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Posts for the date of Friday, August 16, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:58 AM |
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We had a wonderful time with the out of towners yesterday. We spent a very hot day at the zoo looking at very hot animals that, in turn, were looking out at us wondering what the hell we were doing.
In the monkey house I SWEAR I heard a monkey say, “Why Gerard, look. Those hairless things keep coming back. Don’t they have their own homes? Go home! Get out of my yard!”
The baby was wonderful all day and didn’t cry once. She became exhausted at one point, near the elephants, and fell asleep on my shoulder. Poor baby. However, in the summer sun it meant that our bodies became melded in one form of sweat and skin. On the walk back to the car I must have lost about thirty pounds. I needed that.
As I said, everything went really well. We all had a wonderful time talking, eating and sweating. At one point Matilda and I had a grape shaved ice. With purple tongues we had the mark of summer happiness.
Only one thing was slightly askew. The baby seemed to enjoy our company’s time with us. She smiled and cooed at them. However, she kept making a rude gesture at the husband. Over and over she’d extend that little middle finger and shoot the guy the bird.
I don’t think he’s ever done anything to offend her. He’s always been very nice. But Gertrude just seemed to take offense at something he did. Maybe she knows something we don’t? Is he listed in the Registry of Baby Enemies? I doubt it. He’s pretty funny with kids and he even gave her a present. She loved the wife though. Maybe later today I’ll ask the baby what was going on. Had they exchanged grunts and drool earlier in the day that we didn’t see? Did she not like his car?
Or maybe she knows he’s the one who gave me the CD with the song about the cows. She hates that song. It goes something like this: “So you wanna know a little bit about little bit about little bit about my cows.”
Matilda had a birthday party after the zoo. She didn’t get home until almost nine and didn’t hit the pillow until near ten. She’s still sleeping.
Lucky kid.
P.S. Didn't see one genetically engineered mutant monkey. Damn.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, August 15, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:47 AM |
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I'll be out today. We have friends in from out of town, so we'll be spending time with them.
I'll leave you with a topic of discussion for your amusement.
Genetically engineered mutant monkeys from hell and their impact on life as we know it.
Discuss.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, August 14, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 10:29 AM |
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Society and fashion mavens have us under their complete control and I’m here to say, “Screw you buddy. You can keep your smart, wrinkle-free pants and your button down light-blue oxford.”
Women don’t realize it, but they have it much better than men (just click on the geek picture to send the hate mail, but please . . . hear me out). Let’s take society’s first, and let’s face it, weirdest, condition. Shaving.
Yes, shaving is a weird requirement. After all, nature made us have hair, both men and women. There are various reasons for this. Warmth, on the most fundamental level is one. Acting as a defense barrier to bugs and what not is another. Besides, if Mother Nature wanted us to have clean-shaven faces and legs and armpits, she would not have invented razor burn.
In fact, at one time a beard was a sign of manhood (for women too, if they were unusually hirsute). And I’m not sure what the historical significance of women being forced to scrape their hair off their legs or duly torture themselves by actually ripping the hair out by the friggin’ FOLICLE actually is. Where did this come from and what is the logic behind it?
However, I still say that women have the distinct advantage in this area. Consider this: If a woman doesn’t want to shave she simply wears pants. If I don’t want to shave what can I wear? A mask? No. Though it is socially acceptable for me to have a “shadow” I can’t go in with two-days growth. Now, there’s the argument that “Well, if it’s one hundred degrees, I’d prefer to wear a nice sun dress or a skirt. So I’ll have to shave.”
To this I say, wah, wah wah. Okay, let’s take heat into consideration. Let’s say it’s 95 degrees outside. Let’s say you are going to an outside wedding. What do you wear?
If you are a woman, you can wear a nice, light dress. Or perhaps a cool sundress. No hose, depending on the shoes you choose. Voila. You’re still hot, but considerably cooler than you could be. You still look good and you’re happy.
Men? Screwed. No matter what the temperature, shirt, tie and jacket. The shirt cannot be short-sleeved, lest you be considered a low-class fool. Let’s go over the uniform. First you put on an undershirt, so that you don’t sweat through to your good shirt. Which, of course, is put on next. That shirt is often pressed and starched. Yes starched. Chemically treated so that it has the consistency of cardboard. Naturally, the shirt must be buttoned all the way up (for the tie), cutting off the circulation to your head. Have you ever been sweating, wearing a starched collar, freshly shaven and try to turn your head? Between the sodium in the sweat, the razor burn and the chafing with the collar, your neck looks like a red beacon for passing aircraft.
Then there’s the tie. Who in the hell came up with this? “Well, I think it looks cool when you tie a piece of cloth around your neck. No, tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.” The only variations on the tie are the knots (Windsor, Double Windsor, etc.) or you can wear a bow tie. Yes, you too can look like Senator Paul Simon and, you too can be a complete social dweeb.
So, it’s ninety-five degrees and you already have two layers on. Wait! We’re not done! Let’s add a friggin’ coat! In the summer! Three layers!
