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Posts for the date of Friday, August 09, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:12 AM |
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I’ve gotten a virus via email. This one is particularly insidious as it skips infecting your computer and infects you directly. It is called the Wombat.exe and it was sent to me by Jimmy in Detroit.
Now, you say this is impossible. That I cannot get a biological virus from an email. I’d say that you are wrong, wrong, wrong. This virus takes the form of a wombat that burrows into your digestive system and sleeps. It slumbers happily until the exact moment you introduce food into your system. Then the wombat sharpens its claws on your intestines.
I went to the certified kneetologist today. He asked me how my knee was feeling. I told him it was feeling surprisingly well and that it seemed to get better every day. He then proceeded to go through his assessment routine and jiggled and jaggled the knee every which way. Now the friggin’ thing hurt.
I got to go to have X-rays. That was fun. Turns out that, other than my kneecap being tilted slightly (it sounds bad, but he didn’t seem worried), it was merely inflamed and irritated (which describes its owner pretty well).
He gave me Celebrex which is supposed to help with the swelling. I’m glad he told me that because I thought it was a mood drug and that I would walk around happy for a week while I took it.
Can’t have that, can we?
No. Never.
Don’t forget to vote for the name of my wife’s new company (see below).
Give me a break. It’s Friday and my knee is swollen. I don’t have a lot more to say than that.
Purple Fuzz Monkey!
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:06 AM |
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Wanna name a company? Sure you do. My lovely wife and her friend are starting a greeting card company. They will design and create their very own greeting cards to be distributed throughout well . . . where ever wants them (they have no pride).
So, how can you help? You can simply click here and register your thoughts. After you choose, the window will want to close. Go ahead and let it. Then you can see where you stand against everyone else.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, August 08, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:13 AM |
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I’ve recently relaxed my rules for outside play again. In the last few weeks, I’ve been on heightened alert, where Matilda was not allowed to play outside without an adult present. Why? Well, there have been a bunch of toothless bastards trolling the streets and snatching little girls. The bastards, by the way, deserve the worst society can offer them. No mercy whatsoever.
But I digress.
Matilda is now allowed to play outside again. My nervousness about it hasn’t abated. However, I’ve read dozens of articles about child safety over the past few weeks and have shared the knowledge with Matilda. I’m freaking out and checking every few minutes. And she’s been there each time.
But there is no way to ignore that icy knife that suddenly slices through your heart when you, for no reason whatsoever, feel the need to run to the door and look outside to get an exact location on the children. Not just your own, but the entire neighborhood.
“Okay, Matilda. Check. Jessica. Check. Grace. Check. Job. Check. Katie. Check. Kelsey. Check.” And on.
As a parent, it is my job to worry. However, it is also my job to allow a child to discover her own boundaries and make mistakes while not under the constant watchful eye of a parent. I’m supposed to teach her how to use the world properly and, eventually, I’m going to have to take the training wheels off of life.
Still, I check every few minutes.
The last time I looked out the door Matilda and two of her friends had their backs pressed up against it. There was a roving pack of forty geese pressing in on them. The geese had the girls pinned down.
It was like watching a war movie.
“Go get bread!”
“No! It will only cause them to advance further.”
“I never got to say goodbye to my teddy bear.”
“Call in an air strike.”
Eventually, the geese were defeated. But the scars remain. Ever since, I’ve been walking up behind the girls and hissing like an angry goose. And they jump three feet in the air.
Ah the joys of parenthood. One part comforter. One part protector. One part torturer.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, August 07, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:07 AM |
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Well, I’m going to see an “orthopedic” on Friday. Meaning: “Certified Kneetologist.”
I swear, some people get so hung up on titles.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:56 AM |
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I’ve damaged my knee somehow. I don’t say “injured” because that would insinuate that I was aware of how I managed to do this. However, I do not know. One day it just started hurting. It’s swollen and painful. Much like my entire high school career.
So, the question is, what do I do? I’m calling the doctor today and I know they are going to ask me about the pain.
Where does it hurt?
The knee.
What does the pain feel like?
Um . . . Pain?
Is it a stabbing pain or a dull ache?
More like a short burst of pain followed by long bouts of pain interrupted by several extended periods of pain.
Is it swollen?
Yes.
How much?
More than usual.
Does it hurt when you move it?
Yes.
How much?
Can I please see the doctor?
No.
Why?
Because you’re mean.
