I don't expect life to be easy. I guess I just expect it to be easier than it is. So why, then, would I choose to sign myself up for more complication.
As Jamie Foxx might say, maybe I should blame it on the alcohol.
I have a wife, two sons, a stepson, a dog, two houses, a full-time job and somewhat of a seasonal part-time job. My wife also runs her own business out of one of our houses, so there's certainly a great deal of stress to go around with that too. She appears to be every bit as stressed as I, however, she remarkably has grander plans. She talks about expanding her daycare even more, she has a seemingly insatiable desire for a fourth child, and in the background all I want to do is get some more fucking sleep.
Well, that hasn't happened recently. Why? Because we got a new dog. A new eight-week-old puppy, to be exact. And, trust me, this does not make life any easier.
Don't get me wrong, the puppy is adorable. Her name is Penny. (The name was actually one that I threw into the mix. When brainstorming for names, my wife wanted to think of ones that started with P so it would sound cute with Dog #1, Pebbles. I, naturally, starting thinking of TV show characters. Lost is generally at or near the top of my list, so Penelope Widmore gets credit here, although I think just one of her breasts is larger than my new dog. I digress. Anyway, back to the canine Penny ...) She's very playful, she's been very quick catching on to house training, but she's got an unquantifiable amount of energy. That doesn't bode well with small children around either, particularly those who insist on simply rolling around her and putting their hands in her face.
Now picture a maniacal, impatient, short-tempered man seemingly pacing around the house in circles.
"Don't eat that!"
"Get your hands out of her face!"
"Put that down!"
"Stop biting him!"
Oh, it's a scene, man.
So how did we get here? The idea of another dog has come up many times, although when asked within the last month how likely I thought it was that we'd get another dog soon, I estimated the probability at a mere 20%. It was only a possibility because I sometimes feel sorry for Pebbles. She's the spoiled little girl of the family, which I often point out as rationale in my case against having another child. We've already got our little girl. But Pebbles often seems to just be bored. I don't know what the hell she's thinking, but it looks like she could use some more stimulation.
But I also know it's not as simple as plopping another dog into the mix and watching them frolic happily. Would the spoiled little five-year-old dog feel betrayed, as if the spotlight is being turned away from her? It was a realistic possibility for me, seeing as that's what happened to my beloved cat when Pebbles came along.
It's clearly a debatable topic, and without a clear-cut answer, the status quo certainly appeared safe. But that all somehow changed a couple of weeks ago. As is fairly common, my wife was spending one late evening on our couch perusing the pups on Craig's List for Shih-Tzus (which is Pebbles' breed). She came along a cute one that was mixed with Mini Australian Shepherd. And the "What If?" game ensued.
"What would we name her?"
"How big would she get?"
"Do you think Pebbles would like her?"
"Do you think it would be good for the kids?"
I played along, all the while enjoying several drinks and the NBA Playoffs. I hardly thought there'd be a new dog under our roof the next fucking day. But that's exactly what happened. There were some e-mails and texts early that next day, one of which led to my wife's happy proclamation: "She says we can get her today!"
I thought, "Of course we can get her today. Just about anyone can get her. But that doesn't mean we are getting her ... does it?"
But we did. The wife, of course, was dumbfounded by my seeming change of heart. She claimed I was 100% on board with it the previous night, which means I must have drank a hell of a lot more than I thought.
Regardless of the chain of events, there's a new spoiled little girl in town. And, not surprisingly, all of the spoils are going to her.
Welcome to the party, Penny
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Timing Is Everything
March 23, 2006, produced one of my favorite college basketball memories. It was late that night when the NCAA tourney games were winding down, and I was fortunate enough to catch the end of the UCLA-Gonzaga game.
For those unfamiliar with what happened, the Bruins staged an unlikely late comeback, ending the game on an 11-0 run to earn the dramatic win. It was the final collegiate game for floppy-haired Adam Morrison, who wept on the court even before the final second had ticked off the clock.
Adding to the excitement, of course, was the fact that Gus Johnson was handling the play-by-play duties, helping make this one even more of an instant classic. And as Gus was freaking out will Luc Richard Mbah a Moute scored the winning bucket and got a win-preserving steal, I was equally freaking out.
But I suppose this is where I should mention that I was watching this game inside a room in the maternity wing of a local hospital.
Yeah, my wife was about to burst at the time. During the game's climax, which I believe was at about 11:00pm, she was in the bathroom and had no clue what was going on. One of the nurses actually came in to see what was wrong, only to find that it was just a soon-to-be dad flipping out at the television. Sorry, sweetheart, that's just what I do.
My son was born about 36 hours later, firmly in the middle of March Madness. So my question is this: How long until he can fully appreciate it this?
As you may have guessed, my motivation in this case is largely selfish. Last year, Joey's third birthday party was scheduled on the third day of the NCAA Tournament. Had Illinois not lost its opening round game to Western Kentucky, its second-round matchup would have been taking place during the party ... which I was fully prepared to miss.
The news this year isn't any better. I just found out that Joey's party - with its exciting Easter theme - is scheduled for March 20. That's once again the third day of tourney action. Fuck.
Even when my team is not playing, I want to be around to watch all of the action. I want to have access to multiple TVs, I want to have a steady flow of beer, and I certainly don't want to be around a bunch of kids.
Is that too much to ask for a couple of weekends out of the year? (I know, it probably is.)
I just want to know how long it will take for Joey to appreciate this as well. How long might it be before he says, "Listen, Mom, this birthday shit has to wait; these games are too big."
I'm not yet holding my breath for it. But one can hope.
For those unfamiliar with what happened, the Bruins staged an unlikely late comeback, ending the game on an 11-0 run to earn the dramatic win. It was the final collegiate game for floppy-haired Adam Morrison, who wept on the court even before the final second had ticked off the clock.
Adding to the excitement, of course, was the fact that Gus Johnson was handling the play-by-play duties, helping make this one even more of an instant classic. And as Gus was freaking out will Luc Richard Mbah a Moute scored the winning bucket and got a win-preserving steal, I was equally freaking out.
But I suppose this is where I should mention that I was watching this game inside a room in the maternity wing of a local hospital.
Yeah, my wife was about to burst at the time. During the game's climax, which I believe was at about 11:00pm, she was in the bathroom and had no clue what was going on. One of the nurses actually came in to see what was wrong, only to find that it was just a soon-to-be dad flipping out at the television. Sorry, sweetheart, that's just what I do.
My son was born about 36 hours later, firmly in the middle of March Madness. So my question is this: How long until he can fully appreciate it this?
As you may have guessed, my motivation in this case is largely selfish. Last year, Joey's third birthday party was scheduled on the third day of the NCAA Tournament. Had Illinois not lost its opening round game to Western Kentucky, its second-round matchup would have been taking place during the party ... which I was fully prepared to miss.
The news this year isn't any better. I just found out that Joey's party - with its exciting Easter theme - is scheduled for March 20. That's once again the third day of tourney action. Fuck.
