Estimated reading time: 2 minutes 28 seconds
We didn’t know why we had gone to the Mohegan Sun Casino until we were there. On our way to hit the obligatory buffet to stuff our fat faces with absurd quantities of mashed potatoes before some low-stakes slots, I noticed a poster advertising a performance that evening by Wayne Brady, the improv comedian made famous by his stint on TV’s Whose Line is it Anyway.
“What pleasurable happenstance,” I thought as I stared into Wayne Brady’s way-too-white teeth on the performance bill.
Like that hot dog cooker you bought on impulse at Target, the Wayne Brady show was our first impulse comedy show.
However, tickets were $45 apiece. I don’t know if it was because we were in a casino, where matters of money seemingly cease to exist, but $45 didn’t seem too steep.
Told the show was sold out, we learned that there was a special line to stand in for the chance to purchase tickets on a first-come-first-serve basis if they become available due to cancellations.
Since there is no scalping on the reservation, as we learned earlier, I supposed the special line was the only way people without tickets could change their circumstances.
After the buffet, where I successfully put away four desserts, we went to stand in the Schlubs Without Tickets line a recommended-yet-inconvenient 1 hour and 15 minutes before Wayne Brady and his teeth sparkled in front of a live audience. We were the second couple in line.
Here are some of the highlights we see during that time:
**A kid with the babyface of a 10-year-old who was 6-foot-3. I desperately want to ask him if he had some sort of anti-aging disorder and was really 28 or if, as expected, he is indeed a grotesquely tall 9-year-old.
**The Connecticut Sun of the WNBA play a playoff game that night at the Mohegan Sun Arena. We watch thousands of fans headed to the game walk past. At first we recognize many of these fans only if they wear Sun gear – jerseys, hats, sweatshirts, etc. However, the closer we look, the more we notice couples or groups of women headed to the arena. I note that there is not a lot of long hair on these women. Or femininity. I am reminded of a story about the marketing tactics of the WNBA that I had read years earlier. Recognizing that the sight of hundreds of lesbians shuffle past is quite unique, I wonder what the gay male equivalent of a WNBA game is.
**The couple in line ahead of us is handed a ticket for free by a woman who claims “I don’t really want this.”
**A section of the floor in front of us has the slightest raise in the carpet, so slight that you can’t even tell by looking closely. This doesn’t stop a number of people from tripping, looking back to see what had tripped them, only to see nothing but ordinary casino carpet. Sorry saps, I mutter.
The Wayne Brady show began very impressively. To start, his stooge/assistant/fellow performer solicited the audience for words you wouldn’t find in a gangsta rap song. People shouted words like “dude,” “marshmallow” and “serendipitous” which were written on large sheets of paper.
Wayne came out to a hip-hop beat and performed an improv rap incorporating the words. I was quite impressed.
Unfortunately that was the show’s peak.
The rest of the improv sketches were what you would expect. People shouted out movie styles or occupations which Wayne would then incorporate into a song or sketch.
However, seemingly every other sketch ended at Wayne’s insistence because it was not funny and/or failed to go anywhere. Wayne had his moments – some good impressions of a mime, an Italian gangster and the band Creed. But ultimately his performance came off as hopelessly average, lacking the comedic zip he has displayed on bigger stages, for bigger audiences.
To make matters worse, the show ended after an hour, forcing us to shrug our shoulders and walk out of the theater wondering if Wayne would run back on stage and make us feel like we didn’t just waste $45.
Erin contemplated how much money we had just paid per minute for the show. I tried a quick calculation in my head before settling on “Too much.”
Call it buyer’s remorse.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Waking up to a marching band
Estimated reading time: 1 minute, 1 second
Like the unwitting target of a cruel and coordinated practical joke, I was woken up everyday this week by a marching band practicing across the street from my bedroom window.
Brass, percussion, barking band teachers, it was all there each morning.
By getting off of work at 12:30 a.m. and not hitting the sack until close to 3, I am normally still sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child at 9 a.m., the time when the marching band fired up each day.
Given the unlikely chance of being woken up by a marching band for five days straight, I am left to ponder the possibilities of what might wake me up next week.
Taking into account such factors as weather patterns, neighborhood history, tides and seasonal angst, there is a high probability that I will awaken to either a clown playing banjo in the kitchen, a high-stakes chili cook-off and auction next door or a cage of chimpanzees in the next room working on typewriters.
Like the unwitting target of a cruel and coordinated practical joke, I was woken up everyday this week by a marching band practicing across the street from my bedroom window.
Brass, percussion, barking band teachers, it was all there each morning.
By getting off of work at 12:30 a.m. and not hitting the sack until close to 3, I am normally still sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child at 9 a.m., the time when the marching band fired up each day.
Given the unlikely chance of being woken up by a marching band for five days straight, I am left to ponder the possibilities of what might wake me up next week.
Taking into account such factors as weather patterns, neighborhood history, tides and seasonal angst, there is a high probability that I will awaken to either a clown playing banjo in the kitchen, a high-stakes chili cook-off and auction next door or a cage of chimpanzees in the next room working on typewriters.
Coerced naps
Estimated reading time: 3 minutes 57 seconds
I’ve had a history of losing consciousness for some time now. Over the past 13 years I’ve done my share of fainting, blacking out six times since 1993.
I’ve managed to pass out from:
· Taking medicine to which I later learned that I was a tad allergic.
· A who-knows-why high school motivational speech in the auditorium from a guy who survived some horrific accident. (Things were going along fine until we’re suddenly watching a graphic video showing the inside of his ripped-to-shreds leg. I stayed semiconscious but my vision looked like a TV set on a channel it does not receive.)
· Watching my future wife get stitches taken out of her arm
· Getting shots before heading off to college
While my fainting seems to be medical in nature, it is more complex than that, not anything specific. It’s not like I would be fine as long as I avoid, say, those live surgery shows on cable (who watches those?) or gruesome crime scene photos. There’s something deep in my brain that for certain images says “OK if you don’t stop looking at that, I’m going to make you stop looking. Crazy brain. Just the fleeting thought of a ligament tear or bone dislocation makes me close my eyes, plug my ears and squirm helplessly wile humming Van Halen’s Panama. (Yes, Panama.)
I only see these tendencies becoming worse as I now get anxious in almost any medical situation. This includes medical situations involving my dogs. The last time I took the dogs to the vet I sat in the waiting room taking deep breaths through my nose to ward off any light-headedness.
My latest bout of fainting happened a few weeks ago during a trip to Minneapolis. What prompted the episode set the bar even lower on what will cause me to lose consciousness.
As we walked from our hotel to the car, I remembered that I had forgotten something in the room. I returned to the room as Erin went to pull the car around to pick me up.
Rushing back into the room I remembered that the large, heavy door would slam raucously if left to close on its own. Being a courteous fellow, I left my hand in the door to catch it before it slammed. This turned out to be a costly decision. Instead of possibly disturbing fellow hotel guests, my finger took the brunt of the door’s vicious closing.
While it hurt like a mother, there was something more that my mind couldn’t handle. After kicking the bed in hopes to somehow transfer the pain from me to the mattress, I helplessly began to feel dizzy.
But not only was I alone in a hotel room with the lone key, I was also expected promptly by Erin in the parking lot. I had to keep it together long enough to make it to the car.
Riding the elevator down, I instinctively put my hands on my knees and forced my head below my waist. Why I did this, I don’t know. In my haziness, I thought it seemed sensible.
By the time I was in the parking lot, I might as well have been in Guatemala although I did manage to recognize our rented PT Cruiser. Stumbling as I stepped into the car, my head hit the back of the seat almost instantly.
With a swelling body temperature and on the brink of losing consciousness, I retained enough wherewithal to adjust the a/c to a satisfactory level and enough embarrassment not to tell Erin exactly why I was about to take an involuntarily siesta.
Fortunately for me I didn’t have to. In our frequent state of goofiness, I have on more than one occasion faked like I was passed out. This usually goes on for a few moments until I get the tradeoff that I want from Erin: fake fainting for fake sympathy.
Given this history, Erin – rightfully so – thought I was joshing. “OK, wake up Dave,” Erin sings in sarcastic panic. Ten seconds go by as I remain unresponsive, my eyes shut. 20 seconds. 30 seconds. For a full 3 minutes Erin thinks I am still joking, well beyond the point of OK-it’s-not-funny-anymore.
As a lone tear trickles down my face and strange sounds originate in the back of my throat, Erin begins to understand that I am in la-la land and not just taking the pass-out game to an award-winning level.
