My esteemed slow-pitch softball team began its summer schedule this week, but it did so without the services of its regular third-baseman. That would be me, the one who usually mans the hot corner and bats in the two-hole.
It was about three weeks ago that I informed the team of my decision to opt out of my deal with the club. Of course the only deal involved in this kind of league is the agreement of each player to pay for his right to participate. I chose to decline.
My decision wasn’t popular, and my brother even went so far as to offer to pay my $92.50 fee. It still wasn’t good enough for me, although I would never allow him to actually cover my dues. The last couple of months had simply confirmed my lack of desire to play.
We finished the spring season with a record of 11-5, good for a second-place finish. It had its moments, and winning our last eight games certainly provided some positive momentum. But I couldn’t quite overcome the seemingly inherent contradiction that defines men’s slow-pitch softball.
There’s a really strange line between competitiveness and recreation when it comes to this so-called sport. Maybe I was blind or ignorant when I first started playing ten years ago, just after I’d finished college. It was back then that I was single, could have a few beers during the games, still perform at a high level, then go out afterward for as long as I desired.
Perhaps now that I have a wife, children, two houses and a full- and occasional part-time job, it’s all coming clear.
Before playing this spring, I’d merely subbed a few times over the last three years. But my weekly exposure to the men’s softball culture proved this year that I didn’t belong. When I’d played more regularly, there were many guys who simply showed up with their gloves in one hand and cleats in the other. Now, not only does everyone have their own equipment bags, their bags are backpacks with bats on both sides that look like horns protruding from their shoulder blades.
Arriving at the softball complex each week I was simply faced with too many pudgy, buzz-cut, royal douche bags with their $200 bats and their 10-cent attitudes. These are the guys who show up early and stay late, willing to play an extra game or two if necessary, and the worst-case scenario is that they stick around and drink a couple more beers. It’s these guys who seem to hold this joke of game so sacred, yet they do so little to prove any legitimate allegiance.
Most of them are aren’t much taller than me (which is no great accomplishment), but they all clearly eat a lot of beef and drink a lot of beer. Yeah, most of them seem to weigh closer to 260 than 160. But while they can go out and mash the ball, often seeming to create the impression that they can hit a homer any time they deem it’s necessary, they respect so little of the game.
Slow-pitch softball, perhaps sadly, is obviously built from the foundation of the game of baseball. A majority of those original principles, however, are lost in this shell of the game. Come on, if you claim to have the ability to hit the ball wherever you want, then the least you can do is show a little hustle. Call me old-fashioned, but my favorite parts of the game are making plays in the field, and stretching singles into doubles and doubles into triples. I admit that I can’t have too much fun if my team doesn’t win, but I at least know that I put forth all the effort possible. That’s more than can be said for most of the tools who visit the complex.
To me, sportsmanship means being happy when you win and being unhappy when you lose. But I’d say about 75% of these mother fuckers playing slow-pitch softball are losers regardless. Good riddance, assholes.
A few other sports observations:
My kids don’t mind sports, but their minds aren’t necessarily fully engaged in them. Four-year-old Joey is a few weeks into his tee-ball season, and he’s had one game so far. The night before that game, he was wished good luck by a woman who works with my wife at her daycare. Joey’s response: “Well, I haven’t won World 7, but I hope we can get to World 8 tomorrow.” Sorry, Joey, she wasn’t talking about Super Mario Bros. on the Wii; she was talking about your freaking baseball game.
Major troubles ahead? Last weekend, my beloved Chicago Bears reached an agreement with the last of their unsigned 2010 draft picks. Former Florida defensive back Major Wright, chosen in the third round, will now enter camp this summer with a shot to be a big part of the rotation at safety. Now I have no big issue with Wright, but he should know that his name begs for trouble. Once on the field, his performance will dictate whether or not he’ll be subject to taunts that he’s a Major piece of shit, a Major waste of a draft pick, etc. So, Major, make it worth your fucking while.
A potentially perfect imperfection. Like so many other bloggers and columnists, I could surely fill an entire post with my thoughts on Armando Galarraga’s non-perfect perfect game Wednesday night. Both sides of the instant replay argument quickly get tiresome, so just consider this: Is it possible Jim Joyce’s call will turn out to be better for Galarraga’s career and image in the long-term? I think the answer is an absolute yes, and that’s been my stance since Wednesday night. While Joyce clearly did his own image no favors, Galarraga is a star right now. He’s handled everything with a great deal of poise, and I believe that many years from now it’s much more likely I’ll be telling my kids about this story rather than any perfect game that’s actually in the books. Galarraga stands alone as a graceful protagonist in what’s likely to be a rule-changing controversy. I think he’ll find this to be a better place to reside in baseball history rather than alongside the likes Mike Witt and Dallas Braden.
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
In the House of the Lord
To my knowledge, there are five or six people who regularly read this blog. There’s one of them who I know certainly takes religion seriously and one who I know holds religion firmly at the bottom of his priorities. I assume everyone else falls somewhere in between, myself with a lean toward the latter.
That said, I wasn’t too thrilled about attending last night’s Ash Wednesday service at our nearby Catholic church, and I hope I’m not judged too heavily by any of those who read this. (Especially considering that some would surely argue that I’ll be ultimately judged on this and other related topics by the higher power whose congregations I’m about to criticize.)
Although my family once attended church, um, religiously, those days are long in the past. It hasn’t happened since the mid-1980s when we relocated to the Kansas City area. I’ve carried on that same lack of tradition in my adult life and have really only gone to church in recent years for baptisms, first communions and weddings.
And trust me when I say that I’m fine with that.