Even when my team is not playing, I want to be around to watch all of the action. I want to have access to multiple TVs, I want to have a steady flow of beer, and I certainly don't want to be around a bunch of kids.
Is that too much to ask for a couple of weekends out of the year? (I know, it probably is.)
I just want to know how long it will take for Joey to appreciate this as well. How long might it be before he says, "Listen, Mom, this birthday shit has to wait; these games are too big."
I'm not yet holding my breath for it. But one can hope.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
"Ferb, I Know What We're Gonna Do Today."
Maybe I should be ashamed to admit it, but one of my favorite shows on television airs on the Disney Channel.
No, it’s not one of the awful live-action shows that features terrible child actors and adult actors who are arguably even worse. (They’re obviously on kid-targeted shows for a reason; the audience can’t tell how bad they suck and, thus, why they are stuck on a horrible fucking kids’ show.)
No, this is not The Suite Life of Zach and Cody or Wizards of Waverly Place or, God forbid, Hannah Montana. I’m talking about Phineas and Ferb.
The title characters in this gem of an animated series are a pair of precocious brothers who devote their time to building and accomplishing extraordinary things. This is done, as we’re told in the theme song and opening sequence, as the young fellas try to find a good way to spend each day of the summer break from school. Among their achievements: building a roller coaster in their backyard, a portal to Mars and robots of themselves … which would, of course, allow them to accomplish even more great things.
Prolific.
Naturally, there are subplots too. After Phineas decides on each day’s mission, which always leads to the declaration that’s used as the title of this blog post, the boys notice that their pet platypus is gone. Where could he have gone? Glad you asked. You see, Perry the Platypus is actually a secret agent. While our shrewd title protagonists plot their daily adventure, Perry sneaks underground to learn of his latest assignment, which always deals with the evil Dr. Doofenshmirtz, head of Doofenshmirtz Evil, Inc.
Come on, tell me this isn’t great stuff.
But what really helps make the show work is big sister Candace. She’s everything you’d expect in a teenage girl; in particular, she’s quite loud and quite unstable -- not that those qualities are necessarily reserved for only adolescent females. The character also likely brings the show some street cred with the slightly older Disney crowd since she’s voiced by Ashley Tisdale, also known as the blonde from the High School Musical franchise.
What makes Candace a great character is her desperation. She’s always out to bust her younger brothers for their daring daily antics, and she can never quite do it. Despite her efforts each day, somehow all evidence of Phineas and Ferb’s unbelievable escapades disappears just as Candace is dragging her mother into the backyard to expose it. This often happens with the inadvertent help of Perry while he’s foiling the sinister plans of Dr. Doofenshmirtz. Of course, no one else even knows that’s going on.
Further adding to Candace’s misery, and therefore adding to her overall value on the show, is her tireless pursuit of a boy. Her infatuation with Jeremy rivals only her determination to get her brothers in trouble. And as these two primary objectives overlap, Candace’s frustration, confusion and failure obviously add up to great comedy.
The writers of the show are clearly pushing the right buttons, and they even know how to pull at the pop culture heartstrings of an adult like myself. Never has it been more evident than in the episode "Phineas and Ferb's Quantum Boogaloo." It’s a clear tribute to Back to the Future Part II, one of the most underrated mainstream movies of the 1980s.
This episode finds Phineas and Ferb travelling 20 years into the future in search of a new tool that they need for their latest project, and they happen to be spotted by future Candace in the process. With the rush of painful memories of their successes and her failed attempts to stop them, future Candace decides to go back in time to make sure her brothers get busted. But much like the greed that led Marty McFly to purchase the Grey’s Sports Almanac in 2015 (Jesus Christ, that’s only five years from now), Candace’s greed to demoralize her brothers has unpleasant and unforeseen consequences.
When future Candace returns to 2029, she doesn’t find herself back in her content suburban life in Danville; instead, she finds a dreary dystopia ruled by Dr. Doofenshmirtz. Like Marty upon his return to the alternate 1985 that featured a city of Hill Valley that was essentially owned by Biff Tannen, Candace believes she’s erroneously travelled to a different time. However, the drastic societal change was in fact due to a chain of events she set off by altering the time continuum. A paradox, as Dr. Emmett Brown would point out.
Candace’s new reality is devoid of children. They’ve essentially been frozen until adulthood in an effort to curb the kind of dangerous creativity that Phineas and Ferb had exhibited 20 years earlier. Without getting into further and perhaps unnecessary detail (my wife says I’m a terrible storyteller because I drone on far too long and in far too much detail), I’ll just say that Candace has to do a little more time travelling and enlist the help of her younger brothers just to get the world back where it once was and where it now belongs.
Genius, I tell you.
I urge you to think outside the box and consider this as a new alternative on television. Like most Disney shows, who fucking knows if Phineas and Ferb truly has its own timeslot; rather it tends to just be on … a lot. You should have plenty of opportunities to check it out.
****
But what does all of this, a nearly 1000-word breakdown of an animated television series, mean in the proverbial grand scheme of things for me?
Should it be viewed as an indictment of my standards for television excellence? I can just hear my dad judgingly saying, “You’re watching a cartoon?”
Should I be seen as someone who considers things far too critically rather than simply accepting them at their superficial face value?
Maybe the answer is yes to both of those things, but what I’m truly trying to point out is that, quite simply, this is what I do. I watch quite a bit of Disney Channel and don’t necessarily watch/do much of what I want these days. It’s the resignation one must make in many cases as a married man with children.
That’s why it was so disconcerting to hear my wife recently say, in the context of me using two vacation days in late March simply to watch college basketball, “It must be nice to be Steve.”
That statement clearly implies that this Steve character has a great deal of personal freedom that everyone should be so lucky to have. I don’t know who this guy is, though, because he sure as hell isn’t me.
The Steve who I portray in real life sees just as much Disney Channel as he does college basketball these days. In fact, he’s probably watched fewer sporting events over the last couple of years than he has in the any of the last 20.
This Steve still doesn’t have a separate TV in his nice finished basement for his sports escapes. He still essentially shares one main television with at times as many as four other people, three of whom are single-digit aged.
He’s come to accept that Phineas and Ferb can be an entertaining escape, an escape that can be achieved even with his children surrounding him and enjoying it at the same time.
Yes, this Steve is me. I love my wife and love my children more than I could possibly say. But please, for the love of God, don’t for a minute think I’m living the dream of a sports fanatic. Don’t for a minute think I have the freedom to think and act independently. Those days are long gone.
I’ve come to accept that. There’s no reason to rub it in my fucking face.
No, it’s not one of the awful live-action shows that features terrible child actors and adult actors who are arguably even worse. (They’re obviously on kid-targeted shows for a reason; the audience can’t tell how bad they suck and, thus, why they are stuck on a horrible fucking kids’ show.)
No, this is not The Suite Life of Zach and Cody or Wizards of Waverly Place or, God forbid, Hannah Montana. I’m talking about Phineas and Ferb.
