The other morning was one of those mornings. We woke up to a giant hairball and pool of foamy cat vomit strewn across the kitchen floor. This was actually somewhat of a relief because the cats usually find the toughest-to-clean, most upholstered places in the house to upchuck. The kitchen floor is much easier to clean than between the cushions of the easy chair or a basket of clean laundry. My relief was short-lived, however, as a walk into the living room revealed that my cat friend celebrated his kitchen hairball victory with a celebratory piss on the couch cushions. With feline murder on my mind, I set about cleaning up the messes. Right on cue, mere minutes after I cleaned the kitchen floor, the over-sized couch cushion, which my wife has successfully previously laundered in the washing machine, caused the washer basin to go unbalanced flooding the kitchen floor. Seven sopping bath towels later the flood was contained. With messes fixed it was time to get ready for Grace's Pre-K graduation. Of course, I discovered the shirt I planned on wearing, my last clean shirt, had been bombed by a bird while on the clothesline. Wow, pee, puke and poo. That's an animal bodily fluid hat trick! Even Jungle Jack Hannah doesn't get that lucky. What was there no raccoon that could scurry into my home and ejaculate in my shoes for good measure? Later, after graduation, Grace's teacher was complimenting me, telling another mom I was like Dad-of-the-Year because I always had my stuff together regarding Grace's schedule. I just chuckled to myself thinking I was glad she hadn't seen me hours earlier, clad only in boxer shorts and undershirt, wading through the middle of my kitchen pond shaking my fist at the cat and shooing Grace from the room.
I tell you all that to tell you this: none of it really mattered. There were times these events would have left me cross all morning, but not anymore. You see, I, Bryan Hailey, negaholic, pessimist, Debbie Downer, am trying something new. It is not easy, but gratitude is the answer. We, the unhappy among us, spend so much of our time focused on what is going wrong. The truth is so much is going right. Call it whatever New-Agey phrase you want - Attitude of Gratitude, counting your blessings,whatever-it works. If you focus on the 99 percent of things that go right every day, you have nary a moment to focus on the 1 percent that isn't working. Think about it-we take so much for granted. Why not celebrate that our car starts every morning or that planes don't fall out of the sky? Why not delight in the fact that our bodies function properly far more often than they don't? Embrace the simple. Marvel at the mundane. Never take for granted the 99 percent. Derive your strength from it. Look around you and note what is working, what is going right, what makes you feel good. The 1 percent may not be repairable, but you will never know if you ignore the 99 percent. Be grateful for it. Revel in it. Put your faith in it. Then you will be ready to tackle the 1 percent.
People that know me well may be wondering if I have been replaced by an imposter. Or if I am drunk at my keyboard at 11am. I know it sounds very "Serenity Now". Perhaps some of you will wager when I will blow my stack, Kramer-style, and trash my metaphorical room full of computers. You may be right. Be skeptical all you like. The reality is that life isn't easy. It smacks you around a bit. But I am working on it; I am trying. I am feeling my way through it, 99 percent at a time.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Something's Fishy.
In the age of helicopter parents abolishing little league scoreboards and pleading with teachers to change grades, somtimes I get funny looks when I don't rush in to scoop Grace up when she falls on the playground. If I assess that she is not injured seriously, I let her pick herself up and brush off. I also don't let her win board games and, GASP, I make her write her homework again if she did not take the time to make a good effort. I believe, and recent studies including one from the APA agree, that a little adversity, leads to more success for our children. Now this doesn't mean that I don't lend encouragement or that I think you should openly root for your child to fail. But there is one situation where it is absolutely acceptaple, if not mandatory, to root for your kid to fail: when they are playing the "Win a Fish by Throwing a PingPong Ball in a Jar" carnival game.
Now this a difficult balancing act. All your outward signals, verbal responses and body language must convey that you are 100% behind the idea of your sweet daughter proudly landing one of those balls in a jar. Meanwhile, deep inside your dark soul, you are tabulating how the cost of a bowl, fish food, and whatever other totally unnecessary, but necessary things fish require is far greater than the two dollars you just forked over for ten ping pong balls. You must stifle a whoop of joy when her first attempt barely reaches the platform of jars. You must choke down the rage when a ball circles the rim repeatedly before falling off. You cringe on the inside or share an eyes-wide silent scream with your wife when a ball slowly tink,tink, tinks across the mouths of six different jars. You use your mouth to blow a breeze subtle enough to go unnoticed by passersby, but strong enough to send a ball on a wayward course.
Then it gets trickier. Then you must face the ethical dilemma when, after eight unsuccessful attempts, your little girl asks you to try to win her a fish. What do you do when your precious five-year-old, face sagged with discouragement, asks you, one of her heroes, to slay this carnival dragon and take home the prize? My first thought was to pass the buck and tell her what a remarkable ping pong ball bouncer her mother is. My second thought was to throw the ball six feet wide of the table and say something about how, " it must have slipped." But, of course, I did the right thing; I pretended to have a cramp in my throwing arm. No, I am not that lame. I tossed the ball high in the air and let the fates carry it to its destiny. (Though if you looked closely you could probably see me leaning, attempting to put a little anti-fish English on the flight path.) My attempt failed to net a fish as did my wife's throw. Suppressing a smile was easier now. But then came the toughest task, summoning the courage to pull out another two dollars as Grace begged for another ten tries.
Now this a difficult balancing act. All your outward signals, verbal responses and body language must convey that you are 100% behind the idea of your sweet daughter proudly landing one of those balls in a jar. Meanwhile, deep inside your dark soul, you are tabulating how the cost of a bowl, fish food, and whatever other totally unnecessary, but necessary things fish require is far greater than the two dollars you just forked over for ten ping pong balls. You must stifle a whoop of joy when her first attempt barely reaches the platform of jars. You must choke down the rage when a ball circles the rim repeatedly before falling off. You cringe on the inside or share an eyes-wide silent scream with your wife when a ball slowly tink,tink, tinks across the mouths of six different jars. You use your mouth to blow a breeze subtle enough to go unnoticed by passersby, but strong enough to send a ball on a wayward course.
