Thursday, August 24, 2006
Thanks for the Comments
When I got home last night, The Wife left for her book swap thingy. Because she’s completely nuts when it comes to reading, she joined a group where they swap books. It’s basically a library, but they never have anything you want. On the bright side, there are no old men reading newspapers-on-sticks.
Anyway, we were out of a few essential food items, so I decided to take Luke over to Sam’s to do some shopping. I’ve discovered that I turn to Sam’s for everyday items now. It used to be that I’d go there and buy about $1000 worth of stuff that would take me 6 months to finish. Now I’m going there just to buy a gallon of milk. It helps that (a) Sam’s is 1.5 miles from my house and (b) milk at Sam’s is half as much as at the grocery store. And with Luke taking a real liking to milk, we go through a LOT of it now. The Wife and I both eat a lot of cereal, and of course we use skim milk (whereas Luke drinks whole milk). So at any given point in time, we could have 4 separate gallons of milk in our fridge. Plus a gallon of orange juice, which I like to have with my cereal in the morning. And this is why our fridge always looks like it exploded.
As I was checking out at Sam’s with my $15 worth of food, the checker told me something that I hear all the time. “Your son has the BLUEST eyes I’ve ever seen.” I never know how to respond to that. What’s funny is when people say that in front of both me and The Wife. Without fail, they then look at both of us to see where Luke got his blue eyes. Hmmm. I wonder if it’s from his blond-hair, blue-eyed mother or his brown-hair, brown-eyed father. Better take another look. (Actually, I have my dad to thank for Luke’s blue eyes.)
So Luke and I leave Sam’s and head out to my truck. I have Luke in the cargo hold of the cart, which is a major no-no, from what I understand. But since he wouldn’t sit in the seat and I wasn’t going to let him walk through the parking lot, I didn’t really have any other choice. (Note, he wouldn’t let me hold him. And now that he’s approaching 30 pounds(!), I didn’t much want to hold him either.)
Luke has really taken to helping out when we go shopping. He insisted on taking the grocery items out of the cart and putting them in the back of the truck. Note, it’s not enough to hand them to me (as it was a month ago). Now he has to put them on the tailgate and shove them into the truck as far as he can. This can be quite difficult to do when we go shopping at Sam’s because everything is so freaking huge.
After letting Luke help me unload the shopping cart, I helped him get in the truck. He then climbed into his car seat and tried to buckle himself in. He’s not very good at it, so I helped him out a little. (He didn’t appreciate the help much.) After I got him in and shut the door, I heard someone say, “Excuse me.” I turned around to find an old lady in a Cadillac parked in the space next to me. Right away, I’m thinking, “Crap, I hit her car with my truck door. Just what I need.”
She tells me, “You’re such a wonderful father.” Huh? Um, thanks. Boy, if I thought I was speechless when people compliment Luke’s eyes, I’d now become a virtual mute. It’s nice to know that someone thinks that about me, even if it’s a complete stranger. Of course, she doesn’t see me when we get home. That’s when I break out the whooping stick and beat the crap out of Luke. “You call this steak medium rare? It’s freaking medium! Now make another one and DO IT RIGHT!!!” That boy’s going to be a great cook some day….
Anyway, we were out of a few essential food items, so I decided to take Luke over to Sam’s to do some shopping. I’ve discovered that I turn to Sam’s for everyday items now. It used to be that I’d go there and buy about $1000 worth of stuff that would take me 6 months to finish. Now I’m going there just to buy a gallon of milk. It helps that (a) Sam’s is 1.5 miles from my house and (b) milk at Sam’s is half as much as at the grocery store. And with Luke taking a real liking to milk, we go through a LOT of it now. The Wife and I both eat a lot of cereal, and of course we use skim milk (whereas Luke drinks whole milk). So at any given point in time, we could have 4 separate gallons of milk in our fridge. Plus a gallon of orange juice, which I like to have with my cereal in the morning. And this is why our fridge always looks like it exploded.
