rest of the day, I was going to be able to say I did, in fact, accomplish something — even if it was just cutting the grass.

Well, I am happy to announce that I witnessed the Ninth Festivus Miracle late today: I tested the sprinklers and they worked and the repair held — at least for now.

I figure it’s time to dig out the Festivus Pole from the crawl space below the house and dance a quick jig.

Let the record show that, for the year, my run of good luck is still holding true. Thank you, Zen-me!

But tomorrow is another day, and there is still plenty of time to snatch Defeat from the Jaws of Victory.

- Dad

buddhism/Dog Scientists/Festivus/good luck/sprinklers/Zen

Apr

Details and Vomit

“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Just hate me because I hate you.”

So the other night I found myself scrambling for some bedtime reading material, having finished the appropriately titled Bad Trips. Which, by the way, has made me more determined than ever to never take a trip that doesn’t afford me a modicum of comfort – clean bed, decent food, pure drinking water. By extension, that would exclude most Carnival Cruises and visiting large swaths of Southern California.

I mean, let’s face it. If you don’t go into a traveling situation with a clean scalp, how can one be prepared to interact with the multitude of local populace(s) whose belief systems includes voodoo dolls and animal sacrifice? Apparently much of the world consists of these types of folks, according to Bad Trips.

Well, a number of weeks ago (months, actually), I brought home a large satchel of magazines a co-worker dropped off at work. This grab bag consists of publications that I had neither read before nor even knew existed in several cases.

Scientific American is a perfect example. In the past, I have perused copies of this time-honored institution, but I quickly tire of its articles since they require a companion scientific dictionary and, in frustration, I usually end up looking for cartoons that will explain the String Theory of the Universe and other Space-Time Continuum conundrums that perplex me.

In other words, I quickly move two racks over in the bookstore and pick up Road & Track.

So completely by random, I fished around in the bowels of the magazine bag and pulled out something called Details.

It wasn’t the cover that caught my attention; it was the teaser title box that read “The Worst Things You Can Do.” Actually, that wasn’t the real title, but I can’t remember the no-kidding words right now, but you get the gist.

“Hmmmm?” I thought to myself. “That looks interesting.”

I did actually think those thoughts.

So I began to leaf through the publication, and what I quickly discovered was that there was very little publication and lots and lots of advertisements for male cologne and male clothing.

One ad in particular caught my eye. It featured a dashing guy in an expensive overcoat, which covered a beautiful suit. He was standing on a dock which appeared to be somewhere in the middle of the Denali National Park. He was also accessorized with a European carry-all leather parcel bag.

Okay. You got me. Who are you? What are you doing all dressed up somewhere north of the Arctic Circle? And why do you really, really make me sick?

Is it your smug expression? Is it because your bag costs more than my entire wardrobe now hanging in my closet?

Or is it because you remind me of the commercial I most hate on television? You know, that smarmy Ralph Lauren sepia-tinted Great Gatsby-esque diatribe about how clothes translate and transport your quality of life.

Please, and point me in the direction of the nearest Vomitorium.

And by the way, Ralph, trim the sideburns, dude.

But then something in Details even more interesting and more perverse caught my eye — all of these advert guys (some even had appropriately attired high-brow women alongside) wore expressions of disdain. Nay, superiority.

Like they all are better than me. Their clothes are better, and they smell better.

While I might not disagree with the latter point (I dun’t dig perfume), I take issue with the former. For instance, what good is wearing a pair of pants that don’t allow you to bend your knees and change a flat tire?

“I’m sorry. I would help you with that flat, but I might wrinkle the fabric, dear. Don’t we employ a service for this kind of thing anyway?”

And all of these guys — all of them — look really, really unhappy. Almost pained.

They remind me of an old Star Trek Next Generation episode which featured the return of Leonard Nimoy as Spock. When he spoke, he sounded as if a hot poker was lodged somewhere in his backside.

I kept thinking, “What’s wrong with you, Spock?”

I did really think that, and I couldn’t figure out exactly what he was channeling, and, no, I’m not a Trekkie, but I do like Star Trek.

Come on, guys. All of you: Don’t Worry. Be Happy!

To make 100% certain I wasn’t imagining the details in Details, I confirmed with my wife what I was seeing was accurate.