Then it gets trickier. Then you must face the ethical dilemma when, after eight unsuccessful attempts, your little girl asks you to try to win her a fish. What do you do when your precious five-year-old, face sagged with discouragement, asks you, one of her heroes, to slay this carnival dragon and take home the prize? My first thought was to pass the buck and tell her what a remarkable ping pong ball bouncer her mother is. My second thought was to throw the ball six feet wide of the table and say something about how, " it must have slipped." But, of course, I did the right thing; I pretended to have a cramp in my throwing arm. No, I am not that lame. I tossed the ball high in the air and let the fates carry it to its destiny. (Though if you looked closely you could probably see me leaning, attempting to put a little anti-fish English on the flight path.) My attempt failed to net a fish as did my wife's throw. Suppressing a smile was easier now. But then came the toughest task, summoning the courage to pull out another two dollars as Grace begged for another ten tries.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
Gateway Rub
Men, I want to tell you a cautionary tale so that you may learn from my experience. I recently visited a new establishment, a kind of place I had never been before. The type of transactions they conduct here are the kinds that I am used to enjoying in the privacy of my own home, for free. But my wife told me she no longer wanted to help, so I sought service elsewhere. I had heard about this place from a friend; you always hear about this kind of place from a friend. Word of mouth is their lifeblood.
Upon entering the building I saw a several other men, all of whom avoided eye contact. A woman approached, asking me a few questions about what I was looking for today. She told me since this was my first visit they would throw in a little extra treatment for free. Ah, yes, the first one is always free. That's how they get ya. After a little further discussion I was told to have a seat and that "Brandy* will be right with you." A few minutes later Brandy, a reluctant smile upon her face, led me back. After a little action, Brandy led me to a dimly lit room for my "MVP Service".
If you are still reading this, you may think I am some sort of pervert. If you do, I submit it is you who is the perv because I am just talking about getting a haircut.
I had gone to uh...the place that Rhymes With SportBlips because The Wife had decided my hair had gotten long enough and thick enough that it may have exceeded her amateur barber capabilities. I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I liked the idea of watching basketball while I waited instead of flipping through a decades-old People magazine. I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I don't like small talk with strangers and thought televisions blasting the MLB Network might render it unnecessary. (They don't.)
Now, I can't say Rhymes With SportBlips is like a whorehouse. How could I, I've never been to a whorehouse? I do know, however, that a haircut shouldn't feel skeevy. And at Rhymes With SportBlips, it does kind of feel unsavory. The haircut is normal enough, but that MVP treatment gets a little sketchy. You are led to this darkened room and have a seat in a recliner for the shampoo. The next thing I know, the chair is vibrating, I have a hot towel on my face (Which feels fantastic, by the way.) and the shampoo has morphed into a full-on head massage. I don't know about you, but I feel a head massage is a pretty intimate bit of business. It felt great, though, and there lies the lesson gentlemen. Don't let the MVP head massage be a Gateway Rub. Because who knows what you'll go looking for next time.
*Name changed to protect the innocent. And because I have no memory of the stylist's real name. For the record, Brandy was courteous, professional and was probably far more skeeved at having to massage my lumpy head than I was by having my head rubbed.
Upon entering the building I saw a several other men, all of whom avoided eye contact. A woman approached, asking me a few questions about what I was looking for today. She told me since this was my first visit they would throw in a little extra treatment for free. Ah, yes, the first one is always free. That's how they get ya. After a little further discussion I was told to have a seat and that "Brandy* will be right with you." A few minutes later Brandy, a reluctant smile upon her face, led me back. After a little action, Brandy led me to a dimly lit room for my "MVP Service".
If you are still reading this, you may think I am some sort of pervert. If you do, I submit it is you who is the perv because I am just talking about getting a haircut.
I had gone to uh...the place that Rhymes With SportBlips because The Wife had decided my hair had gotten long enough and thick enough that it may have exceeded her amateur barber capabilities. I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I liked the idea of watching basketball while I waited instead of flipping through a decades-old People magazine. I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I don't like small talk with strangers and thought televisions blasting the MLB Network might render it unnecessary. (They don't.)
Now, I can't say Rhymes With SportBlips is like a whorehouse. How could I, I've never been to a whorehouse? I do know, however, that a haircut shouldn't feel skeevy. And at Rhymes With SportBlips, it does kind of feel unsavory. The haircut is normal enough, but that MVP treatment gets a little sketchy. You are led to this darkened room and have a seat in a recliner for the shampoo. The next thing I know, the chair is vibrating, I have a hot towel on my face (Which feels fantastic, by the way.) and the shampoo has morphed into a full-on head massage. I don't know about you, but I feel a head massage is a pretty intimate bit of business. It felt great, though, and there lies the lesson gentlemen. Don't let the MVP head massage be a Gateway Rub. Because who knows what you'll go looking for next time.
*Name changed to protect the innocent. And because I have no memory of the stylist's real name. For the record, Brandy was courteous, professional and was probably far more skeeved at having to massage my lumpy head than I was by having my head rubbed.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Step Away From The Candy Bar...
I should have known better. Tuesday, I found myself with a sweet tooth, so I went rummaging through Grace's Valentine's candy stash. While certainly not as prolific as the Halloween stash, the Valentine's candy bag, thanks to Grace being enrolled in two different schools, was impressively filled. Surely, she would not miss a few stolen pieces. Among the sticky lollipops and chalky "Be Mine" hearts I spied a full-size Baby Ruth. Jackpot. I'm not really sure who doles out full-size chocolate bars to their 5-year-old's classmates, but Jackpot nonetheless. All was well until Wednesday night when Amanda, also feeling a chocolate craving, asked me if I wanted to split the Baby Ruth her co-worker had given her on Valentine's Day. Oops.
In our nearly eleven years of marriage I have made enough boneheaded moves to learn Amanda's looks of anger and disappointment. Sometimes you get what I call the Glare. This is when you stupidly try to explain yourself. Sometimes you get the Flare, the tiniest flexing of her nostrils, as she breathes in, weighing the idea of choking you. This is when you don't even consider trying to explain yourself. Sometimes you get the Glare and the Flare. This is when you get in the car in pursuit of a replacement Baby Ruth.