As I was checking out at Sam’s with my $15 worth of food, the checker told me something that I hear all the time. “Your son has the BLUEST eyes I’ve ever seen.” I never know how to respond to that. What’s funny is when people say that in front of both me and The Wife. Without fail, they then look at both of us to see where Luke got his blue eyes. Hmmm. I wonder if it’s from his blond-hair, blue-eyed mother or his brown-hair, brown-eyed father. Better take another look. (Actually, I have my dad to thank for Luke’s blue eyes.)
So Luke and I leave Sam’s and head out to my truck. I have Luke in the cargo hold of the cart, which is a major no-no, from what I understand. But since he wouldn’t sit in the seat and I wasn’t going to let him walk through the parking lot, I didn’t really have any other choice. (Note, he wouldn’t let me hold him. And now that he’s approaching 30 pounds(!), I didn’t much want to hold him either.)
Luke has really taken to helping out when we go shopping. He insisted on taking the grocery items out of the cart and putting them in the back of the truck. Note, it’s not enough to hand them to me (as it was a month ago). Now he has to put them on the tailgate and shove them into the truck as far as he can. This can be quite difficult to do when we go shopping at Sam’s because everything is so freaking huge.
After letting Luke help me unload the shopping cart, I helped him get in the truck. He then climbed into his car seat and tried to buckle himself in. He’s not very good at it, so I helped him out a little. (He didn’t appreciate the help much.) After I got him in and shut the door, I heard someone say, “Excuse me.” I turned around to find an old lady in a Cadillac parked in the space next to me. Right away, I’m thinking, “Crap, I hit her car with my truck door. Just what I need.”
She tells me, “You’re such a wonderful father.” Huh? Um, thanks. Boy, if I thought I was speechless when people compliment Luke’s eyes, I’d now become a virtual mute. It’s nice to know that someone thinks that about me, even if it’s a complete stranger. Of course, she doesn’t see me when we get home. That’s when I break out the whooping stick and beat the crap out of Luke. “You call this steak medium rare? It’s freaking medium!
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Way to Fall on that Grenade!
This afternoon, I had a meeting to discuss a project I’m working on. We’re in the final phase of the project where all we have to do is write a report and send it out. All the “hard” work has already been done. All that was left was the “annoying” part. I’m not a big fan of writing reports, so I was thrilled when Wang said that he’d write it.
So I met with Wang and the manager on the project who I’ll call, um, John. John is a bit of a jerk to work with. (Yes, that seems to be a running theme here.) We sit down in the office and John says something along the lines of, “Before we even begin, I just want to say that this report wasn’t good enough to have hit my desk. You guys really dropped the ball writing this and it’s not acceptable.”
Knowing that I was completely innocent, I didn’t really get too upset. Wang, on the other hand, visually stiffened as if he’d been slapped across the face with a week-old salmon. The only thought running through my brain at this point was, “How do I manage to tell John that Wang was the one who worked on this?” I thought about kicking John under the table and nodding my head to Wang. Maybe sign language. Too bad all I know is “more,” “milk,” and “please.” (All courtesy of Luke, of course.)
Lo and behold, I didn’t have to worry about telling John anything. Wang volunteered all that information for me. Wang basically tried to defend his approach. In so doing, he made it abundantly clear that he did the whole thing and that I had no involvement. Even John noticed because at the end of the meeting, he told Wang to make sure that he told me where all the files are.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Wang for being so stubborn and defensive. He single-handedly cleared me of any implication of incompetence thanks to his own incompetence. Both in how he wrote the report in the first place and then in how he subsequently responded to it. I think I’m going to send him some flowers for his troubles. And the card will say, “Keep up the shoddy work!”
So I met with Wang and the manager on the project who I’ll call, um, John. John is a bit of a jerk to work with. (Yes, that seems to be a running theme here.) We sit down in the office and John says something along the lines of, “Before we even begin, I just want to say that this report wasn’t good enough to have hit my desk. You guys really dropped the ball writing this and it’s not acceptable.”
Knowing that I was completely innocent, I didn’t really get too upset. Wang, on the other hand, visually stiffened as if he’d been slapped across the face with a week-old salmon. The only thought running through my brain at this point was, “How do I manage to tell John that Wang was the one who worked on this?” I thought about kicking John under the table and nodding my head to Wang. Maybe sign language. Too bad all I know is “more,” “milk,” and “please.” (All courtesy of Luke, of course.)