I come to after about five minutes, sweating generously, battling confusion and a state of nausea. The constant ringing of the seatbelt chime doesn’t help me figure out what is happening. I find the only way to keep from throwing up is to close my eyes, which eases me back to a state of unconsciousness. A minute later I dry-heave myself awake and Erin smartly pulls over and opens the car door. Only a portion of my stomach’s contents come up.
By then I was beginning to emerge back into the world I had left 11 minutes earlier. My first request was for a milkshake.
I’m not sure why I passed out after slamming my finger in the door. This raises the frightening question of what I will pass out over next time. Clipping my dog’s nails. Taking a ball to the funny bone during a game of ping pong. Tweaking my hammy during a friendly game of hoops. These all have the potential to send me to the ground.
But as long as nothing crazy happens, like swallowing my tongue or fainting behind the wheel, I actually don’t mind the process. Right before you go, your world clouds up and half of you knows what’s going on and the other half doesn’t. Once the lights go out it’s the deepest sleep you can imagine, like one big coerced nap.
I’ve had a history of losing consciousness for some time now. Over the past 13 years I’ve done my share of fainting, blacking out six times since 1993.
I’ve managed to pass out from:
· Taking medicine to which I later learned that I was a tad allergic.
· A who-knows-why high school motivational speech in the auditorium from a guy who survived some horrific accident. (Things were going along fine until we’re suddenly watching a graphic video showing the inside of his ripped-to-shreds leg. I stayed semiconscious but my vision looked like a TV set on a channel it does not receive.)
· Watching my future wife get stitches taken out of her arm
· Getting shots before heading off to college
While my fainting seems to be medical in nature, it is more complex than that, not anything specific. It’s not like I would be fine as long as I avoid, say, those live surgery shows on cable (who watches those?) or gruesome crime scene photos. There’s something deep in my brain that for certain images says “OK if you don’t stop looking at that, I’m going to make you stop looking. Crazy brain. Just the fleeting thought of a ligament tear or bone dislocation makes me close my eyes, plug my ears and squirm helplessly wile humming Van Halen’s Panama. (Yes, Panama.)
I only see these tendencies becoming worse as I now get anxious in almost any medical situation. This includes medical situations involving my dogs. The last time I took the dogs to the vet I sat in the waiting room taking deep breaths through my nose to ward off any light-headedness.
My latest bout of fainting happened a few weeks ago during a trip to Minneapolis. What prompted the episode set the bar even lower on what will cause me to lose consciousness.
As we walked from our hotel to the car, I remembered that I had forgotten something in the room. I returned to the room as Erin went to pull the car around to pick me up.
Rushing back into the room I remembered that the large, heavy door would slam raucously if left to close on its own. Being a courteous fellow, I left my hand in the door to catch it before it slammed. This turned out to be a costly decision. Instead of possibly disturbing fellow hotel guests, my finger took the brunt of the door’s vicious closing.
While it hurt like a mother, there was something more that my mind couldn’t handle. After kicking the bed in hopes to somehow transfer the pain from me to the mattress, I helplessly began to feel dizzy.
But not only was I alone in a hotel room with the lone key, I was also expected promptly by Erin in the parking lot. I had to keep it together long enough to make it to the car.
Riding the elevator down, I instinctively put my hands on my knees and forced my head below my waist. Why I did this, I don’t know. In my haziness, I thought it seemed sensible.
By the time I was in the parking lot, I might as well have been in Guatemala although I did manage to recognize our rented PT Cruiser. Stumbling as I stepped into the car, my head hit the back of the seat almost instantly.
With a swelling body temperature and on the brink of losing consciousness, I retained enough wherewithal to adjust the a/c to a satisfactory level and enough embarrassment not to tell Erin exactly why I was about to take an involuntarily siesta.
Fortunately for me I didn’t have to. In our frequent state of goofiness, I have on more than one occasion faked like I was passed out. This usually goes on for a few moments until I get the tradeoff that I want from Erin: fake fainting for fake sympathy.
Given this history, Erin – rightfully so – thought I was joshing. “OK, wake up Dave,” Erin sings in sarcastic panic. Ten seconds go by as I remain unresponsive, my eyes shut. 20 seconds. 30 seconds. For a full 3 minutes Erin thinks I am still joking, well beyond the point of OK-it’s-not-funny-anymore.
As a lone tear trickles down my face and strange sounds originate in the back of my throat, Erin begins to understand that I am in la-la land and not just taking the pass-out game to an award-winning level.
I come to after about five minutes, sweating generously, battling confusion and a state of nausea. The constant ringing of the seatbelt chime doesn’t help me figure out what is happening. I find the only way to keep from throwing up is to close my eyes, which eases me back to a state of unconsciousness. A minute later I dry-heave myself awake and Erin smartly pulls over and opens the car door. Only a portion of my stomach’s contents come up.
By then I was beginning to emerge back into the world I had left 11 minutes earlier. My first request was for a milkshake.
I’m not sure why I passed out after slamming my finger in the door. This raises the frightening question of what I will pass out over next time. Clipping my dog’s nails. Taking a ball to the funny bone during a game of ping pong. Tweaking my hammy during a friendly game of hoops. These all have the potential to send me to the ground.
But as long as nothing crazy happens, like swallowing my tongue or fainting behind the wheel, I actually don’t mind the process. Right before you go, your world clouds up and half of you knows what’s going on and the other half doesn’t. Once the lights go out it’s the deepest sleep you can imagine, like one big coerced nap.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Why Crocs are so ridiculous
Estimated reading time: 3 minutes, 20 seconds
Out at breakfast the other day, we sipped on our beverages as we kindly waited for our order.
I noticed a gentleman sitting at a table nearby wearing a long-sleeve button down shirt, no tie and khaki slacks. He was by himself but was in the midst of a lively business conversation. Not talking quietly, he used business jargon while speaking about such impressive matters involving The Presentation, Power Numbers and Selling Points. Not seeing his entire face, I assumed he was talking on one of those tiny phones people walk around with fastened to their ears that make you want to rip it off the side of their head and scream in their face.
But it was his choice of footwear that struck me as utterly ridiculous. I noticed that he chose to compliment his business casual attire with Crocs. Crocs on top of dark blue dress socks no less. Talking loudly into a cell phone about business nonsense was suddenly not one of his most unfavorable traits.
If you’re not familiar with Crocs, count yourself fortunate. Crocs are the brightly colored rubber, unisex gardening clogs that have somehow established themselves as hip and fashionable.
You might have noticed young children wearing them at the park, women wearing them to church or businessmen wearing them at your office complex.
I racked my brain trying to figure out how something so annoying and completely asinine could catch on. I have only one explanation.
Simply put, it was an experiment to see if it was possible to turn the lamest footwear imaginable into a wildly popular fad.
With the slogan being “Dumb on all levels,” they would base their concept on a shoe not known for its overall versatility or comfort, a shoe traditionally popular only among circles of middle-aged suburban housewives and other financially comfortable older women: gardening clogs.
“OK these are pretty stupid but I can see how someone might mistake these as so dumb they’re cool” one shoe developer remarked on an early prototype. “I think we can do worse.”
The team focused on color, starting with a shortlist of only the tackiest of shoe colors, hues designed to not match anything in your current wardrobe: Bright red, yellow, orange, baby blue.
As a final touch, they stripped away all signs of extravagance, focusing on a more simple, stripped down effect, made with nothing more than utilitarian plastic.
What you see (a cheap-looking, gaudy plastic gardening clog, not quite sandal, not quite shoe) is what you get. And they had the valor to price them anywhere from $30 to $50.
I have room in my heart for women and girls who choose Crocs. It doesn’t seem that crazy for them to wear these abominations out shopping, to the beach or to the park. Perfectly acceptable.
But for the guys who wear Crocs – especially with dark socks and business attire – I can’t force you to stop what you’re doing or intimidate you to change shoes. My only request is that you acknowledge that you wear women’s footwear. Just say it out loud to someone you don’t know, “I wear women’s footwear.”
And one more question for the guys: What would it take for you to not wear Crocs? Do they need to outfit each pair with wedge heels? Do they need to accessorize them with glitter or pink and yellow flowers? Or would you wear anything so long as somebody somewhere deemed it fashionable?
Questions for you, the reader:
1. Why do YOU think Crocs are so stupid?
2. What would it take for you to wear Crocs?
3. When was the last time you saw someone wearing Crocs that it made you want to pull all your hair out and stuff it down their throat until they had trouble taking oxygen?
Out at breakfast the other day, we sipped on our beverages as we kindly waited for our order.