I am exaggerating (a little) about Amanda's reaction, but that should have been the end of the story as we laughed as I headed out the door for a new Baby Ruth. I told you earlier, I should have known better. Leaving the driveway, I considered my shopping options. There are three convenient stores within two minutes of my house. I don't usually shop at any of them considering they are all poorly lighted, populated with shady characters and filled with questionable aromas of indeterminate origins. Needing just a candy bar, however, I figured one of these was preferable to the chain gas stations or grocery stores ten minutes away. Nope. The first place was seedy, smelly and had a register that wouldn't read my debit card. The second place was seedier, smellier and filled with blank eyes and vacant stares. I'm pretty sure the dreaded Zombie Apocalypse is here; instead of feeding on human flesh the walkers are simply feeding on smack, meth and 24 oz. beers. Unfortunately, what store number two was not filled with was Baby Ruths. Aisles of snacks and munchies, not one Baby Ruth. Store number three, while better-lighted and having a friendly proprietor, also sold no Baby Ruths.
Now nearly fifteen minutes into what should have been a four minute errand, frustration is starting to set in. Instead of being 10 minutes into the next episode of House of Cards, I am on my way to the chain store. Imagine my surprise when it turns out WaWa also doesn't sell Baby Ruths. I ask the employee stocking the candy shelf from a giant cart of snacks if they sell Baby Ruths, maybe I am just missing them. He just looks at me and shrugs. Seriously? Does the owner of Scary Store #1 have some sort of Comcastian monopoly over Baby Ruths in this town? Now, completely perplexed and regretting my weakness for candy a day earlier I do what I should have done at Scary Store #2 (Or would have done if not distracted by the fear of stepping on a used needle.): I go all in on the sweets, grabbing four different candy bars and a doughnut for good measure. Surely, something in my newly purchased sugar cornucopia will appease the Wife. Fortunately, the register reads my debit card just fine. I am smiling until I read the total price. $6.66. Ah, Baby Ruth you were a devilish snack choice, indeed.
In our nearly eleven years of marriage I have made enough boneheaded moves to learn Amanda's looks of anger and disappointment. Sometimes you get what I call the Glare. This is when you stupidly try to explain yourself. Sometimes you get the Flare, the tiniest flexing of her nostrils, as she breathes in, weighing the idea of choking you. This is when you don't even consider trying to explain yourself. Sometimes you get the Glare and the Flare. This is when you get in the car in pursuit of a replacement Baby Ruth.
I am exaggerating (a little) about Amanda's reaction, but that should have been the end of the story as we laughed as I headed out the door for a new Baby Ruth. I told you earlier, I should have known better. Leaving the driveway, I considered my shopping options. There are three convenient stores within two minutes of my house. I don't usually shop at any of them considering they are all poorly lighted, populated with shady characters and filled with questionable aromas of indeterminate origins. Needing just a candy bar, however, I figured one of these was preferable to the chain gas stations or grocery stores ten minutes away. Nope. The first place was seedy, smelly and had a register that wouldn't read my debit card. The second place was seedier, smellier and filled with blank eyes and vacant stares. I'm pretty sure the dreaded Zombie Apocalypse is here; instead of feeding on human flesh the walkers are simply feeding on smack, meth and 24 oz. beers. Unfortunately, what store number two was not filled with was Baby Ruths. Aisles of snacks and munchies, not one Baby Ruth. Store number three, while better-lighted and having a friendly proprietor, also sold no Baby Ruths.
Now nearly fifteen minutes into what should have been a four minute errand, frustration is starting to set in. Instead of being 10 minutes into the next episode of House of Cards, I am on my way to the chain store. Imagine my surprise when it turns out WaWa also doesn't sell Baby Ruths. I ask the employee stocking the candy shelf from a giant cart of snacks if they sell Baby Ruths, maybe I am just missing them. He just looks at me and shrugs. Seriously? Does the owner of Scary Store #1 have some sort of Comcastian monopoly over Baby Ruths in this town? Now, completely perplexed and regretting my weakness for candy a day earlier I do what I should have done at Scary Store #2 (Or would have done if not distracted by the fear of stepping on a used needle.): I go all in on the sweets, grabbing four different candy bars and a doughnut for good measure. Surely, something in my newly purchased sugar cornucopia will appease the Wife. Fortunately, the register reads my debit card just fine. I am smiling until I read the total price. $6.66. Ah, Baby Ruth you were a devilish snack choice, indeed.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Today Is The Day
Arise from your slumber,
Shake off your long winter's nap,
Feel the warmth on your face,
Reach for your cap.
Gather your friends in this time of hope,
Witness the first page of this yet written story,
A tale of ballplayers,
And their search for pennant glory.
Limbs to be loosened,
Hearts to be won,
Skills to be honed,
Under the hot southern sun.
Our Birds have flown South,
Dawn breaks on a cherished day of sport,
It matters not yet what summer will bring,
For this glorious day, pitchers and catchers report.
Shake off your long winter's nap,
Feel the warmth on your face,
Reach for your cap.
Gather your friends in this time of hope,
Witness the first page of this yet written story,
A tale of ballplayers,
And their search for pennant glory.
Limbs to be loosened,
Hearts to be won,
Skills to be honed,
Under the hot southern sun.
Our Birds have flown South,
Dawn breaks on a cherished day of sport,
It matters not yet what summer will bring,
For this glorious day, pitchers and catchers report.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
A Fan's Lament
Aside from an occasional movie review haiku, I don't dabble in poetry because, well, I'm a lackluster poet. But this hockey season will do strange things to a man. Therefore, dear reader, I give you-
A Fan's Lament
What a joyous day it would have been,
A day to wistfully wonder why,
To whisper thanks to the hockey gods in the sky.
What a joyous day it would have been,
No longer challenging a player's mettle or pedigree,
Less questioning of a coach's wisdom or philosophy.
What a joyous day it would have been,
No more trades to ponder,
Not another playoff lead to squander.
What a joyous day it would have been,
Putting Milbury's critiques to rest,
No longer shamed to don a team's woeful crest.
