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danleone at gmail dot com
My Almost 11 year old son just came up to me and said:
Dad, I will throw mithril darts to trap rabbits to increase my summoning level so I can summon Kebbits to be able to draw out Abbyssyel Demons to train my slayer and get 1.2 mill GP Abbyssyel whips.
I then went blink…blink, blink. I had him slow down and help me with the spelling as I typed it into a post.
What do I do with this?
Technorati Tags: english please, baby goats, video games
When I was growing up, we made frequent trips to my father’s village in Italy. At the time, in the 70’s and 80’s, there was a lot of fascination with all things American (presumably that has diminished somewhat with George Bush). We saw many instances, even in the small village, of America’s influence. American music played on jukeboxes in bars and cafes while American television played in everyone’s homes (dubbed in Italian…imagine The Cosby Show in Italian!).
The other thing we noticed was the fascination with American fashions. Kids were scrambling to be seen with Nikes or Levis. The funniest thing is that we saw many T-Shirts with English words on them. These words or phrases never really meant anything, but I think the kids were happy to just show some sign of Americanism.
I don’t remember any of the specific words, but they always had a common theme of sport, fashion, speed and movement. They went something like this:
Club Sport
Super Play
Queen Princess
Well, on Monday, my cousin, his wife and their 13 year old daughter arrived from Italy. They are visiting my parents for three weeks. It turns out that this is a bittersweet visit as it is clear they are here to see my dad as he battles ALS.
When the plane landed, we waited anxiously as they survived customs. When they emerged, I saw my cousin first, then his wife. Taking up the rear, was their daughter. She was wearing one of “those” T-Shirts. As she paraded through the gauntlet of waiting families, we all stood, jaws agape, at what was emblazoned on her chest:
…with a picture of two cherries. Did I mention that she is 13!? I have no idea whether to tell them that there is a double meaning with this because I actually believe they know that there is a different way to take it. I wanted to take her to my son’s basebal
(In the small case that you do not know me, this is supposed to be taken tongue-in-cheekily. I only have ONE crush in my life….and you know who you are!)
I admit it, I am addicted to The Food Network. I have always enjoyed cooking, LOVED cooking….but then I had children. Now I enjoy microwaving, standing up while eating and having a bowl of cereal for dinner. At some point in my myriad career changes, I strongly considered going back to school in order to study pastry chefery.
Also, TFN is one of the few channels on TV that are completely kid-safe. I am violently opposed to violence on TV and hate that my children are subjected to extreme images…even, especially rather, on children’s channels. Their constant exposure to graphic and violent images, has led us to watching only The Food Network and The Weather Channel.
So, this household spends a lot of time learning to cook, if not actually cooking. Coco even falls asleep to Iron Chef America (the one that is on at midnight..not the one at 7!)
No one can watch a channel so much without developing deeper feelings for some of the personalities…I am just glad it is not with Ryan Seacrest.
Here is my list of Food Network Crushes:
I used to think Rachel Ray belonged on this list. She is clearly adorable and has that squishable laugh. That is what I used to think…then she tried to carry out her plan for world domination and has become so over-exposed, that I think I am starting to see her in my family photos…this chick is everywhere! I’m out on the “Yummo.”
My least favorite TFN stars (with no offense to them…just in case they are out Googling themselves right now)
Just my opinion….until I change it.
20 Ways To Tell If Blogging Is Taking Over Your Life
20. You proudly post about which demented, pornological, scatological and downright frightening terms people used last month to arrive at your site.
19. Every few weeks, you have at least one post about why you haven’t posted in the last few weeks….and feel genuine remorse that perhaps you let your readers down.
18. You blog about blogging
17. Your meme collection outnumber your everyday posts
16. You have no one left to tag that hasn’t already been tagged a thousand times before but you tag them anyway.
15. You do the “Drive-By Hi” on cre8buzz.
14. Blogging comments begin to replace emails as a way to communicate with anyone that really matters.
13. You accept “Be my friend” invites on BlogCatalog from people in countries that don’t exist in the CIA Wold Factbook
12. When you write a post, a particularly good one, you immediately work your way through your blogroll “pinging” all your friends with mediocre comments like “Great Post” or “Nice Blog!” or “Funny!”
11. You strategically let the good posts linger for a few days, as well as push the mediocre ones “below the fold.”
10. No one in your 3D world even knows what a blog is, let alone know that you have one.
9. You don’t buy into it, and even feel a little cheated, when someone comments with “Great Post!” or “Nice Blog! or “Funny!”
8. You secretly wish that your kids will fall down, throw up, say something stupid, or otherwise do something crazy, just so you can blog about it.
7. You read blogs in order to get your daily news and you watch the news in order to blog about it.
6. You know the difference between CSS and RSS.
5. You purge comment spam faster than you weed your garden.
4. You hit “Refresh” on your emails within 5 minutes of posting, “just in case.”
3. You take advantage of your midnight pee break to see if you received any comments because you know your European counterparts are already awake.