I’ve never really felt comfortable in churches, and I don’t see that changing. There have been times over the past 10 or 15 years when I’ve been in a church and thought, “What if I really made this a priority? How would I be feeling right now, and how would that change the way I feel everyday?” I've had no good answer to those questions; instead, I have always come to the pretty simple and reasonable conclusion that it’s just not that easy. There has to be something inside you that makes that connection, and I don’t have it.
My wife, on the other hand, apparently does. She also feels the need to make sure that connection is discovered and maintained within our children. I obviously don’t view this as a “need-to” type of thing, but that argument never gets me anywhere but the doghouse. And I already spend enough time there.
So I only briefly tried to fight it last night when I my wife spoke again of the “need” to go to church as a family for Ash Wednesday. I took a couple of swings in an attempt to deflect my apparent personal obligation to go, but I eventually decided that it would be in the best interests of all of us for me not to drag out the fight.
For this night, actually for just over an hour, I could be a Man of God. Or at least try to appear to be one.
Like I said, I simply don’t feel comfortable in a church setting. This begins even before any service has begun. As I find a seat just like everyone else, I’m sure there are many regulars who recognize that my face is foreign to the large group. Sure, there are plenty of them who are probably thinking, “Well, I haven’t seen him before. God bless him for joining us.”
Yet I can’t help but think that many others are thinking something more along the lines of the following.
1. “Why hasn’t he been here before?”
2. “Is he one of those people who only comes on Christmas, Easter and Ash Wednesday?”
3. “I wonder if he even contributes to the church.”
My answers:
1. Because I don’t want to.
2. Maybe, but even on those days it’s only if I’m forced to.
3. Absolutely not.
So this is what races through my head, this feeling of being unwelcome. Yes, it might all just in my mind, but why wouldn’t I think that? These are people who’ve seemingly made religion a high priority in their lives, whereas I haven’t. Maybe I’m wrong to think that there aren’t many like-minded folks trapped in there with me, but it’s not like I had time to take a poll of how many guys so desperately wished they were watching the Purdue-Ohio State game instead.
No, I feel relatively safe in thinking that a majority of the people with whom I shared the 7:00 hour last night are not like me. They wanted to be there, and they sure as hell would want to know why I wouldn’t want to be there.
And I feel confident in all of these thoughts even before everyone but me starts belting out lines such as “This is the time of fulfillment” and “The reign of God is at hand!”
Part of my confidence is in the fact that church right now doesn’t seem like church was back in 1985 – which was probably when I last attended it regularly – or even during many of the one-off visits I had to make throughout my adolescence and early adult years. I don’t remember so many people showing up in sweatshirts and tennis shoes. Likewise, I don’t remember any man of the cloth beginning a service with the phrase, “My personal trainer has been on my case lately …” as was the case with Father whatever-his-name-is last night.
It’s almost as if there’s an effort to make it seem more casual and therefore more comfortable. But it’s not working for me.
No, church just isn’t the place for me. My wife was very appreciative of the fact that I put forth the effort last night; she was sure, she said, that I wouldn’t have done it for anyone but her. She’s probably right.
But, with God as my witness, I’ll try my best to keep avoiding it.
That said, I wasn’t too thrilled about attending last night’s Ash Wednesday service at our nearby Catholic church, and I hope I’m not judged too heavily by any of those who read this. (Especially considering that some would surely argue that I’ll be ultimately judged on this and other related topics by the higher power whose congregations I’m about to criticize.)
Although my family once attended church, um, religiously, those days are long in the past. It hasn’t happened since the mid-1980s when we relocated to the Kansas City area. I’ve carried on that same lack of tradition in my adult life and have really only gone to church in recent years for baptisms, first communions and weddings.
And trust me when I say that I’m fine with that.
I’ve never really felt comfortable in churches, and I don’t see that changing. There have been times over the past 10 or 15 years when I’ve been in a church and thought, “What if I really made this a priority? How would I be feeling right now, and how would that change the way I feel everyday?” I've had no good answer to those questions; instead, I have always come to the pretty simple and reasonable conclusion that it’s just not that easy. There has to be something inside you that makes that connection, and I don’t have it.
My wife, on the other hand, apparently does. She also feels the need to make sure that connection is discovered and maintained within our children. I obviously don’t view this as a “need-to” type of thing, but that argument never gets me anywhere but the doghouse. And I already spend enough time there.
So I only briefly tried to fight it last night when I my wife spoke again of the “need” to go to church as a family for Ash Wednesday. I took a couple of swings in an attempt to deflect my apparent personal obligation to go, but I eventually decided that it would be in the best interests of all of us for me not to drag out the fight.
For this night, actually for just over an hour, I could be a Man of God. Or at least try to appear to be one.
Like I said, I simply don’t feel comfortable in a church setting. This begins even before any service has begun. As I find a seat just like everyone else, I’m sure there are many regulars who recognize that my face is foreign to the large group. Sure, there are plenty of them who are probably thinking, “Well, I haven’t seen him before. God bless him for joining us.”
Yet I can’t help but think that many others are thinking something more along the lines of the following.
1. “Why hasn’t he been here before?”
2. “Is he one of those people who only comes on Christmas, Easter and Ash Wednesday?”
3. “I wonder if he even contributes to the church.”
My answers:
1. Because I don’t want to.
2. Maybe, but even on those days it’s only if I’m forced to.
3. Absolutely not.
So this is what races through my head, this feeling of being unwelcome. Yes, it might all just in my mind, but why wouldn’t I think that? These are people who’ve seemingly made religion a high priority in their lives, whereas I haven’t. Maybe I’m wrong to think that there aren’t many like-minded folks trapped in there with me, but it’s not like I had time to take a poll of how many guys so desperately wished they were watching the Purdue-Ohio State game instead.