What a joyous day it would have been,
Spared looking up at every rival,
Relieved of anticipating a squad's revival.
What a joyous day it would have been,
An outcome so unforeseen,
Freed from hurling insults at a shimmering screen.
Oh, what a joyous day it would have been,
If only it were real,
The day Gary Bettman said, "With the players, we will reach no deal."
A Fan's Lament
What a joyous day it would have been,
A day to wistfully wonder why,
To whisper thanks to the hockey gods in the sky.
What a joyous day it would have been,
No longer challenging a player's mettle or pedigree,
Less questioning of a coach's wisdom or philosophy.
What a joyous day it would have been,
No more trades to ponder,
Not another playoff lead to squander.
What a joyous day it would have been,
Putting Milbury's critiques to rest,
No longer shamed to don a team's woeful crest.
What a joyous day it would have been,
Spared looking up at every rival,
Relieved of anticipating a squad's revival.
What a joyous day it would have been,
An outcome so unforeseen,
Freed from hurling insults at a shimmering screen.
Oh, what a joyous day it would have been,
If only it were real,
The day Gary Bettman said, "With the players, we will reach no deal."
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Phony Phather
We have a winner. The award for Most Unrealistic Dad of the Year goes to....Subaru Car wash Dad. You've seen SuperDad haven't you? The dad whose reaction to discovering his kids have scrubbed his Subaru outside and IN with suds and toothpaste is to chuckle and tell them they missed a spot? What a guy! I would have had a very similar reaction. As in, "You missed a spot. The one on your ass where I'm going to plant my foot." Many of us dads are out here trying to do the right thing, trying to balance being a good father, a good husband, a competent employee and maybe, call me crazy, carving out a little time for themselves. Then along comes Subaru Guy making us all look bad. If he makes Jason Seaver look like Adolf Hitler, how the heck am I supposed to compete?
I know it's silly to compare myself to fictional dads and, truthfully, I don't. But also true is that I have been examining my reactions to Grace. I do lose my patience too often. As Grace grows up, she grows more obstinate and I grow more frustrated. Any event that requires time management, especially bedtime, as everyone edges toward crankiness, has become a nightmare. When the clock is running on something she doesn't want to do, Grace turns into the Human Stall Machine. I swear she's considering a career as a mercenary protester. (You need someone to go rag doll so as to be difficult to drag away from this tree/historic building/oil refinery? I'm your gal. "Hell no, I won't go!") She'll find any excuse to put off what she needs to do. Playing, setting up baby dolls, asking for a glass of water and delivering hugs are all tactics employed to delay the inevitable. Each night she picks at least one task (brushing teeth, going potty, putting on pajamas) and treats it like a death sentence, desperate to avoid it at all costs. All the foot dragging makes each bedtime longer and more frustrating than a James Cameron movie.
As the stalling goes longer, my patience grows thinner. Asking turns into encouraging. Encouraging turns into cajoling. Cajoling turns into threatening. Threatening turns into arguing. Arguing turns into threats carried out which turns to tears as Grace gets a story or stuffed animal taken away. I am truly searching for answers because some nights I feel like a terrible parent. I walk the line between, "Oh, she's four, get over it." and "She needs to learn respect and responsibility without questioning or ignoring every request." Is cooperation and compliance too much to ask? Nearly every bedtime disintegrating into a crying, shouting struggle does no one any good.
We've tried lots of plans -making a game of it, clearly explaining expectations, earning rewards- yet nearly every night, no matter how pleasant it begins, ends with me battered, feeling I have barely survived a street fight. If bedtime is a basketball game, I am the Washington Generals . Of course, once we get to lights out, Grace still makes her room tougher to exit than the Hotel California. A million questions about tomorrow's schedule, adjusting the nightlight, exchanging her stuffed animals, anything that will keep us in the room "one more minute." I always feel like a dick when I finally pry myself away and tell her enough is enough. She needs her rest and Amanda and I need time to unwind. I don't want to turn in to a drill Sergeant with cartoon steam pouring from my ears, but it seems that's where we head most nights. I long for the night when the great things about bedtime (stories, snuggles and goodnight kisses) are the only things about bedtime. Until then, I trudge wearily off to battle. Somebody cue "Sweet Georgia Brown".
I know it's silly to compare myself to fictional dads and, truthfully, I don't. But also true is that I have been examining my reactions to Grace. I do lose my patience too often. As Grace grows up, she grows more obstinate and I grow more frustrated. Any event that requires time management, especially bedtime, as everyone edges toward crankiness, has become a nightmare. When the clock is running on something she doesn't want to do, Grace turns into the Human Stall Machine. I swear she's considering a career as a mercenary protester. (You need someone to go rag doll so as to be difficult to drag away from this tree/historic building/oil refinery? I'm your gal. "Hell no, I won't go!") She'll find any excuse to put off what she needs to do. Playing, setting up baby dolls, asking for a glass of water and delivering hugs are all tactics employed to delay the inevitable. Each night she picks at least one task (brushing teeth, going potty, putting on pajamas) and treats it like a death sentence, desperate to avoid it at all costs. All the foot dragging makes each bedtime longer and more frustrating than a James Cameron movie.
As the stalling goes longer, my patience grows thinner. Asking turns into encouraging. Encouraging turns into cajoling. Cajoling turns into threatening. Threatening turns into arguing. Arguing turns into threats carried out which turns to tears as Grace gets a story or stuffed animal taken away. I am truly searching for answers because some nights I feel like a terrible parent. I walk the line between, "Oh, she's four, get over it." and "She needs to learn respect and responsibility without questioning or ignoring every request." Is cooperation and compliance too much to ask? Nearly every bedtime disintegrating into a crying, shouting struggle does no one any good.
We've tried lots of plans -making a game of it, clearly explaining expectations, earning rewards- yet nearly every night, no matter how pleasant it begins, ends with me battered, feeling I have barely survived a street fight. If bedtime is a basketball game, I am the Washington Generals . Of course, once we get to lights out, Grace still makes her room tougher to exit than the Hotel California. A million questions about tomorrow's schedule, adjusting the nightlight, exchanging her stuffed animals, anything that will keep us in the room "one more minute." I always feel like a dick when I finally pry myself away and tell her enough is enough. She needs her rest and Amanda and I need time to unwind. I don't want to turn in to a drill Sergeant with cartoon steam pouring from my ears, but it seems that's where we head most nights. I long for the night when the great things about bedtime (stories, snuggles and goodnight kisses) are the only things about bedtime. Until then, I trudge wearily off to battle. Somebody cue "Sweet Georgia Brown".