The title characters in this gem of an animated series are a pair of precocious brothers who devote their time to building and accomplishing extraordinary things. This is done, as we’re told in the theme song and opening sequence, as the young fellas try to find a good way to spend each day of the summer break from school. Among their achievements: building a roller coaster in their backyard, a portal to Mars and robots of themselves … which would, of course, allow them to accomplish even more great things.
Prolific.
Naturally, there are subplots too. After Phineas decides on each day’s mission, which always leads to the declaration that’s used as the title of this blog post, the boys notice that their pet platypus is gone. Where could he have gone? Glad you asked. You see, Perry the Platypus is actually a secret agent. While our shrewd title protagonists plot their daily adventure, Perry sneaks underground to learn of his latest assignment, which always deals with the evil Dr. Doofenshmirtz, head of Doofenshmirtz Evil, Inc.
Come on, tell me this isn’t great stuff.
But what really helps make the show work is big sister Candace. She’s everything you’d expect in a teenage girl; in particular, she’s quite loud and quite unstable -- not that those qualities are necessarily reserved for only adolescent females. The character also likely brings the show some street cred with the slightly older Disney crowd since she’s voiced by Ashley Tisdale, also known as the blonde from the High School Musical franchise.
What makes Candace a great character is her desperation. She’s always out to bust her younger brothers for their daring daily antics, and she can never quite do it. Despite her efforts each day, somehow all evidence of Phineas and Ferb’s unbelievable escapades disappears just as Candace is dragging her mother into the backyard to expose it. This often happens with the inadvertent help of Perry while he’s foiling the sinister plans of Dr. Doofenshmirtz. Of course, no one else even knows that’s going on.
Further adding to Candace’s misery, and therefore adding to her overall value on the show, is her tireless pursuit of a boy. Her infatuation with Jeremy rivals only her determination to get her brothers in trouble. And as these two primary objectives overlap, Candace’s frustration, confusion and failure obviously add up to great comedy.
The writers of the show are clearly pushing the right buttons, and they even know how to pull at the pop culture heartstrings of an adult like myself. Never has it been more evident than in the episode "Phineas and Ferb's Quantum Boogaloo." It’s a clear tribute to Back to the Future Part II, one of the most underrated mainstream movies of the 1980s.
This episode finds Phineas and Ferb travelling 20 years into the future in search of a new tool that they need for their latest project, and they happen to be spotted by future Candace in the process. With the rush of painful memories of their successes and her failed attempts to stop them, future Candace decides to go back in time to make sure her brothers get busted. But much like the greed that led Marty McFly to purchase the Grey’s Sports Almanac in 2015 (Jesus Christ, that’s only five years from now), Candace’s greed to demoralize her brothers has unpleasant and unforeseen consequences.
When future Candace returns to 2029, she doesn’t find herself back in her content suburban life in Danville; instead, she finds a dreary dystopia ruled by Dr. Doofenshmirtz. Like Marty upon his return to the alternate 1985 that featured a city of Hill Valley that was essentially owned by Biff Tannen, Candace believes she’s erroneously travelled to a different time. However, the drastic societal change was in fact due to a chain of events she set off by altering the time continuum. A paradox, as Dr. Emmett Brown would point out.
Candace’s new reality is devoid of children. They’ve essentially been frozen until adulthood in an effort to curb the kind of dangerous creativity that Phineas and Ferb had exhibited 20 years earlier. Without getting into further and perhaps unnecessary detail (my wife says I’m a terrible storyteller because I drone on far too long and in far too much detail), I’ll just say that Candace has to do a little more time travelling and enlist the help of her younger brothers just to get the world back where it once was and where it now belongs.
Genius, I tell you.
I urge you to think outside the box and consider this as a new alternative on television. Like most Disney shows, who fucking knows if Phineas and Ferb truly has its own timeslot; rather it tends to just be on … a lot. You should have plenty of opportunities to check it out.
****
But what does all of this, a nearly 1000-word breakdown of an animated television series, mean in the proverbial grand scheme of things for me?
Should it be viewed as an indictment of my standards for television excellence? I can just hear my dad judgingly saying, “You’re watching a cartoon?”
Should I be seen as someone who considers things far too critically rather than simply accepting them at their superficial face value?
Maybe the answer is yes to both of those things, but what I’m truly trying to point out is that, quite simply, this is what I do. I watch quite a bit of Disney Channel and don’t necessarily watch/do much of what I want these days. It’s the resignation one must make in many cases as a married man with children.
That’s why it was so disconcerting to hear my wife recently say, in the context of me using two vacation days in late March simply to watch college basketball, “It must be nice to be Steve.”
That statement clearly implies that this Steve character has a great deal of personal freedom that everyone should be so lucky to have. I don’t know who this guy is, though, because he sure as hell isn’t me.
The Steve who I portray in real life sees just as much Disney Channel as he does college basketball these days. In fact, he’s probably watched fewer sporting events over the last couple of years than he has in the any of the last 20.
This Steve still doesn’t have a separate TV in his nice finished basement for his sports escapes. He still essentially shares one main television with at times as many as four other people, three of whom are single-digit aged.
He’s come to accept that Phineas and Ferb can be an entertaining escape, an escape that can be achieved even with his children surrounding him and enjoying it at the same time.
Yes, this Steve is me. I love my wife and love my children more than I could possibly say. But please, for the love of God, don’t for a minute think I’m living the dream of a sports fanatic. Don’t for a minute think I have the freedom to think and act independently. Those days are long gone.
I’ve come to accept that. There’s no reason to rub it in my fucking face.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Football Is Over. Isn't It Super?
It wasn’t long after the Super Bowl’s opening kickoff when my son Joey asked me why I have to watch football games “all day, everyday.” That’s clearly an exaggeration on his part, even on the one day when it’s possible to get completely consumed by coverage of a single game from the time you wake up. I’m not into that though. Not even three years ago when I woke up from a poor night’s sleep in anticipation of the Bears playing in Super Bowl XLI.
As freakish as I am about sports, I’m really not an all-day NFL fan. My habits are strictly dictated by my allegiances, so my fandom is entirely dependent on when the Bears play.
I rarely watch any of the weekly pre-game shows when there are 13 to 16 games to preview; my team is involved in exactly one of those each week. So if all teams/games are treated equally – which they aren’t – then over the course of a two-hour edition of NFL Countdown the Bears’ game would get an average of somewhere between five and seven minutes of coverage each week. (That’s assuming commercial interruptions account for 16 minutes per hour of programming.)
Why would I watch 80+ minutes of coverage devoted to other games with which I have no emotional involvement? Breaking fantasy football news? Like I couldn’t get that with a couple of simple clicks on my PC instead.
Which brings me back to Super Bowl Sunday. CBS had a four-hour pregame show, and that didn’t even include the “Kickoff Show” which was actually the last 30 minutes leading up to the kickoff. I understand that the NFL is believed to be the model professional sports league in our country right now (although you might need to stay closely tuned to ongoing labor negotiations for a reminder that the NFL is human), but not only are there no casual fans watching all that fluff, I have a lot of trouble believing there are many true die-hard football fans who stay glued to their TVs for hours leading up the opening kickoff.