2. You struggle with the camera timer so you can photograph yourself in an insightful, but oh so candid, pose in order to create THE BEST AVATAR EVER…all 100X100 pixels of it.
…and the number 1 way to tell that blogging has become a huge part of your life…..
1. You write a “You know you are a blogaholic when…” post.
Now that I am on the mend, I thought it would be a good idea to begin writing again. For both of my readers, you know that I am pretending to be in the process of writing a novel. I have been in a holding pattern for over a year now, but I do return to it from time to time.
One scene that I am having trouble with is a flashback scene where my protagonist is on “lover’s lane” making out with his girlfriend. The setting for this scene is a real place that I have been to on more than one occasion in my history. My lover’s lane was a parking lot along the Charles River and I wanted this scene to take place there.
There is a lot I remember about my glory days along the river. One thing in particular that stands out is that for every one car that had a couple making out in it, there were at least 4 cars filled with creepy old men driving around looking for shadows and foggy windows. If they were lucky enough, they could pull up right next to the couple and linger for a few disturbing seconds until the couple looked up and frantically pulled away, usually with pants still wrapped around ankles.
One day last week, I wanted to commit myself to writing this scene as I have had many false starts and really wanted to get it right. I decided that I would visit lover’s lane late one night and write while parked along the river.
Armed with only a Circa notebook and a fountain pen, I drove to the river around 8PM, after the Baby Goats were asleep. The parking lot is rather large and I positioned myself far from the action, but close enough to find the inspiration I needed. There were only two or three cars parked and I honestly have no idea whether anything interesting was happening in them. Frankly, I did not care. I just wanted to find the inspiration to write….not peep. But then again, I have a feeling that all writers are by definition, a tad voyeuristic.
I began putting words on paper and found myself quickly lost in the world I was creating. In fact, I really felt like this was a good, if a tad awkward, decision to write “on location.” The creative juices were flowing as Coltrane blared in my ears.
I filled about four pages with a scene of a couple of teens awkwardly groping at each other. I found myself smiling, laughing and even becoming melancholic for those innocent days of yore…many yores ago.
I was so engrossed in my words, that I did not notice the state trooper pull up behind me. I was so frantically taking advantage of a moment of inspiration, that I did not notice the trooper getting out of his car and approach my window. I was so in love with what I was creating, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when the trooper tapped his flashlight against my windshield.
“Hey, there is no parking here after sunset.” He bellowed
Rolling down my window and beginning to speak before the window was really opened.
“I am sorry sir. I will move right now.”
“Not so easy.” Officer Friendly said. “What are you doing here?”
I had no idea what to say. “Uh….well, believe it or not, I am writing” I said stupidly.
He told me in no uncertain terms to get out of the car. I did so without hesitation as I really had nothing to worry about. I wasn’t drunk, naked and I TRULY was doing exactly what I told him I was doing.
He asked me a series of questions, clearly designed to check if I was intoxicated or fabricating the story. I explained to him exactly what I am telling you; I was trying to find some inspiration to finish writing a scene in my book.
Once he realized I was serious, he asked me if I would be comfortable showing him what I wrote. I said sure and I opened the notebook on the hood of my car as he shined his spotlight on it. He laughed that my writing was utterly illegible. He proceeded to ask me questions about the book and when I told him that it has to do with growing up in Newton, he began telling me that he grew up in the same neighborhood and he knew many of the people I grew up with. He even relayed a story about the local carnival that I may use in the book.
We must have chatted for over 45 minutes. He even went so far as to say that he always thought someone should write a book about the neighborhood and was surprised no one has done that yet.
I now have his email address and his permission to come back to the river as often as I wanted as long as he was on patrol. I told him thanks but no thanks.
Which brings me to the bigger point. On more than a few occasions while writing this novel, I have found myself needing to be physically located in the scene in order to write about it. I remember driving to four different cafes in the area, trying to find the one that felt like the image in my head. I have driven up and down the streets of my old neighborhood and pulled over at random spots and began writing trying to absorb and then write what I see. I went to South Station in Boston and sat on a bench and watched people come and go. Sometimes, I do not even bring a notebook. It is not that I need to be writing at that exact moment, but it is more that I NEED to use all my senses in order to begin writing. Writing is such a sensory experience for me, that if I just sat in a home office waiting for words to be thought of, I would never think them. But, by immersing myself in the experience, I find inspiration.
Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers): Does any of this make sense WITHOUT creeping you out?
Daddy: How was your day at school, Coco (my 4 year old daughter; aka Coca Cola, CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs, Cocarena Nicoco, Coconut, Satana)?Coco: Samuel kissed me.
Daddy: What?!
Coco: He kissed me on the lips.
Daddy: What?!
Coco: He’s my boyfriend.
Daddy: What?!
Coco: We are going to get married.
Daddy: What?!
Coco: He kissed my lunch box and I kissed his.
