All Rise

  

     Yesterday I was once again called upon to perform my civic duty.  Normally I would consider it a drag to have to miss work to sit around all day at the court house.  But this year was different.  You see, I have not had a vacation since around the first week in June which was when I took my paternity leave after "Short Stack" was born.  And let's face it, those sleepless nights for the first few months were anything but a relaxing vacation.  So this year, I looked at it as a sort of short break from reality.  In fact, I was almost hoping to be selected for any sort of trial that could last for an extended period of time.  So I, along with several hundred other civicly responsible people lined up to be herded into the Hall of Justice one by one through the metal detectors.  No threat from me, all I had was a cell phone, keys and this beat up old copy of Empire Falls.  (397 of the 480 some odd pages were already a thing of the past but I figured today might be the day that I would finally put the entire book behind me.)  But I nonetheless appreciated the thorough precautions.

     Once settled in, if that's what you would call sitting uncomfortably close to hundreds of complete strangers on a chair that after a few minutes makes your back scream at you, I could finally do what I was really there to do.  Yes we are all there to fulfill our responsibility to society, but what I'm there for is to watch the people.  There's always the realtor on the phone who thinks that the louder she talks to whoever is on the other end of the phone, the more important she appears to be to the 399 of us who are sitting around her.  Next to her is that young guy whose pants hang off of his ass and you can see half of his underwear.  Go ahead and look at him it's ok because his mind is lost somewhere in that overly loud ipod that he is listening to.  Next to him would be me.  I'm the guy fighting against my own body, twisting and repositioning hoping against all hope that I will eventually find a more comfortable position but failing miserably after hours of sitting in this torture device of a chair.

     Once released for a short break, and people are finally out of each other's personal spaces, they seem to take on a whole new personality.  The smokers fire up as soon as they are out the front door.  The social and business butterflies go straight for their cell phones.  The little old man with his red had, green shirt and leather sandals, which are at least 2 sizes to big, scampers from trash can to trash can collecting any recyclables that the rest of us might have left for him.  The most entertaining to me was the pregnant druggie whose uterus was about to give way while she yelled at her loved one on the other end of the phone about how that "God Damn Judge" screwed her again.  "He got me on fuckin' probation violation again, that motherf***er."  Yep, it's the judges fault sweetheart.  The fact that you are knocked up and obviously strung out on meth is totally not your fault and I don't understand why his honor doesn't see it your way.

     Then it happened.  I was selected with a group of 45 other people to go to Department 1 that was going to meet up after lunch at 1:30.  So out we all herd again like cattle to feed.  The only thing missing was the branding iron, thank God.  Having discovered the same restaurant last year, I quickly ran across the street and down a way to this little Mexican joint.  Because it's always a good idea to fill your stomach with spicy foods when you are going to be sitting all day in a place that requires your undivided attention.  What a fool I am.  It was a damn good Burrito though.  And why wouldn't you wash it down with a bladder buster sized Coke?  It makes sense doesn't it?

     After the lunch break we all filed back in......Again.......This time we sat there and waited.......and waited........and then waited some more.......We waited for what seemed like days.  I tried to get lost in Empire Falls as planned, but the chair that was having its way with my back and the hint of an oncoming migraine simply had their hooks in me.  Finally they called, "All who were selected for Department 1 please come to the front desk.  Your trial has been cancelled and you are all free to go."  Really?!!  I sat here all day thinking we were going to see some action.  I sat here in pain all damn day in the hopes that it would result in my being selected for this trial only for you to say that I am free to go?  Where is the justice in that? 

Acing The Test Of Time

     What's today?  Friday?  Yeah, so it was on Wednesday when the boss and I went to Costco to gather up all of the gear we are going to need for "Shorts Stack's" first birthday party tomorrow.  Sodas, snacks, sandwich platters ordered, cake ordered, candy for all of the kids who will attend and whatever else we loaded in the basket.  None of this matters, nor does any of it have to do with the point of the story other than to give purpose to our visit in the first place.