There are only so many human interest stories that can truly be interesting. As humbling as it was to basically be a housewife at the time, concentrating most of my efforts early Sunday afternoon on laundry and cleaning duties, it was plenty more productive than sitting on my couch watching the many stories that stroked the egos of the Manning family and trumpeted the Saints as a shining light around which an entire damaged city could rally.
No thanks.
When gametime did finally arrive, I had the same lack of rooting interest as I did two Sundays ago when we all learned who’d be facing off for the Lombardi Trophy. At that point I was just happy that Brett Favre’s season – and hopefully his career – was over. I had a slight lean for the Colts, but it was less due to a liking for them and more to do with a bit of distaste for the Saints. Still, not enough of a difference to care too much.
As is often the case when I watch two teams about whom I don’t really care, I concern myself more with some of the individual players who are involved. And on Super Bowl Sunday my attention was mainly fixed on two former members of the Illinois Fighting Illini. If I can’t focus my energy on my alma mater, then what good am I?
So my primary concern was not necessarily who was the winning team, but my hope was that Pierre Thomas wouldn’t cough up the ball at a key moment and that Kelvin Hayden wouldn’t get burned deep by Drew Brees for a score. Neither of those things happened. In fact, Thomas made a very positive impact, accounting for about 100 total yards and a touchdown. Go Illini!
But now that the Super Bowl is over, we can move on from football. And for the first time, we don’t have to worry about the formality that is the Pro Bowl, the worst all-star game of all the professional sports.
The Pro Bowl being played the week before the Super Bowl is actually an absurd idea for many reasons, not the most trivial of which is that it obviously precludes the participation of any player from either conference champion. The good news about that, though, is that no one fucking cares. The Pro Bowl is a joke, and so it’s probably good to get it out of the way as soon as possible.
It should be noted, however, that the irrelevance of the game isn’t the fault of the league; it’s the nature of the sport. You can’t put these freakish athletes out on the gridiron together for an exhibition and for a moment think that it’s going to be entertaining theater. It’s just not possible. For a sport that’s built around hitting your opponents and avoiding being hit by them, you might as well just make your all-star game a skills competition. See which QB scores the highest in accuracy drills, see which kicker can drill one through the uprights from the farthest distance, and see which linebacker with a dangerous blend of speed and strength can literally knock the head off of a tackling dummy.
Let’s instead just make it a creative version of the draft combine and those lame College Football All-Star Challenges that are always on this time of year.
Actually, we probably shouldn’t do that either. Let’s just continue pretending the Pro Bowl doesn’t exist.
Back to the point, the football season is over. It’s time to think about where your team stands for the coming season and what can be done to address its weaknesses. The Bears’ 2009 season, for all intents and purposes, ended three months ago, so I’ve had plenty of time to ponder their future. Now I can do it without the distraction of other teams and their annoying success.
Fucking losers.
As freakish as I am about sports, I’m really not an all-day NFL fan. My habits are strictly dictated by my allegiances, so my fandom is entirely dependent on when the Bears play.
I rarely watch any of the weekly pre-game shows when there are 13 to 16 games to preview; my team is involved in exactly one of those each week. So if all teams/games are treated equally – which they aren’t – then over the course of a two-hour edition of NFL Countdown the Bears’ game would get an average of somewhere between five and seven minutes of coverage each week. (That’s assuming commercial interruptions account for 16 minutes per hour of programming.)
Why would I watch 80+ minutes of coverage devoted to other games with which I have no emotional involvement? Breaking fantasy football news? Like I couldn’t get that with a couple of simple clicks on my PC instead.
Which brings me back to Super Bowl Sunday. CBS had a four-hour pregame show, and that didn’t even include the “Kickoff Show” which was actually the last 30 minutes leading up to the kickoff. I understand that the NFL is believed to be the model professional sports league in our country right now (although you might need to stay closely tuned to ongoing labor negotiations for a reminder that the NFL is human), but not only are there no casual fans watching all that fluff, I have a lot of trouble believing there are many true die-hard football fans who stay glued to their TVs for hours leading up the opening kickoff.
There are only so many human interest stories that can truly be interesting. As humbling as it was to basically be a housewife at the time, concentrating most of my efforts early Sunday afternoon on laundry and cleaning duties, it was plenty more productive than sitting on my couch watching the many stories that stroked the egos of the Manning family and trumpeted the Saints as a shining light around which an entire damaged city could rally.
No thanks.
When gametime did finally arrive, I had the same lack of rooting interest as I did two Sundays ago when we all learned who’d be facing off for the Lombardi Trophy. At that point I was just happy that Brett Favre’s season – and hopefully his career – was over. I had a slight lean for the Colts, but it was less due to a liking for them and more to do with a bit of distaste for the Saints. Still, not enough of a difference to care too much.
As is often the case when I watch two teams about whom I don’t really care, I concern myself more with some of the individual players who are involved. And on Super Bowl Sunday my attention was mainly fixed on two former members of the Illinois Fighting Illini. If I can’t focus my energy on my alma mater, then what good am I?
So my primary concern was not necessarily who was the winning team, but my hope was that Pierre Thomas wouldn’t cough up the ball at a key moment and that Kelvin Hayden wouldn’t get burned deep by Drew Brees for a score. Neither of those things happened. In fact, Thomas made a very positive impact, accounting for about 100 total yards and a touchdown. Go Illini!
But now that the Super Bowl is over, we can move on from football. And for the first time, we don’t have to worry about the formality that is the Pro Bowl, the worst all-star game of all the professional sports.
The Pro Bowl being played the week before the Super Bowl is actually an absurd idea for many reasons, not the most trivial of which is that it obviously precludes the participation of any player from either conference champion. The good news about that, though, is that no one fucking cares. The Pro Bowl is a joke, and so it’s probably good to get it out of the way as soon as possible.
It should be noted, however, that the irrelevance of the game isn’t the fault of the league; it’s the nature of the sport. You can’t put these freakish athletes out on the gridiron together for an exhibition and for a moment think that it’s going to be entertaining theater. It’s just not possible. For a sport that’s built around hitting your opponents and avoiding being hit by them, you might as well just make your all-star game a skills competition. See which QB scores the highest in accuracy drills, see which kicker can drill one through the uprights from the farthest distance, and see which linebacker with a dangerous blend of speed and strength can literally knock the head off of a tackling dummy.
Let’s instead just make it a creative version of the draft combine and those lame College Football All-Star Challenges that are always on this time of year.
Actually, we probably shouldn’t do that either. Let’s just continue pretending the Pro Bowl doesn’t exist.
Back to the point, the football season is over. It’s time to think about where your team stands for the coming season and what can be done to address its weaknesses. The Bears’ 2009 season, for all intents and purposes, ended three months ago, so I’ve had plenty of time to ponder their future. Now I can do it without the distraction of other teams and their annoying success.
Fucking losers.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
A Day in the Life
This morning I came really close to accidentally putting diesel fuel in my car. I'm not sure how accidental it would really have been, seeing as I had to have consciously removed that nozzle and pushed the corresponding button; but it certainly can be seen as an indicator of my mental state.