“Yes, they look unhappy. I’m turning off the light now.”

And as she tossed aside the SteinMart flyer she was scanning, that’s when it hit me — I should check it out to compare their models with the foo-foo guys in Details.

As I suspected, the SteinMart menfolk were loving life! They were smiling. They wore bright colors. Though some were much more dandyish than classy, they were all having a good time.

In the end, I guess I always knew I was more of a SteinMart/Target Clearance rack kind of man than anything else, and a long time ago I figured that the guys in this world could be divided into two types — those who play ball and those who don’t.

Not so long ago I amended that truism to include a third type: those who pretend they do.

You know, the Details guys.

Going back to the reason I picked up the magazine in the first place, I never could locate the article I was looking for. There were simply too many advertisements that got in the way.

- Dad

36 days ago Short URL Comments

Details/Gatsby/Ralph Lauren/Steinmart/vomit

Apr

That Moment When Your History Professor Starts Talking About Star Trek

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.

My history professor: “Well, let’s think about the production of history, you guys. Let’s think about travel. About exodus. About the ephemera of life. About the absences and silences in the system of history…. Has anybody seen Star Trek?… Any Trekkies here? Where are the nerds at?”

Class: *almost everybody raises their hands except for me and a few others.”

Prof.: “So, let’s talk about Star Trek. I’m a Trekkie. Are we talking about colonialism when we talk about Star Trek? What does history mean in this scenario? Do the members of Enterprise feel obligated to explore and conquer? Are they colonialists? Are they the conquistadors of the stars?”

Me, in my head: “LOLWHATISHAPPENING.”

But actually, I am a fairly nerdy person. I enjoy reading. I enjoy nerding out with fellow students occasionally about different ideas. This? Too much. I wish I could have posted the rest of the lecture here from my professor but it was based on a particular episode of Star Trek and therefore, I didn’t listen. Because she was speaking some sort of alien language.

- Daughter

37 days ago Short URL 2 Comments

38 days ago Short URL Comments

funny/humor/nerding out/nerds/professors/star trek/trekkie

Apr

How to Interview for a Job

A company likes me a tiny bit! Enough to want to discuss a possible position over the phone. Is this what real life feels like? Is this aura and halo that suddenly appeared the mark of a True Grown-Up Person? I don’t know. I’m either a grown-up or Jesus.

Anyway, this is my plan for my interview, and one I recommend for all interviewees everywhere.

1) Don’t giggle uncontrollably unless the interviewer makes a joke. In which case, laugh. Your job depends on it.

2) Speak with a British accent. It is proven that people like accents (?). They will hire you just to hear you talk.

3) Sound educated. It doesn’t mean you HAVE to be educated, it just means you take out your folksy talk.

4) Do not pass out. It interrupts the flow of the interview.

5) Do not fall asleep. It interrupts the flow of the interview.

6) Name-drop. Preferably, work in some connection to Oprah.

7) Nod a lot.

8) Use the word “ambidextrous”. It’s provocative and thoughtful.

9) Do not say Ke$ha at any point.

10) Brag. “Yeah, I can really turn in some mean essays.” “Microwaves? Yeah, I guess you can say I’m an expert on them.” “I went to Canada once.”

And, hopefully, you will get a job. Because Canada.

- Daughter

39 days ago Short URL Comments

Canada/college/funny/humor/interviews/job/job hunting/tips

Apr

The Hamster Wheel of Misery

I like to think of myself as a hamster sometimes. And the never-ending to-do list that has consumed my life and my very being is the hamster wheel that compels me to run, run, run and GO, GO, GO. My little hamster feet get tired but the wheel doesn’t care, hence: “The Hamster Wheel of Misery.” This sums up my life as of late.

Self-Portrait as Hamster.

I am constantly trying to just get one thing done at the expense of other things. Sometimes, that thing is a shower. Sometimes, it’s socializing with human beings. Sometimes, it’s calling your dad back …

As a result of pushing various things aside to give attention to more immediate concerns, mountains of undone work have built up until I give up and go to bed. (Usually, I stress-eat wasabi crackers and then sleep, actually. I digress) I’ve started to have nightmares from stress. And it’s the same nightmare every time: a favorite professor comes up to me and shakes her head slowly from side to side and says solemnly, “You are a great disappointment.” And then I wake up screaming until I comfort myself with the knowledge that I am a speshul snowflake.