Friday, March 01, 2013
Two Years Too Many.
Sometimes it feels like two days. Sometimes, sadly, it feels like twenty years. It doesn't really matter how long it has been because it still isn't easy to comprehend, but for the record, my dad passed away two years ago tonight. Every day since, Grief and its evil companion , Anxiety, have traveled by my side. These two, packaged together, are sneaky devils that toy with your mind and, if you let them, will consume you. Aside from posting the eulogy I delivered so out of town family could read it, I haven't written about my dad's passing or how it has affected me. I have started this post a half dozen times because I find writing to be a therapeutic outlet and maybe what I write will help somebody else working through similar struggles. Maybe not. Either way, today felt right to write.
Of course, the night Dad died and the ensuing days were tough. I clearly remember specific details-hell, I think about them at the exact time most Tuesdays- but those memories don't cause the problems. About six weeks after his passing, I was feeling pretty good when out of nowhere my heart started racing and felt like it was going to flip-flop out of my chest. From that day forward I have battled Grief and Anxiety, wondering on many occasions if this was the day I was going to die.
Two pieces of background to, perhaps (or not), put that last statement in some context. I've never lived what you would call a care-free existence. I've had what I call low grade anxiety for most of my life. I'm a worrier and a hypochondriac with a little OCD thrown in for fun. I play up the hypochondria for laughs and have a good time with it. The anxiety was always present, yet did not dominate my life. My anxiety was like pre-steroid Barry Bonds. Dad's death turned my anxiety into Home Run King Barry Bonds. The second piece of information is that I don't know what caused my dad to drop dead. We can make educated guesses, assumptions really, but without an autopsy (a choice made for several reasons) there is no definitive answer. It is this mystery that I believe is the main source of my anxiety. When you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop, it is helpful to at least know what shoe to look for.
Fortunately, my doctor understanding my mind-set and my recently updated family history, ordered a battery of tests to determine the cause of my palpitations. After an EKG, an echocardiogram, a nuclear stress test, a 24 hour monitor and a 14 day event monitor, my heart was determined to be healthy. Most people would be satisfied by that answer. I am not most people. When something is stuck in my head I can not shake it. I just knew the doctors were wrong. They had to be missing something and for that I would pay the ultimate price. It is not sensible and it is not rational, it is just what I do.
So what would be an occasional blip on my brain's radar became a full-time obsession. Instead of spending a few minutes pondering whether I may actually have Mesothelioma every time I saw some ambulance chaser's commercial, I began a constant vigil, monitoring all my on-board systems. I can tell you, nearly two years later, this is a hard way to live. Much of the time my brain power is split. One portion is living my life. The other portion is in steady assessment mode. Remember the view from inside the Terminator, where you would see what he saw? In his field of vision was this rolling scroll of diagnostic readouts and system analysis. That's what the one half of my brain feels like it is often doing. I am fully functioning, but distracted by the scroll. Because when you are always looking for something, oh, the things you will find. Palpitations became chest pain. Chest pain became dizziness. Dizziness became back pain. Back pain became surely I'm dying, right here, right now of exactly what killed my father even though I have very little clue what really killed my father. The internal dialogue would be hilarious if it weren't so draining.
"What was that?" "That feels weird." "That pain in my shoulder could be from lifting heavy boxes earlier but it probably the first sign of my impending heart attack." "Is it heart burn? It's probably heartburn. But what if isn't heartburn?" "I knew the doctors were wrong." "Elizabeth, I'm coming to see ya. This is the big one."
As anybody that has experienced even a little anxiety or panic disorder knows, it is a very short trip from one negative thought spiraling into a full-on panic attack. It is a vicious cycle. Do the symptoms cause the anxiety or does the anxiety cause the symptoms?
I think I do a pretty good job of functioning normally given that many of my days are filled with these cycles. I have only had one full-blown panic attack in this two years, but I have had many moments weighing if the situation warranted a vist to the doctor or ER. Even a good day can turn quickly. I might go hours without worrying about a thing, but the moment I realize I haven't worried about anything for a long while, my brain kicks in and I'll feel "something". I am doing better, though. A few months after everything started I moved from thinking I was dying to being afraid I was dying. That is a subtle but, to me, important distinction. So, if anytime in the last two years I have seemed distracted, off my game (What game, Bryan? How would I possibly know if you are off what little "game" you have?) or haven't corresponded like I should, I'm sorry. This is part of the reason why.
Last fall, I finally made the decision to seek help from a support system outside my friends and family. My counselor/therapist was terrific and taught me many strategies to better deal with all that I have going on, attacking the problem from all angles. I am grateful to her and hope that I can successfully heed and hone her lessons. I wish I had sought help sooner. Mental health struggles, no matter the type, deserve our attention and require hard work to fix.
I think of my dad every day and, though I don't mourn him every day (he would hate that), the repurcussions of his death affect me always. I think a friend of mine said it best when he asked me not long after Dad died, "It fucks you up, doesn't it?" Indeed, it does.
Of course, the night Dad died and the ensuing days were tough. I clearly remember specific details-hell, I think about them at the exact time most Tuesdays- but those memories don't cause the problems. About six weeks after his passing, I was feeling pretty good when out of nowhere my heart started racing and felt like it was going to flip-flop out of my chest. From that day forward I have battled Grief and Anxiety, wondering on many occasions if this was the day I was going to die.
Two pieces of background to, perhaps (or not), put that last statement in some context. I've never lived what you would call a care-free existence. I've had what I call low grade anxiety for most of my life. I'm a worrier and a hypochondriac with a little OCD thrown in for fun. I play up the hypochondria for laughs and have a good time with it. The anxiety was always present, yet did not dominate my life. My anxiety was like pre-steroid Barry Bonds. Dad's death turned my anxiety into Home Run King Barry Bonds. The second piece of information is that I don't know what caused my dad to drop dead. We can make educated guesses, assumptions really, but without an autopsy (a choice made for several reasons) there is no definitive answer. It is this mystery that I believe is the main source of my anxiety. When you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop, it is helpful to at least know what shoe to look for.