I know, everyone's busy, everyone's tired, and everyone's stressed. I won't deny that blanket statement. But we all deal with the shit differently. And any reader of this blog knows on which end of the spectrum I fall.
My stepson probably summed it up nicely in the car last night when he chuckled and said, "You're, like, complaining about a lot of things right now." That kind of comment generally doesn't go over very well either. Dominic's not-so-keen observation actually came just after I was cursing a highway access ramp for having too many fucking potholes. Seems trivial, yes, but consider that I was just then on my way home at about 7:00pm when I'd left work over two hours earlier. I had to pick up one kid in one place, one kid from another place, and then I unwisely chose to drive several miles out of the way to get some decent food for dinner. (Thanks to my brother, at least the food was free.)
I know it's the nature of being a parent, especially one who has multiple kids, to be completely devoid of free time. I honestly consider my drive to and from work each day to be about as relaxing as my life ever gets. But it's not as if I have kids who are overly active outside the house. I'm not yet at the point where my family is driving from end to end across town to get to a baseball game here and a soccer game there. This should be the time that I have some more flexibility to enjoy the child-rearing duties. But I'm not experiencing that with much consistency these days.
I certainly could have used some of that leeway last night, too, after a relatively rocky day at work. While it did have some clear peaks, there were also the corresponding valleys, the low point being when I felt the need to call two of my closest co-workers/friends “fucking assholes.” I meant it more than they seemed to think, but it still did change the tone of their chuckles at the time. My capacity for peripheral nonsense just happens to be at an all-time low. They should know that now.
When I did return home, I found that the door from the garage into our house had been erroneously locked. I don't have a key for that door on my chain, and, fuck, I don't even have a key to the front door on my chain. (I'll admit, I have no one to blame but myself for that, but that doesn't make the situation any better.) I knew there was a box with some extra keys out there, and while the two kids stood startled on the stairs with our poor dog barking on the other side of the door, I frantically had to try to find the right one. Luckily I did before too long, and I was finally able to get inside my freaking house.
It wasn't long after that, however, when one of my boys' chairs at their Lego table had an unfortunate accident. The accident was that it ended up in my hand, which is what led to its demise. The events that led to this incident are inconsequential at this point, but I knew at that moment that my night was going to get even worse. My wife was sure to notice this very quickly upon her return. And she did. If it weren't for Dominic's dad showing up to get him a few minutes thereafter, I might still be in the doghouse. But since Sal hung around for a little while and had a couple of beers, some of the tension was thankfully washed away by alcohol.
Still, the subject was revisited later with the expected hyperbole; my wife often likes to say, "Why do you have to break everything?" I clearly don't break everything, otherwise we wouldn't have anything left. I've responded with that exact line before, and it's not received well. In fact, I believe it was something very close to that that prompted the Line of the Night to be very smoothly and plainly delivered by my better half:
"I have this urge to punch you in the face right now. Right on the cheekbone, I think."
That, my friends, is what family life and love is all about. And at the end of the day, I know right where I belong.
I know, everyone's busy, everyone's tired, and everyone's stressed. I won't deny that blanket statement. But we all deal with the shit differently. And any reader of this blog knows on which end of the spectrum I fall.
My stepson probably summed it up nicely in the car last night when he chuckled and said, "You're, like, complaining about a lot of things right now." That kind of comment generally doesn't go over very well either. Dominic's not-so-keen observation actually came just after I was cursing a highway access ramp for having too many fucking potholes. Seems trivial, yes, but consider that I was just then on my way home at about 7:00pm when I'd left work over two hours earlier. I had to pick up one kid in one place, one kid from another place, and then I unwisely chose to drive several miles out of the way to get some decent food for dinner. (Thanks to my brother, at least the food was free.)
I know it's the nature of being a parent, especially one who has multiple kids, to be completely devoid of free time. I honestly consider my drive to and from work each day to be about as relaxing as my life ever gets. But it's not as if I have kids who are overly active outside the house. I'm not yet at the point where my family is driving from end to end across town to get to a baseball game here and a soccer game there. This should be the time that I have some more flexibility to enjoy the child-rearing duties. But I'm not experiencing that with much consistency these days.
I certainly could have used some of that leeway last night, too, after a relatively rocky day at work. While it did have some clear peaks, there were also the corresponding valleys, the low point being when I felt the need to call two of my closest co-workers/friends “fucking assholes.” I meant it more than they seemed to think, but it still did change the tone of their chuckles at the time. My capacity for peripheral nonsense just happens to be at an all-time low. They should know that now.
When I did return home, I found that the door from the garage into our house had been erroneously locked. I don't have a key for that door on my chain, and, fuck, I don't even have a key to the front door on my chain. (I'll admit, I have no one to blame but myself for that, but that doesn't make the situation any better.) I knew there was a box with some extra keys out there, and while the two kids stood startled on the stairs with our poor dog barking on the other side of the door, I frantically had to try to find the right one. Luckily I did before too long, and I was finally able to get inside my freaking house.
It wasn't long after that, however, when one of my boys' chairs at their Lego table had an unfortunate accident. The accident was that it ended up in my hand, which is what led to its demise. The events that led to this incident are inconsequential at this point, but I knew at that moment that my night was going to get even worse. My wife was sure to notice this very quickly upon her return. And she did. If it weren't for Dominic's dad showing up to get him a few minutes thereafter, I might still be in the doghouse. But since Sal hung around for a little while and had a couple of beers, some of the tension was thankfully washed away by alcohol.
Still, the subject was revisited later with the expected hyperbole; my wife often likes to say, "Why do you have to break everything?" I clearly don't break everything, otherwise we wouldn't have anything left. I've responded with that exact line before, and it's not received well. In fact, I believe it was something very close to that that prompted the Line of the Night to be very smoothly and plainly delivered by my better half:
"I have this urge to punch you in the face right now. Right on the cheekbone, I think."
That, my friends, is what family life and love is all about. And at the end of the day, I know right where I belong.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
"That's How You Become Great, Man. Hang Your Balls Out There."
So said the copy shop clerk said to Jerry Maguire as the two admired the final printed copies of Jerry's mission statement. That move, of course, was a defining moment in the protagonist's life, briefly putting him on top of the world, then quickly sinking him near rock bottom, before he rode the coattails of a mouthy, undersized wide receiver with ungodly numbers. (Seriously, the season before Rod Tidwell and Jerry got low-balled with a three-year contract offer worth less than $2 million, Rod caught 110 balls for 1550 yards. At least that's what we were told on the eve of the NFL Draft as Jerry paraded his client before the likes of Mike Tirico and Mel Kiper. Just one season like that these days and you'll easily get eight figures in guaranteed money in your next deal.)
I'd like to believe that my ability to craft words together makes it possible that I could create a published work like Jerry's mission statement that would inspire many ... and/or create enough backlash to prompt my own termination. But up until now I haven't chosen to do so. I'm about is conservative as they come, so I'm not the kind of guy who's likely to take a big risk or hang my balls on the line.