No, I feel relatively safe in thinking that a majority of the people with whom I shared the 7:00 hour last night are not like me. They wanted to be there, and they sure as hell would want to know why I wouldn’t want to be there.
And I feel confident in all of these thoughts even before everyone but me starts belting out lines such as “This is the time of fulfillment” and “The reign of God is at hand!”
Part of my confidence is in the fact that church right now doesn’t seem like church was back in 1985 – which was probably when I last attended it regularly – or even during many of the one-off visits I had to make throughout my adolescence and early adult years. I don’t remember so many people showing up in sweatshirts and tennis shoes. Likewise, I don’t remember any man of the cloth beginning a service with the phrase, “My personal trainer has been on my case lately …” as was the case with Father whatever-his-name-is last night.
It’s almost as if there’s an effort to make it seem more casual and therefore more comfortable. But it’s not working for me.
No, church just isn’t the place for me. My wife was very appreciative of the fact that I put forth the effort last night; she was sure, she said, that I wouldn’t have done it for anyone but her. She’s probably right.
But, with God as my witness, I’ll try my best to keep avoiding it.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
33
I celebrated a birthday this past week, which means there’s a new number assigned to me. As much as I’d like to call that number meaningless and trivial, it’s obviously not arbitrary; it does stand for something That said, I don’t claim that there’s much significance to being 33 years old.
I’ve never been one to sweat about age anyway. The gray hair has already been around for many years, and I don’t care so much about the color of the hair changing as long as the quantity of it does not.
So this most recent birthday came and went with an appropriately tempered level of fanfare. There was a nice dinner at my parents’ house on my birthday eve, featuring my favorite dinner dish (veal parmesan); I had a nice birthday lunch with my co-workers at my favorite downtown KC lunch spot (Gordon Biersch Brewery); and I had a very pleasant birthday evening with my family upon my return home that evening.
That was more than I needed, in fact. These days, my wife and I have agreed that we don’t need to waste our money on each other for birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, etc. We spend plenty of money throughout the year on things for the kids, the house and any day-to-day needs.
But my wife usually breaks the rules on my birthday and gets me a little present. This year it was a really good one: a gym membership. Of course, that’s actually breaking the rules in the worst way. Not only was it an extra expense, it created a new recurring monthly payment. That’s alright, though, because it was something we’d been seriously considering in since moving into our new house last year. This was a good time to make it happen.
She’s forgiven, and I’m certainly very thankful for everything that I have been given.
***
A few random thoughts:
- I’ve been trying to figure this out for about nine months: Why was Michigan State’s run in last year’s NCAA tournament so “magical”? They were a two-seed, a perennial national contender that tends to be in the Top 10 just about every year. Was it just because the Final Four was being played in Detroit? Sorry, that’s not enough for me. A city and state ravaged by the country’s recession, rallying around one of its state schools? I’m not fully buying that one either. Maybe I’m bitter because my Illini are almost always chasing the Spartans in the Big Ten. About the only exception over the past decade was the 2005 Illini that reached the title game. By the way, Michigan State reached the Final Four that year too. It’s not fucking magic. It’s a really good coach who knows how to recruit very good players and get the best out of them on the court.
- Am I the only one who pronounces the first ‘r’ in February? I don’t know why it would be universally silent. I have to assume, therefore, that its usual pronunciation is based simply on laziness. Yes, February doesn’t really roll off the lips as easily as Febuary. But does that make it right? I don’t think so.
- My stepson has had some extra Christmas and birthday money burning a hole in his pocket the last few weeks, as he’s been dying to get out and buy some new CDs or video games. His most recent pick-up was the “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader?” game for Nintendo DS. What I find interesting about this purchase is that Dominic is only nine, so he’s only in third grade. Now I’ve never watched the TV show, but I understand its premise. The producers are trying to see if they can make adults look like asses by posing questions that are part of a usual fifth-grade curriculum. It’s more of a reality comedy than a quiz show, right? At least equal parts. But the comedy of it is surely lost when it’s a third-grader playing. So what’s the attraction for Dominic? As usual, I have no fucking idea.
- Somehow (I know how it happened but don’t feel like explaining all of it) my kids have recently been introduced to the Austin Powers trilogy. Somehow (I’m less certain of this part) they have become addicted to these films. Consistent with the vocabulary they’ve gleaned from being around me, the Austin Powers movies have become known as “the Fat Bastard movies.” The Fat Bastard scenes are the ones they want to watch first, and that’s understandable. For a two-year-old and a nearly-four-year-old, a ridiculously fat guy who talks funny is clearly the closest thing to a cartoon. Now, predictably, they repeat the things he says. Some of the more common phrases heard around my house recently:
“I’ve got a crap on deck that could choke a donkey.”
“I’ve had bigger chunks of corn in my crap.”
It’s pretty freaking amusing. The only real annoying part for me is Dominic thinking he needs to repeat the same lines and attempt a Scottish accent in the process. It instead comes out like a really, really bad Arnold Schwarzeneggar imitation. Anyway, I accept the blame since they are my movies, and my wife has also seemed to somewhat enjoy the comic relief during our otherwise hectic lives. I didn't, however, think my lead-by-bad-example style of parenting needed to be broadcast out to the wife's entire social network. Her online chirp was something along the lines of “Thanks to my husband my kids are now walking around the house saying …” Fuck you again, Facebook.
- Thanks to my new gym membership, I can now go work out any time it fits into my schedule. That includes late at night or early in the morning. I’ve already taken advantage of that, recently hitting the gym at about 10:00pm the other night. Of course, when I came home I found my wife putting the finishing touches on a fresh batch of Rotel. Yeah, nothing screams "Healthy Lifestyle" like a big bowl of cheese with chili tomatoes. Whatever, like I’m going to turn that down. You need to refuel after a workout anyway, right?