I have also sprouted gray hairs from stress. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the salt-and-pepper look. I just thought I’d have a few more years before I rocked that. Apparently not! I got all excited when I first caught the extra shiny hair glittering in the bathroom lights because ALRIGHT, HIGHLIGHTS!! Upon closer inspection, it was a silvery hair. I pulled it out and examined it. In this little hair marked four nights of endless restlessness as I turned in one essay after the other in a rapid procession. It was a keepsake, really! But I try to avoid collecting tsotchkes at this point in my life.

So, yes, Dad, this is my direct response to your post that I’ve been radio-silent. Well, yes, I have. But not without good reason! Your daughter has been attempting to fend off fire-breathing deans, thesis advisors, and professors. All of whom seem to have a personal vendetta against me this semester. I’m not sure whose death they are avenging, but they are pretty intent on killing me regardless.

Also, Pops, I’ve been, like, sending in job applications everyday. I’m trying to be a Real Person ™.

Yes, Dad, I know this is an entire post where I whine, justify it, and then whine more. It’s how I roll, Dad. Speaking of rolling, t-minus thirty days until we roll right on out of here! Couldn’t be a moment too soon. I’d rather not have to dye my hair to cover the gray…

- Daughter

40 days ago Short URL Comments

college/fail/funny/gray hair/humor/lol/nightmares/school/thesis

Apr

No Rest for the Weary

The title of the post is a lie. There IS rest for the weary. Although, this wasn’t the case when I was a freshman in college. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (I’m a squirrel?), I walked onto my college campus ready to take on any academic work that came my way. I was going to do anything necessary to get my work done. And not only would I get my work done, I was going to do it well. I read every book, article, page, paragraph, sentence, word, syllable, and punctuation mark that was assigned. Literally, not a single semi-colon or essay was safe; I was all over it.

I pulled all-nighters so many times it became second nature. In fact, I’m pretty sure I grew fangs at one point and hid in dark recesses but that is a story for another time. The point is, I was immune to the effects of all-nighters. I was Night.

Fast-forward to yesterday when I had looked at the amount of work that needed to be done for my thesis and resolved myself to my fate: an all-nighter was necessary. I knew things were going downhill when 11pm rolled around and I was already at the point where my face was on my laptop instead of my hands. Typing with your face is not efficient. It’s good for laughs but doesn’t make for good syntax.

Somehow, I got past the various slumps and make it to 3:30 am. I decided to reward myself with a ”nap”. I knew this wasn’t a good idea but I lied to myself and decided I definitely had the self-control to rouse myself from a dead-sleep to finish a much-detested paper.

Turns out, I hit snooze and slept until I had a handful of hours of sleep under my belt. Whoops.

Luckily, I ~~scraped by~~ finished everything on time.

There is rest for the weary. You just have to hit the snooze button first.

- Daughter

41 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

all-nighter/college/fail/freshman/funny/humor/no

Apr

Bad, Daughter! Bad!

“Where’s the coffee? Give me coffee!”

Apparently, Daughter and I will be embarking on yet another Epic Road Trip in approximately 30 days.

What goes to the East Coast eventually must come back.

I have it on Good Authority (the AAA Route Planning Lady who provided TripTiks for our original journey) that we will absolutely, definitely not encounter snow anywhere along our path in mid-May, unless we take a detour through Canada — which, by the way, we may end up doing if we have to depend on either my defective Tom-Tom or Daughter’s defective iPhone Maps app.

“Dad, this road doesn’t exist on my phone. We’re in another dimension.”

Yep. I’m looking forward to that again, all righty.

And that AAA Lady? To quote her words to me in early January: “I’ve looked at the ten-day forecast and you will have smooth sailing all the way.”

Two snow day delays later had me looking for her business card to make sure I avoided her travel advice in the future at all costs.

But our return trip, no matter how exciting it may turn out to be, is in quiet jeopardy today, because it is completely dependent on Daughter’s planning and responsiveness, especially to Yours Truly.