Fortunately, my doctor understanding my mind-set and my recently updated family history, ordered a battery of tests to determine the cause of my palpitations. After an EKG, an echocardiogram, a nuclear stress test, a 24 hour monitor and a 14 day event monitor, my heart was determined to be healthy. Most people would be satisfied by that answer. I am not most people. When something is stuck in my head I can not shake it. I just knew the doctors were wrong. They had to be missing something and for that I would pay the ultimate price. It is not sensible and it is not rational, it is just what I do.
So what would be an occasional blip on my brain's radar became a full-time obsession. Instead of spending a few minutes pondering whether I may actually have Mesothelioma every time I saw some ambulance chaser's commercial, I began a constant vigil, monitoring all my on-board systems. I can tell you, nearly two years later, this is a hard way to live. Much of the time my brain power is split. One portion is living my life. The other portion is in steady assessment mode. Remember the view from inside the Terminator, where you would see what he saw? In his field of vision was this rolling scroll of diagnostic readouts and system analysis. That's what the one half of my brain feels like it is often doing. I am fully functioning, but distracted by the scroll. Because when you are always looking for something, oh, the things you will find. Palpitations became chest pain. Chest pain became dizziness. Dizziness became back pain. Back pain became surely I'm dying, right here, right now of exactly what killed my father even though I have very little clue what really killed my father. The internal dialogue would be hilarious if it weren't so draining.
"What was that?" "That feels weird." "That pain in my shoulder could be from lifting heavy boxes earlier but it probably the first sign of my impending heart attack." "Is it heart burn? It's probably heartburn. But what if isn't heartburn?" "I knew the doctors were wrong." "Elizabeth, I'm coming to see ya. This is the big one."
As anybody that has experienced even a little anxiety or panic disorder knows, it is a very short trip from one negative thought spiraling into a full-on panic attack. It is a vicious cycle. Do the symptoms cause the anxiety or does the anxiety cause the symptoms?
I think I do a pretty good job of functioning normally given that many of my days are filled with these cycles. I have only had one full-blown panic attack in this two years, but I have had many moments weighing if the situation warranted a vist to the doctor or ER. Even a good day can turn quickly. I might go hours without worrying about a thing, but the moment I realize I haven't worried about anything for a long while, my brain kicks in and I'll feel "something". I am doing better, though. A few months after everything started I moved from thinking I was dying to being afraid I was dying. That is a subtle but, to me, important distinction. So, if anytime in the last two years I have seemed distracted, off my game (What game, Bryan? How would I possibly know if you are off what little "game" you have?) or haven't corresponded like I should, I'm sorry. This is part of the reason why.
Last fall, I finally made the decision to seek help from a support system outside my friends and family. My counselor/therapist was terrific and taught me many strategies to better deal with all that I have going on, attacking the problem from all angles. I am grateful to her and hope that I can successfully heed and hone her lessons. I wish I had sought help sooner. Mental health struggles, no matter the type, deserve our attention and require hard work to fix.
I think of my dad every day and, though I don't mourn him every day (he would hate that), the repurcussions of his death affect me always. I think a friend of mine said it best when he asked me not long after Dad died, "It fucks you up, doesn't it?" Indeed, it does.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Saturday, February 09, 2013
Ovie, We're Not In Kansas (Or the Playoffs) Anymore.
After struggling for days to organize my thoughts regarding the Washington Capitals dismal start, I realized that I didn't need to struggle; L. Frank Baum has done the work for me. Like Baum's iconic Oz characters, the Capitals organization is lost and lacks brains, heart and courage. For years the Caps have succeeded despite their flaws. This season, for whatever reason, the team's shortcomings have resulted in losses piling up at a clip unseen since Alex Ovechkin's rookie season. General Manager George McPhee may dismiss fans' opinions because we are not "in the game", but I do have eyeballs and it is plain to see that this team is in trouble. But enough about GMGM. I'll get back to him later; there is plenty of blame to go around.
In athletic circles, heart is a synonym for desire, for passion, for "want to". In hockey, playing with heart means beating your guy to the puck, holding your defensive position, winning the loose pucks, etc. because you want those things more than your opponent. The Caps are consistently out-hustled, seemingly playing at half-speed. Until they are down a goal with five minutes to play, these guys play with little urgency. What is so hard about playing your ass off for 45 seconds, sitting for two minutes and jumping over the boards to bust your ass again? Seriously, why do these guys look like they are skating in quicksand while their opponents dance around them?
Maybe they are indecisive, partially paralyzed by trying to play their fourth system since late 2010. Instinct has been replaced by, "Oh shit, where am I supposed to be now?" Hockey blog Japer's Rink makes a compelling case for why the team should have never moved away from its run and gun style. Whether a change should have been made or not is debatable. Whether the change was forced upon coach Bruce Boudreau by General Manager George McPhee (there's that guy again) is debatable. What is not debatable is that this team hasn't been right since then.
The second possibility is that these players simply don't care enough to play hard every shift. I'd like to think as a paying fan that this was impossible. I'm not quite so sure anymore. Former Flyer badass Bobby Clark once said of his Broad Street Bullies, "We took the shortest route to the puck and arrived in ill humor." Show me one Cap who plays that way every game. Certainly not the Alex "The 'C' on my sweater is for Circles" Ovechkin. Ovie seems bored and uninterested for long stretches of his shifts. He circles the zone or stands around waiting for a turnover or breakout and hoping somebody puts the puck on his stick as he darts out of the defensive zone. Does he not understand that by hustling, by forechecking aggresively, by squeezing every ounce from his once immense talent he would cause more turnovers thereby creating more chances? And, even though I think every player should be able to motivate themselves, should we be surprised that the rest of the team follows the lead of the underachieving captain? I'm no mind reader, but I think Adam Oates, who as a player was as prepared and professional as they come, is shocked that he has motivate these players on a nightly basis. In his media session yesterday he basically questioned his players' professionalism. If he finds the heart he might find success.