Lo and behold, I didn’t have to worry about telling John anything. Wang volunteered all that information for me. Wang basically tried to defend his approach. In so doing, he made it abundantly clear that he did the whole thing and that I had no involvement. Even John noticed because at the end of the meeting, he told Wang to make sure that he told me where all the files are.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Wang for being so stubborn and defensive. He single-handedly cleared me of any implication of incompetence thanks to his own incompetence. Both in how he wrote the report in the first place and then in how he subsequently responded to it. I think I’m going to send him some flowers for his troubles. And the card will say, “Keep up the shoddy work!”
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Isn’t It Ironic?
I love stories of irony. I find them touching and heart-warming. This one is a bit depressing and morbid. But in the interest of providing fair-and-balanced coverage, I have to share it. (Okay, I never claimed to provide anything even remotely fair and balanced. Get off my back.)
I’m not a big fan of police officers. Sure, they do good things, like stop criminals. But they also do annoying things like give you $5 tickets for not stopping at a stop sign. On your bike. (Yeah, that happened to me in Elk Grove, whose official motto is “Our Cops Have Nothing Better To Do.”)
Anyway, according to the Chicago Tribune, two police officers were killed while riding their bikes. The ironic part is that they were on a charity bicycle ride to raise money for spouses of police officers that were killed on duty.
And now that I’ve invited a shitload of bad karma, I’m going to be doubly sure that I drive the speed limit everywhere I go for the next 10 years.
I’m not a big fan of police officers. Sure, they do good things, like stop criminals. But they also do annoying things like give you $5 tickets for not stopping at a stop sign. On your bike. (Yeah, that happened to me in Elk Grove, whose official motto is “Our Cops Have Nothing Better To Do.”)
Anyway, according to the Chicago Tribune, two police officers were killed while riding their bikes. The ironic part is that they were on a charity bicycle ride to raise money for spouses of police officers that were killed on duty.
And now that I’ve invited a shitload of bad karma, I’m going to be doubly sure that I drive the speed limit everywhere I go for the next 10 years.
Are You an Idiot, an Imbecile or a Moron?
As usual, I was reading The Straight Dope and I came across this passage about the origins of the word idiot: “In the early years of IQ tests, an idiot was someone with an IQ of 0-25, an imbecile had an IQ of 26-50, and a moron had an IQ of 51-70.”
The origins of the word “idiot” actually have nothing to do with an IQ test. It was used in ancient Greece to describe anyone that wasn’t a politician. (Ironically, the word “idiot” today is used ONLY to describe politicians.)
My point is that I never realized that there were formal definitions for idiots, imbeciles and morons. That just makes me wonder if morons used to look down on idiots and imbeciles. Do you think they had separate social clubs? I would have liked to have been a member of the Moron Club (no imbeciles allowed).
Think of what a great club that would be today! Lindsay Lohan would be in it, but thankfully neither Nicole Richie (imbecile) or Paris Hilton (idiot) would be. Barry Bonds would be in it, but not John Rocker. I’d be a charter member, but Jay Mariotti (of the Sun-Times) would still be trying to figure out how he and John Rocker could start an Idiot’s Club.
And so I say to you, if you ARE a moron, wear that badge proudly. Go out, buy a scarlet M, and emblazon it on yourself. Show the world just what a moron you are!
The origins of the word “idiot” actually have nothing to do with an IQ test. It was used in ancient Greece to describe anyone that wasn’t a politician. (Ironically, the word “idiot” today is used ONLY to describe politicians.)
My point is that I never realized that there were formal definitions for idiots, imbeciles and morons. That just makes me wonder if morons used to look down on idiots and imbeciles. Do you think they had separate social clubs? I would have liked to have been a member of the Moron Club (no imbeciles allowed).
Think of what a great club that would be today! Lindsay Lohan would be in it, but thankfully neither Nicole Richie (imbecile) or Paris Hilton (idiot) would be. Barry Bonds would be in it, but not John Rocker. I’d be a charter member, but Jay Mariotti (of the Sun-Times) would still be trying to figure out how he and John Rocker could start an Idiot’s Club.