I don’t wear that many clothes in the winter. And yet, in the summer, it is expected. Somewhere there is someone sitting in Bermuda shorts, drinking a margarita and laughing their ass of at us.
Men's clothes completely defy rationality. At least there is style to consider, right? Well, no. Women get a new set of clothes every year. Cool new designs, more flattering in their shape and fit, different colors, patterns and more.
Men? Well, in the last two centuries our styles have changed thusly: Pattern, width and, periodically, fabric. Our clothes are usually made out of cotton. Sometimes we get rayon, but rarely. In some dire times there is polyester. Other fabrics are reserved for people who are willing to spend $100 on a shirt you’re not allowed to eat, sleep, drink or sweat in.
Oh sure, we can have a shirt that is blue that looks like the one that is white that looks like the shirt that is yellow (but, really, who’d buy it?). To really mix things up we can add a sweater! Yay!
Our pants shift in and out in width. The eighties were the era of tight pants. Now we have loose pants. Someday we’ll go back to tight pants. And then back . . . It's all part of the great circle of pants.
Shoes? Forget it. Women get all the good stuff there. Men have four types of shoes: dress, boots, sandals, and sneakers. If I were to wear my grandfather’s dress shoes, no one would notice. Sure, there are periodic daring feats of shoe revolution, but where does it lead us? Wing Tips.
It’s hard to say if men’s designers are inept or if they are just lazy. But, let’s face it; we’re a long way off from any sort of change. Look at the movie fashions they envision. In Star Wars, women get all these groovy, insane clothes to wear. Men? Well, Luke Skywalker wore, what? Some stupid seventies shirt that looked like he was going to a karate lesson. Han Solo? White shirt, black vest, matching pants. Of course, Han got to change. He also got to wear a white shirt with a blue jacket and matching pants. And a white shirt with a blue jacket with gold piping and matching pants. Jedis? They wear robes and look like a bunch of scruffy guys who get out of bed late and go bowling a lot.
Look, there is more pressure on women to look good in our society. I do not deny that. However, they have more options. The world is open to them to experiment and find a style. My only option is mixing and matching different shirts with different pants.
Of course, who am I to complain? My daily uniform is either jeans or shorts with various Disney-themed t-shirts. I do mix it up sometimes. I might throw in an Elvis Costello shirt or a Roger Waters shirt. Maybe a surf shop shirt. It tends to throw people off.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, August 13, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:17 AM |
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Well, another day another . . . day, I guess. I’m so sluggish today that I can barely concentrate on blinking. I’ll try. Damn, the eyes went out of sequence. Oh well, I can always try again tomorrow.
I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday just writing. A story. Actual fiction. I’m almost as shocked as you are. That’s twice this year that I’ve delved back into the realm of fiction. Twice! Prior to that I had maybe written one short story since college. The juices just weren’t flowing.
Here’s a basic idea. Imagine you were sitting in a coffee shop and on the table next to you there is a bound journal just sitting there. No one was at the table when you arrived. You wait and wait, but no one shows up. So, out of morbid curiosity, you pick up the journal and start reading it. Inside you find a jumbled mess of random thoughts, stories and conversations all involving the writer, who appears to be slightly unbalanced. A story forms around these little segments and you can’t help but read further. Even though you know you shouldn’t. Are you watching the unraveling of a sane mind? Or are you witnessing the coming of clarity from insanity. It’s hard to tell.
I suppose this little “freelancing” thing that I’m doing is working out for me. Granted, a good amount of my day is spent working on things that actually carry a monetary value. However, throughout the day I get to exercise my creative side, as I’m doing now. If you call describing a peculiar eye-twitch creative. It probably isn’t, but for a guy who spends most of his time considering the healthiness of the baby’s poop, I suppose that I’ll take what I can get.
Speaking of the baby . . . she’s still damn cute. She now has three and ½ teeth. Two on the bottom and one on the top. The fourth is trying very hard to break through the gums and pissing little Gertrude off. Yesterday I found her chewing on the couch looking for relief. I told her they would come soon enough and that the irony was that they would just fall out in five years. She punched me.
Today is her nine-month birthday. Nine months ago, her sleep-deprived parents welcomed her into this world with open arms. We had no idea when she was born that she’d turn into an evil genius. But that’s okay, we love her anyway.
How is she evil? Well, if she notices that one of us is walking through the gate that separates her from all the danger in the house, she’ll start crawling like a mad woman--tearing through the room at break-neck speeds. Periodically she makes it through. Cackling wildly she aims for the stairs and starts climbing, with a rabid grin on her face.
This kid loves danger. Some monrings, after mom has fed her, she’ll crawl over to me in the bed and start slapping my arms and yelling “Ba ba dididididid phhhhhbbbbbbt” with such glee that I imagine her as the villain from a Japanese monster movie, “Oh yes father. Right now you may have power over me. But soon. Yes soon. You will find out the destructive power that is this baby. That is to say, you will know that I am a force to be reckoned with. You will know what it feels like to be turned upside down and have your tummy zerberted. Oh yes. You will. And you will cry. Big tears that fall down you face like the autumn is the fall of the year. HAHAHAHAHA.”