I noticed a gentleman sitting at a table nearby wearing a long-sleeve button down shirt, no tie and khaki slacks. He was by himself but was in the midst of a lively business conversation. Not talking quietly, he used business jargon while speaking about such impressive matters involving The Presentation, Power Numbers and Selling Points. Not seeing his entire face, I assumed he was talking on one of those tiny phones people walk around with fastened to their ears that make you want to rip it off the side of their head and scream in their face.
But it was his choice of footwear that struck me as utterly ridiculous. I noticed that he chose to compliment his business casual attire with Crocs. Crocs on top of dark blue dress socks no less. Talking loudly into a cell phone about business nonsense was suddenly not one of his most unfavorable traits.
If you’re not familiar with Crocs, count yourself fortunate. Crocs are the brightly colored rubber, unisex gardening clogs that have somehow established themselves as hip and fashionable.
You might have noticed young children wearing them at the park, women wearing them to church or businessmen wearing them at your office complex.
I racked my brain trying to figure out how something so annoying and completely asinine could catch on. I have only one explanation.
Simply put, it was an experiment to see if it was possible to turn the lamest footwear imaginable into a wildly popular fad.
With the slogan being “Dumb on all levels,” they would base their concept on a shoe not known for its overall versatility or comfort, a shoe traditionally popular only among circles of middle-aged suburban housewives and other financially comfortable older women: gardening clogs.
“OK these are pretty stupid but I can see how someone might mistake these as so dumb they’re cool” one shoe developer remarked on an early prototype. “I think we can do worse.”
The team focused on color, starting with a shortlist of only the tackiest of shoe colors, hues designed to not match anything in your current wardrobe: Bright red, yellow, orange, baby blue.
As a final touch, they stripped away all signs of extravagance, focusing on a more simple, stripped down effect, made with nothing more than utilitarian plastic.
What you see (a cheap-looking, gaudy plastic gardening clog, not quite sandal, not quite shoe) is what you get. And they had the valor to price them anywhere from $30 to $50.
I have room in my heart for women and girls who choose Crocs. It doesn’t seem that crazy for them to wear these abominations out shopping, to the beach or to the park. Perfectly acceptable.
But for the guys who wear Crocs – especially with dark socks and business attire – I can’t force you to stop what you’re doing or intimidate you to change shoes. My only request is that you acknowledge that you wear women’s footwear. Just say it out loud to someone you don’t know, “I wear women’s footwear.”
And one more question for the guys: What would it take for you to not wear Crocs? Do they need to outfit each pair with wedge heels? Do they need to accessorize them with glitter or pink and yellow flowers? Or would you wear anything so long as somebody somewhere deemed it fashionable?
Questions for you, the reader:
1. Why do YOU think Crocs are so stupid?
2. What would it take for you to wear Crocs?
3. When was the last time you saw someone wearing Crocs that it made you want to pull all your hair out and stuff it down their throat until they had trouble taking oxygen?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
A fit of laughter
Estimated reading time: 2 minutes, 59 seconds
I saw Erin laugh so hard last night that I became frightened and mildly concerned for her safety.
The object of the prolonged hilarity will sound so stupid and distracting that I hesitate to mention this vital fact at all, as it certainly won’t sound funny.
We were watching a show that in part featured a gaggle of aging hippies, spiritualist and new-agers involved in a bout of individual experimentation expressed in the form of tribal dancing. This of course took place in a nicely lit dance studio to the beat of tribal congas. Their arms flailed and legs jimmied about. They danced as if they had been overcome by either the Spirit of the Goddess or perhaps some sort of hallucinogen. One middle-aged man bounced up and down with his eyes closed and an open-mouthed smile while making motions with his hands like a basketball referee calls traveling. These people were certainly possessed by something more than a conga drum, I thought.
The cameras were mostly trained on one person, the focus of the show. But there was another man, a gray and balding fellow in baby blue linen pants and no shoes. Never quite the focal point, he would shuffle in and about the screen performing a variety of free-form movements.
One of these jigs caught us both as quite humorous, Erin in particular.
Before I go further I have to explain something for those of you not familiar with Erin's laughing habits. Erin is generally a happy and content person (a student once asked her how she was able to smile all the time). We laugh at things consistently but the laughs are not always audible and seldom last longer than your standard ha-ha. This is to say that Erin is not a giggler and does not laugh at everything all the time.
Using our digital video recording device, we re-watched the footage of the dancing man. Once. Twice. We both laugh at equal intensities. Four times. Erin is laughing harder than me. Six times. It's clear things have gotten out of hand. Eight times. I am laughing at her laughing.
As we continue to watch the man dancing on a loop, Erin's laughter begins to sound like uncontrollable wailing, like that of a mother who had just buried her young fraternal twins. I begin to wonder if something evil has overtaken her body or is at least tickling her relentlessly. I get off the couch to look out the window but more just to make sure my eternal wellbeing is not hijacked.
I start to look away in horror, glancing back every now and then to notice her face is pained, almost pleading for something to make it all stop.
Just when I thought it was over, there would be silence before the sound of tribal congas started again and Erin would go back into an uncontrollable release.
I contemplated if I needed to take action. Should I call 911? The cops? Perform the Heimlich maneuver? I began to wonder if her wailing laughter might never stop, becoming a permanent part of our lives.
The experience reminded me of the phrase “A fit of laughter” so I decided to look the word “fit” up in the dictionary. It was defined as “A sudden, violent appearance of a disease.” It used as an example the phrase “A fit of malaria.” Perhaps Erin did take on a fit of malaria, presumably after being bitten by a very humorous mosquito.
Of course the laughing did finally stop after 12 viewings, possibly more. But it made me think about spells of uncontainable laughter.
It’s not so much that the object of your laughing is so funny – whether it is a home video, a friend’s anecdote or a new age dancer on TV. You think about it an hour later and say “OK it wasn’t THAT funny.” Rather, there must be something in our brains that simply triggers an emotional release, seizing the opportunity to dump some pent-up tension, much like when people find themselves literally sobbing unforgettably over spilled milk.
The new-agers on TV were taking part in tribal dancing as a form of self expression but mainly as a release of emotional and bodily tension, to free themselves of life’s stresses and anxieties. I guess Erin was doing the same.
I saw Erin laugh so hard last night that I became frightened and mildly concerned for her safety.
The object of the prolonged hilarity will sound so stupid and distracting that I hesitate to mention this vital fact at all, as it certainly won’t sound funny.
We were watching a show that in part featured a gaggle of aging hippies, spiritualist and new-agers involved in a bout of individual experimentation expressed in the form of tribal dancing. This of course took place in a nicely lit dance studio to the beat of tribal congas. Their arms flailed and legs jimmied about. They danced as if they had been overcome by either the Spirit of the Goddess or perhaps some sort of hallucinogen. One middle-aged man bounced up and down with his eyes closed and an open-mouthed smile while making motions with his hands like a basketball referee calls traveling. These people were certainly possessed by something more than a conga drum, I thought.
The cameras were mostly trained on one person, the focus of the show. But there was another man, a gray and balding fellow in baby blue linen pants and no shoes. Never quite the focal point, he would shuffle in and about the screen performing a variety of free-form movements.
One of these jigs caught us both as quite humorous, Erin in particular.
Before I go further I have to explain something for those of you not familiar with Erin's laughing habits. Erin is generally a happy and content person (a student once asked her how she was able to smile all the time). We laugh at things consistently but the laughs are not always audible and seldom last longer than your standard ha-ha. This is to say that Erin is not a giggler and does not laugh at everything all the time.
Using our digital video recording device, we re-watched the footage of the dancing man. Once. Twice. We both laugh at equal intensities. Four times. Erin is laughing harder than me. Six times. It's clear things have gotten out of hand. Eight times. I am laughing at her laughing.
As we continue to watch the man dancing on a loop, Erin's laughter begins to sound like uncontrollable wailing, like that of a mother who had just buried her young fraternal twins. I begin to wonder if something evil has overtaken her body or is at least tickling her relentlessly. I get off the couch to look out the window but more just to make sure my eternal wellbeing is not hijacked.
I start to look away in horror, glancing back every now and then to notice her face is pained, almost pleading for something to make it all stop.
Just when I thought it was over, there would be silence before the sound of tribal congas started again and Erin would go back into an uncontrollable release.
I contemplated if I needed to take action. Should I call 911? The cops? Perform the Heimlich maneuver? I began to wonder if her wailing laughter might never stop, becoming a permanent part of our lives.
The experience reminded me of the phrase “A fit of laughter” so I decided to look the word “fit” up in the dictionary. It was defined as “A sudden, violent appearance of a disease.” It used as an example the phrase “A fit of malaria.” Perhaps Erin did take on a fit of malaria, presumably after being bitten by a very humorous mosquito.