We have texted (not talked) about tentative travel dates or, rather, Daughter’s determination to depart from her Lesbian Cult College as soon as is practical this semester, but I find it very challenging to make arrangements when the responses from the other end are episodic, at best, and completely absent, at worst.

I’m not sure exactly what kind of higher education she’s receiving, but if her blog posts are anywhere near accurate, she has replaced the contact sport of Varsity Soccer with Muggle Bar Pinball. Given the lack of overt communication with me, Daughter’s posts are a ~~frightening~~ ~~scary~~ ~~pathetic~~ insightful look into the workings of the Modern College Female.

So, Daughter, I’ve got a medical appointment on the 13th. That means I can fly out on the 14th. As far as I’m concerned, if you have the truck packed up you can meet me at the airport and we can launch from there. If not, we will leave bright and early on the 15th, and we will stop for your last cup of East Coast foo-foo coffee on the way out of town.

I have planned for you to read to out loud to me for most mornings, beginning with Paradise Lost, and ending with Heart of Darkness. I have also chosen some selections from My Losing Season, my all-time favorite book about basketball, for those times we find ourselves in the endless plains of Kansas, dodging tornadoes and flying cows.

Because like good literature, basketball heals all things.

In the meantime, Daughter, please answer my texts, or write me an email, or even, God Forbid, give me a call on a real, live telephone.

I look forward to talking to you. I think you know my number!

Namaste!

- Dad

College/Humor/Road Trip

basketball/English literature/Heart of Darkness/Paradisd Lost

Apr

Oblivions (sic)

This photo is supposed to be symbolic of pulling your hair out; however, it just reminds me of Yoda, more than anything else.

All in all, a fairly quiet day was had. I slept in to, wow, almost 7:00 a.m., as I’ve lost the ability to slumber for longer than two hours continually, it seems.

Watched live Barclays Premier League Soccer before taking Daughter Number Two to her regularly scheduled flute lesson every Saturday.

And that’s where it began.

For better or worse, Daughter Number Two (DNT) and I usually arrive for flute a little bit early, so that Dad can grab a coffee and she can attempt to eat most of whatever breakfast pastry I purchase. Before you get the impression that it’s a heart-warming chance for Father and Daughter to chat, complete crossword puzzles, and create stick figures together from wooden stirrers, it’s not.

Oh, we enjoy the time together, but DNT is usually buried in one of her omnipresent books, and I scan CraigsList for my latest potential automotive acquisition.

But it’s still fun, and I think she’ll remember Saturday mornings with me when she’s a grandmother decades from now, but it may be along the lines of, “Gee, I wish my Dad and I talked more when I was little.”

Still, I figure I’ll be high-fiving a million angels if I get some kind of honorable mention from her in the future. If not, maybe I can look into the whole “haunting thing,” though there are a number of other targets I would much rather frequent in that area.

This morning while I was ordering the coffee and scone, DNT grabbed a chair at the counter that faced the picture window. There were just a couple of seats either side of her, and I planned to take one of them. Then I noticed a Mom with two daughters showing a distinct interest in where DNT was sitting.

The place was crowded, and there wasn’t much available room.

Yep, they were definitely eyeing DNT’s chair, and it looked like they were maneuvering to ask her to move so they could all three sit down.

“I can’t believe this,” I thought. They’re going to try to edge her out.

And then the Mom leaned down to say something to DNT. Her two daughters closed in expectantly.

Okay, she was crossing the line now. I simply could not believe she was going to ask my Little Eleven Year Old to give up her seat. My responsibility as a Father kicked in, and I approached the Mom.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to be sitting next there next to my daughter.”

Who do you think you are? I said to myself.

Well, she just smiled at me and said, “Oh, we were all just fascinated with what your Daughter was drawing. What is that?”

Of course, the entire time DNT was completely oblivious to the drama unfolding around her. She was busy patiently waiting for her breakfast treat while focussed on her book.

“Her what? Oh, that’s a connect the dot workbook, I guess,” I said.

“I haven’t seen one since I was a little girl, and my daughters were really interested. It’s very cool.”

“Um, yeah, it’s pretty cool. Thanks,” I replied.

“You two have a good morning,” and she walked away with her kids.