I’ve never been one to sweat about age anyway. The gray hair has already been around for many years, and I don’t care so much about the color of the hair changing as long as the quantity of it does not.
So this most recent birthday came and went with an appropriately tempered level of fanfare. There was a nice dinner at my parents’ house on my birthday eve, featuring my favorite dinner dish (veal parmesan); I had a nice birthday lunch with my co-workers at my favorite downtown KC lunch spot (Gordon Biersch Brewery); and I had a very pleasant birthday evening with my family upon my return home that evening.
That was more than I needed, in fact. These days, my wife and I have agreed that we don’t need to waste our money on each other for birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, etc. We spend plenty of money throughout the year on things for the kids, the house and any day-to-day needs.
But my wife usually breaks the rules on my birthday and gets me a little present. This year it was a really good one: a gym membership. Of course, that’s actually breaking the rules in the worst way. Not only was it an extra expense, it created a new recurring monthly payment. That’s alright, though, because it was something we’d been seriously considering in since moving into our new house last year. This was a good time to make it happen.
She’s forgiven, and I’m certainly very thankful for everything that I have been given.
***
A few random thoughts:
- I’ve been trying to figure this out for about nine months: Why was Michigan State’s run in last year’s NCAA tournament so “magical”? They were a two-seed, a perennial national contender that tends to be in the Top 10 just about every year. Was it just because the Final Four was being played in Detroit? Sorry, that’s not enough for me. A city and state ravaged by the country’s recession, rallying around one of its state schools? I’m not fully buying that one either. Maybe I’m bitter because my Illini are almost always chasing the Spartans in the Big Ten. About the only exception over the past decade was the 2005 Illini that reached the title game. By the way, Michigan State reached the Final Four that year too. It’s not fucking magic. It’s a really good coach who knows how to recruit very good players and get the best out of them on the court.
- Am I the only one who pronounces the first ‘r’ in February? I don’t know why it would be universally silent. I have to assume, therefore, that its usual pronunciation is based simply on laziness. Yes, February doesn’t really roll off the lips as easily as Febuary. But does that make it right? I don’t think so.
- My stepson has had some extra Christmas and birthday money burning a hole in his pocket the last few weeks, as he’s been dying to get out and buy some new CDs or video games. His most recent pick-up was the “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader?” game for Nintendo DS. What I find interesting about this purchase is that Dominic is only nine, so he’s only in third grade. Now I’ve never watched the TV show, but I understand its premise. The producers are trying to see if they can make adults look like asses by posing questions that are part of a usual fifth-grade curriculum. It’s more of a reality comedy than a quiz show, right? At least equal parts. But the comedy of it is surely lost when it’s a third-grader playing. So what’s the attraction for Dominic? As usual, I have no fucking idea.
- Somehow (I know how it happened but don’t feel like explaining all of it) my kids have recently been introduced to the Austin Powers trilogy. Somehow (I’m less certain of this part) they have become addicted to these films. Consistent with the vocabulary they’ve gleaned from being around me, the Austin Powers movies have become known as “the Fat Bastard movies.” The Fat Bastard scenes are the ones they want to watch first, and that’s understandable. For a two-year-old and a nearly-four-year-old, a ridiculously fat guy who talks funny is clearly the closest thing to a cartoon. Now, predictably, they repeat the things he says. Some of the more common phrases heard around my house recently:
“I’ve got a crap on deck that could choke a donkey.”
“I’ve had bigger chunks of corn in my crap.”
It’s pretty freaking amusing. The only real annoying part for me is Dominic thinking he needs to repeat the same lines and attempt a Scottish accent in the process. It instead comes out like a really, really bad Arnold Schwarzeneggar imitation. Anyway, I accept the blame since they are my movies, and my wife has also seemed to somewhat enjoy the comic relief during our otherwise hectic lives. I didn't, however, think my lead-by-bad-example style of parenting needed to be broadcast out to the wife's entire social network. Her online chirp was something along the lines of “Thanks to my husband my kids are now walking around the house saying …” Fuck you again, Facebook.
- Thanks to my new gym membership, I can now go work out any time it fits into my schedule. That includes late at night or early in the morning. I’ve already taken advantage of that, recently hitting the gym at about 10:00pm the other night. Of course, when I came home I found my wife putting the finishing touches on a fresh batch of Rotel. Yeah, nothing screams "Healthy Lifestyle" like a big bowl of cheese with chili tomatoes. Whatever, like I’m going to turn that down. You need to refuel after a workout anyway, right?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Ok, Now What?
Let’s talk a little bit about my last couple of weeks.
I essentially ended 2009 with 11 days off of work, not returning to the office from Christmas Eve until January 4. But note that I’m not going to make the mistake of referring to it as vacation time. That’s how it’s logged according to my employer’s HR department, but the use of vacation days certainly doesn’t automatically mean one is enjoying a true vacation.
Trust me; I wasn’t.
The holidays were filled with predictable strife. Stress over the Christmas budget, stress over holiday scheduling with the family and stress over family interactions in general. That’s bound to happen with a family of five, a wife who comes from a perfectly broken family and a few houseguests who crashed for about two-thirds of my time off.
Consider this: The highlight of my year-end break may have been going out with the family on New Year’s Eve to see Alvin and the Chipmunks II: The Squeakquel. Yes, computer-generated rodents singing Beyonce and other bad Top 40 hits provided a breath of fresh air.