Well, that's kind of changed now. And while it has nothing to do with my professional career or anything that I've written, I have taken a somewhat-risky leap with my family. As of October, we now pay two house payments. And two utility bills. And two water bills. Etc.
After several months of building her case, my wife finally convinced me to get on board with her ambitious business plan. According to this plan, our existing home would be used strictly for my wife's daycare business. Without being filled with our personal belongings -- i.e. beds, dressers, kitchen table, living room furniture -- there'd be more room for kids' stuff and more room for more kids. I didn't believe it the first dozen or so times my wife crunched the numbers for me, but I became a believer after I did the math myself a few times. Getting a new license to expand the daycare would allow several more kids to attend the daycare, and even having to pay for a part-time employee to help out, there would be enough extra money to justify paying for our own separate place to live.
Yeah, it would be really tight at the start, considering we'd have to put money down on a new place and try to set a little aside to buy some new things to help fill the new house and some extra kids' stuff for the soon-to-be expanded daycare. But what the hell? I decided to hang my balls out there a little. Especially over the long-term, this seemed like a pretty good business opportunity. Besides, we really needed the extra space for our family, and there are always parents in need of daycare. Our cozy little 1200 square-foot house makes a perfect little private daycare. And, in the meantime, our new 2300 square-foot place gives us a significant and necessary amount of breathing room.
So you wonder why I've been a little less consisent as a blogger lately? Here it is. I've been shitting my pants every step of the way these last couple of months, closely monitoring incoming and outgoing funds, doing my best to help maintain two houses and trying hard to keep my sanity.
I'm stretched fucking thin, man.
And anyone who reads this surely knows how seriously I take sports. So consider that all of this happened as the Cubs were winding down a horribly disappointing season, as my alma mater began what has turned out to be a horribly disappointing football season, and as the Bears have whipped up and down on their own roller coaster 2009 journey. Fuck, college hoops season is now here, and I don't know how I'll have capacity to give it the energy it deserves. (Don't worry, I'll find a way.)
As the holidays arrive, I'd argue that 'tis not necessarily the season to be jolly. It is, of course, a time to be thankful. But this year, at least for me, it's also a season to just hang on tight. That's what I've been trying to do lately, and it probably isn't going to get any easier for a couple of months. Anyone else have trouble laying down a hard line Christmas budget with the wife? A budget that's less than previous years despite having children with increased expectations? Not an easy sell.
I've made my concessions, and I'll continue to do so. Drinking a quality value gin rather than a top brand ($9 for 750ml of Gordon's vs. $20 for Bombay Sapphire. You didn't think I'd quit altogether, did you?); choosing to only partially furnish my new so-called "man cave" of a finished basement. Small sacrifices, especially in the short term.
But, in case anyone wants to throw me a Christmas gift, I'll take some fucking cash.
A few other notes about the new house and our relocation:
It took less than a day before my youngest son fell down the stairs. It wasn’t actually a full flight of stairs, but it was enough. He tumbled down three steps and did a full roll before popping his head against the wall. This literally happened as we were doing the final walk-through. We technically hadn’t even gotten the keys yet.
It took two days before my wife officially fell in love with our neighborhood. On a mild October Saturday, the street and cul-de-sac quickly filled with children scattered on bikes and parents conversing in their driveways. I don’t have the same hard-on for this kind of stuff; I spent most of the time watching football inside. But it was a great start for my wife and the kids. And as long as they’re happy, I’m happy. Usually.
It took about a month before I woke up drunk in a random room within the house. This actually happened in the early morning hours of the day of our housewarming party. It was about 4:00, and I woke up face down in my son’s bedroom. Not sure how or when I got there. But consider the house warmed, I guess.
I'd like to believe that my ability to craft words together makes it possible that I could create a published work like Jerry's mission statement that would inspire many ... and/or create enough backlash to prompt my own termination. But up until now I haven't chosen to do so. I'm about is conservative as they come, so I'm not the kind of guy who's likely to take a big risk or hang my balls on the line.
Well, that's kind of changed now. And while it has nothing to do with my professional career or anything that I've written, I have taken a somewhat-risky leap with my family. As of October, we now pay two house payments. And two utility bills. And two water bills. Etc.
After several months of building her case, my wife finally convinced me to get on board with her ambitious business plan. According to this plan, our existing home would be used strictly for my wife's daycare business. Without being filled with our personal belongings -- i.e. beds, dressers, kitchen table, living room furniture -- there'd be more room for kids' stuff and more room for more kids. I didn't believe it the first dozen or so times my wife crunched the numbers for me, but I became a believer after I did the math myself a few times. Getting a new license to expand the daycare would allow several more kids to attend the daycare, and even having to pay for a part-time employee to help out, there would be enough extra money to justify paying for our own separate place to live.
Yeah, it would be really tight at the start, considering we'd have to put money down on a new place and try to set a little aside to buy some new things to help fill the new house and some extra kids' stuff for the soon-to-be expanded daycare. But what the hell? I decided to hang my balls out there a little. Especially over the long-term, this seemed like a pretty good business opportunity. Besides, we really needed the extra space for our family, and there are always parents in need of daycare. Our cozy little 1200 square-foot house makes a perfect little private daycare. And, in the meantime, our new 2300 square-foot place gives us a significant and necessary amount of breathing room.
So you wonder why I've been a little less consisent as a blogger lately? Here it is. I've been shitting my pants every step of the way these last couple of months, closely monitoring incoming and outgoing funds, doing my best to help maintain two houses and trying hard to keep my sanity.
I'm stretched fucking thin, man.
And anyone who reads this surely knows how seriously I take sports. So consider that all of this happened as the Cubs were winding down a horribly disappointing season, as my alma mater began what has turned out to be a horribly disappointing football season, and as the Bears have whipped up and down on their own roller coaster 2009 journey. Fuck, college hoops season is now here, and I don't know how I'll have capacity to give it the energy it deserves. (Don't worry, I'll find a way.)
As the holidays arrive, I'd argue that 'tis not necessarily the season to be jolly. It is, of course, a time to be thankful. But this year, at least for me, it's also a season to just hang on tight. That's what I've been trying to do lately, and it probably isn't going to get any easier for a couple of months. Anyone else have trouble laying down a hard line Christmas budget with the wife? A budget that's less than previous years despite having children with increased expectations? Not an easy sell.
I've made my concessions, and I'll continue to do so. Drinking a quality value gin rather than a top brand ($9 for 750ml of Gordon's vs. $20 for Bombay Sapphire. You didn't think I'd quit altogether, did you?); choosing to only partially furnish my new so-called "man cave" of a finished basement. Small sacrifices, especially in the short term.
But, in case anyone wants to throw me a Christmas gift, I'll take some fucking cash.
A few other notes about the new house and our relocation:
It took less than a day before my youngest son fell down the stairs. It wasn’t actually a full flight of stairs, but it was enough. He tumbled down three steps and did a full roll before popping his head against the wall. This literally happened as we were doing the final walk-through. We technically hadn’t even gotten the keys yet.