“If you’d like, we can move,” I offered. I was going to try to save this.

“No, that’s fine,” she offerred. “We’re okay.”

I’m an idiot, of course, negatively interpreting what was happening in front of me. At least they were very nice about it, and I took my seat, carefully tucking my tail between my legs.

I experienced a couple of other near incidents later in the day when someone cut me off in traffic, or took the parking space I was angling for, or nonchalantly (and accidentally) crowded me in a restaurant.

And though my first instinct was to take offense, make a face, and express general displeasure, my second was to think of the Mom’s reaction to me earlier in the morning.

In the end, I just chilled out, slowed down, found another space, and discreetly listened to whatever the folks at the table next to us at the restaurant were discussing. I internally adopted my “pretend Jamaican” persona (no worries, mon), and also made sure that my Spouse and DNT ate most of my cheesecake dessert.

As Daughter would say, “Namaste.”

Now the only thing left for me to do is google “Namaste” because I have no idea what it really means.

- Dad

42 days ago Short URL Comments

The Daily Trip

namaste/yoga

Apr

Jammed!

“Remind me again. Why do I live here?”

Once a week on Friday morning I usually treat myself to a cup of strong foo-foo coffee on my way to work. I typically stop at the neighborhood coffee place, which is right around the corner from our house.

I am even a little embarrassed to reveal that several of the baristas there actually know my name.

I don’t think it’s because I’m a big tipper or anything. I’m just actually nice to them and try to interact conversationally as if they were real humans — and not baristas.

If I time this weekly visit just right, I’m in and out of there in about three minutes. No harm done, and I arrive at the office close to the normal time.

Well, this morning as I entered the double-doors leading to the Caffeine Kingdom, I was met by — yikes — a line of Muggles.

Not to worry, I thought. These things look worse than they really are and typically move along quite quickly.

Except for this morning.

I’d say I was Customer Number Eight or so in line, and within just one or two minutes, several things happened: the line didn’t move at all, and it continued to grow longer.

Something was amiss.

I was not at all used to waiting more than 180 seconds for my coffee, and by the looks of things in front of me, several other folks were beginning to panic and get angry. One dude, in particular, in a nicely tailored (but off the rack) suit was growing visibly impatient, was constantly looking at his watch, and was quickly becoming unhappy. He was a tad older than me, I figured, but he appeared to be much more successful.

Or he just wore better clothes than I do.

When I see folks starting to panic for no reason whatsoever, like standing in line for 47 milliseconds longer than normal for their coffee, I try to double-chill myself and watch the show. And since foo-foo coffee is a treat and I really hate going to work anyway, I was quite prepared for something to happen.

But it didn’t. This guy kept it under control and eventually ordered his drink.

And the reason for the long line? They were breaking in a new employee at the cash register.

Since Daughter herself once worked for this chain, I had some idea that two week’s training was required before going live with the customers. Maybe two weeks wasn’t enough for this dude, since he seemed a bit slow on the uptake.

Perhaps that was because he was somewhat older than me, a few leagues north of 50.

When I finally reached the counter and placed my order, he wanted my name so he could write it on the cup.

“No. That’s not how it works here,” I cautioned. “They just pour the stuff and hand it to me. No mixing, no shots, no problem.”

And, as if on cue, the Trainer Barista behind the Barista in Training handed me my coffee.

And I was almost on my way. But as I turned to leave, I declined my receipt and was sent off with a cheery, “Thank you very much, Todd!”

Bummer, man. He remembered that part of the training, at least — look at the customer’s name on the credit card and be sure to address him by name when he leaves.

I’m sure he will eventually develop a coffee-serving facility like his co-workers, but for a few seconds I mentally switched places with him and figured out I probably couldn’t hack it on the other side where he stood. After all, I don’t know how to run even basic cash register, and I can’t hear about 70% of what most people say to me. I think both are important qualities in the world of retail.

Since my day started with waiting in line, it was only fitting it would end the same way, with a massive traffic jam on the way home from work. In fact, it was close to the worst jam I’ve ever seen in the city.

My normal commute home takes about 25 minutes. Tonight it was closer to 90, much of it spent driving so slowly that my speedometer didn’t even move.