Of course the laughing did finally stop after 12 viewings, possibly more. But it made me think about spells of uncontainable laughter.
It’s not so much that the object of your laughing is so funny – whether it is a home video, a friend’s anecdote or a new age dancer on TV. You think about it an hour later and say “OK it wasn’t THAT funny.” Rather, there must be something in our brains that simply triggers an emotional release, seizing the opportunity to dump some pent-up tension, much like when people find themselves literally sobbing unforgettably over spilled milk.
The new-agers on TV were taking part in tribal dancing as a form of self expression but mainly as a release of emotional and bodily tension, to free themselves of life’s stresses and anxieties. I guess Erin was doing the same.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
S'mores: Our country's most overrated delight
Estimated reading time: 3 minutes, 6 seconds
In a moment of spontaneity last week, Erin suggested we make s'mores. We already had the chocolate bars and were heading to the grocery store anyway, where a bounty of graham crackers and marshmallows surely awaited.
Just the thought of s'mores makes my mouth yearn for the rich, creamy gooeyness of roasted marshmallows soulfully uniting with smooth milk chocolate sandwiched between two crisp graham crackers. And that's precisely the problem I have. S'mores sound so good, so perfect and so tempting. It’s exactly what makes them the most overrated food in the United States.
Once you go to the trouble of making s'mores you tell yourself that you will never do it again.
Here's why:
· For starters, you have to build a fire. What a pain. (Without firewood or an appropriate fire grate in our backyard, we actually ignited our gas grill and took it from there. What idiots we are).
· Usually made outdoors where tables are often nowhere to be found, you find yourself – likely in the dark – fumbling around with loose graham crackers, chocolate, wrappers and piping-hot marshmallows, all near an open flame. Not the safety I like to see in childrens' food.
· Once the s'more is assembled, what you thought would be a warm sensation turns out to consist of chilled graham crackers, cold chocolate and a marshmallow that despite being engulfed in flames three seconds prior is still hard and cool in the center.
· Upon your first bite, the marshmallow oozes out the side onto you hands and half of the graham cracker crumbles onto the ground. The other half crumbles onto your shirt.
· Even with your enthusiasm, you are only able to eat two s'mores because they are so sweet. This leaves you with an entire box of graham crackers, a giant bag of giant marshmallows and a bucket of candy bars – loads of food items that you bought specifically for this event and will never use again.
Despite these things, s'mores enjoy a delightful reputation. Talk about s'mores and people light up, reminiscing about camping trips and other s'mores' stereotypes. There are s'mores that come ready-made as cookies, Häagen-Dazs makes s'mores ice cream and Hershey's puts out a s'mores candy bar, just to name a few.
The marshmallow package even features a picture of a s'more because they know just the sight of s'mores will get people to buy a pillow-sized package of marshmallows they wouldn’t buy otherwise (the marshmallows were grouped in a wink-wink section that included graham crackers and chocolate bars, not uncommon in supermarkets across the country).
I think it's time everyone revisit and reevaluate their feelings on s'mores. For such an impractical treat, s'mores have been over-hyped and overexposed for too long.
In a moment of spontaneity last week, Erin suggested we make s'mores. We already had the chocolate bars and were heading to the grocery store anyway, where a bounty of graham crackers and marshmallows surely awaited.
Just the thought of s'mores makes my mouth yearn for the rich, creamy gooeyness of roasted marshmallows soulfully uniting with smooth milk chocolate sandwiched between two crisp graham crackers. And that's precisely the problem I have. S'mores sound so good, so perfect and so tempting. It’s exactly what makes them the most overrated food in the United States.
Once you go to the trouble of making s'mores you tell yourself that you will never do it again.
Here's why:
· For starters, you have to build a fire. What a pain. (Without firewood or an appropriate fire grate in our backyard, we actually ignited our gas grill and took it from there. What idiots we are).
· Usually made outdoors where tables are often nowhere to be found, you find yourself – likely in the dark – fumbling around with loose graham crackers, chocolate, wrappers and piping-hot marshmallows, all near an open flame. Not the safety I like to see in childrens' food.
· Once the s'more is assembled, what you thought would be a warm sensation turns out to consist of chilled graham crackers, cold chocolate and a marshmallow that despite being engulfed in flames three seconds prior is still hard and cool in the center.
· Upon your first bite, the marshmallow oozes out the side onto you hands and half of the graham cracker crumbles onto the ground. The other half crumbles onto your shirt.
· Even with your enthusiasm, you are only able to eat two s'mores because they are so sweet. This leaves you with an entire box of graham crackers, a giant bag of giant marshmallows and a bucket of candy bars – loads of food items that you bought specifically for this event and will never use again.
Despite these things, s'mores enjoy a delightful reputation. Talk about s'mores and people light up, reminiscing about camping trips and other s'mores' stereotypes. There are s'mores that come ready-made as cookies, Häagen-Dazs makes s'mores ice cream and Hershey's puts out a s'mores candy bar, just to name a few.
The marshmallow package even features a picture of a s'more because they know just the sight of s'mores will get people to buy a pillow-sized package of marshmallows they wouldn’t buy otherwise (the marshmallows were grouped in a wink-wink section that included graham crackers and chocolate bars, not uncommon in supermarkets across the country).
I think it's time everyone revisit and reevaluate their feelings on s'mores. For such an impractical treat, s'mores have been over-hyped and overexposed for too long.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Who doesn't love deviled eggs?
Estimated reading time: 1 minute, 42 seconds
A barbecue over the weekend reminded of a food that immediately went to the top of my list of Most Underrated Foods: Deviled eggs.
Give me one example of a potluck or barbecue where the plate of deviled eggs wasn’t the first thing to go. While one person will take a spoonful of baked beans but skip the au gratin potatoes, the next person will take some au gratin and skip the baked beans. But they will both take a deviled egg.
People love these things. They shuffle through the line and if there are any deviled eggs left, people will take at least one but likely two or three without thinking.
We eat them in two bites, remark how we love deviled eggs and how we haven’t had them in a while and then somehow forget about them until our next potluck.
This left me scratching my head. Clearly everyone loves deviled eggs. Why aren’t deviled eggs everywhere? Why aren’t deviled eggs in the pre-made food section in the deli of your neighborhood grocer or listed anywhere on anyone’s list of favorite foods? Why aren’t deviled eggs included at all-you-can-eat buffets or featured on appetizer menus? Tell me you wouldn’t order that.
Why does it take a get-together meal for people to make deviled eggs? You might say it’s because they’re difficult and time-consuming to make. And you’d be wrong. Sure it takes 20 minutes of foresight to boil the eggs but once the eggs are boiled, it takes 10 minutes tops. Prove me wrong. Take three deviled eggs in your lunch today.
If they were sitting in front of me right now, I think I would eat at least eight deviled eggs. I bet you would too.
Up next: One of the most overrated foods in the United States
A barbecue over the weekend reminded of a food that immediately went to the top of my list of Most Underrated Foods: Deviled eggs.
Give me one example of a potluck or barbecue where the plate of deviled eggs wasn’t the first thing to go. While one person will take a spoonful of baked beans but skip the au gratin potatoes, the next person will take some au gratin and skip the baked beans. But they will both take a deviled egg.
People love these things. They shuffle through the line and if there are any deviled eggs left, people will take at least one but likely two or three without thinking.
We eat them in two bites, remark how we love deviled eggs and how we haven’t had them in a while and then somehow forget about them until our next potluck.
This left me scratching my head. Clearly everyone loves deviled eggs. Why aren’t deviled eggs everywhere? Why aren’t deviled eggs in the pre-made food section in the deli of your neighborhood grocer or listed anywhere on anyone’s list of favorite foods? Why aren’t deviled eggs included at all-you-can-eat buffets or featured on appetizer menus? Tell me you wouldn’t order that.
Why does it take a get-together meal for people to make deviled eggs? You might say it’s because they’re difficult and time-consuming to make. And you’d be wrong. Sure it takes 20 minutes of foresight to boil the eggs but once the eggs are boiled, it takes 10 minutes tops. Prove me wrong. Take three deviled eggs in your lunch today.
If they were sitting in front of me right now, I think I would eat at least eight deviled eggs. I bet you would too.
Up next: One of the most overrated foods in the United States
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
How did it get to this point?
This blog entry is a comment on the previous blog entry regarding a ridiculous catalogue for baby merchandise I received in the mail. So I might be useful to scroll down to read that first . . .but I don’t want to tell you what to do or anything.
Estimated reading time: 2 minutes, 35 seconds
On the surface it appears that modern parents are into their kids more than ever, placing their children’s happiness and safety on a very high level.