Daddy: What?!
I am on my way to Samuel’s house so I can punch him in the neck. Film at 11.
Tear Here
Why do they package graham crackers in those useless wax papery wrappers? When you try to open the package, they instantly begin tearing apart the grahams and once opened, there is no ability to reseal the packaging.
With everything today being marketed as Stay-Fresh, Shelf-Stable, Resealable, Individually Wrapped, etc, why are these remnants of 1897, still being packaged that way?
Here are the steps involved:
I pop open a box of graham crackers (don’t get me started on that little cardboard tab thingy that was intentionally designed to be weaker than the bond of the glue holding it in place)
Does anyone know a brand that doesn’t come wrapped this way?
I don’t care what anyone says, but it is 2:30 in the morning and I am laughing out loudly right now because I just woke up thinking of this joke.
Q: What do you get when someone is diagnosed with both ADD and dyslexia?
A: A DAD!
Funny or not…do I own this one? I have this sneaky suspicion that I will be taking this one down before the end of the night.
Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers): What was the last thing that woke you from a deep sleep?
Mr Lady at Whiskey in My Sippy Cup wrote this haiku in a recent post (I am shamelessly cutting and pasting without asking her permissions….shhhh don’t tell her):
Fourty days until
Easter? Crap! I’m giving up
religion for lent.
I TOTALLY wish I said that! I am so mad. Wit is something I lack (in other words, I am”wit-out” wit or witless). Then pure genius comes along and says something funny, irreverant, thought-provoking AND then manages to squeeze it into the seventeen-syllabled straight-jacket of a haiku
Meanwhile, I site here pondering another post about the urinals in the men’s room!
Anyone over the age of three (but under the age of me) knows that LOL is the internent abbreviation for “Laughing out Loud.” There are a whole slew of these abbreviations which makes chatting and IM’ing even that much more impersonal. But in an age where the thumb is mightier than the pen, I can understand the necessity.
Everyone knows:
ROFLMAO
BRB
AFAIAC
AFK
HTH
IMHO
OMG
But I have a confession for both of you. Today, in a normal 3-dimensional-land conversation, I said “LOL!” Yup, I said, “Ell-Oh-Ell” when someone said a joke. I said it out loud. The worse part of it was, the person I said it to, did not know what LOL meant. She asked me what I just said. I repeated it, embarrassed, and she still had no idea.
Question for BoMR: Do you have a favorite internet abbreviation?
What is funny is that when I worked on the ambulance, we used a ton of abbreviations (this was in the day when the daily newspaper was the internet). My favorite was: LOLFDGB (Little Old Lady, Fall Down, Go Boom)
I went to the gym this morning. The gym I go to is really not my favorite but it is across the street from my job and that is very convenient. But other than that, I really hate this gym.
The main thing I hate is that the showers in the men’s room are “communal.” This means that there are no partitions between showers. Any guy who has survived high school is probably still reeling from the emotional scars.
Now, I am feeling an overwhelming need to state that I am very comfortable in my manhoodliness. The logistical problem is that since the gym is across the street from my job, it is not unusual to bump into people I work there (not literally bump into!). Sometimes, I even have to shower with my coworkers…very awkward. But there are all sorts of unwritten rules on how to handle this including eyeball placement, how long you can be exposed without a towel (<5 seconds), conversation topics (sports and weather…no work)
But this morning was different. It was Saturday, so the chances of bumping into a coworker are slim. But apparently bumping into a FORMER coworker is not so usual.
Normally, I don’t even shower at the gym. I typically go back home or find some other creative solutions. But today I wanted to hit the ground running so I thought I should take care of business at the gym.
I was in the shower happily all alone after a particularly grueling run. Taking my time to make sure all the parts have been sufficiently lathered, I heard a voice that I recognized but couldn’t place. He then walked into the shower while I was lathering, rinsing and repeating. He said a brief “How are you?” with a heavy Boston accent and proceeded to turn on the shower and wait for the temperature to be just right.
Washing away the soap from my eyes I was faced with the ass of a 50 year old man. As he turned, I realized who this man was. I used to work with him over 12 years ago. Well, the mutual recognition was apparently important enough to be unconcerned about the fact that we were butt-assed naked! I said, “Jerry! Long time no see.” I then went about the task of washing the soap from my face.
I felt a twinge of panic as I opened my eyes and saw that he was still looking at me. I smiled nervously…and then he started to walk towards me. The sphere of space that surrounds me and that usually requires an invitation, becomes larger when I am in a public shower. This guy invaded it without blinking. As he and all his “shortcomings” [linger on that for a while...its worth it] made their way towards me, his outstretched right hand provided proof in the age-old ritual that he held no weapons……thank the gods! “Dan, howz it goin’ you some-bitch?” I was a tad awkardified and mortified but I am nothing if not cool, so I reciprocated and proved to him that I too had no weapons in my hands at that moment. Then he proceeded to tap me on the shoulder in that way guys do. I basically call this, a “guy hug”.