Yet in the spirit knowing that things could always be worse, I focussed on the positive — since it was close to 6:00 p.m., every radio station was playing their strongest, most popular sets, which enabled me to switch from one channel to another and listen to great music almost every time.

And loud — but don’t tell my Audiologist.

What kind of music? It ranged from the Beach Boys to a bunch of songs from the last few years, for which I know not the lyrics, bands, or names of the songs. I just like the way most of them sound.

And then I tucked behind a red Mercedes coupe, in which the female passenger was vigorously enjoying smoking a joint. She didn’t appear to be sharing it with the driver, so I was relatively comfortable he wasn’t impaired.

Plus, how much trouble can you cause when your car is traveling less than 1 mph?

The smell also reminded me of a Go-Go’s concert I attended in Ancient Times nearly thirty years ago now.

Wow, I haven’t been to a concert in a long time.

As you may have imagined, I eventually made it home, none the worse for wear, as they say. Supper was waiting for me, as was a nice cup of hot tea.

Not only could things always be worse, in some respects — at the end of the day — they don’t get much better.

- Dad

43 days ago Short URL Comments

43 days ago Short URL 1 Comment

Apr

Being an Idiot in Carpentry Class

Today, my technical theater carpentry professor laughed at me. A lot. And I took it with my tail between my legs because frankly, I deserved it.

I’m really creative. At failing.

Let my preface this by saying I am in no way connected to the theater arts or activities-during-which-you-build-things, but every other single person in the class is a techie (not to be confused with Trekkie) who knows the basics of theater, scenery, etc. Then, there’s me. A lost little lamb in a storm of power tools and staple guns.

My partner and I had to draft a 2D model and build a 3D model of a structure that would successfully drop snow on-stage. Naturally, I ended up drafting the most complex piece of machinery I could think up – I literally might have just accidentally built a computer. That’s just how I roll. When we were presenting our ideas, all of the other students had these brilliant, simple ideas that looked completely feasible.

And then I presented my draft which had about 10 different arrows annotated with specific instructions all over the page. My professor looked at the draft, cocked his head, and said, “That’s certainly… creative.” Guess I’m going to fail this carpentry class. Cool. I’m literally going to fail a class because I have no actual life skills and can only read books.

Well, today was the real test. I had to build this wildebeest of a project. I started out with a basic little wooden frame that I was very proud of – my professor even came over and said it was, “Cute!” And I said, “Yes, that’s what I was going for. It’s very applicable to my post-college life. When I’m being interviewed and the hiring person asks for my resume, I’m just gunna show them THIS *proudly raises up wooden frame like it’s Simba from The Lion King*” He chuckled and I kept building. And then I hit a roadblock. I had no idea how to get my complicated machine to work… and on top of it, the staple gun wasn’t working.

My partner went up to ask my professor about the staple gun who assured us that, yes, there were plenty of staples in it. But it just was not working. I was trying to staple fabric onto the frame but to my dismay, no staples were coming out. He came over to watch me use it so he could see firsthand why it wasn’t working.

Me: *presses on staple gun, nothing comes out* “SEE? It’s not working.”

Professor: …… *suppresses giggle* “….. that’s because you’re pushing on the wrong end of the staple gun… it’s upside down, not broken ~~you idiot~~. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

I about died from embarrassment. I sat there laughing at myself but also shaking my head in disbelief at my stupidity.

And, as I was leaving, my professor couldn’t help himself and said, “Make sure you don’t forget how to use a staple gun between now and our next class.”

Who needs dignity and self-esteem anyway?

- Daughter

Embarrassing Stories/Fail/Humor

building/carpentry/college/fail/funny/humor/idiot/life is hard/life skills/staple guns/whoops

Apr

The Kittens Have Left the Building

Something has gone amiss in my room, it smells like human beings instead of litterbox. I can walk freely in my room without worrying about baby felines running under my feet. I can sleep at night without kittens batting at my face. Instead of having to move bundles of kittens off of my bed, I have the entire bed to myself. It feels wrong.

I got so used to having the kittens around that I’m not really sure how to cope with this empty feeling. It’s like they were never here! I cleaned my room top to bottom. But some days, when the wind blows just right, I smell the smell of kittens, the ghosts of cats past. A soft mewing noise emanates from a dark corner in my room.