So, the way I figure it I’ll see my doctor who will send me to a doctor who specializes in knees. A kneetologist, or something. That doctor will send me to get X-Rays. Then I’ll have to go back to the second doctor and he’ll tell me that I hurt my knee. After that I’ll either a) have to go for surgery and physical therapy or b) just go for physical therapy.
Physical therapy is terrible. Terrible. I hate it. It’s supposed to help regain strength in the hurt appendage. However, I believe it may have been designed by the Marquis de Sade as a way to slowly torture a reasonable human being and test his limits.
The last time I had PT I was hooked up to an electrical device that shocks my leg muscles so that they jump like crazy. I’m not sure what this device was supposed to do. However, it reminded me of seventh grade when we hooked up a nine-volt battery to the frog we were dissecting.
It jumped.
Ow. My knee hurts. Ow.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, August 06, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:02 AM |
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It all happens so fast. In the blink of an eye your child that was a slobbering pile of goo is suddenly writing a dissertation on genetic engineering. One day you just wake up and you realize that your children have survived their childhood and that you’ll never get it back.
I, of course, do not speak from experience. My youngest daughter is still a slobbering mass of goo and my eldest is still dressed as a gypsy, prancing around the house like a maniac singing songs that only make sense to her.
But tomorrow I could wake up and one will be an astronaut and the other a physicist (one can hope). It all changes so quickly. In the turning of a season, a child grows and matures. They become wise, beyond anything we could ever understand.
Case in point. A few weeks ago we were driving to the park to play at the coolest playground in town. Matilda pipes up from the back seat, “How will the world end?”
My lovely wife explains the concept of the life span of stars and what will probably happen to our sun. Matilda exclaims, “Well that would be an event!”
It sure would. There was no fear in the voice, but more of a curiosity. As if the Universe is a playmate that’s totally unpredictable. The Universe has untreated ADD. One day it’s the dinosaurs, the next humanity the next it just moves on completely.
These thoughts were spurred by reviewing videotape of the last few years. There was Matilda, pre-kindergarten, cute as a button. My God, did we realize how cute she was then? Or did we take it for granted? She pranced around and played and sang and was just irresistible. At that point Baby Gertrude wasn’t even a thought. She hadn’t passed the transom of our minds and a remote possibility. We were still saying, “When we have a baby . . .”
And now we do. A nine-month-old baby. One that is slowly coming into her own consciousness. Amazed at the world around her because, well, it’s all new. Each taste, smell, sight, sound is a new experience. She’s never done many of the things we take for granted and can sit for an hour mesmerized by a piece of fuzz.
We took a walk around the complex lake the other day. Just the baby and me. A duck walked across our path and Gertrude couldn’t stop staring. She just watched that strange creature. It looked soft, something she’d like to put in her mouth. Yet, it made this horrible guttural sound. Why? Why did it do that? What would it feel like? What would it taste like? Would it be something to play with?
Every day is a new adventure. And each adventure gives a child a new piece of knowledge that allows her to move on to the next. Slowly they accumulate this knowledge base that defines who they are, what they are interested in. And maybe I’ll be able to share in it. Or maybe they’ll leave me in the dust.
For now, I’m allowed to share. Last night, as Matilda and I worked our way through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, we reached a point that we felt it was impossible to stop reading. So we bargained with mom and she let us stay up late.
Even that extra chapter wasn’t enough. Matilda begged for another chapter. “PLEASE” she cried. “Just one more.” Mom said no. It was too late. Matilda pleaded with me, “You’re my partner. We have to read one more! Come on partner!”
But mom was right. It was too late.
But now I know that I’m her partner. That Harry Potter means something to her like it does to me. Perhaps someday we’ll reminisce about our time reading together. But when?
She’ll be an adult. Gertrude will be an adult. My girls will be women and I . . . I will just be silly old Dad. No longer the hero or partner, but just a man. They won’t rush up to me screaming, “Daddy” anymore. More likely they’ll just say, “Hey dad” without looking up.
For now, I’ll relish that giant “S” the girls see on my chest. It’s only temporary. But for now, I can chase off lightning, lift amazing weights and vanquish evil with the flick of my wrist.
And I’ll gladly do it. It’s my job. After all, I’m a Dad.
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Posts for the date of Monday, August 05, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:37 AM |
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This weekend we ventured into a world to which I will never visit again. The world was called “Wal-Mart” and the experience was, to put it simply, horrible. Simply horrible.
It started out innocently enough. We went back-to-school shopping and Wal-Mart happened to have bottles of Elmer’s Glue for a mere quarter. Plus, they had a great price on the new paperback version of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. We had a mission and, we gladly accepted it.