He continues to relay what has happened to him in the last 12 years. I know now that he went out on medical leave and subsequently left the company and is now working for another company that he likes, blah blah blah. During this, he never once stepped into the shower! He remained completely dry, fully frontal and as perfectly squared to me as Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.
My eyeballs have stopped bleeding from both the deluge of shampoo and what awaited me after opening my eyes. I then said to him, “Holy crap, Jerry, at least you could have bought me dinner first!”
I work on the 10th floor of an office building in Boston. As part of my recent health kick, I have been walking up the 10 flights in the morning and between floors during the day. In fact, I have found that when the 2 o’clock slump comes (read that as me at my desk snoring), I find that if I go all the way back down to the first floor and come back up, I am usually recharged…for a solid 20 minutes. At which point, I realize how stupid it was to go all the way up and down.
In fact, unless I am with others that are not interested in being on the stairs, I will always take the stairs. Otherwise, I have no problems with “social elevatoring” as a very literal and expedited way of working my way up the corporate ladder.
The new year kicked off for many of us with the usual array of resolutions that last for precisely the amount of time it took to come up with them in the first place. To celebrate the new year, the City of Boston and [insert company name here] decided to incorporate a “Take the Stairs. Every Step Counts” program as a way to encourage people to get healthier.
The Mayor of Boston as well as our CEO had a very nice ceremonial kick-off in the lobby of the building and walked up a flight of stairs. Our HR department very nicely plastered the stairwell with various signage to motivate people…assuming they were motivated to begin with because otherwise, they would not be in the stairwell to begin with. At each landing there were signs that read “Every Step Counts” and “You Can Do It”, etc. Very nice. I can feel Eye of the Tiger playing in my head.
But there is one sign that is completely immobilizing me. Frankly, I am puzzled by it. It reads: “Walking Upstairs Burns 3 Times More Calories Than Taking The Elevator.” Stop for a few seconds and think about that statement. Are you as dumbfounded as I? The first thing that strikes me is that this sentence is the exact equivalent to “Jogging burns x times more calories than sleeping.” Well, DUH! Doing something is always going to burn more calories than doing nothing! The second thing that strikes me is that if I read this correctly, ONLY 3 TIMES? So, what you are saying is that all I need to do is come in in the morning, go to the elevator, take it to 10, then let the doors open, take it back down to 1 and then press 10 again. Once I have done that, I have officially equaled the calories I have used while sweating and getting dizzy walking up the stairs. Ummmm…folks, where is the incentive?
So, my revised New Year’s Resolution is to take the elevator 36 times a day. I can feel the excess weight slide off!
You can file this in the “WAY too much information, Dan!” file. But I feel close enough to both of you to tell you anything and now.. I am about to tell you anything.
As we both know, public restrooms have a unique set of etiquette rules. Both men and women have to navigate that treacherous, and a bit, nasty course all the time. Men have the unique anatomical feature of a directional spout. This feature allows public restroom designers to install two-ish urinals for every toilet. This I refer to as “peeing on the wall.” Nice invention. The problem is that urinals provide little privacy. There are a million unwritten rules about where your eyes need to be while peeing, which urinal you choose when there are more than two, what you are allowed to talk about, etc.
My confession to both of you is that when I address the urinal, I commit myself by unbuckling my belt and working at it from that direction. I know the correct, more manly way, would be to unzip, reach in, do the underwear origami (underwearigami?) maneuver, release The Bishop from his confines (I was going to say “rectory”instead of confines…it is making me laugh really loudly thinking about it, but I don’t think it is appropriate so ignore what’s in these parenthesis), then take care of the business end of why I am there and then do everything in reverse.
That is not what I do. I need to de-buckle myself. There is no good reason for it, other than habit….and fear of the grip of death of a billion little metallic zipper nubs causing unneeded pain to a most sensitive part of my body. The gods know that I may need to use it once again …someday. The other reason is that with my method, I can put things back exactly where I want them using mostly gravity. The more macho way means that it is a crap shoot (?) as to where all the pieces end up. All you have is that small window that you then have to try to squish into place like a snake charmer on his first day on the job.
So to make a very short, long, I was in the restroom at work, doing what I do whenever I have to do it. At some point, I was joined by someone else, while I finished off with a “two shakes of the lamb’s tail.” I continued on with the repositioning and re-buckling. At this point, the much more manly man doing the ever-so-graceful, one-handed reach and yank, looked up at me and said, “What were you doing, masturbating?”
Listen, god’s gift to all things macho; you have broken a whole bunch of commandments just now. The most important of the “Thou shalt not’s” are:
A. Don’t even think of talking while at the urinal. You are not allowed! It is in the manual! “The moose up front should have told you that” (Which movie was that from?)