At first glance, this catalogue seems to be all about kids and all about helping parents in their desire to keep them happy and safe. But I would argue that this catalogue enables parents to do just the opposite.
Items like crib nets and bars over windows allow parents to believe that they’ve insulated their children from danger. With an easy purchase they can eliminate any perceived threat they can think of.
Instead of supervising their children, parents can more easily buy supervision. They can cover appliances in plastic or mesh, install gates and bars on the entrances and exit of each room and secure every cabinet with a lock. Parents can check one more thing off that they don’t have to worry about. The line between a parent’s peace of mind and the safety of the child is blurred. Who is the boxed-in outlet cover for, the child or the “responsible” parent? (I won’t even discuss parents who surely buy these products just to keep up with others. Imagine being the only parent who doesn’t have rubber bumpers on all your table edges!)
Products like fire ladders, helmets and special crib blankets aren’t as much about child safety as much as they are for parent anxiety. They create the appearance that their children are safe when, in fact, their children were safe all along. The question isn’t the number of children who have died in house fires. The question is the number of children that have not died in house fires because their parents bought some sort of fire-safety device. That comparison, I’m sure, would not be promoted by the manufacturers of these products.
In addition to satisfying their safety obsessions, the catalogue also supplies parents with the necessities to keep children constantly occupied.
Kids have become conditioned to the need to be busy and entertained continuously. That’s why 3-year-olds have their own TVs and DVD players and 5-year-olds are playing hand-held video games at the Olive Garden. Meanwhile, parents outfit the back seats of the car with cup holders, TV screens and coloring tables. And, as the catalogue showed, they turn their bathtubs into delightfully colorful playpens full of toys, games and other gadgets to make routine bathing fun, interesting and engaging.
Am I suggesting that some of these products are not useful or in some cases necessary? No. I think many people create an environment that they deem secure, comfortable and entertaining and too often stop there, thinking they have provided as much as any parent could.
Do I think all safety and caution should be set aside? No. But we’ve gone thousands of years without nets on our cribs and helmets for our babies. What has changed?
Do I think parents should refrain from buying a few items to make their lives a little easier? Not really. But when you are carrying around a padded, foldable toilet seat cushion for your kid, just take a minute and try to remember how it got to that point.
Estimated reading time: 2 minutes, 35 seconds
On the surface it appears that modern parents are into their kids more than ever, placing their children’s happiness and safety on a very high level.
At first glance, this catalogue seems to be all about kids and all about helping parents in their desire to keep them happy and safe. But I would argue that this catalogue enables parents to do just the opposite.
Items like crib nets and bars over windows allow parents to believe that they’ve insulated their children from danger. With an easy purchase they can eliminate any perceived threat they can think of.
Instead of supervising their children, parents can more easily buy supervision. They can cover appliances in plastic or mesh, install gates and bars on the entrances and exit of each room and secure every cabinet with a lock. Parents can check one more thing off that they don’t have to worry about. The line between a parent’s peace of mind and the safety of the child is blurred. Who is the boxed-in outlet cover for, the child or the “responsible” parent? (I won’t even discuss parents who surely buy these products just to keep up with others. Imagine being the only parent who doesn’t have rubber bumpers on all your table edges!)
Products like fire ladders, helmets and special crib blankets aren’t as much about child safety as much as they are for parent anxiety. They create the appearance that their children are safe when, in fact, their children were safe all along. The question isn’t the number of children who have died in house fires. The question is the number of children that have not died in house fires because their parents bought some sort of fire-safety device. That comparison, I’m sure, would not be promoted by the manufacturers of these products.
In addition to satisfying their safety obsessions, the catalogue also supplies parents with the necessities to keep children constantly occupied.
Kids have become conditioned to the need to be busy and entertained continuously. That’s why 3-year-olds have their own TVs and DVD players and 5-year-olds are playing hand-held video games at the Olive Garden. Meanwhile, parents outfit the back seats of the car with cup holders, TV screens and coloring tables. And, as the catalogue showed, they turn their bathtubs into delightfully colorful playpens full of toys, games and other gadgets to make routine bathing fun, interesting and engaging.
Am I suggesting that some of these products are not useful or in some cases necessary? No. I think many people create an environment that they deem secure, comfortable and entertaining and too often stop there, thinking they have provided as much as any parent could.
Do I think all safety and caution should be set aside? No. But we’ve gone thousands of years without nets on our cribs and helmets for our babies. What has changed?
Do I think parents should refrain from buying a few items to make their lives a little easier? Not really. But when you are carrying around a padded, foldable toilet seat cushion for your kid, just take a minute and try to remember how it got to that point.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
You have got to be kidding
Estimated reading time: 6 minutes, 42 seconds
Yesterday, I got a glimpse into a world of which I am not a part of. That world is the one of children and parenting and it came in the form of a catalogue I received innocently in the mail.
Recently moved in to a new house, we have discovered that the postal service will forward a lot of mail to a new address. Something it won’t forward, however, is catalogues. Those are stubbornly shipped to the same address relentlessly, regardless who lives at the residency (us) or who had the initial interest in, say, expensive mail-order fruit (the people who lived here before).
One of the catalogues that came with our house is called One Step Ahead: Thoughtfully Selected Products To Help With Baby . . . Every Step Of The Way.
Its cover features freaking adorable toddlers put into crap-your-pants cute Halloween costumes against their will. Although constrained in a scarecrow costume and pumpkin suit and sitting on a scratchy bail of hay, the two youngsters seem to be having a wonderful time. (I won’t even get into the other photo on the cover that features a kid in a penguin suit. What’s remarkable is the real penguin in the photo’s foreground, making it appear like the kid was dropped into the penguin house at the zoo. Now that would be a reason to smile.)
Also included on the cover is the National Parenting Center Seal of Approval to give the catalogue some official clout.
The first few pages were unremarkable – more Halloween costumes, strollers and stroller accessories, blocks, bookshelves and various devices to lug kids around in. (Let me say this. Until your kid is old enough to express an interest in Halloween – the ability to talk should be one requirement – putting them in a costume should be treated the same in society as dressing up your pets. That is to say, it should be mocked and ridiculed.)
Three-quarters through the catalogue, in the section titled Safety was when things got ridiculous. It was a picture of a baby crawling on a floor wearing a large bulbous, diaper-looking helmet. The level of sheer absurdity and parental nonsense that allowed this helmet to exist nearly made me strangle myself dead.
Judging by this catalogue, undoubtedly profitable and sent to thousands of households, there are many parents who, on the surface, seem to be obsessed and fanatical with their children’s safety and the perceived dangers they face.
The safety products sorted out into four main categories:
1. Coverings for household items to prevent kids from curiously jamming fingers, heads or limbs into or through dangerous objects.
Items included:
· Computer box cover
· TV button cover
· DVD player cover
· Power strip cover
· Stove shield
· Individual oven knob shields
· Bundled cords tube
· Loose cord tube
· A lock for the controls on the blinds
· Doorknob deactivating shield
· Toilet paper roll clamp
· spring-loaded outlet protector
Item that took it too far: If the spring-loaded outlet protector wasn’t enough, there is a plastic box that covers the entire outlet and the plugs going to the wall, leaving nothing to chance (Grown adults can’t even figure out how to plug or unplug anything!)
2. Barriers
Items included:
· steel white bars to place in a window (He’ll never play Superman again!)
· plastic to put over the banister rails
· mesh to put over the deck rails
· steel gates
· retractable gates
· foldable mesh gates
· fire place gates
· pressure-mount gates
· gates to match your oak woodwork
· gates to section off entire expansive living spaces
Item that took it too far: The shopping cart cover, a padded donut three feet in diameter that is harnessed around a sitting child. The disc creates a 360-degree area that is soft, empty, and germ-free where the kid cannot touch or put his fingers on or through anything dangerous or dirty. From the looks of it, he won’t be able to move at all, save for his arms and perhaps maybe some light neck stretching. Who knew that shopping carts were such dirty safety hazards?
3. Locks, locks and . . . locks
Items included:
· magnetic locks
· screw-less self-adhesive locks
· toilet locks
· a lock for cabinet knobs (looks and works like The Club on a car)
· A harness that keeps baby strapped into the shopping cart (doubles as a leash to keep baby tethered in the event baby is let out of shopping cart)
· security straps that lock corner cabinets
· oven door locks
· For that one cabinet that your kid can still open herself, there’s a wedge to put by the hinges so her curious hands won’t get crushed.
Item that took it too far: A device to keep that pesky dresser locked against the wall so it won’t fall on the unsupervised toddler who uses the open drawers as steps.