It seems like this so-called break might have been a good time for me to air some detailed grievances via the blog, but I couldn’t really do that since my brother-in-law, his girlfriend and their dog were staying in my basement for seven days. That’s where my computer is set up, and since I’m a fucking idiot and fucked up the configuration of my wireless router, I still need to go downstairs any time I wish to go online. Ok, you can blame that one, at least in part, on me.
So it’s not like I’d ever experience a post-holiday hangover. In reality, it should be more like a post-holiday bender. But there’s no rest for the emotionally abused, and I’ve learned that yet again recently.
Over the last six days, the water pipes at my house froze, my three-year-old son contracted Croup (a fairly common and rarely serious respiratory virus that causes swelling of the throat and caused Joey to wake up at 2:00am Wednesday gasping for air, wheezing and trying desperately to scream and cry), and it was all topped off last night when my wife took a tumble in our garage, breaking her ankle.
As much as I hate clichés and hate talking about the weather in just about any context, perhaps it’s true that when it rains, it fucking pours.
Yes, the stress of raising three children, making a decent living, justifying two house payments and helping my wife manage her own business is not enough. I know, “that’s life.” That’s what the assholes say about things like this. But it’s not unreasonable to think that I’m getting at least slightly fucked here. Just when I bought in for arguably a little more than I could afford, I’ve been dealt some seriously shitty cards.
Everything on the periphery is just as jumbled. In the past, work used to be seen as a good break from home, and I’d seem to be heading home not long after my patience at work was wearing entirely thin. But not so recently. Too often I’ve been antisocial at work among a group of like-minded colleagues whom I’d argue are my best friends these days, and upon returning home my fuse with both the wife and kids has been even shorter than usual. In the meantime, of course, interaction with my non-work friends continues to be less frequent than an Illinois victory over Penn State.
But the Illini did sneak past the Lions this week in Champaign, so maybe things can be turned around. However that win came prior to the arrival of the barking Croup cough and the snapping of my wife’s ankle.
I dream of a more simple life and pray (not literally) that this mess is more manageable than it currently seems. If the Illini can pull of a win in East Lansing tomorrow, then maybe I’ll be a believer -- a believer in the fate of both the Orange & Blue and this crazy life that I lead.
I essentially ended 2009 with 11 days off of work, not returning to the office from Christmas Eve until January 4. But note that I’m not going to make the mistake of referring to it as vacation time. That’s how it’s logged according to my employer’s HR department, but the use of vacation days certainly doesn’t automatically mean one is enjoying a true vacation.
Trust me; I wasn’t.
The holidays were filled with predictable strife. Stress over the Christmas budget, stress over holiday scheduling with the family and stress over family interactions in general. That’s bound to happen with a family of five, a wife who comes from a perfectly broken family and a few houseguests who crashed for about two-thirds of my time off.
Consider this: The highlight of my year-end break may have been going out with the family on New Year’s Eve to see Alvin and the Chipmunks II: The Squeakquel. Yes, computer-generated rodents singing Beyonce and other bad Top 40 hits provided a breath of fresh air.
It seems like this so-called break might have been a good time for me to air some detailed grievances via the blog, but I couldn’t really do that since my brother-in-law, his girlfriend and their dog were staying in my basement for seven days. That’s where my computer is set up, and since I’m a fucking idiot and fucked up the configuration of my wireless router, I still need to go downstairs any time I wish to go online. Ok, you can blame that one, at least in part, on me.
So it’s not like I’d ever experience a post-holiday hangover. In reality, it should be more like a post-holiday bender. But there’s no rest for the emotionally abused, and I’ve learned that yet again recently.
Over the last six days, the water pipes at my house froze, my three-year-old son contracted Croup (a fairly common and rarely serious respiratory virus that causes swelling of the throat and caused Joey to wake up at 2:00am Wednesday gasping for air, wheezing and trying desperately to scream and cry), and it was all topped off last night when my wife took a tumble in our garage, breaking her ankle.
As much as I hate clichés and hate talking about the weather in just about any context, perhaps it’s true that when it rains, it fucking pours.
Yes, the stress of raising three children, making a decent living, justifying two house payments and helping my wife manage her own business is not enough. I know, “that’s life.” That’s what the assholes say about things like this. But it’s not unreasonable to think that I’m getting at least slightly fucked here. Just when I bought in for arguably a little more than I could afford, I’ve been dealt some seriously shitty cards.
Everything on the periphery is just as jumbled. In the past, work used to be seen as a good break from home, and I’d seem to be heading home not long after my patience at work was wearing entirely thin. But not so recently. Too often I’ve been antisocial at work among a group of like-minded colleagues whom I’d argue are my best friends these days, and upon returning home my fuse with both the wife and kids has been even shorter than usual. In the meantime, of course, interaction with my non-work friends continues to be less frequent than an Illinois victory over Penn State.
But the Illini did sneak past the Lions this week in Champaign, so maybe things can be turned around. However that win came prior to the arrival of the barking Croup cough and the snapping of my wife’s ankle.
I dream of a more simple life and pray (not literally) that this mess is more manageable than it currently seems. If the Illini can pull of a win in East Lansing tomorrow, then maybe I’ll be a believer -- a believer in the fate of both the Orange & Blue and this crazy life that I lead.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
This Fucking Stinks, Literally
Last week was my stepson’s final week of school prior to the start of winter break, and he managed to be in attendance for about an hour of it. He was sent home in his dad’s care Monday morning after having vomited, and he was kept out of school the following day as well. Upon picking him up from his dad’s house Tuesday night, he told me he was feeling well. He hadn’t vomited since the previous morning, felt okay overall, and he even wanted to ask a neighbor friend to play outside together that evening.