     With all items purchased and dent deeply pressed into the bank account, we followed the herd toward the exit.  In front of us, the boss notices this old couple holding hands.  "Oh my God, how cute are they?" she asked in a pointing without actually physically pointing tone.  I am a football watching, beer drinking, places that itch scratching, nose picking and flicking kind of guy, as I have mentioned before. So I don't find very many things in life to be "cute."  But Holy shit, Batman, she's right.  This was pretty damn cute.  Which got me to thinking.  What are they smiling at each other so intensely about? Perhaps one of them said something funny.  Perhaps they are just so in love with each other that they just can't help but smile.  Maybe they were excited about going home for a quick afternoon rendezvous (it could happen.) Whatever the reason, and whatever you want to call it, seeing them together made me feel comfortable or all warm and fuzzy if you will. 

     In a world where people get divorced as quickly as they drop off their dry cleaning. It was nice to see that some people do stick together and love each other even after a lifetime of underwear on the floor, empty toilet paper rolls left for someone else to replenish, and toothpaste tubes squeezed from the middle and not from the end. 

     In April, the boss and I will celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary.  A mere drop in the bucket compared to some, and a major feat for others.  Watching this old couple completely enjoy being with each other, I couldn't help but smile myself.  I hope that in another 40 years, we will have aced the test of time and that the boss will still let me hold her hand.             

    

Going Postal

      The Boss had to work on Saturday afternoon which left me alone with the girls with just one errand to run.  All I had to do was run to the post office to get some stamps and mail off a letter.  "I got this," or so I thought.

     With the girls safely loaded in the truck, we were on our way to send a letter.  As usual, I shuffled from one radio station to the next as I always do to prove to "Tall Stack," (one of millions of nicknames we have for our first born) that I know every single song on the radio and that I can sing them in an American Idol finalist sort of fashion.  She is never as impressed with my obvious talents as I am.  She never actually says that I am a horrible singer but I can tell by the look of disgust that she tries to hide from me as to not hurt my feelings.

     Finally, and much to "Tall Stack's" relief, we made it to the post office.  I got out of the truck and got "Short Stack," (the one year old and an obviously much shorter stack than "Tall Stack," hence the name) out of the back seat.  I close the door and we walk about five feet before I realize that the damn keys have just been locked in behind me.  

     With the next band of the storm looming on the horizon, I knew I had to act fast or we were going to be in some serious trouble.  Having just recently renewed our Auto Club accounts, I knew the help was just a phone call away.  

     With the letter mailed off and help on the way, all we had to do was wait.........and wait........"The storm is getting closer Dad.".........and wait........"How could you do that Dad?"............riiiing......riiing.......The phone rings and the tow truck company claims to be here but there doesn't seem to be any sign of me, my kids, or my truck in the parking lot.  "That's because I am not at the post office on Grand Ave.  I am at the post office on California Ave."...........and wait.............and wait............."we're going to get rained on Dad."  

      Finally the tow truck arrives and the guy gets my door opened for me.  Everyone was once again safely loaded into their seats and we were on our way, dry I might add.  

     What makes this story so funny to me is not that we lost an hour of our lives in the parking lot of a post office. But that I have become the guy who I would usually laugh at for being such an absent minded fool.  "That kind of thing doesn't happen to me," I would say as I point and laugh at the douchebag stuck in the parking lot with no keys and a crying baby in his arms.  I'm afraid I've lost a step my friends.  I am not as cool as I was in the younger days.  The time has come for me to pass the torch to the younger generation of punks who will point and laugh at me while I make foolish geezer mistakes.

     While "Short Stack" was none too pleased about the whole situation, on the way home and in between me singing a little David Bowie, followed by a little Gwen Stefani, "Tall Stack" and I had a good laugh about the whole thing.   

       

    

Girl Scouts: Do-gooders Or Saboteurs?

     Yeah so it's that time of year again.  It's time for New Years Resolutions of becoming a healthier you to come to an end.  It's time for Chips Ahoy and Oreo sales to drop dramatically.  That's right, it's Girl Scout Cookie season again.