4. Products that scare their way into your home
Items included:
· Mesh feeder to place food in so your baby doesn’t choke on fresh produce, “invented by a dad whose baby nearly died choking on a biscuit,” the catalogue touts.
· Extra-wide sun canopy for your stroller. “Careful: most stroller canopies still leave some tender skin exposed! Don’t take chances,” it explains.
· The crib blanket that looks like a combination of a vest and a sleeping bag that “eliminates the danger of loose crib blankets, which can deprive baby of fresh air – a suspected cause of SIDS,” warns the catalogue. The stay-put blanket is endorsed by Fist Candle/SIDS Alliance and is flame retardant, according to the catalogue. (I think the only retardant thing here is the fact that people see this item as a necessity.)
· The memory foam “sleep positioner” that elevates a baby’s head to prevent plagiocephaly and acid reflux. (No Tums in the house?)
· A mesh bumper that lines a crib’s interior so no limbs can protrude from the death trap. There’s also the mesh tent to fit over the crib to thwart any escape attempts. I was under the assumption the point of crib was to keep the baby from rolling or crawling off to its doom while sleeping or being confined for other reasons. Thus the bars.
Item that took it too far: The aluminum and plastic fire ladder that is unrolled and lowered out the window in case of emergency. (The ladder is so lightweight and simple, even a 3-year-old can remember how to finagle this thing as flames and smoke consume his Pooh-themed room.)
For parents who not only deem safety No. 1 but also like to woefully coddle their children and shower them with frivolous creature comfort, the catalogue had plenty to offer. I implore parents who submit to these products to plainly admit that their lives and their households are fervently controlled by their kids.
Items included:
· A foldable, portable toilet “perfect for road trips!” Also the padded, foldable toilet seat cushion to place over hard, filthy, urine-stained toilet seats when your child must pee-pee away from their cushy home potty.
· As booster seats and high chairs at restaurants become woefully unacceptable, now there is a portable table chair that hooks onto any table. The chair is fully padded from top to bottom and “supports baby’s spine, head and neck.” There’s also the more simple Cooshie Booster that is billed as “soft, comfy and downright calming.”
· A tray to fasten into the car seat or stroller that provides a wide, flat surface, a cup holder and a tray for crayons.
· A stroller that offers toddlers the choice to either ride comfortably under the cover or stand up at the back while being pushed. Oh what choice!
· The lawn chair that straps to the back of luggage for the one time a stroller is inaccessible and walking is completely out of the question.
· According to the catalogue, car booster seats leave your child’s small legs dangling, causing poor circulation and numbness. For the frightened parent who likes to coddle their child as well, there’s the footrest that doubles as table that makes “your child’s booster feel like an easy chair.” If only it would make them shut up too?
· The alternative booster seat that the magazine titles “The Booster For Kids Who Hate Boosters. It’s roomier, it’s extra cushy” No further explanation needed.
Item that took it too far: The grotesque bath setup that includes a 56-piece magnetic number and letter set to place all over the tiled tub wall, a padded fish to cover that hard and ugly tub fixture, a plastic drain valve cover to protect against pinching and curious fingers, a basket that hangs across the tub for toys, a mesh net that suctions to the side of the tub wall for extra tub toys, a suctioning mirror with tray for still further toys, an organizer for the bathroom corner to house all the bathtub toys your kid forgot he had and a pitcher that shields baby’s eyes from suds while rinsing shampoo from baby’s hair (“Keep your eyes shut!” has grown ineffective).
I say people should just put their kids in giant padded hamster balls so that they do not risk touching anything or falling anywhere. And who knows, maybe they’ll make the balls sound proof.
Coming tomorrow: I get serious and try to figure out why this catalogue exists.
Yesterday, I got a glimpse into a world of which I am not a part of. That world is the one of children and parenting and it came in the form of a catalogue I received innocently in the mail.
Recently moved in to a new house, we have discovered that the postal service will forward a lot of mail to a new address. Something it won’t forward, however, is catalogues. Those are stubbornly shipped to the same address relentlessly, regardless who lives at the residency (us) or who had the initial interest in, say, expensive mail-order fruit (the people who lived here before).
One of the catalogues that came with our house is called One Step Ahead: Thoughtfully Selected Products To Help With Baby . . . Every Step Of The Way.
Its cover features freaking adorable toddlers put into crap-your-pants cute Halloween costumes against their will. Although constrained in a scarecrow costume and pumpkin suit and sitting on a scratchy bail of hay, the two youngsters seem to be having a wonderful time. (I won’t even get into the other photo on the cover that features a kid in a penguin suit. What’s remarkable is the real penguin in the photo’s foreground, making it appear like the kid was dropped into the penguin house at the zoo. Now that would be a reason to smile.)
Also included on the cover is the National Parenting Center Seal of Approval to give the catalogue some official clout.
The first few pages were unremarkable – more Halloween costumes, strollers and stroller accessories, blocks, bookshelves and various devices to lug kids around in. (Let me say this. Until your kid is old enough to express an interest in Halloween – the ability to talk should be one requirement – putting them in a costume should be treated the same in society as dressing up your pets. That is to say, it should be mocked and ridiculed.)
Three-quarters through the catalogue, in the section titled Safety was when things got ridiculous. It was a picture of a baby crawling on a floor wearing a large bulbous, diaper-looking helmet. The level of sheer absurdity and parental nonsense that allowed this helmet to exist nearly made me strangle myself dead.
Judging by this catalogue, undoubtedly profitable and sent to thousands of households, there are many parents who, on the surface, seem to be obsessed and fanatical with their children’s safety and the perceived dangers they face.
The safety products sorted out into four main categories:
1. Coverings for household items to prevent kids from curiously jamming fingers, heads or limbs into or through dangerous objects.
Items included:
· Computer box cover
· TV button cover
· DVD player cover
· Power strip cover
· Stove shield
· Individual oven knob shields
· Bundled cords tube
· Loose cord tube
· A lock for the controls on the blinds
· Doorknob deactivating shield
· Toilet paper roll clamp
· spring-loaded outlet protector
Item that took it too far: If the spring-loaded outlet protector wasn’t enough, there is a plastic box that covers the entire outlet and the plugs going to the wall, leaving nothing to chance (Grown adults can’t even figure out how to plug or unplug anything!)
2. Barriers
Items included:
· steel white bars to place in a window (He’ll never play Superman again!)
· plastic to put over the banister rails
· mesh to put over the deck rails
· steel gates
· retractable gates
· foldable mesh gates
· fire place gates
· pressure-mount gates
· gates to match your oak woodwork
· gates to section off entire expansive living spaces
Item that took it too far: The shopping cart cover, a padded donut three feet in diameter that is harnessed around a sitting child. The disc creates a 360-degree area that is soft, empty, and germ-free where the kid cannot touch or put his fingers on or through anything dangerous or dirty. From the looks of it, he won’t be able to move at all, save for his arms and perhaps maybe some light neck stretching. Who knew that shopping carts were such dirty safety hazards?
3. Locks, locks and . . . locks
Items included:
· magnetic locks
· screw-less self-adhesive locks
· toilet locks
· a lock for cabinet knobs (looks and works like The Club on a car)
· A harness that keeps baby strapped into the shopping cart (doubles as a leash to keep baby tethered in the event baby is let out of shopping cart)
· security straps that lock corner cabinets
· oven door locks
· For that one cabinet that your kid can still open herself, there’s a wedge to put by the hinges so her curious hands won’t get crushed.
Item that took it too far: A device to keep that pesky dresser locked against the wall so it won’t fall on the unsupervised toddler who uses the open drawers as steps.
4. Products that scare their way into your home
Items included:
· Mesh feeder to place food in so your baby doesn’t choke on fresh produce, “invented by a dad whose baby nearly died choking on a biscuit,” the catalogue touts.
· Extra-wide sun canopy for your stroller. “Careful: most stroller canopies still leave some tender skin exposed! Don’t take chances,” it explains.
· The crib blanket that looks like a combination of a vest and a sleeping bag that “eliminates the danger of loose crib blankets, which can deprive baby of fresh air – a suspected cause of SIDS,” warns the catalogue. The stay-put blanket is endorsed by Fist Candle/SIDS Alliance and is flame retardant, according to the catalogue. (I think the only retardant thing here is the fact that people see this item as a necessity.)
· The memory foam “sleep positioner” that elevates a baby’s head to prevent plagiocephaly and acid reflux. (No Tums in the house?)
· A mesh bumper that lines a crib’s interior so no limbs can protrude from the death trap. There’s also the mesh tent to fit over the crib to thwart any escape attempts. I was under the assumption the point of crib was to keep the baby from rolling or crawling off to its doom while sleeping or being confined for other reasons. Thus the bars.