I knew that was inappropriate and kept him indoors. And that was a good thing. At dinner, Dom unexpectedly mentioned that it hurt him to swallow everything except his drink, and he sounded like someone who’d been stuffed up for weeks.
Well, it turns out that he might be laid up for weeks.
I took a vacation day (all out of personal/sick days so late in the year) on Wednesday to take him to the doctor and attempt to relax as much as possible, but the doctor’s diagnosis didn’t help that.
Mononucleosis. No shit.
The good news is that mono is rarely transmitted to younger kids. In fact, it’s plenty rare in Dom’s age bracket as well. But it happens to be quite infrequent with kids the age of mine (two and almost four), and adults are fairly immune to it as well. Yeah, so that’s the good news.
The bad news is that a third-grader who usually walks around with a chip on his shoulder is doing so even more now. Sure, I want to feel sorry for him, but it’s not easy. He still doesn’t listen worth a shit, which sucks real bad with someone you’re trying to keep relatively quarantined. He still often carries himself and speaks with the attitude of a 12-year-old girl rather than an almost-nine-year-old boy.
And he literally fucking stinks.
I don’t know if it’s the mono-causing virus, but something’s making the kid fucking reek. I mean he smells up a whole room. I don’t know if it’s coming out of his pores or if it’s coming from his mouth, but I’m not going to take a deep breath close enough to figure it out. I have seriously never smelled anything quite like it, and I don’t care to come across it ever again. The doctor says the symptoms could last a little over a week or over two months. Luckily, they already seem to have started to subside just seven days after the diagnosis. Hopefully that means the stench of death will soon fade too.
Go ahead, call me fucking heartless.
Here’s some other stuff that stinks, too, just not literally.
Today is my last day of work until after the calendar turns. I’ll actually have 11 days off in a row, which sounds like a pretty good deal. But, realistically, how much rest will I get? It is the holidays after all. And that’s always turns into a clusterfuck, especially with the usual heavy dose of in-law drama.
Part I: No one wants to hang out with my mother-in-law, but everyone wants to know what she’s doing, where she’s going to be, etc. My wife's family is always talking about her, and I always went them to just shut the fuck up about her. She treats you like shit and doesn’t give you the time of day; return the fucking favor. But, against my wishes, she always gets invited to our house one night in late December. She usually never even responds to the invitation though. That’s clearly fine with me.
Of course, this year she not only says she may come over, she also says we could come over to her place on one of a couple nights over the next week or so. I think that’s the first time we’ve been invited to join my wife’s mother’s side of the family for a holiday occasion since Easter 2008.
My fingers are firmly crossed hoping it will fall through.
Part II: The day after Christmas, my brother-in-law arrives in town for his annual holiday visit. This year, he’s been invited to stay with us since we now have room for guests. He and his girlfriend are staying for an entire freaking week … along with their dog.
Now I love dogs, a far cry from the Steve of old, but I still don’t think this is a good idea. I, of course, had no input in the decision.
My wife says Jet is a very well-behaved dog, and he’s perfectly crate-trained. So when we’re all gone, he’ll be fine down in the basement in his little private kennel. Well great for him, but 1) what happens when we are here and he has a full run of the house? And 2) what about our little 13-pound dog who isn’t crate-trained and is used to having a free run of the house in our absence? My guess is that she’ll be all over the basement door the whole time, scratching and yapping while enjoying the fresh scent of a foreign dog’s asshole floating around from upstairs.
Yes, this certainly has the makings of an another holiday clusterfuck. Though I may have plenty of stories to tell over the next two weeks, the amount of true rest and relaxation that I enjoy remains to be seen.
I knew that was inappropriate and kept him indoors. And that was a good thing. At dinner, Dom unexpectedly mentioned that it hurt him to swallow everything except his drink, and he sounded like someone who’d been stuffed up for weeks.
Well, it turns out that he might be laid up for weeks.
I took a vacation day (all out of personal/sick days so late in the year) on Wednesday to take him to the doctor and attempt to relax as much as possible, but the doctor’s diagnosis didn’t help that.
Mononucleosis. No shit.
The good news is that mono is rarely transmitted to younger kids. In fact, it’s plenty rare in Dom’s age bracket as well. But it happens to be quite infrequent with kids the age of mine (two and almost four), and adults are fairly immune to it as well. Yeah, so that’s the good news.
The bad news is that a third-grader who usually walks around with a chip on his shoulder is doing so even more now. Sure, I want to feel sorry for him, but it’s not easy. He still doesn’t listen worth a shit, which sucks real bad with someone you’re trying to keep relatively quarantined. He still often carries himself and speaks with the attitude of a 12-year-old girl rather than an almost-nine-year-old boy.
And he literally fucking stinks.
I don’t know if it’s the mono-causing virus, but something’s making the kid fucking reek. I mean he smells up a whole room. I don’t know if it’s coming out of his pores or if it’s coming from his mouth, but I’m not going to take a deep breath close enough to figure it out. I have seriously never smelled anything quite like it, and I don’t care to come across it ever again. The doctor says the symptoms could last a little over a week or over two months. Luckily, they already seem to have started to subside just seven days after the diagnosis. Hopefully that means the stench of death will soon fade too.
Go ahead, call me fucking heartless.
Here’s some other stuff that stinks, too, just not literally.
Today is my last day of work until after the calendar turns. I’ll actually have 11 days off in a row, which sounds like a pretty good deal. But, realistically, how much rest will I get? It is the holidays after all. And that’s always turns into a clusterfuck, especially with the usual heavy dose of in-law drama.