     To most people this is a great time of year.  You run into the booth in front of the grocery store and pick up a box or two of those world famous Thin Mints and you feel good about your decision.  You feel good because not only are those Thin Mints delicious, but the $4 a box is going to a very good organization which teaches values and morals to the young girls of America. 

     As the father of one of these young girls, I have seen the positive effects that the Girl Scouts of America can  have on the lives of these girls.  They do things for the community, they go on outings to teach the girls life skills, and everything they do helps to build the self confidence and self esteem.

     Here's where The Girl Scouts of America and I have a problem.  The estrogen and sugar fueled marketing campaign that is the Girl Scout Cookie Season leaves a trail of failed diets, abandoned workout regiments and overwhelming feelings of guilt in its wake. 

     About a week ago, I started the P90X challenge as some of you may know.  You can call it bad timing if you'd like, but I call it sabotage.  A day or two after I started the program, The Boss and daughter come home with a car full of Girl Scout Cookies.  You heard me right, A CAR FULL!  With my arms hanging from my body like wet noodles and the extreme soreness that engulfed my entire body from the previous night's workout, I helped them unload the boxes of evil deliciousness into the garage.  Box after box of Thin Mints, Thanks-A-Lots, Peanut Butter Sandwichs, Shortbread, Peanut Butter Patties and Caramel Delights were simply too much for my will power and self control to handle.  Not to mention the big blue eyes, now in puppy dog mode accompanied by the pouty lower lip, "Wont you buy some cookies from me Daddy?"  I mean, who are the ad wizards who came up with this perfect scheme?  I had no choice, I bought the cookies.  I bought 3 boxes and I got my fix.  That night, I did an extra set of Feifer scissors to make up for my earlier lack of self control.  My P90X friends, you know what I'm talking about.  Thanks a lot Girl Scouts of AMERICA!!!  

      


      

P90X or Pizza?

     All of a sudden, The Boss is very serious about our new fitness competition.  If I have a partner and a goal, I go all out and can be focused like no other, or so I thought.

     A few days ago I started the P90X program and I am in a world of hurt.  For those of you who don't know what P90X is all about, I will tell you.  It's a fitness program equipped with a full menu of real foods that you can actually make and enjoy, (I haven't really paid attention to the nutrition part of it yet)  and for 90 days this guy on the videos (12 to be more precise) kicks the living shit out of you from head to toe.  I have been doing it though, and I wont say that I have been eating all heathy foods, but I can say that I am mindful of what I am eating. 

     Last night when I got home from work, I had it all planned out.  I was going to run upstairs, kiss the girls goodnight, check in with Anderson Cooper on CNN to make sure that the world was just as fouled up as it was before I had left for work 9 hours earlier. After that I was going to kill myself with a little Ab Ripper X.  So this is what I did, upstairs I went, girls were all kissed and tucked in for the night, AC confirmed that the world was indeed as jacked up as I had left it, thanks for the update, AC. But then something went terribly wrong.  As I went to reach for the DVD, I mistakenly reached for a mini deep dish frozen pizza.  And instead of putting the DVD in the DVD player, I put the mini deep dish pizza in the mini deep dish pizza cooker (microwave).  "What the Hell am I doing?"  I think I actually asked myself out loud.  I answered myself in a tone that scared even the new tougher, more muscular, but sore as all can be and in no mood for any physical altercations, me.  "Shut up fat boy and just eat the damn pizza."  Who am I to argue?  

     The pizza was delicious, I'm not going to lie to you.  The stench of guilt was heavy in the air, almost as strong as the smell of once frozen but now sizzling pepperoni.  I burned the roof of my mouth on the melted cheese and while the pain was intense, I was no slave to it.  No sir, I was much too busy enjoying the flavor and the feeling of getting away with something evil while no one was looking.  

     My delicious failure was a setback, I have to admit, but I'm back on track today.  I hate you P90X, I really really hate you.       

    

I Am Not A Pervert

     I find it neccessary to let you people know that I am not a pervert.  I am not usually in the business of showing my underwear in public, though I must admit that this is not the first time that it has happened.  Nor for that matter can I, in good faith, promise that it will be the last time either. 

