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Posts for the date of Friday, November 15, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:43 AM |
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I’ve been gone for the last few days. Have you noticed? Of course not. Why would the absence of my mindless ramblings cause you dismay? The presence of them should cause you dismay.
To put it bluntly, I haven’t had a sitter for the past few days, so I’ve been home with the baby having fun. We’ve done all sorts of things. We’ve played with new toys, watched the wiggles, growled at each other, wrestled and spun around until we were dizzy. A glorious time was had by all, I assure you.
I would then work at night, as late as I could and then actually not sleep due to the bulbous, painful tennis balls shoved in my nose. Some people might call them infected sinuses. Natures cruel revenge for nothing.
We celebrated Gertrude’s birthday on Wednesday with a nice dinner (which she devoured) and cupcakes (which she devoured). We think she may have been trying to blow out her candle but it appeared more like she was panting like a puppy. We gave her a variety of toys, one of which was a rocking baby piano with four settings. Annoying, Really Annoying, Pretty Damn Annoying and Supremely Annoying. But, the kid loves it. She played on it for hours on end yesterday. In the current setting, if she makes it rock the piano plays and lights up. She spent most of the day rocking like Elton John on Crystal Meth. It was really quite cute. Especially when she tried to play the piano with her butt. She’s really quite responsive to music, which makes me very happy since it is a rare occasion when music isn’t playing in our house.
This weekend is our big family party. I have no idea how Gertrude will react to this. We don’t go out much and we usually stay home and play as a family. So . . . my entire family in one house (especially our small house) may scare the living crap out of her for a few hours. And when I say living crap, I mean it. I don’t know what’s wrong with this kid’s digestive tract but it is heinous and vile.
I’m working again today, as best I can. My lovely wife is staying home with Gertrude and Matilda has the day off from school. Though, to be honest, she is going on a Brownie field trip to an adult contemporary radio station. I can see it now.
“You mean, it’s in this very studio that they play Dave Matthews over and over and over until all the adults become mollified and bland just like his music? Cool.”
It may just be me, but I can’t see how a group of seven-year-old girls can get excited about touring a radio station. It doesn’t mean anything to them. If they were to identify with any station it would be Radio Disney or some Top Forty station that plays the latest tuneless Brittney warbling.
But, who am I to argue with the brownie leader who sends out permission slips on the day they are due back? Or who calls at 9 o’clock the night before the field trip begging for drivers? Who actually failed to put the date of the field trip on the forms? Who am I to argue with such an intellectual power? I should be bowing down to her greatness.
This morning I awoke to a child running in the room and growling at me. I’m not quite sure why. She just ran into the room, looked at me and said, “Grrrrrr” and then ran out. Strange child.
At 4:45 young Matilda and I will be departing for the movie theater to take in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. It looks scary, but we’ve already read the book and I can’t imagine that what Chris Columbus has designed can be any worse than what we’ve imagined already. Unless, of course, the third reel of the film is replaced by Bicentennial Man. Then, maybe, we’ll have nightmares.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, November 13, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:34 AM |
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Happy birthday Gertrude Agatha O’Brien!
It’s hard to believe that it’s already been a whole year that you’ve been with us! I’ve enjoyed every single second of it and can’t wait for the next year.
Happy birthday little nugget!
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, November 12, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:52 PM |
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I am not one who is renowned for his patience. In fact, just the other day someone came to me and said, “You know Gary, you are just not renowned for your patience.” If patience is a virtue then my lack of patience makes me rather iniquitous. I can find any situation in which patience is required so vexing that I either need to destroy that which is causing my anger or I have to walk away completely, scorning the subject of my hatred.
This was the case with my study of ballet. Ballet takes patience that is beyond my reason. Just using the words needed to describe the positions in which my body was twisted would send a rising bubble of hatred toward my dance master, Jean-Claude DesCretin. Master DesCretin would tell me, “Garee! Zhu must do ze plié wiz more of ze, how do you say? Talent?” No, I couldn’t plié. I couldn’t pirouette nor pas de chat. Once, Master DesCretin said to me that I move like a horse, which is true because my art needed to be destroyed much like a racehorse with testicular cramps. So, of course, I quit ballet. It was too hard and I wasn’t good at it fast enough. Anything worth doing is worth being good at without any talent, practice or diligence whatsoever.
So I switched to music. What I wanted to do was form a sixties-style Rock/Pop quartet like the Dave Clarke Five, except with four people. I find that the dynamic of a quintet is quite exhausting. Quartets work better because there’s a better chance that I’ll be considered the cute one instead of the simmering, angry one. So, I analyzed the music and discovered that the Harpsichord was utilized quite heavily and decided that it was the instrument for me. Besides, how many harpsichordists are there out there? 90 professionally? Tops? With that kind of ratio I figured I had a distinct chance of becoming one of the top 100 harpsichord players around.
So I bought a Harpsichord. It wasn’t easy to come by. I had to kidnap a Hungarian orchestra master in order to get one. But, once I had my harpsichord I felt my dream of being a retro-sixties rock star were close at hand. The next difficulty I had to overcome was finding an instructor who was well versed in the musical harpsichord styles of the 1960s. There were none. So I settled for a local piano teacher named Francesca Brannigan. Now, normally, I wouldn’t work with someone named Francesca. But I was desperate.
This woman was a taskmaster! When I sat down, I tried to hammer out the melody to “Fixing A Hole” by the Beatles. However, Ms. Brannigan (who did not think it was funny when I called her Laura) had different ideas. She insisted that I learn this antiquated dreck by Handel and Bach. Screw that! I had groupies to score. Half way through playing some awful music accompanied by an Oboe I just lost it and ended up tying Ms. Brannigan to the piano bench using the strings that comprised a D Chord.