Part I: No one wants to hang out with my mother-in-law, but everyone wants to know what she’s doing, where she’s going to be, etc. My wife's family is always talking about her, and I always went them to just shut the fuck up about her. She treats you like shit and doesn’t give you the time of day; return the fucking favor. But, against my wishes, she always gets invited to our house one night in late December. She usually never even responds to the invitation though. That’s clearly fine with me.
Of course, this year she not only says she may come over, she also says we could come over to her place on one of a couple nights over the next week or so. I think that’s the first time we’ve been invited to join my wife’s mother’s side of the family for a holiday occasion since Easter 2008.
My fingers are firmly crossed hoping it will fall through.
Part II: The day after Christmas, my brother-in-law arrives in town for his annual holiday visit. This year, he’s been invited to stay with us since we now have room for guests. He and his girlfriend are staying for an entire freaking week … along with their dog.
Now I love dogs, a far cry from the Steve of old, but I still don’t think this is a good idea. I, of course, had no input in the decision.
My wife says Jet is a very well-behaved dog, and he’s perfectly crate-trained. So when we’re all gone, he’ll be fine down in the basement in his little private kennel. Well great for him, but 1) what happens when we are here and he has a full run of the house? And 2) what about our little 13-pound dog who isn’t crate-trained and is used to having a free run of the house in our absence? My guess is that she’ll be all over the basement door the whole time, scratching and yapping while enjoying the fresh scent of a foreign dog’s asshole floating around from upstairs.
Yes, this certainly has the makings of an another holiday clusterfuck. Though I may have plenty of stories to tell over the next two weeks, the amount of true rest and relaxation that I enjoy remains to be seen.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Appetite for Dysfunction
It wasn’t too long ago, maybe four or five years, when my stepson’s dad hated me. Yeah, we’re told from an early age not to use the word ‘hate’ because it’s such a strong word; but trust me when I say it could certainly be used in this case.
I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.
And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.
It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.
Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.
Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.
That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.
One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.
I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.
And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.
And a little more about dysfunction:
Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.
I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.
“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?
I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:
Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”
Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”
Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.
One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:
“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”
The response, which went out to the entire group:
“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”
Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!
Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:
“I apologize for nothing.”
I love my freaking family.
I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.
And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.
It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.
Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.
Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.
That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.
One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.
I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.
And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.
And a little more about dysfunction:
Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.
I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.
“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?
I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:
Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”
Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”
Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.
One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:
“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”
The response, which went out to the entire group:
“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”
Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!
Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:
“I apologize for nothing.”
I love my freaking family.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Greatest Show on Earth?
At 4:57pm yesterday I got a text from my wife exclaiming, "We're going to the circus tonight!"
I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.
Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?
Yes and yes.
As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.
So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.
The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.
It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.
The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.
But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.
The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.
I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.
Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?
Yes and yes.
As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.
So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.
The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.
It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.
The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.
But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.
The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Kicking Off with the Wrong Freaking Foot
At 11:00am on the first Saturday of the college football season, neither of the TVs in my house were tuned to the start of a game. DisneyXD's animated Spiderman series was on one, while the other was being used for playback of a Sesame Street sing-along DVD. In a perfect world, I might have been halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis, on my way to the Fighting Illini season opener. But this world is clearly far from perfect.
Although I didn't have a ticket, I'd entertained the idea of making the trip to St. Louis all the way up until Friday night. My wife even supported the plan. But when I had to head out of the house at 1:30am to purchase pain relievers for my littlest boy, I knew there was no way I'd be making my solo gameday roadtrip.
Most of the day instead centered around keeping our children happy and comfortable; by late morning it was clear that Joey wasn't 100% either. So the 2:40pm kickoff of the Illinois-Missouri game arrived not with me sitting in the Edward Jones Dome, not with me screaming at the television in anticipation of the start of the season, but with me sitting relatively reserved (at least on the outside) with a somewhat-ill child by my side, while my miserably-ill child was with his mother at our doctor's urgent care office. Not at all what I had in mind for gameday.
By the time Lukas returned home with a diagnosis of two ear infections and mouth ulcers consistent with the 'Hand, Foot and Mouth' disease virus, the Illini were already in a 10-0 hole and my blood pressure likely would have blown the cuff off of my arm. Things clearly didn't get much better as I watched every snap of a game that I now feel comfortable saying was the most disappointing football performance I've seen in recent memory. And I watched it primarily in a silent living room.
I'm usually the person who has a comment for every play, the annoyingly educated fan who call outs individual players away from the ball during the action. It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with a group of people or in public. So imagine the trouble I had trying to watch this game in silence, watching my beloved alma mater appear ill-prepared from the start, lose its best player to injury on the opening series and make the same mistakes as last year's disappointing 5-7 team.
You wanna know how it feels? When someone who usually bursts with emotion is forced to keep it bottled up inside? Physically ill, that's how it feels. My head throbbed, and I felt like I was going vomit.
I didn't watch another snap of football the rest of the day, and I don't look forward to watching any in the near future.
The weekend began with so much promise. The forecast of nice weather, the kickoff of college football with the Illini as a six-point favorite and, of course, knowing there's an extra day off before heading back to work. But it quickly crashed and burned. The late night/early morning trip to the pharmacy -- which was actually two stops instead of one since Walgreens didn't have what I needed -- is the only time I've been out of the house since Friday evening. Now here I sit, monitoring sick children, doing laundry and dreaming of a better outcome.
What could be next? Cleaning the fucking garage? Maybe the basement? At this rate I shouldn't be surprised if I'm called into work on a federal holiday.
Although I didn't have a ticket, I'd entertained the idea of making the trip to St. Louis all the way up until Friday night. My wife even supported the plan. But when I had to head out of the house at 1:30am to purchase pain relievers for my littlest boy, I knew there was no way I'd be making my solo gameday roadtrip.