The trip started off on a good note. We stopped for a Slurpee. On the drive out to Wal-Mart, we passed the cherry ice confection between us and smiled as our core body temperatures lowered to a normal level after battling the oppressive summer heat.
We pulled into the parking lot and noticed what should have been our first warning. It was jam-packed. We had to park in what seemed to be northern Iowa and walk back to St. Louis County.
Now, I must admit, that this was my first trip to a Wal-Mart that I can recall. Growing up, we didn’t have one around, so I never had the opportunity to visit Sam Walton’s greatest creation. Sure, we went to Sam’s Club before, but this is different. Wal-Mart is a symbol of American, for some reason. A town may not have paved roads, but it will have a Wal-Mart and it will be the town’s center of activity.
After all, it’s not every store that will allow you to eat lunch, buy a TV, a pet, clothes, bulk food and get your car fixed in the same afternoon.
Perhaps I should have known before I walked in that this would be a bad experience. You see, the site on which Wal-Mart was built had been under water a few years ago. It sits on a flood plain, less than half a mile from a levy. To me, this isn’t exactly a brilliant real estate move. But maybe that’s just me.
So, we were met by a greet who seemed to have escaped from the same mental ward where Jack Nicholson did his stint in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. He seemed friendly enough, unless you made eye contact with him. Then he’d melt into a pile of tears and screaming fear.
The aisles looked as though they had been designed to accommodate the traffic of carts. That is, until the good people at Wal-Mart felt it necessary to fill it with pallets full of crap. Dog food, paper towels, etc. You couldn’t make it through an aisle if your life depended upon it. Our only way of shopping was to allow one person to stand at an end cap with the cart and allow someone else, the brave souls, to wade through the throng of smelly people and get what we were looking for.
Matilda was often brave enough to do this. “I’m going in for pencils,” she’d say bravely and disappear into a mess of pudgy legs, sweat stained shirts and support hose.
She’d come out of this mess, in tears, carrying poster board. “I tried! I saw the pencils. I almost had them in my hands and then someone pushed me out of the way and grabbed the pencils. It was the last package!” Tears were now streaming down her face. Less out of sadness and more out of abject humiliation. She had gone in with a task and was unable to fulfill it. And the poster board? “I didn’t want to come out empty handed!”
Slowly, despite the best efforts of the rest of Wall-Mart’s patrons, we were able to get most of the things on our list. Including the Harry Potter book, which, I have to admit, was one hell of a price. We had a few more things to look for, so we tried to head into the crowd again. That’s when we snapped. We couldn’t take it anymore.
Now, I’m sure Wal-Mart is a wonderful place. And I don’t want to seem like a snob for saying this but . . . Where in the hell do these people come from? The moment we walked in the door it felt as though we had been sent back to 1975, which was the most recent year any of the customers had updated their wardrobe. Baby Gertrude had more hair than most of the women in the store and, the cumulative number of teeth amongst the group was seven. I checked out the toothbrush aisle and, to no surprise, they were still selling Knight Rider toothbrushes. No one touched them.
Walking down each aisle was like entering into a joust. No one was willing to share the space and people would often park their carts sideways in the aisle to ensure that no one else could traverse the space whilst they used it. Even people politely saying, “excuse me” devolved. Instead of asking nicely the first time, people would immediately say, “Move your damn cart!”
The employees were no better. I think they were shipped in from the social aversion ward at the local Psych hospital. Ask them, “Where is your loose-leaf paper” and they’d respond, “I wash my hands, but it never comes off! Smell that! It’s bad. Bad I tell you. Lord, I’m acomin! I’m acomin! Lord. I just try to do they biddin’. Do you want to see my leg sores? It’s an infection! Stop yellin’ at me!”
In the middle of one aisle, I swear to you, there was a woman sleeping in an electric scooter. Yes, seriously sleeping. Using a package of Charmin as a pillow.
It was then that we decided that we should leave and head back to our comfortable spot, which is the Target of the Gods. (Sure, they call it Target Greatland, but we know the truth!)
We checked out and escaped. Dante never had to enter this level of hell in his search for Beatrice. Following his suggestion, however, Wal-Mart should add the sign “ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.”
Now, I have to admit that I have nothing against Wal-Mart, nor its patrons. I just have something against this particular Wal-Mart and its moron brigade of patrons.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t know why I had to enter the Carnival of Smelly Fools but, I tell you, I won’t go again.
Plus we never got the damn glue.
Sam Walton can burn in hell for all I care. I’m a Target man and a Target man I shall remain.
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