Of course this morning, she cuddled up to me and put her hand gently on my cheek. Later, she was petting my hair. I promptly signed over every possession I own to her and started a trust fund. At the tender age of nine-months she already has my ticket. Of course, at the tender age of .01111 seconds, she had my ticket. Once I saw that little, hyper-pink, wrinkled face, I knew I was done for. No matter what I did, it would be for her. And no matter what I thought, she was in control.
The best part of this age is that she’s very nearly walking. Every day she gets bolder and bolder. At one time she would only walk if I were holding her hands. Now she’s down to one hand. She stands on her own and gets ready to take a step. Many times she has tried to take a step, only to fall on her gently padded bottom.
It’s like watching a drunk trying to take his first step towards the bathroom. Gertrude KNOWS what she’s supposed to do. She sees us doing it all the time. She just doesn’t understand the mechanics of it.
To put it in terms that we can understand . . . Imagine looking at a list of components for a rocket. You know what the rocket is supposed to look like. You know what it’s supposed to do. You may even be able to piece together a rudimentary rocket from basic knowledge. But without practice and study, you won’t be able to make a functioning rocket. In essence, you’ll fall on your not so padded butt pretty frequently.
We take our ability to walk and talk for granted. To be a baby must be frustrating at times. I’m sure she KNOWS what she wants to communicate or do. She just doesn’t have the knowledge base to do so. She can’t control her own body yet.
Still . . . to see that look of sheer joy on her face when she stands on her own, mustering the courage to take a step . . . It’s all I can do to not sweep her up in my arms and give her a big hug.
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Posts for the date of Monday, August 12, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:53 AM |
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Taking you children for photographs is one of the time-honored traditions started by the Spanish Inquisition and continued by several South American regimes to this day. It is a way to force parents to part with money and scare the living daylights out of children.
First, let’s look at it from the perspective of the baby, who has never experienced this before.
We dress her in a cute little outfit that makes it look like she’s going to the hot-dog roast down on the beach with Doogie and the Moon Man, after they shoot the curl of course. In essence, she looks like a gnarly Gidget and we’re excited to see how beautiful she looks on film. Truth be told, we know she’s the most beautiful baby in the world; we just need confirmation from the unwashed masses.
She gets to ride in the car. Again, cool. (In the back seat her sister was singing, “Oh Yoshimi, they don’t believe me/But you won’t let those robots defeat me, Yoshimi.”)
We arrive at the mall early, so we stop off at the Disney Store to see if our friend Mike was working. He was not. However, the kids were dazzled by the synergistic marketing of the company and desperately wanted everything. In the short ten minutes we were there, no less than eighty Disney employees asking if we’re finding what we’re looking for accosted us. “Yes, I’m looking for Disney stuff. Do you have any?”
We head off to the photographer and fill out paper work promising that we’ll allow the photographer and her assistant full rights to suck our children’s souls out through a camera.
This is when it got scary for the baby. First, her sister climbs up on top of a giant platform and lies down. Then we place her next to her sister. On a PLATFORM. And we walk away! What the hell? What are you people doing.
Now starts the ritual of making the baby smile. Our daughter is a smart kid. But it doesn’t take much to make her smile. Talk to her and give her a big smile, and she’ll reciprocate. This subtlety is lost on the photographer who proceeds to wave crap in front of the baby’s face screaming bizarre comments in a horribly screechy voice.
The baby looks at her mom as if to say, “Is this woman okay? I think she may be having a seizure.”
Needless to say, the baby only smirked. But only out of pity for the photographer. She felt sorry for her. Most people in her mental condition aren’t allowed out in public. Her time was short in this job, and Gertrude knew it.
We moved on to big sister. Matilda was dressed in a cute skirt and a Spanish looking blouse that inspired jealousy from every woman around. She looked beautiful. And she knew it. We gave her a Gidget hairdo and she had been wearing sunglasses. She looked like a star and she knew it. And, damn it, she demanded the respect that her status deserved.
Not that it mattered to the photographer who was trapped in her Tourette’s inspired mania. She sputtered and muttered and tried to get Matilda to smile. She smiled, but out of fear of upsetting this unbalanced woman.
“Keep that smile!” she’d yell at the poor child. So she did. Even while the photographer was switching backgrounds. A terrified smile was plastered on her face. She knew that if she stopped smiling this woman might snap.
“You can stop smiling between pictures.” Good. She stopped smiling.
“Keep that smile!” What did this woman want?
Finally it was all over and the children were relieved to get out of there. So was our wallet, which was considerably lighter.
So, we stopped off for a cinnamon and sugar pretzel and looked at puppies.
All in all it was a good day. But I fear that photographer is still out there, waving a stuffed red dog in people’s faces screaming, “KEEP THAT SMILE!”
She’ll eventually be picked up and put in the pokey where she’ll be demoralized by the other prisoners who lock her in a closet and tell her to shut the hell up.
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