B. Don’t pay close enough attention to me that you notice whichever personal habits I have chosen to exhibit. For goodness sakes, I have heard guys fart while at the urinal and no one blinks. How I retract, is not your business! You are not permitted to be interested in that.
C. Don’t say the word masturbate in a men’s room….E.V.E.R!
Please don’t hate me!
…or how to tell a joke like a 4 year old.
After telling my daughter her favorite Knock Knock joke for the billionth time:
Knock knock
Who’s there?
An interrupting cow
An interrupting c…..
MOOOOOOOOO!
…my daughter decided to share some of her own with me. Here is just a representative, and completely true, sample of what she said:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Honey cookie
Honey cookie, who?
HONEY!
(now fall down laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Eyeball
Eyeball who?
Eyeball will you put yourself in your ear and then eat it after you are done putting it in your ear?
(now fall down laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
I been.
I been who?
I been working on the railroad all the livelong pizza…
(it was supposed to be Ivan. It was supposed to be “day” and not pizza. Now fall on the floor laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Puppy
Puppy who?
Puppy, will you be Santa because you are going inside my eye. I been working on the railroad…
(now fall down laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Skeleton
Skeleton who?
Skeleton, will you pull down your pants please so we can see your butt crack?
(now fall down laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
OK, knock knock, will you pull down your underwear on your oranges?
(combining different knock knock jokes into one is her specialty..now fall down laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Pajamas
Pajamas who?
Pajamas, will you pull down your underwear so we can see your butt crack?
(now fall down laughing…she did)
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Elf
Elf who?
Elf! Will you take off your presents please and pull down your underwear so we can see your freaky underwear?
(now fall down laughing…she did)
This went on with variations on a theme. But essentially, they all included her looking around the kitchen, finding an object, making a knock knock joke about it in her head and then throwing the words butt crack into the punchline. Good times!
Christmas Card Attempt - FINAL
This was the best picture of the bunch!
Rule 1: Don’t have kids!
Rule 2: If you ever find yourself thinking that YOUR kids will be different than everyone else’s, then refer to Rule 1.
Rule 3: If you have to have kids, then don’t have 3!
Rule 4: If you have to have kids, then DON’T have a 10 year old!
If you were born March 20 1976, you will be celebrating your billionth second alive on this planet today!
Because I have way too much time on my hands, I was playing around on this website all morning and have been utterly fixated on figuring out that stupid fact and sharing it with both of you.
Just plug in your birthday and get depressed as the seconds tick away! I have to run now as I just spent 327 seconds writing this post.
Question for Both of My Readers (BoMR): When was the last time you were painfully reminded that you are getting older and realized there is not a lot you can do about it?
I was a senior in high school before I learned to spell Massachusetts correctly. By the way, I live in Massachusetts.
For my whole life I spelled it Massachusettes. Those were the days before spell check and I don’t know the last time I ever really needed to spell out the whole word before. It was always Mass. or MA.
There are other examples; as a child, I believed I had a SEVERELY narrow type of dyslexia. You see, every single time I read the word “pigeon,” my mind’s eye reads this as “pig one.” For years, I did not even know what a pig one was. Luckily, there are not many pigeon-centric children’s books out there. But I literally read this as PIG ONE…two separate words. What kind of dyslexia is that?! Can I have a single word dyslexia? Perhaps it is called “monolexia” or “unilexia.” This happens even to this day!
You are among a very small group of intimate friends here . You can tell both us anything. So, go ahead, fess up: What assumptions have you been carrying around with you that ultimately proved to be wrong?
Let me preface this story by telling you that we live in a shoe box. We are on top of each other when we sleep; literally due to the fact that we are ALL IN THE SAME EFFING BED! OK, maybe it is not that bad. But it is bad. Another important point to remember is that I am not a drunk! I enjoy a drink here and there but nights out are far and few between.
So, when I got home last night around midnight after a dinner party with some coworkers at a local sushi restaurant, I needed to tip-toe. My Baby Goats will manage to wake up at a blink so it is important to be quiet. I was also just a little bit inebriated, and I definitely did wantwant them to see me stumbling in. The Goats are still young enough to believe that I am a hero. They will learn soon enough that I am merely a mortal who fails more often than I suceed at this parenting thing.
I showered the night’s events off my body and sat at the laptop to type some wonderful Japanese sake-induced account of my evening to share with Both of My Readers (BoMR).
But before my fingers hit the keyboard, my head hit the pillow.
Imagine the dreams I had. Imagine the wasabi-based dreams that floated prettily in an out of my head. Now imagine the sound of Winnie the Pooh emanating from the Goats’ toybox at 2AM. As parents, we are way too familiar with toys that talk only in the middle of the night. We all know that the only people that would ever buy a toy without an OFF button are our single, childless friends.
Now imagine, my sashimi-induced rage as I launched myself from the couch and proceeded to disassemble the toy box all the while Winnie laughing maniacally; taunting me with his honey pot sweetness.