But does it? No, it’s my mind, playing tricks on me again. A single tear trickles down my face, a physical manifestation of the grieving process. How long will I cry? Nobody knows. People keep giving me sympathetic looks, but I don’t want their pity. I just want kittens.

But we gave them back to the shelter because our foster time was up. They were confused when they got to the shelter and terrified of the barking dogs and mewing cats. It was a metaphor for my life. Crammed into a box, unsure of what’s happening, and hoping I will see the sun once again.

*curtain closes*

- Daughter

45 days ago Short URL Comments

45 days ago Short URL Comments

funny/grieving/humor/kittens/theatrical

Apr

80 Degrees Confuses Me

How I feel in the sun.

Today, I had the most stereotypical college day ever. As a freshman, I had a very glamorous conception of what college would be: long, involved discussions of theory, collaborative work with intelligent peers across multiple disciplines, chats with professors in the campus coffee shop, parties that had no end where everyone was nice and friendly, and pick-up soccer on the college green. What it turned out to be: all-nighters to finish a mediocre essay on a Buddhist sutra (what? I mean, a friend did this.. I heard), arguing with classmates in heated discussions complete with rolled eyes and sniffs of derision, crying in professors’ offices, staying in because parties involve both wearing real clothes and physically moving, and breaking multiple bones instead of having a successful athletic career on the soccer team.

However, today, I felt the winds of change. Literally. Eighty degrees and sunny! I was so confused when I got outside. I looked up at the blue skies and sun and blinked a few times. Maybe this was a mirage? But instead of a desert mirage where I imagined up somewhere cool and refreshing – an oasis in the desert – I was hallucinating up a nice image of a beautiful, warm SoCal day and ignoring the frigid reality of East Coast weather.

But my lack of hypothermia as I stepped outside clad in shorts and a tank-top told me all I needed to know – this truly was SPRING. This was no illusion, I really felt the sun on my skin! No, it wasn’t the truck’s heater, it was that big heater in the sky! I even wore sunglasses. And rode in the truck with the windows down. (!!!!!!!!)

Even my professors were visibly happier and sunnier. My history professor even suggested we have class outside because of the rarity of such beautiful weather. So there we were, like some historically-knowledgeable garden fairies. We discussed and debated historical texts in the outside air, the trees and grasses serving as our silent audience. I had a flashback to pre-freshman year when I thought every class would be like this class. Alas, this is not the way of the world.

So, tomorrow, when things are back to normal and the weather is mostly composed of fail mixed with cold rain and misery, I will hold onto this memory and cherish it. And cry a little bit. And maybe write a blog post about it. Wait..

- Daughter

46 days ago Short URL Comments

fail/funny/hallucinations/hot/humor/North East/spring/weather/yes

Apr

Fool Me Once

I had this crazy idea that bars are supposed to be this grand social space where you go to have fun and chat with different people. I was wrong.

In case you don’t remember, during my first weekend back at school, I went out to a bar like college kids are wont to do. Unfortunately, it turned into a NFL tryout in which I had to spin-move, duck, and tackle my way through a crowd of people in varying states of inebriation. I’m pretty sure I got hit in the face multiple times. But it was fine. I mean, it wasn’t, but I pretended it was. Plus, I was with my friends I hadn’t seen for a year, which makes it easy to suffer through a night of shoving and pushing and drink-spilling and slurring.

Well, I made the mistake of going to the same bar again, thinking it would be different. Nope. It wasn’t… The only difference is that this time, I came prepared. I put on my 5 inch platform heels so I was hovering around the 6 foot mark. The key to pushing your way through the crowd is to be visible and man, was I visible. I was a giraffe in a sea of hobbits and other small fantastical creatures. I felt like a meerkat popping up out of its hole, surveying its surroundings. It was great feeling like all of these different animals!!

Sadly, my height did not stop me from having multiple drinks spilled on me, being shoved into a wall, and generally, getting beaten up pretty good. A guy did tell me he liked my bangs to which I replied, “I like yours.” Because he didn’t have any. He didn’t think it was funny. But I sure did. And if I can’t laugh at my own jokes, what can I do in this world??