     I, like most men in America, am a beer drinkin', football watchin', areas that itch scratchin', nose pickin' and flickin' kind of guy who doesn't invest a lot of time on issues like fashion and apparel.  That is until I discovered the world of Burberry boxers.

     The Boss' cousin is a GM for Burberry in Seattle, and as luck would have it, he drew my name in the cousins gift exchange for Christmas.  Upon opening the gift and discovering that another man had just bought me a pair of boxers for Christmas, I couldn't help but wonder what the thought process was while making the decision to do such a thing.  Was this unlikely gift a last minute purchase while leaving work the night before jumping on his flight to California?  Was this a purchase he had already made for himself and in a last ditch effort to come up with a gift idea for his cousin's husband 1500 miles away, just tossed them in his carry on bag and moved on to his next and certainly more important order of business?  Oh no!  This was not an effortless, thoughtless, last minute gift.  No this was something much more special and much more thoughtful and calculated than I had originally given it credit for.  It wasn't until a day or two later though, that I realized just how great a gift this really was.

     As a kid, you build an image in your mind of what Heaven would be like.  How it looks, how it feels, and hope one day that by the grace of God you are welcomed there when that time comes.  You can scrap that image son, I'm telling you right now.  Heaven is not what you pictured it to be at all.  As it turns out, Heaven is constructed of a high thread count, earth tone and pastel pattern of plaid that feels like billowing  clouds of glory and wonder each and every second that it envelopes the skin.

     I willingly humiliate myself like this today as a public service.  If you do not have a pair of these boxers, I urge you to do yourself a favor and score a pair as soon as you can.  You will thank me for it.

     I know the image above is a disturbing one and I am sorry to have subjected you to such a display without prior warning.  

                                                                  

                                                                         

     Sincerely,

     John  

PS I did all of my own stunts in the making of this blog post.      

Ding Dong Ditch 'Em

     One night last week, one of our young neighborhood scoundrels decided it would be funny to ring our doorbell and then take off.  I wasn't home to join in the festivities, but truth be told I had a good laugh when I got the text from The Boss saying that, "Little assholes keep ding dong ditching me."  Apparently  this went on for about an hour or so before The Boss ran outside and yelled "KNOCK IT OFF!"  This solved the problem and the girls went about their evening.

     On Wednesday night, I was home cooking dinner, watching The Hangover and enjoying of all things a little Kahlua with hot chocolate.  I am not particularly fond of Kahlua nor hot chocolate, but when you put the two together it spells G-L-O-R-I-O-U-S.   Suddenly the doorbell rings and we all assume that it's Torrey, one of my daughter's friends who always rings the doorbell when she comes over to play.  But it wasn't Torrey, it wasn't Torrey at all.  It wasn't anybody for that matter.  "Oh it's on" I said as my competitive spirit snapped to attention.  For 20  minutes I stood at the door peeking through the peep hole with my hand on the knob of the unlocked door contemplating my plan of attack should this nocturnal pusher of buttons decide to strike again.

Should I set a bear trap under the doorbell? Should I jump out and scream as loud as I can to scare the crap out of him?  Should I chase him home and make him tell his parents in front of me what he had been doing?  All of these options sounded good.  But which one will best work for me on this night?  I decided to just jump out at him and scream at the top of my lungs.  This was going to be awesome and I was ready for action.  Mike Tyson's tiger was the frozen image on my TV screen as the paused movie waited in anticipation of  what might happen next.  My daughter ran upstairs to look out her window so that she could signal when Operation Poopy Pants was about to commence.

     Perhaps he knew I was waiting for him, or perhaps his mommy called him to eat dinner.  Or maybe although unlikely, he realized that his actions were unjust and uncalled for.  Whatever his logic, he did not return for a second attack and we returned to our dinner and a movie night.

     You are a worthy opponent, little man.  I will catch you one day.  You can rest assured that I will catch you one day, and you will know who the true king of this neighborhood really is.  You can't cheap shot the cheap shot champ, chump!