And so I say to you, if you ARE a moron, wear that badge proudly. Go out, buy a scarlet M, and emblazon it on yourself. Show the world just what a moron you are!
Monday, August 21, 2006
Dog Days of Summer
I’ve been trying to write something on my blog for awhile now and haven’t had any success. I spent awhile trying to come up with a good reason why. It might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t been doing the things I like to write about most: watching TV and movies. I can’t explain how excited I am about the upcoming TV season, if only because I’ll have something to write about.
So, lacking anything important to write about, like which Survivor REALLY deserved to get voted off, I might as well share some trivial news. For one, The Wife is pregnant with Baby #2. She’s about 3 months along now and sick as a dog. Her “morning sickness” tends to come in the form of a dry-heave/hacking sound that makes the skin crawl. And so as we were waiting to find out whether or not we were pregnant (Yes, I use “we” even though I’m not pregnant. Get off my back, you semantic-checking dork.), I heard The Wife hacking up a lung. Right then, I knew we were pregnant. I told her not to bother with the pregnancy tests (which were still days away from being “conclusive.”) Know what? I was right.
Anyway, now that we’re pregnant again, The Wife and I are having a hard time coming up with a nickname for Baby #2. If you recall, we called the then-unborn Lucas “Blasty.” One of the first phases of “life” for a fertilized egg is when it’s a blastocyst. I thought that sounded like a nice traditional Irish name, Blast O’Cyst. Luke then became Blasty (much to our mothers’ chagrin) until he was born.
So now we have to figure out what to call Baby #2. Personally, I think Blasty should be transferred over to it. It’s not like we STILL call Luke “Blasty.” The Wife, on the other hand, wants to come up with a new name. I’m having a hard time coming up with one though. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.
In the meantime, I’m going to try to write about music for the rest of the summer. I’m finally plowing through the thousands of songs I’ve got on my iPod that I haven’t listened to yet. Wow, there’s a lot of crap on there. And I’m not even talking about the Debbie Gibson songs. Yes, it’s crap, but it’s also part of my 80’s collection and thus must stay on the iPod. But the “bonus” songs on Foreigner’s Definitive Greatest Hits album? Yeah, those need to go. In fact, everything on that album except “Juke Box Hero” needs to go. By the way, I think “Definitive” when used in dealing with Greatest Hits albums translates into “5 songs you want and 20 that eat it.”
So, lacking anything important to write about, like which Survivor REALLY deserved to get voted off, I might as well share some trivial news. For one, The Wife is pregnant with Baby #2. She’s about 3 months along now and sick as a dog. Her “morning sickness” tends to come in the form of a dry-heave/hacking sound that makes the skin crawl. And so as we were waiting to find out whether or not we were pregnant (Yes, I use “we” even though I’m not pregnant. Get off my back, you semantic-checking dork.), I heard The Wife hacking up a lung. Right then, I knew we were pregnant. I told her not to bother with the pregnancy tests (which were still days away from being “conclusive.”) Know what? I was right.
Anyway, now that we’re pregnant again, The Wife and I are having a hard time coming up with a nickname for Baby #2. If you recall, we called the then-unborn Lucas “Blasty.” One of the first phases of “life” for a fertilized egg is when it’s a blastocyst. I thought that sounded like a nice traditional Irish name, Blast O’Cyst. Luke then became Blasty (much to our mothers’ chagrin) until he was born.
So now we have to figure out what to call Baby #2. Personally, I think Blasty should be transferred over to it. It’s not like we STILL call Luke “Blasty.” The Wife, on the other hand, wants to come up with a new name. I’m having a hard time coming up with one though. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.
In the meantime, I’m going to try to write about music for the rest of the summer. I’m finally plowing through the thousands of songs I’ve got on my iPod that I haven’t listened to yet. Wow, there’s a lot of crap on there. And I’m not even talking about the Debbie Gibson songs. Yes, it’s crap, but it’s also part of my 80’s collection and thus must stay on the iPod. But the “bonus” songs on Foreigner’s Definitive Greatest Hits album? Yeah, those need to go. In fact, everything on that album except “Juke Box Hero” needs to go. By the way, I think “Definitive” when used in dealing with Greatest Hits albums translates into “5 songs you want and 20 that eat it.”