- Daughter

College/Social Dysfunction

bar/fail/funny/humor/social/social life

Apr

More Bad Trips

Not one of Daughter’s Ninja Kittens, but could have been.

Based on second-hand information gleaned from my Significant Other, apparently one of Daughter’s kittens was accidentally stepped on a few days ago. It’s been easy enough stepping on Daughter all these years, so a once-removed skittering feline receiving the same treatment doesn’t seem all that far-fetched to me.

Please note that the photo above is not one of Daughter’s foster kittens, but it is my fanciful representation of what it may have looked like had either Daughter or her roommate actually broken its leg.

They didn’t, and the kitten eventually resumed playing with its sibling within a short while.

Notice, also, that I do not refer to either kitten by name, thus avoiding the predictable lamentation from Daughter about bringing one home from college.

“No, and what kitten are you talking about? I don’t even know their names.”

That kind of thing.

It’s my understanding that Daughter’s period as a foster mom for the Mama Cat and her two kittens ended within the last day or so, as it was time they were returned to the shelter and placement in permanent home(s).

I applaud Daughter for her personal sacrifice in caring for the cats, and I know it’s difficult to return animals that have been in your foster care because you do grow attached, no matter how hard you try not to and no matter how ornery, aggressive, and just plain unpleasant the animals might be.

I know, because we had a German Shepherd like that for over eight months. That story ended happily, however, as she was eventually reunited with her canine brother, and they both spend their days running together to their hearts’ content with a great family with a big yard in the country not too far from here.

But today, for me, was another reminder of why I spend my days now refereeing rather than playing soccer.

Oh, I could play well enough. I just couldn’t walk for several days afterward, not to mention the real and ever-present risk of incurring serious injury.

To be honest, it’s gotten fairly bad for me in terms of physical pain, just as a referee. Parts of me hurt afterwards that I never used to have any trouble with at all.

Beginning with my feet. After completing a couple of games, it’s as if I’ve been hung upside down and beaten with a rubber hose on their soles.

Yep. They hurt a lot. Podiatry appointment in three weeks, by the way, thank you.

Next comes my back; my lower back, specifically. Though I stretch and twist throughout the game in my best Denise Austin impersonation, I can barely bend over by the time the final whistle blows.

And even my eyes hurt, if you can believe it. My vision is already just naturally deteriorating because of age, and after four hours in the sun, my peeps look like someone dribbled a mild acid solution in them.

But all of these aches and pains pale compared to what happened to one of the players this morning.

There was no collision, no fancy footwork. This poor guy was just running down the field, mildly changed direction and suddenly went down in a screaming heap.

Screaming. Really screaming.

Having witnessed someone blow out a knee on the basketball court (several times, actually), I know the pain must be excruciating because the yelling is so loud and persistent (and usually very high-pitched, strangely enough — Note to Self: When in horrific pain, be sure to vocalize in a manly fashion).

But today it was clear this guy hadn’t ruined his knee. Rather, at least his tibia had snapped, and probably his fibula, as well.

How can I make that assessment? Well, the lower leg itself looked bad (I won’t say how bad — just use your imagination), and everyone within about 50 feet of him heard a wicked snap when the bone(s) parted. After attending to his immediate needs and making sure he was somewhat comfortable (I mean, how comfortable could we make him), we all stood around and watched the EMTs work and joke with him.

One of his teammates also snapped a bunch of photos for the league newsletter. It was all rather convivial, in a macabre sort of way.

Turns out this player works in a hospital nearby, which is where the ambulance took him, and he was in good spirits when they carted him off the field in a gurney. Perhaps the massive amounts of morphine had something to do with his improved, non-screaming disposition.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe older, and I hope he’s not done with soccer forever now, though I can understand why he might want to switch to playing canasta in the future. It’s going to be tough coming back from that injury.

And to be honest, I have seen much, much worse on a soccer pitch, but I won’t describe the details here. I probably wrote too much about this one already.

But even though I walked away today “sore, soaked, and slightly punchy” as the old TV ad used to say, I was thankful that I made it through another couple of matches without feeling too bad physically, without getting physically assaulted, and without leaving via emergency vehicle.

My thoughts tonight are with the injured player, and today’s events just proved to me that all bad trips are relative, after all.

- Dad

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