Item that took it too far: The aluminum and plastic fire ladder that is unrolled and lowered out the window in case of emergency. (The ladder is so lightweight and simple, even a 3-year-old can remember how to finagle this thing as flames and smoke consume his Pooh-themed room.)
For parents who not only deem safety No. 1 but also like to woefully coddle their children and shower them with frivolous creature comfort, the catalogue had plenty to offer. I implore parents who submit to these products to plainly admit that their lives and their households are fervently controlled by their kids.
Items included:
· A foldable, portable toilet “perfect for road trips!” Also the padded, foldable toilet seat cushion to place over hard, filthy, urine-stained toilet seats when your child must pee-pee away from their cushy home potty.
· As booster seats and high chairs at restaurants become woefully unacceptable, now there is a portable table chair that hooks onto any table. The chair is fully padded from top to bottom and “supports baby’s spine, head and neck.” There’s also the more simple Cooshie Booster that is billed as “soft, comfy and downright calming.”
· A tray to fasten into the car seat or stroller that provides a wide, flat surface, a cup holder and a tray for crayons.
· A stroller that offers toddlers the choice to either ride comfortably under the cover or stand up at the back while being pushed. Oh what choice!
· The lawn chair that straps to the back of luggage for the one time a stroller is inaccessible and walking is completely out of the question.
· According to the catalogue, car booster seats leave your child’s small legs dangling, causing poor circulation and numbness. For the frightened parent who likes to coddle their child as well, there’s the footrest that doubles as table that makes “your child’s booster feel like an easy chair.” If only it would make them shut up too?
· The alternative booster seat that the magazine titles “The Booster For Kids Who Hate Boosters. It’s roomier, it’s extra cushy” No further explanation needed.
Item that took it too far: The grotesque bath setup that includes a 56-piece magnetic number and letter set to place all over the tiled tub wall, a padded fish to cover that hard and ugly tub fixture, a plastic drain valve cover to protect against pinching and curious fingers, a basket that hangs across the tub for toys, a mesh net that suctions to the side of the tub wall for extra tub toys, a suctioning mirror with tray for still further toys, an organizer for the bathroom corner to house all the bathtub toys your kid forgot he had and a pitcher that shields baby’s eyes from suds while rinsing shampoo from baby’s hair (“Keep your eyes shut!” has grown ineffective).
I say people should just put their kids in giant padded hamster balls so that they do not risk touching anything or falling anywhere. And who knows, maybe they’ll make the balls sound proof.
Coming tomorrow: I get serious and try to figure out why this catalogue exists.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
A Face That Will Make Me Happy
Estimated reading time: 2 minutes, 56 seconds
I've been fairly disappointed with my facial expressions lately.
People have always compared my neutral, most natural look to that of a disgruntled, out-of-work mailman.
"What's wrong with you?" a co-worker inquires.
But in the end I can only give them the disappointing answer of "Unfortunately, this is how I look."
Over the years I have learned to deal with this.
Lately, however, the pressing concern regarding my facial expressions has been the face I use to friendly greet passing strangers in the hall at work or similar situations that call for mildly cordial behavior.
The last thing I want to do when acknowledging people is try to appear casually pleasant but come off as the type of guy who would “accidentally” rub into unsuspecting strangers on public transportation. That’s why when I pass someone, I feel like an intense, open-mouth toothy grin is not only too much work but risks being taken as creepy.
I don’t want to overdo it so I end up underdoing it. My unexpressive “friendly” face comes off as a smirk at best, a snub at worst. Ultimately I settle for this goofy, weird concoction where I pull the corners of my mouth apart, undoubtedly making me look like a meek toddler who has just pee-peed himself. Talk about creepy.
Erin suggested I just say “Hi” to everyone I pass and a smirky smile wouldn’t be the focal point. This sounded like a great idea. The first person I passed that day at work I addressed with a firm yet cheerful hello. I was mildly impressed with the results but promptly forgot to do it for the second person. My quick abandonment of the “Hello” plan didn’t occur to me until I was working on my “friendly” face in the mirror when I got home.
I’ve also had some concerns over my face and how well it indicates amusement during a humorous story someone might be telling me.
Let’s say Erin tells me a story that is funny enough to be mildly amusing but not funny enough to mandate a full smile or slight guffaw. I don’t have the appropriate face for this situation. Even though I might be amused and am trying to form a half-smile at least, it feels as though my face does not respond. And any level of fraudulence in a smile is not only strictly out of the question, most of the time it is physiologically impossible.
I thought about setting up a system with Erin where I would verbally disclose my level of amusement on a scale of one to 10. In the middle of her story I would respond by nodding my head, saying “6, 6” or “uh-huh, 7.5.”
Maybe the answer lies in just making whatever face feels natural to me in any given situation. If the person on the receiving end of my expression doesn’t like it, too bad.
But for now, I’ll be spending some more time in the mirror, in search of a face that will make us all happy.
I've been fairly disappointed with my facial expressions lately.
People have always compared my neutral, most natural look to that of a disgruntled, out-of-work mailman.
"What's wrong with you?" a co-worker inquires.
But in the end I can only give them the disappointing answer of "Unfortunately, this is how I look."
Over the years I have learned to deal with this.
Lately, however, the pressing concern regarding my facial expressions has been the face I use to friendly greet passing strangers in the hall at work or similar situations that call for mildly cordial behavior.
The last thing I want to do when acknowledging people is try to appear casually pleasant but come off as the type of guy who would “accidentally” rub into unsuspecting strangers on public transportation. That’s why when I pass someone, I feel like an intense, open-mouth toothy grin is not only too much work but risks being taken as creepy.
I don’t want to overdo it so I end up underdoing it. My unexpressive “friendly” face comes off as a smirk at best, a snub at worst. Ultimately I settle for this goofy, weird concoction where I pull the corners of my mouth apart, undoubtedly making me look like a meek toddler who has just pee-peed himself. Talk about creepy.
Erin suggested I just say “Hi” to everyone I pass and a smirky smile wouldn’t be the focal point. This sounded like a great idea. The first person I passed that day at work I addressed with a firm yet cheerful hello. I was mildly impressed with the results but promptly forgot to do it for the second person. My quick abandonment of the “Hello” plan didn’t occur to me until I was working on my “friendly” face in the mirror when I got home.
I’ve also had some concerns over my face and how well it indicates amusement during a humorous story someone might be telling me.
Let’s say Erin tells me a story that is funny enough to be mildly amusing but not funny enough to mandate a full smile or slight guffaw. I don’t have the appropriate face for this situation. Even though I might be amused and am trying to form a half-smile at least, it feels as though my face does not respond. And any level of fraudulence in a smile is not only strictly out of the question, most of the time it is physiologically impossible.
I thought about setting up a system with Erin where I would verbally disclose my level of amusement on a scale of one to 10. In the middle of her story I would respond by nodding my head, saying “6, 6” or “uh-huh, 7.5.”
Maybe the answer lies in just making whatever face feels natural to me in any given situation. If the person on the receiving end of my expression doesn’t like it, too bad.
But for now, I’ll be spending some more time in the mirror, in search of a face that will make us all happy.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Three thoughts
Estimated reading time: 2 minutes 47 seconds
I was wondering what the media’s obsession was with tacking on the words “full-blown” when discussing AIDS.
I questioned how AIDS got saddled with this modifier and if there is such a thing as partial AIDS or half-blown AIDS?
A Google search for “full-blown AIDS” returns 808,000 hits from sites such as the New York Times, the Advocate, BBC, NPR among countless others. What’s the deal? I thought.
Well, as I strolled through my Google search, I discovered this definition from scienceclarified.com:
Full-blown AIDS: The stage of HIV infection in which the immune system is so damaged that it can no longer fight off disease.
OK so perhaps full-blown AIDS is somewhat of an official term.
But given that, the words “full-blown” seem too informal and casual to be associated with a ravaging disease like AIDS.
Situations evolve into full-blown chaos and countries embark in full-blown civil war.
People are full-blown crack addicts and get full-blown drunk. I guess they also get full-blown AIDS.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I think corn on the cob should be the official food of the American Dental Association.
It is the only thing in the world that will undoubtedly get me to floss my teeth.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I can understand dialing a wrong number every once in a while. Who hasn’t hit the 9 and the 6 at the same time and for some reason the phone chooses the 9 and not the intended 6?
But ever since we moved to Connecticut and changed our cell phone numbers, Erin has been walloped by a seemingly coordinated attack of wrong numbers.
Possibly the oddest situation to rise from the barrage of mistaken callers are some of the folks who go through and leave messages if Erin doesn’t answer. This despite Erin’s clear and level-headed greeting of Hi, this is Erin. Leave me a message.