Riding shotgun with heart for an athlete is courage. (I think courage is an improperly used word when talking about sports, but I use it here for sake of the Wizard of Oz reference. True courage is exhibited by folks like firemen and soldiers, people battling devastating diseases and those who stand strong in the face of injustice, not a linebacker who comes back from injury earlier than expected.) Hockey courage is a toughness, a willingness to go to the nasty areas of the rink. Crashing the net, digging a puck out of the corner to start the cycle, tying up your man in front of the net-these are all hard things that require sacrifice. These are all hard things that are basic functions of successful hockey teams. These are all hard things that the Caps don't do often enough. The Caps don't score dirty goals because they don't get dirty.
Hockey courage is also about continuing to battle in the face of adversity. This season the Caps have folded whenever something bad happens. Once Pittsburgh scored their second goal on Thursday, I had zero faith the Caps could suck it up and get back in the game. Nevermind that they had dominated the Pens in the first period. Instead of fighting to tie the game at two, these clowns rolled over and were down 5-2 by the end of the period. Playing sixty minutes of great hockey seems beyond their reach. Good teams use crushing losses in games and playoff series to build resilience and fortitude to rely on in future battles. Bad teams panic at the first sign of trouble. Resilient these Caps are not.
Playing hard can cover many flaws, but heart and courage are of little use to an organization if it is populated by dopes. Right now, I think there is a serious lack of organizational "brains" inAmerica's Hockey Capital Washington. From a star player who appears unable or unwilling to evolve his game beyond moves that are now routinely defended to an owner who raises ticket prices after a lockout, the Caps are well-stocked with Scarecrows.
The biggest offender is the man charged with assembling this mess, the architect, General Manager George McPhee. GMGM's patented patience has left this team a shell of the team that dominated the Eastern Conference just two+ years ago. He, for too long, overrated the talent in the farm system, refusing to part with prospects that could have been dealt for missing pieces of a true contender. When he finally parted with a prospect, trading Cody Eakin for Mike Ribero, he acquired the second-line center the team desperately needed. Unfortunately, Alex Semin, the player who could have benefited most from playing alongside a playmaking center is no longer here. Had McPhee landed a Ribero three years ago I might be bitching about when the Caps will win their next Cup. Instead, I am left to play what-if. What if GMGM had brought in a quality option at 2C instead of trying to force a parade of ill-fitting wannabes? Brooks Laich? Good player, important cog, better suited on the wing or at 3C. Matt Perrault? Please. MoJo? Could possibly get there in time if allowed to develop at a more natural pace. Instead, he was rushed into the lineup expected to be the next Nick Backstrom. (Shoot, I'd love it if Nick Backstrom would be the next Nick Backstrom.) The point is, GMGM waited too long to make necessary tweaks that could have put this team over the top.
Centerman is not the only positon GMGM has buggered up. This man actually said in his presser yesterday that he likes his defense. Whaaaat? I think the Caps have three legitimate NHL defensemen on their roster. Unfortunately, most teams skate six d-men per night. Roman Hmrlik, Tom Poti and the rest of Should Be Watching From The Press Box Brigade are no match for a swarming, attacking offensive squad. For GMGM to say he likes the D is astounding. Either he is a worse evaluator of talent than I thought or he is a liar. I'm not sure which is worse. For eighteen minutes of pure comedy gold click on that previous link and watch McPhee's entire media session. This is the first time I have ever seen McPhee, usually a cool customer, with a confused, lost look on his face. It may be settling in that the arrogant way he and Teddy L. were going to do it "their way" (never hiring an experienced coach, no enforcer, Euro-heavy roster, two goalies under age 22) is not working. Their five year plan is already past due and over budget. This team may need another rebuild, but I don't want this guy over-seeing it.
With all that being said, I am a fan and I will keep watching. I've come back after every lockout. I suffered through the Jason Doig era. I have bought in to the raised (by the organization itself, by the way) expectations. I will watch and I will cheer, but I hope changes come if progress is not made. Patience is no longer the play. So, since the Caps encourage their fans to don the home color, tonight I will Rock the (ruby) Red (slippers). Hopefully three clicks of my heels will wake the Caps to their winning ways and turn this nightmare season around.
In athletic circles, heart is a synonym for desire, for passion, for "want to". In hockey, playing with heart means beating your guy to the puck, holding your defensive position, winning the loose pucks, etc. because you want those things more than your opponent. The Caps are consistently out-hustled, seemingly playing at half-speed. Until they are down a goal with five minutes to play, these guys play with little urgency. What is so hard about playing your ass off for 45 seconds, sitting for two minutes and jumping over the boards to bust your ass again? Seriously, why do these guys look like they are skating in quicksand while their opponents dance around them?
Maybe they are indecisive, partially paralyzed by trying to play their fourth system since late 2010. Instinct has been replaced by, "Oh shit, where am I supposed to be now?" Hockey blog Japer's Rink makes a compelling case for why the team should have never moved away from its run and gun style. Whether a change should have been made or not is debatable. Whether the change was forced upon coach Bruce Boudreau by General Manager George McPhee (there's that guy again) is debatable. What is not debatable is that this team hasn't been right since then.
The second possibility is that these players simply don't care enough to play hard every shift. I'd like to think as a paying fan that this was impossible. I'm not quite so sure anymore. Former Flyer badass Bobby Clark once said of his Broad Street Bullies, "We took the shortest route to the puck and arrived in ill humor." Show me one Cap who plays that way every game. Certainly not the Alex "The 'C' on my sweater is for Circles" Ovechkin. Ovie seems bored and uninterested for long stretches of his shifts. He circles the zone or stands around waiting for a turnover or breakout and hoping somebody puts the puck on his stick as he darts out of the defensive zone. Does he not understand that by hustling, by forechecking aggresively, by squeezing every ounce from his once immense talent he would cause more turnovers thereby creating more chances? And, even though I think every player should be able to motivate themselves, should we be surprised that the rest of the team follows the lead of the underachieving captain? I'm no mind reader, but I think Adam Oates, who as a player was as prepared and professional as they come, is shocked that he has motivate these players on a nightly basis. In his media session yesterday he basically questioned his players' professionalism. If he finds the heart he might find success.