It took two days before my wife officially fell in love with our neighborhood. On a mild October Saturday, the street and cul-de-sac quickly filled with children scattered on bikes and parents conversing in their driveways. I don’t have the same hard-on for this kind of stuff; I spent most of the time watching football inside. But it was a great start for my wife and the kids. And as long as they’re happy, I’m happy. Usually.
It took about a month before I woke up drunk in a random room within the house. This actually happened in the early morning hours of the day of our housewarming party. It was about 4:00, and I woke up face down in my son’s bedroom. Not sure how or when I got there. But consider the house warmed, I guess.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Let Me Tell You a Little Something About Spirit
Today is College Spirit Day at my stepson's school. And while most of the little homos will likely be running around wearing Kansas, Kansas State or Missouri apparel, my almost-nine-year-old will be in his Juice Williams jersey.
Of course, we all know that this has nothing to do with the children; rather it's about the kids' parents and their college affiliations. It's kind of like the mock elections held at elementary schools across the country every four years as a U.S. Presidential election nears. "The kids choose Obama!" Like they've studied the fucking issues. It's much more of a measure of how their parents have rubbed off on them. Likewise, try asking Dominic what he thinks about Ron Zook coming back next year to lead to 2010 Illini. And does he think Jacob Charest should be the starting QB heading into next year? He's likely to respond to those questions with the same kind of reaction I get when trying to help explain his homework. Perhaps like all third-graders, he doesn't care what the right answers are, and he doesn't give a shit how we've gotten to them.
But I do have to wonder if there are any teachers at Horizon Elementary who spot that orange #7 jersey today and think, "Shit, that kid's dad is having a rough season." Surely I'm not the only person who thinks that way. I just can't believe how passive some people are about sports, especially with college affiliations. My father-in-law, for example, can't understand why I get so freaking pissed when he sends me texts after Iowa Hawkeyes victories, updating me on their record and including an obligatory "Go Hawks!" Luckily, I haven't had to see one of those gut-wrenching messages in a few weeks. For the same reason he sends those messages, he should easily understand why I fucking loathe receiving them: Because I don't want his god damn school to win!
That's what spirit is about, having your kids wear your school colors and looking at people who wear your enemy's colors and telling them to go fuck themselves (although it's usually unspoken). No smiles and wishes of good luck. I wish ill will upon my enemies.
And, by the way, Dominic had absolutely no say in what he wore to school today.
Of course, we all know that this has nothing to do with the children; rather it's about the kids' parents and their college affiliations. It's kind of like the mock elections held at elementary schools across the country every four years as a U.S. Presidential election nears. "The kids choose Obama!" Like they've studied the fucking issues. It's much more of a measure of how their parents have rubbed off on them. Likewise, try asking Dominic what he thinks about Ron Zook coming back next year to lead to 2010 Illini. And does he think Jacob Charest should be the starting QB heading into next year? He's likely to respond to those questions with the same kind of reaction I get when trying to help explain his homework. Perhaps like all third-graders, he doesn't care what the right answers are, and he doesn't give a shit how we've gotten to them.
But I do have to wonder if there are any teachers at Horizon Elementary who spot that orange #7 jersey today and think, "Shit, that kid's dad is having a rough season." Surely I'm not the only person who thinks that way. I just can't believe how passive some people are about sports, especially with college affiliations. My father-in-law, for example, can't understand why I get so freaking pissed when he sends me texts after Iowa Hawkeyes victories, updating me on their record and including an obligatory "Go Hawks!" Luckily, I haven't had to see one of those gut-wrenching messages in a few weeks. For the same reason he sends those messages, he should easily understand why I fucking loathe receiving them: Because I don't want his god damn school to win!
That's what spirit is about, having your kids wear your school colors and looking at people who wear your enemy's colors and telling them to go fuck themselves (although it's usually unspoken). No smiles and wishes of good luck. I wish ill will upon my enemies.
And, by the way, Dominic had absolutely no say in what he wore to school today.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Is Poop Really Getting in the Way? ... and Other Weekend Issues
I don't know if my weekend should be considered typical or atypical (does it have to be one or the other?), but there were a few items of note. I would be an irresponsible blogger if I didn't share them.
"Your poop is getting in the way of family time." I don't really like going to the park. For a man with a couple of kids, that can be a problem. But my reason for abandoning my family at Porter Park Friday night was legitimate: I HAD to go to the bathroom, and I wasn't using a portable jail cell of a 'toilet' in order to relieve myself. Luckily we'd gone to the park right after running a couple of errands, so we were only about a mile from home and I had the use of a car at my disposal. (Frankly, I might have run that mile if I didn't have the car.) Anyway, I was only gone for about ten minutes. Harmless relief, right? Of course not. During my short round-trip, my 18-month-old son took a header into a rocking dinosaur, bloodying his lip and chipping a tooth. Come on, what are the freaking odds? Could I have prevented it? Probably not, but my turds may always be tied to that little chipped tooth.
Miley Cyrus, you tricky little broad. I had a great idea for Saturday morning. I was ready to get online just before 10:00am to position myself for a couple of tickets to the Miley Cyrus concert later this year at Kansas City's Sprint Center. Of course, I wasn't really positioning myself to experience this show, and I wasn't even doing so for the benefit of my eight-year-old stepson, who regrettably glues himself to Hannah Montana and other Disney Channel fluff as if it were a Martin Scorcese marathon. No, I was ready to buy and resell these golden tickets and pocket the extra cash. Well, my plan was quickly foiled by this "Official Paperless Ticket Tour."
The Miley Cyrus tour is a paperless ticketed tour. You will not receive a physical ticket for entry and are required to bring the credit card used to buy your tickets and a government-issued ID to the venue, where your credit card will be swiped to gain you and your party access to the event. If you do not have your credit card and government-issued ID in hand at the event, you will not gain access to the event.
Translation: If you buy the tickets, you better be the one who shows up at the gate. Fuckin' bastards.
I didn't go to Home Depot for the chocolate. I'm going to make this one really quick: Whoever the hell came up with the idea of putting candy in the checkout aisles at places like Home Depot is a genius. Christ, I can't go pick up a couple of bags of mulch and sand without ending up with a Kit Kat too?! I tried to escape without it, but you should have heard the fucking temper tantrum. Yet another joy of parenthood.
And it's Monday again. Cheers.
"Your poop is getting in the way of family time." I don't really like going to the park. For a man with a couple of kids, that can be a problem. But my reason for abandoning my family at Porter Park Friday night was legitimate: I HAD to go to the bathroom, and I wasn't using a portable jail cell of a 'toilet' in order to relieve myself. Luckily we'd gone to the park right after running a couple of errands, so we were only about a mile from home and I had the use of a car at my disposal. (Frankly, I might have run that mile if I didn't have the car.) Anyway, I was only gone for about ten minutes. Harmless relief, right? Of course not. During my short round-trip, my 18-month-old son took a header into a rocking dinosaur, bloodying his lip and chipping a tooth. Come on, what are the freaking odds? Could I have prevented it? Probably not, but my turds may always be tied to that little chipped tooth.