I finally found the sucker and removed him from the box, leaving the remaining toys on the floor. The Baby Goats hardly stirred. It was a Winnie the Pooh key chain that somehow managed to escape my cleaning rampage when we no longer had 6 month olds in the house. I flipped this Winnie key chain around in my hand trying to find an OFF/ON switch. Nothing. I then looked for the battery and proceeded to stick a steak knife into the miniature screw that so securely holds the 400 AAA batteries. The knife tip broke. Meanwhile, Winnie seemed to be getting louder and my eardrums felt like they were going to bleed.
I pride myself on having good judgment and remaining calm. Apparently, Calm Dan went out the window, which is where Winnie should have gone and left for the raccoons to tear into him. Instead I decided… on second thought, it actually wasn’t all that logical, it was more like I “reacted”, by filling the bucket in the sink with water and throwing Pooh into it. I told you I wasn’t being rational! At 2AM, this made a whole lot of sense to me! I thought the best thing to do to stop the blaring was to drown Pooh!
I almost felt sorry for this bear as the gurgling sounds diminished. Except for the fact that the gurgling sounds never ended! Pooh was caught in a loop of final agonal breaths and all I could do was my best to ignore it. This was my digitized version of the Tell Tale Heart, written by Edgar Allen Pooh!
Ignore it, I did; until my 6 year old woke up at 5:00 and heard the sound coming from the bucket. He looked inside and you can imagine what went through this kid’s brain. He began wailing. I woke up and I tried to comfort him as he held the waterlogged key chain in his hands. I told him that this was an infant’s toy and we had no infants in the house. He said this was his “FAVORITE” infant’s toy. I then told him it was an accident, despite the CSI-inspired crime scene sans the blood and yellow tape. He keeps looking at me like I am the very definition of evil..perhaps I am.
Clearly, the rule of thumb here, is stay away from Sushi Night Out with coworkers!
But, there is also a list of things we probably use every day that either are truly useless or don’t even serve their original purpose. The list below is just a short list of things I could think of.
The I-Want-to-Walk Button found at intersections - This is just another one of those devises that are put there in order to give people a sense of control over their lives when in fact the buttons are utterly useless. Have you ever pushed the walk button and had it do anything? (thanks to Terri for this one!)
The hot water in a public restroom - We all know this one. You are washing your hands after finishing your business and you can plainly see that the faucet has the ability to deliver both hot and cold water and all temperatures in between. But have you EVER actually had hot water come out? Part of the problem is that you are usually not in the mood to simply linger there in order to decipher all the different ways that you can turn the dial while pushing down while not picking up more germs than you are washing off. But I am still not convinced that hot water even gets piped into these places.
The Close Door button on an elevator - You might as well paint a circle on the wall and tell people to push it, it would be just as pointless as the Close Door button. Joe, the Elevator Guy, had these installed just to give people something to play with for the next 8 seconds until the door opens again and it is time to have someone else play with the button.
The thermostat found in most public places, especially conference rooms and hotel rooms. Every room in my office building has one of these thermostats and they all do nothing. Oh they have pretty slider switches with blue at one end and red at the other. Sounds promising. But, this is just another ploy to make you think you have some control in your lives , but by the time you adjust the thermostat and wait for the room to warm up or cool down, your meeting is over and it is time to go to another room and play the game again. I am quite certain that those thermostats are connected to nothing.
Exhaust Fans in bathrooms - I am not sure what they are “exhausting” but it appears to do nothing. Perhaps their only purpose is to create a white noise for those suffering from “performance anxiety.”
90% of the buttons of any remote control - I consider myself fairly gadget-savvy and actually enjoy reading the User’s Guides, but I own one television set, and 5 remote controls for it! I have mastered the fine art of turning on the power with one and adjusting the volume with the other and ejecting the DVD with the a third and, all while not looking at the remote. But, as I am looking at the remotes now, I realize I do not use 90% of the buttons. What the hell is “format’ or that one button that has nothing on it except for the letter “R”?
Any other button on the blender that is not On/Off. When you are sending steel blades spinning at supersonic speeds, does it really matter if it is as “Puree” or “Frappe” or “Crush” or “Mix” or “Blend?” What the hell is the difference? Everything is being spun into a pulp!
Coin pockets on jeans - I am assuming that the days of carrying a watch on a fob and tucking it into a small pocket are over. If I am wrong, then perhaps that little pocket can be useful. First of all, I don’t own change. Second, when I do have change, it doesn’t fit into that little pocket.
Child Safety Caps on bottles - Face it, we live in a world where children emerge from the birth canal already thumb-enabled. Evolution has stepped in and accommodated the power thumbs necessary for future survival on this planet. Our children are the first generation to notice a shift from our hunter-gatherer hands used to pick berries from vines to a more thumb-centric approach needed to handle the game counsels of the future. My prediction is that automobiles of the future will be driven by our thumbs. My 4 year old can open a vitamin bottle more quickly than I can.