Most of the day instead centered around keeping our children happy and comfortable; by late morning it was clear that Joey wasn't 100% either. So the 2:40pm kickoff of the Illinois-Missouri game arrived not with me sitting in the Edward Jones Dome, not with me screaming at the television in anticipation of the start of the season, but with me sitting relatively reserved (at least on the outside) with a somewhat-ill child by my side, while my miserably-ill child was with his mother at our doctor's urgent care office. Not at all what I had in mind for gameday.
By the time Lukas returned home with a diagnosis of two ear infections and mouth ulcers consistent with the 'Hand, Foot and Mouth' disease virus, the Illini were already in a 10-0 hole and my blood pressure likely would have blown the cuff off of my arm. Things clearly didn't get much better as I watched every snap of a game that I now feel comfortable saying was the most disappointing football performance I've seen in recent memory. And I watched it primarily in a silent living room.
I'm usually the person who has a comment for every play, the annoyingly educated fan who call outs individual players away from the ball during the action. It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with a group of people or in public. So imagine the trouble I had trying to watch this game in silence, watching my beloved alma mater appear ill-prepared from the start, lose its best player to injury on the opening series and make the same mistakes as last year's disappointing 5-7 team.
You wanna know how it feels? When someone who usually bursts with emotion is forced to keep it bottled up inside? Physically ill, that's how it feels. My head throbbed, and I felt like I was going vomit.
I didn't watch another snap of football the rest of the day, and I don't look forward to watching any in the near future.
The weekend began with so much promise. The forecast of nice weather, the kickoff of college football with the Illini as a six-point favorite and, of course, knowing there's an extra day off before heading back to work. But it quickly crashed and burned. The late night/early morning trip to the pharmacy -- which was actually two stops instead of one since Walgreens didn't have what I needed -- is the only time I've been out of the house since Friday evening. Now here I sit, monitoring sick children, doing laundry and dreaming of a better outcome.
What could be next? Cleaning the fucking garage? Maybe the basement? At this rate I shouldn't be surprised if I'm called into work on a federal holiday.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
"How Do You Ride a Disco Stick?"
I never have been and never will be hip to the club scene, but I feel pretty confident in thinking that there's really no such object as a 'disco stick' when it comes to the dance floor, the DJ booth or the other areas that define the club scene. But consider this lyric:
Let's have some fun, this beat is sick;
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
There's only one way I can interpret this, especially when the lyric is pulled from a song entitled 'Lovegame' and when the artist looks like this.
Now try explaining it to an eight-year-old. That was what I was faced with this week as I allowed the TV to stay on Time Warner's 'Hit List' music channel while we ate dinner.
Question #1 from my stepson: "What's a disco stick?" I had no clue what the hell he was talking about until I listened to the song and heard the lyric. Yeah, maybe my mind just raced to the fucking gutter, but I can't think of any other way to interpret that. After I played dumb, Dominic came to the conclusion that it must be just like one of those shiny disco balls that hangs over the dance floor. Sure, sounds good to me.
Question #2: "But how do you ride a disco stick?" Can anyone answer that?
Other quotes of the week from my world:
"Send 'em all to fucking jail." This one came from my boss over lunch Friday. Being the lone female at the table, I hardly expected this kind of passionate interjection as the three men discussed the latest leak of 2003 steriod users in baseball. Rightfully, her comment was directed toward those who leaked the names of the offenders. I agree that there needs to be some serious accountability for this. Yes, the likes of A-Rod, Manny and Ortiz should be scorned for their use of performance enhancers, but those tests in '03 were part of an anonymous survey. The results should have been destroyed after they'd been tallied, and there NEVER should have been names attached to them. It really shouldn't be too difficult.
"Look at your nickels!" This is courtesy of my three-year-old boy, Joey. Proving that context is key to interpreting anything a child says, Joey said this as his 19-month-old brother ran around temporarily shirtless. Yes, 'nickels' are in fact nipples in our house.
Needless to say, it can be a riotous time in my world.
Let's have some fun, this beat is sick;
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
There's only one way I can interpret this, especially when the lyric is pulled from a song entitled 'Lovegame' and when the artist looks like this.
Now try explaining it to an eight-year-old. That was what I was faced with this week as I allowed the TV to stay on Time Warner's 'Hit List' music channel while we ate dinner.
Question #1 from my stepson: "What's a disco stick?" I had no clue what the hell he was talking about until I listened to the song and heard the lyric. Yeah, maybe my mind just raced to the fucking gutter, but I can't think of any other way to interpret that. After I played dumb, Dominic came to the conclusion that it must be just like one of those shiny disco balls that hangs over the dance floor. Sure, sounds good to me.
Question #2: "But how do you ride a disco stick?" Can anyone answer that?
Other quotes of the week from my world:
"Send 'em all to fucking jail." This one came from my boss over lunch Friday. Being the lone female at the table, I hardly expected this kind of passionate interjection as the three men discussed the latest leak of 2003 steriod users in baseball. Rightfully, her comment was directed toward those who leaked the names of the offenders. I agree that there needs to be some serious accountability for this. Yes, the likes of A-Rod, Manny and Ortiz should be scorned for their use of performance enhancers, but those tests in '03 were part of an anonymous survey. The results should have been destroyed after they'd been tallied, and there NEVER should have been names attached to them. It really shouldn't be too difficult.
"Look at your nickels!" This is courtesy of my three-year-old boy, Joey. Proving that context is key to interpreting anything a child says, Joey said this as his 19-month-old brother ran around temporarily shirtless. Yes, 'nickels' are in fact nipples in our house.
Needless to say, it can be a riotous time in my world.
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