Miley Cyrus, you tricky little broad. I had a great idea for Saturday morning. I was ready to get online just before 10:00am to position myself for a couple of tickets to the Miley Cyrus concert later this year at Kansas City's Sprint Center. Of course, I wasn't really positioning myself to experience this show, and I wasn't even doing so for the benefit of my eight-year-old stepson, who regrettably glues himself to Hannah Montana and other Disney Channel fluff as if it were a Martin Scorcese marathon. No, I was ready to buy and resell these golden tickets and pocket the extra cash. Well, my plan was quickly foiled by this "Official Paperless Ticket Tour."The Miley Cyrus tour is a paperless ticketed tour. You will not receive a physical ticket for entry and are required to bring the credit card used to buy your tickets and a government-issued ID to the venue, where your credit card will be swiped to gain you and your party access to the event. If you do not have your credit card and government-issued ID in hand at the event, you will not gain access to the event.
Translation: If you buy the tickets, you better be the one who shows up at the gate. Fuckin' bastards.
I didn't go to Home Depot for the chocolate. I'm going to make this one really quick: Whoever the hell came up with the idea of putting candy in the checkout aisles at places like Home Depot is a genius. Christ, I can't go pick up a couple of bags of mulch and sand without ending up with a Kit Kat too?! I tried to escape without it, but you should have heard the fucking temper tantrum. Yet another joy of parenthood.
And it's Monday again. Cheers.
Monday, May 11, 2009
A Few Random Thoughts After Being Pissed on by Wii Fit
No disrespect to that software geniuses who invented the Nintendo Wii or Wii Fit, in particular; however, my Wii Fit experience is off to a very inauspicious start.
The box was just cracked open today, one day after my wife received Wii Fit as a Mothers' Day gift from my mom. Today's task was simply to get started, setting up profiles for my wife and myself. Now I'm not at all the one who's vigilant about getting started on this. Within the last year, I've dropped almost 20 pounds to get down to my desired Super Welterweight/Middleweight frame in the low 150s. Standing a mere 5'6", I tend to think I do okay for myself. Apparently, Wii Fit doesn't agree.
After simply standing on this board for a few seconds and performing a couple of balancing tests, I was told my fitness level was ideal for a 36-year-old. The fucking audacity. No offense to those of age 36, but that's four years older than I am. I'll be damned to stand around and have someone - even a damn machine - tell me I'm not in good shape for according to my years.
I do some strength and resistance training several days a week, and I probably jog a total of 10-15 miles peer week. Is that good for nothing?
Pricks.
The glory in being wrong. So I was only 30 points off in my prediction yesterday of Game 4 of the NBA Western Conference semifinals. Rather than the 18-point Lakers' victory that I projected, it was the Rockets who cruised to a 12-point win (and it wasn't nearly that close). But I have no problem being so far off on this one. First of all, who didn't think the Lakers would win? Secondly, who really wouldn't want this series to stretch as long as possible. I find it ridiculous to think that Houston can win another game in L.A., but I can keep my fingers crossed that Artest will be ready to pop one of the Lakers into the first row at some point in the next few days.
Confession: I actually want the Lakers to win. Those who know me well can tell you that two of my least favorite things in life are hype and populism. (Guess who I didn't vote for in the Presidential Election last November?) That's why it's highly improbable to think that I'd actually be pulling for the much-desired Lakers-Cavs matchup in the NBA Finals. I'm sorry, though, I just think it's something I need to see. The Lakers are the best team in the West, the Cavs are the best in the East; Kobe's the best player in the West, LeBron is the best player in the East. Let's get this done. It's good for the league, good for basketball in general, good for TV, and it's good enough for me. Just this once, I'm buying the hype and I'm voting with the masses.
My wife is right about this kid shit. My wife runs a daycare out of our home, at its peak with as many as eight children under our small roof. This is personally significant to me in many ways, but perhaps none moreso than on days like today, when I stay home from work. My wonderful 16-month-old son, Lukas, rolled over this morning with a temperature of 103. Rather than closing the daycare, inconveniencing the other parents and forcing my wife to burn one of her contracted sick days, I volunteered to stay home and quarantine myself with the sick child. That decision was made over 12 hours ago, and I'm officially ready to get out of the fucking house. My only fresh air salvation today has been a 10-minute walk with my dog, and I'm just about ready for a 10-hour trip to my favorite watering hole.
She's right, this stuff isn't easy. Much respect.
The box was just cracked open today, one day after my wife received Wii Fit as a Mothers' Day gift from my mom. Today's task was simply to get started, setting up profiles for my wife and myself. Now I'm not at all the one who's vigilant about getting started on this. Within the last year, I've dropped almost 20 pounds to get down to my desired Super Welterweight/Middleweight frame in the low 150s. Standing a mere 5'6", I tend to think I do okay for myself. Apparently, Wii Fit doesn't agree.
After simply standing on this board for a few seconds and performing a couple of balancing tests, I was told my fitness level was ideal for a 36-year-old. The fucking audacity. No offense to those of age 36, but that's four years older than I am. I'll be damned to stand around and have someone - even a damn machine - tell me I'm not in good shape for according to my years.
I do some strength and resistance training several days a week, and I probably jog a total of 10-15 miles peer week. Is that good for nothing?
Pricks.
The glory in being wrong. So I was only 30 points off in my prediction yesterday of Game 4 of the NBA Western Conference semifinals. Rather than the 18-point Lakers' victory that I projected, it was the Rockets who cruised to a 12-point win (and it wasn't nearly that close). But I have no problem being so far off on this one. First of all, who didn't think the Lakers would win? Secondly, who really wouldn't want this series to stretch as long as possible. I find it ridiculous to think that Houston can win another game in L.A., but I can keep my fingers crossed that Artest will be ready to pop one of the Lakers into the first row at some point in the next few days.
Confession: I actually want the Lakers to win. Those who know me well can tell you that two of my least favorite things in life are hype and populism. (Guess who I didn't vote for in the Presidential Election last November?) That's why it's highly improbable to think that I'd actually be pulling for the much-desired Lakers-Cavs matchup in the NBA Finals. I'm sorry, though, I just think it's something I need to see. The Lakers are the best team in the West, the Cavs are the best in the East; Kobe's the best player in the West, LeBron is the best player in the East. Let's get this done. It's good for the league, good for basketball in general, good for TV, and it's good enough for me. Just this once, I'm buying the hype and I'm voting with the masses.
My wife is right about this kid shit. My wife runs a daycare out of our home, at its peak with as many as eight children under our small roof. This is personally significant to me in many ways, but perhaps none moreso than on days like today, when I stay home from work. My wonderful 16-month-old son, Lukas, rolled over this morning with a temperature of 103. Rather than closing the daycare, inconveniencing the other parents and forcing my wife to burn one of her contracted sick days, I volunteered to stay home and quarantine myself with the sick child. That decision was made over 12 hours ago, and I'm officially ready to get out of the fucking house. My only fresh air salvation today has been a 10-minute walk with my dog, and I'm just about ready for a 10-hour trip to my favorite watering hole.
She's right, this stuff isn't easy. Much respect.
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