The micro-mini tabs at the top of cereal boxes supposedly to allow for reclosing, clearly designed for no purpose since it is instantly torn off as soon as you try to get through the tamper-proof gorilla glue they stick boxes together with.
Picture holders that come with wallets and purses - I have never seen one that can accommodate ANY picture I own. I buy a wallet and throw out the picture holder and then get yelled at when I don’t have a picture of my Baby Goats handy (depite the fact that I have 6 billion pictures on Flickr).
The Insert, Scroll Lock, Home and End buttons on a PC - Again, they do nothing.
The Reverse Switch on ceiling fans - I know all about hot air rising, blah blah blah, but when you live in a shoebox, like I do, the only thing a ceiling fan does is BLOW AIR! It does not make a difference which direction it is blowing. The instructions so smugly tell us that there is a summer setting and a winter setting. when I have 20 foot ceilings and I am paying for all my heat to rest 20 feet over my head, then I will consider it. Otherwise, the fan simply moves air.
Any preset button on a microwave - You know the ones “Popcorn”, “Potato”, “Frozen Pizza.” The settings are all completely arbitrary and have no basis in reality. When I put something into the microwave, ANYTHING, I push the Popcorn button and walk away. If it needs to stay in longer, I push it again. If it needed less time, then I am quickly reminded why I hate microwave ovens.
Anything added to dishwashing liquid that is not soap - this includes microbeads and moisturizers.
And the last one is just a personal rant - THE STRAW. In the big cosmic picture, what does a straw do? Are we really so lazy that we can’t bring the cup to our face? I guess if you have a lot of ice cubes, then the straw prevents you from smashing your teeth with them, but that seems rather dubious.
Question for Both of My Readers (BoMR): What everyday device is useless to you?
True Confession: My real name is not Dan. If you were looking to stalk me, I would be honored, but you would need to know that my given name is a tad more ethnic than Dan. Dan is not short for Daniel. I have my father’s name, Donato. Yes, Donato. For reasons I don’t know, Dan is a typical translation for Donato. Do NOT ask me why my name isn’t Donald. All I know is that it isn’t and if it was, I would have jumped in front of a moving train years ago.
Truthfully, I am proud of that name. My father’s name is Donato and he comes from a village called San Donato in Italy. I am forever grateful that he didn’t come from Dildo, Newfoundland (or you could substitute your own funny place name here).
Very few people know my real name. This works to my advantage when I get a phone call and I hear the telemarketer (my way of saying bill collector) stumble and ask for Dante or Donatello, or my favorite, Leon.
Having trouble saying it? Well then feel free to call me Donut-hole as EVERYONE else did when I was growing up.
The reality was that I invented Donut-Hole when I was in my 30’s. No one ever called me Donut-hole but I play that card when I am feeling like the world needs to feel sorry for me. But the fact that no one did call me it just highlights the lack of creativity of most of my friends. Instead, my nickname fluctuated between the boring Mama (as in Mama Leone’s Restaurant) and Chubber (or in the Boston accent “Chubbah”).
Just a couple of years ago, I bid on an authentic menu from the Mama Leone Restaurant in NYC on Ebay. I went toe-to-toe with a non-Leone and after a grueling week of attack/counterattack, I won the bid. $6.50 later plus shipping, and I am the proud owner of a real, tomato-sauce stained menu named after no one I know. In fact, the name Leone in Italy is akin to Smith in America or Chins in China. To top it off, I have never framed the damn thing because it is some stupid shape that doesn’t exist in the entire Frames-R-Us store without paying a billion dollars for custom framing.
Chubber, or Chubbah, was not because I was fat. I was quite svelte when I was younger. Stop for a second here and picture it. Chubber came from an assignment we had to do for our History class way back in the 4th grade. We were told to draw a picture of the U.S.S Constitution (In Boston, you really needed to know the difference between your Old Ironsides and your Minutemen). My best friend, Whatshisface, drew a picture and his was very precise and perfectly fit in the center of the 8.5″ X 11″ sheet of construction paper. My picture, on the other hand, was enormous and the masts would not fit on the paper so I had to shorten them. They were stubby masts. The fourth graders, did not call me Ole Stubby Masts….they just called me Chubba instead.
From that day forward I convinced myself that I didn’t have a creative bone in my body and here I sit typing non-creatively into my blog 30ish years later.
What nicknames have you had to endure in your life?
Sometimes I feel like a man: I know every line to the movie Airplane!