With those hopes dashed, I turned to the other artistic love of my life, Yiddish theater. Now, being raised Irish Catholic might be considered a draw back, I marketed myself as a Goy actor. I figured that, in the very least, I could be cast as the token gentile. I auditioned for many roles with the Jewish Community Center Players but was told that I didn’t have what it took to play the lead role of Reuven Malther in their Yiddish adaptation of Chiam Potok’s The Chosen. I felt that, with my lack of background in the Jewish religion, Jewish intellectualism and Zionism that I would be the perfect person to play the confused son of an intellectual, Zionist father who befriends a Hassidic boy.
The director, Rachel Cohen, thought differently. In fact, she kept reminding me when I showed up for rehearsals that I a) was not cast in the play and b) the casting was only open to members of the center. Now, I admit that I was not a member of their community center, though I had gone swimming there many times with my friend Michael Rubinowitz when we were young. Rachel saw things differently. So, I decided to no longer try my hand at Yiddish acting and never set foot in the theater again. Now, for the record, I want to state that I had made my decision long before they issued the restraining order and am sticking to my story that the reason I was standing on their stage wearing only Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and carrying a Kielbasa was a simple misunderstanding of whether or not I was invited to the cast pajama party grill out.
My point is, I do not do very well with the concept of waiting. Benjamin Disraeli once said, “Patience is a necessary ingredient of genius.” I agree with Disraeli’s comments, though I enjoy his album with Cream much better. But, if this is the case then I am a babbling idiot.
I bring all this up because this morning I purchased the Super-Duper-Platinum-Jewel Encrusted Edition of The Fellowship of the Ring. True, we do currently own the film already; we needed to get this copy for several reasons. First, it has a higher bit rate on the digital transfer. My wife was adamant that she must have a completely clean version of the film. Second, it’s loaded with amazing commentaries, features, extras and charismatic trolls. Third, it contains thirty minutes of extra footage, which is supposed to flesh out the story a bit more, just like the books. Fourth, Tom Bombadil is still not in the film. Fifth, it comes with these extra groovy bookends designed by the FX team from the film.
Why did I buy the other version of the disc if I knew this one was coming out? Well, because I’m not patient, as mentioned earlier. Plus, the first disc contained the original cut of the film and this new version is a “director’s cut”. I need to have both.
So how does patience come into play here? Well, the damn thing has been sitting on my desk all day long and I’ve been dying to open it. I want to feel the full weighted glory that is the Argonath bookends. I want to watch all the extras and cavort in the wonder and mystery of Middle Earth, a world in which I spent much time as a child.
But I can’t. Because over time my wife has proven that she is the Lord of the Rings Fan. She deserves to be the one to open this DVD and it’s her one obsession and it’s only fair, blah blah blah.
It’s taunting me. It’s begging me to open it. Maybe if I steamed open the plastic and just stuck it in the player a little bit she wouldn’t mind . . .
Right. And I have a death wish.
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Posts for the date of Monday, November 11, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:29 AM |
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Updating will be infrequent in the coming months. I am a tad busy. I have a ton of books to turn over, Gertrude’s first birthday party to prepare for, a week off to take care of the little one, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Orthodox Reflux day to contend with.
When you become a parent it’s like accepting thirteen new jobs. You think to yourself, “Oh, this won’t be bad. There are two of us to split the work.”
You’d be wrong to think that. One child, in ten minutes of play, can create three hours of work to clean up. It defies all laws of science and rationality, but it happens. Reality bends into a new continuum that is not governed by normal laws.
For example. The capacity of one diaper is directly proportional to your location. If you are at home, one diaper can hold the entire contents of a child’s digestive system. If you are out, say at Target, the diaper’s containment system is reduced by three and you are left with a battle with time as you rush to the bathroom, praying that there is a changing table in there.
Now, a child’s waste product is akin to radioactive material. Though you can see where it is, its lingering effects are unseen. History states that you will not be able to keep that crap, no pun intended, in its intended receptacle. It goes everywhere. On its own. It’s a horrible process and you have to fight every instinct to run. Run far away and don a HAZMAT suit.
Kids get better as they grow, but they still remain gross. No matter how much you teach your children, they still have no concept of what is appropriate and what is not.
For example, walking down the stairs with your pants and underwear around your ankles to show that you need a belt? Appropriate to a child, signs of dementia in adults. Sneezing in my cereal? Just an accident to a child, grounds for divorce in an adult. And, to a child, the sneeze cereal is still edible, despite the fact that the force of the nasal expectorant has sent your food flying in all directions.
There is some sort of filter that we gain, as we grow older. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m glad it develops. For example, I wouldn’t want to sit with my friends at a nice dinner party and have someone leave for several minutes and come back to say, “I made a good poopie!” If he were two years old, I’d be proud of him. Why? I don’t know. But as an adult, I think that sort of biological talent is expected.
What is a parent’s obsession with poopie? Why do we have to rename it anyway? As Billy Shakespeare once said, “A rose by any other name still smells as sweet.” Well, crap by any other name still smells like . . . crap. So why do we insist on giving it such nice little names like poopie, caca, and what not. When the baby lets one go, we say, “Oh! Did you poopie? Oh that’s a good poopie! Look at that. What a good baby!”
Why do we sugar coat it? Why not do what we are thinking inside? “Sweet mother of GOD! What did you eat? That crap is almost purple. Oh my god. I need eight more wipes. I’m feeling dizzy. Stop moving! You’re going to let it loose. Oh my. God, I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done. Please get me through this. Gag. These wipes are supposed to wipe, not spread! I need gloves. HOLY . . . what is THAT? That’s not healthy!”
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