Now, if the inaccurate dialer were, say, speeding behind the wheel of a car doing their best not to commit vehicular manslaughter while late for the dentist and all they could muster was a quick Heygivemeacall, that would be one thing.
But some messages are thought out and contain important information. They have gone something like this:
Hi, this is Erin. Leave me a message
“Hi Bob, this is Maxine. I just wanted you to know that my father died. I know that you were very close to him too so I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that I still love you and that I’m going to Puerto Rico next week. I’ll try to get a hold of you . . .
Or there was this guy:
Hi, this is Erin. Leave me a message
Hey Veronica, it’s Greg. Hey I heard you bought a multi-million dollar house! Uh, I’d like to come by and see it some time. I’ve been thinking about you lately and still really care about you so, uh, give me a call. Bye.
It’s as if these people set aside an hour on a Sunday to sit down and make a pride-eating phone call to a former love while breaking years of silence only to be forced to curb their emotions, quickly compose themselves and ad-lib on the spot into a phone machine.
Someone else’s phone machine at that. If only they knew.
I was wondering what the media’s obsession was with tacking on the words “full-blown” when discussing AIDS.
I questioned how AIDS got saddled with this modifier and if there is such a thing as partial AIDS or half-blown AIDS?
A Google search for “full-blown AIDS” returns 808,000 hits from sites such as the New York Times, the Advocate, BBC, NPR among countless others. What’s the deal? I thought.
Well, as I strolled through my Google search, I discovered this definition from scienceclarified.com:
Full-blown AIDS: The stage of HIV infection in which the immune system is so damaged that it can no longer fight off disease.
OK so perhaps full-blown AIDS is somewhat of an official term.
But given that, the words “full-blown” seem too informal and casual to be associated with a ravaging disease like AIDS.
Situations evolve into full-blown chaos and countries embark in full-blown civil war.
People are full-blown crack addicts and get full-blown drunk. I guess they also get full-blown AIDS.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I think corn on the cob should be the official food of the American Dental Association.
It is the only thing in the world that will undoubtedly get me to floss my teeth.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I can understand dialing a wrong number every once in a while. Who hasn’t hit the 9 and the 6 at the same time and for some reason the phone chooses the 9 and not the intended 6?
But ever since we moved to Connecticut and changed our cell phone numbers, Erin has been walloped by a seemingly coordinated attack of wrong numbers.
Possibly the oddest situation to rise from the barrage of mistaken callers are some of the folks who go through and leave messages if Erin doesn’t answer. This despite Erin’s clear and level-headed greeting of Hi, this is Erin. Leave me a message.
Now, if the inaccurate dialer were, say, speeding behind the wheel of a car doing their best not to commit vehicular manslaughter while late for the dentist and all they could muster was a quick Heygivemeacall, that would be one thing.
But some messages are thought out and contain important information. They have gone something like this:
Hi, this is Erin. Leave me a message
“Hi Bob, this is Maxine. I just wanted you to know that my father died. I know that you were very close to him too so I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that I still love you and that I’m going to Puerto Rico next week. I’ll try to get a hold of you . . .
Or there was this guy:
Hi, this is Erin. Leave me a message
Hey Veronica, it’s Greg. Hey I heard you bought a multi-million dollar house! Uh, I’d like to come by and see it some time. I’ve been thinking about you lately and still really care about you so, uh, give me a call. Bye.
It’s as if these people set aside an hour on a Sunday to sit down and make a pride-eating phone call to a former love while breaking years of silence only to be forced to curb their emotions, quickly compose themselves and ad-lib on the spot into a phone machine.
Someone else’s phone machine at that. If only they knew.
Friday, August 04, 2006
All in the Family Feud
Estimated reading time: 2 minutes, 36 seconds
I was flipping through the channels when I came across the middle portion of an episode of the (all new) Family Feud.
I mention the flipping part just to emphasize that I do not make a habit of watching game shows. Not even the ones with smart people, like Jeopardy!, hosted by the ambassador of perceived intelligence, Alex Trebek.
(Over the years I’ve come to believe that most game shows offer little more than a distraction, an activity that requires an amount of brain activity comparable to that of a plastic elephant. They are the types of shows that you innocently come across in a bout of boredom. Thirty minutes later you say “What just happened” as you self-loathe from the wasted time and contemplate how you gained nothing from the occasion, experiencing the same feeling you had a week earlier when you ate yourself sick on Krackel and Mr. Goodbars.)
What happened during the Family Feud did nothing to change any feelings I had about game shows.
The category was “Countries Besides the United States that Americans Most Admire.”
The top six answers were on the board. Already guessed correctly when I joined the show were:
1. England
2. Italy
3. Canada
4. France
5. Australia
The first family continued to guess.
“Spain!”
[X]
“China!”
[X]
“Japan!”
[X]
Ooh, soohry, as Alex Trebek might say, his Canadian accent poking slightly through.
As the rules of the Feud demand, it was now the second family’s turn to Steal. The family collaborates on one answer and if that answer is on the board, they win the round. In classic Feud fashion, each family member shouts out what they perceive to be the best answer. It is then the family leader’s ultimate decision on a final answer that he submits to the host.
When the family began shouting answers that I presumed they had discussed during their preceding huddle, I became horrified.
“Name a country besides the United States that Americans most admire,” repeated host Richard Karn, also known as Tim Allen’s dopey, flannel-shirt wearing sidekick from TV’s Home Improvement.
“Africa!” shouted one family member.
Perhaps they mean South Africa? I guessed in bewilderment.
“Europe!” another member of the team yelled.
OK seriously. Please be joking. They were not.
With a tone of confidence, the family’s entrusted leader offered his final answer. He spoke firmly with conviction.
“Europe.”
Host Richard contained his desire to shriek in terror, glancing more than once to the judges to see if the answer would be accepted or if the show would politely and humanely clarify the question, giving the family a chance to pull its name out of the crapper.
Unfortunately, he had to go through the embarrassing motions.
“Show meeeee Europe!”
What was not clear were some of the other answers discussed in the family’s huddle.
Asia and Antarctica, for sure.
I suspect Space and The World were also kicked around. Because, after all, those places are so incredibly admirable.
I was flipping through the channels when I came across the middle portion of an episode of the (all new) Family Feud.
I mention the flipping part just to emphasize that I do not make a habit of watching game shows. Not even the ones with smart people, like Jeopardy!, hosted by the ambassador of perceived intelligence, Alex Trebek.
(Over the years I’ve come to believe that most game shows offer little more than a distraction, an activity that requires an amount of brain activity comparable to that of a plastic elephant. They are the types of shows that you innocently come across in a bout of boredom. Thirty minutes later you say “What just happened” as you self-loathe from the wasted time and contemplate how you gained nothing from the occasion, experiencing the same feeling you had a week earlier when you ate yourself sick on Krackel and Mr. Goodbars.)
What happened during the Family Feud did nothing to change any feelings I had about game shows.
The category was “Countries Besides the United States that Americans Most Admire.”
The top six answers were on the board. Already guessed correctly when I joined the show were:
1. England
2. Italy
3. Canada
4. France
5. Australia
The first family continued to guess.
“Spain!”
[X]
“China!”
[X]
“Japan!”
[X]
Ooh, soohry, as Alex Trebek might say, his Canadian accent poking slightly through.
As the rules of the Feud demand, it was now the second family’s turn to Steal. The family collaborates on one answer and if that answer is on the board, they win the round. In classic Feud fashion, each family member shouts out what they perceive to be the best answer. It is then the family leader’s ultimate decision on a final answer that he submits to the host.
When the family began shouting answers that I presumed they had discussed during their preceding huddle, I became horrified.
“Name a country besides the United States that Americans most admire,” repeated host Richard Karn, also known as Tim Allen’s dopey, flannel-shirt wearing sidekick from TV’s Home Improvement.
“Africa!” shouted one family member.
Perhaps they mean South Africa? I guessed in bewilderment.
“Europe!” another member of the team yelled.
OK seriously. Please be joking. They were not.
With a tone of confidence, the family’s entrusted leader offered his final answer. He spoke firmly with conviction.
“Europe.”
Host Richard contained his desire to shriek in terror, glancing more than once to the judges to see if the answer would be accepted or if the show would politely and humanely clarify the question, giving the family a chance to pull its name out of the crapper.
Unfortunately, he had to go through the embarrassing motions.
“Show meeeee Europe!”
What was not clear were some of the other answers discussed in the family’s huddle.
Asia and Antarctica, for sure.
I suspect Space and The World were also kicked around. Because, after all, those places are so incredibly admirable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