Sometimes I don’t: I know every line to the movie Princess Bride
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love Aerosmith
Sometimes I don’t: I think Steve Tyler is kind of sexy in the ugly-sexy kind of way
Sometimes I feel like a man: I think Nicole Kidman is sexy
Sometimes I don’t: I think Jodi Foster is sexy
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love football
Sometimes I don’t: hockey bores me (as well as basketball and even sometimes baeball)
Sometimes I feel like a man: I don’t know how to use the washing machine
Sometimes I don’t: I enjoy washing dishes
Sometimes I feel like a man: I pee standing up
Sometimes I don’t: I always wipe the toilet rim and put down the seat cover
Sometimes I feel like a man: I sometimes work late so that I can do a good job and provide for my family
Sometimes I don’t: I sometimes work late so I don’t have to come home to mayhem
Sometimes I feel like a man: I like to fix things around the house
Sometimes I don’t: The lightbulb in the hallway has been out for two years
Sometimes I feel like a man: I try to share in the household chores
Sometimes I don’t: When I am eating at my mother’s, I don’t even lift my ass off the chair to help
Sometimes I feel like a man: I LOVE to cook
Sometimes I don’t: I love to bake cakes even more
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love coffee
Sometimes I don’t: I love loose-leaf earl grey tea from Taylors of Harrogate brewed in a teapot even better
Sometimes I feel like a man: I have more hair on my body than evolution demands
Sometimes I don’t: I think SOME man-scaping is appropriate
Sometimes I feel like a man: I really enjoy alcohol
Sometimes I don’t: I really don’t like the taste of beer
Sometimes I feel like a man: I like to eat
Sometimes I don’t: I am about 90% vegan (you can thank buffalo wings for not making it 100%!)
Sometimes I feel like a man: I like movies
Sometimes I don’t: I almost always prefer a “chick-flick” over an action movie
Sometimes I feel like a man: I drool over tools and gadgets
Sometimes I don’t: I drool over the tools and gadgets in the Williams-Sonoma catalog (I even was an assistant manager of a W-S store once!)
Sometimes I feel like a man: I have run 5 marathons
Sometimes I don’t: I MIGHT be able to run to miles now…IF I try hard. (in fairness to both sides of me, I have been sidelined by a VERY painful condition that I didn’t much mention on my blog for the last few months)
Sometimes I feel like a man: I am a dad
Sometimes I don’t: I want to run away, change my identity and join a circus
Sometimes I feel like a man: I used to be an Emergency Medical Technician and even saved a few lives
Sometimes I don’t: I used to manage a Williams-Sonoma store and even helped a few bride-to-be’s with their bridal registries
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love surfing the internet
Sometimes I don’t: I was reading some of my favorite “mommy” blogs at 2AM this morning (please note that “mommy” blogs is not a derogatory statement).
Sometimes I feel like a man: I know the first 10 digits to the number pi (you can thank the “pi” button on my TI-30 calculator back in the 8th grade for that)
Sometimes I don’t: I know that 3 tsps = 1 T
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love to hike
Sometimes I don’t: The last time I hiked was when my wife said “Take a hike!” the other day. Before that was 20 years ago
Sometimes I feel like a man: Eric Clapton is god
Sometimes I don’t: I cry when I hear Pavarotti sing
Sometimes I feel like a man: I drink my coffee black
Sometimes I don’t: I put unsweetened soy milk in my tea
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love the aforementioned buffalo wings
Sometimes I don’t: I love a bar of dark chocolate even more
Sometimes I feel like a man: I have eaten and enjoyed raw oysters
Sometimes I don’t: I also enjoy sprouted grain organic pasta from Trader Joe’s
Sometimes I feel like a man: I support our troops
Sometimes I don’t: No one has yet to explain to me why they are in Iraq (and if I hear “fighting for your freedom” one more time, I will launch myself out the window!)
Sometimes I feel like a man: I am a liberal, skeptic and an atheist who embraces the left side of my brain
Sometimes I don’t: i don’t have the “cubes” to write about it
Sometimes I feel like a man: I love Ernest Hemingway
Sometimes I don’t: I don’t usually enjoy Jeffrey Archer, Scott Turow, Stephen Coonts and others of that ilk.
Sometimes I feel like a man: I can solve the Rubik’s cube
Sometimes I don’t: I am addicted to the NYT’s crossword puzzle
Clearly, this list is not really meant to highlight a strictly male/female dichotomy. Drinking tea doesn’t make me a “girl” no more than being a dad makes me a man…..oh wait, yes it does.
These are things that always make me stop for a second and consider the alternate because either they are very similar in appearance or that I am just too dumb to remember. Typically, if I give myself that extra second, I can usually remember, but they always make me pause. Some items on the list simply require more knowledge that either I have never made the effort to look up or I always forget no matter how many times I look up. The common thread here is that I believe I am SUPPOSED to know the differences without thinking about them.
1. KFed and Justin Timberlake
2. Carrie Underwood and Kellie Pickler
3. N’Synch and Backstreet Boys
4. Salma Hayek and Catherine Zeta Jones
5. Hillary Duff and Lindsay Lohan
6. Affect and Effect
7. Coke and Pepsi
8. Lamb and Sheep
9. Fatigue and Laziness
10. Prison and Jail
11. Sherriff and Police Officer
12. Wallaby and Kangaroo
13. Crocodile and Alligator
14. Dolphin and Porpoise