Riding shotgun with heart for an athlete is courage. (I think courage is an improperly used word when talking about sports, but I use it here for sake of the Wizard of Oz reference. True courage is exhibited by folks like firemen and soldiers, people battling devastating diseases and those who stand strong in the face of injustice, not a linebacker who comes back from injury earlier than expected.) Hockey courage is a toughness, a willingness to go to the nasty areas of the rink. Crashing the net, digging a puck out of the corner to start the cycle, tying up your man in front of the net-these are all hard things that require sacrifice. These are all hard things that are basic functions of successful hockey teams. These are all hard things that the Caps don't do often enough. The Caps don't score dirty goals because they don't get dirty.
Hockey courage is also about continuing to battle in the face of adversity. This season the Caps have folded whenever something bad happens. Once Pittsburgh scored their second goal on Thursday, I had zero faith the Caps could suck it up and get back in the game. Nevermind that they had dominated the Pens in the first period. Instead of fighting to tie the game at two, these clowns rolled over and were down 5-2 by the end of the period. Playing sixty minutes of great hockey seems beyond their reach. Good teams use crushing losses in games and playoff series to build resilience and fortitude to rely on in future battles. Bad teams panic at the first sign of trouble. Resilient these Caps are not.
Playing hard can cover many flaws, but heart and courage are of little use to an organization if it is populated by dopes. Right now, I think there is a serious lack of organizational "brains" in
The biggest offender is the man charged with assembling this mess, the architect, General Manager George McPhee. GMGM's patented patience has left this team a shell of the team that dominated the Eastern Conference just two+ years ago. He, for too long, overrated the talent in the farm system, refusing to part with prospects that could have been dealt for missing pieces of a true contender. When he finally parted with a prospect, trading Cody Eakin for Mike Ribero, he acquired the second-line center the team desperately needed. Unfortunately, Alex Semin, the player who could have benefited most from playing alongside a playmaking center is no longer here. Had McPhee landed a Ribero three years ago I might be bitching about when the Caps will win their next Cup. Instead, I am left to play what-if. What if GMGM had brought in a quality option at 2C instead of trying to force a parade of ill-fitting wannabes? Brooks Laich? Good player, important cog, better suited on the wing or at 3C. Matt Perrault? Please. MoJo? Could possibly get there in time if allowed to develop at a more natural pace. Instead, he was rushed into the lineup expected to be the next Nick Backstrom. (Shoot, I'd love it if Nick Backstrom would be the next Nick Backstrom.) The point is, GMGM waited too long to make necessary tweaks that could have put this team over the top.
Centerman is not the only positon GMGM has buggered up. This man actually said in his presser yesterday that he likes his defense. Whaaaat? I think the Caps have three legitimate NHL defensemen on their roster. Unfortunately, most teams skate six d-men per night. Roman Hmrlik, Tom Poti and the rest of Should Be Watching From The Press Box Brigade are no match for a swarming, attacking offensive squad. For GMGM to say he likes the D is astounding. Either he is a worse evaluator of talent than I thought or he is a liar. I'm not sure which is worse. For eighteen minutes of pure comedy gold click on that previous link and watch McPhee's entire media session. This is the first time I have ever seen McPhee, usually a cool customer, with a confused, lost look on his face. It may be settling in that the arrogant way he and Teddy L. were going to do it "their way" (never hiring an experienced coach, no enforcer, Euro-heavy roster, two goalies under age 22) is not working. Their five year plan is already past due and over budget. This team may need another rebuild, but I don't want this guy over-seeing it.
With all that being said, I am a fan and I will keep watching. I've come back after every lockout. I suffered through the Jason Doig era. I have bought in to the raised (by the organization itself, by the way) expectations. I will watch and I will cheer, but I hope changes come if progress is not made. Patience is no longer the play. So, since the Caps encourage their fans to don the home color, tonight I will Rock the (ruby) Red (slippers). Hopefully three clicks of my heels will wake the Caps to their winning ways and turn this nightmare season around.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Do You Really Need That Bazooka?
We spend our bedtimes telling our young children there are no such things as monsters. I only wish that sentiment were true. Whether twisted by loneliness, illness or evil, that boy in Connecticut was a monster. A scarier monster than you'll find under any bed. As I've thought about the tragic events of last Friday, I have had trouble sorting through my feelings. And even more difficulty putting my feelings into words. Journalists are taught to nail down the five Ws (who, what, where, when, why) and How. Perhaps that's the simplest way for me to sort.
Sadly, the What, Where and When of this case are all too obvious. The Who is, of course, the saddest piece. Innocent children and their brave protectors senselessly struck down. Lives ended nearly before they'd begun. Too heartbreaking to think about, I don't want to hear the stories of these beautiful little children. I pray for their peace and for the comfort of their families. Grief is a helluva thing; a burden that we all bear at some point, just not always in the way this community is forced to endure it.
The Why is an important piece of the puzzle. I do not care to know much about the darkness that resided inside this punk, but somebody must learn what made him do what he did. With that knowledge, perhaps the next Newtown/Columbine/Virginia Tech can be thwarted. If there were less of a stigma attached to mental illness, if there were more understanding of just what can be helped, perhaps these kids would still be alive. Mental illness is a tricky business involving many complex layers. There are questions of access, health care and arguments I don't want to make here.
The How of this event is an argument I am ready to take up tonight. Twenty-seven people were slaughtered last Friday, murdered at close range by gunfire. Before I wade any further into a debate about gun laws, gun control and gun ownership let me make clear three things: 1. I don't pretend to have all the answers, but a debate in this country about this issue is more than overdue. 2.In theory, I believe anybody should be able to own anything, but something must change because I believe the ease of access to weapons makes these incidents more frequent. 3. I'm not an idiot, nor am I an inflexible partisan sheep unwilling to have my ideas challenged. So if all you want to do is call me a liberal weenie or a left wing pu**y instead of talking about the issue then please stow it.
The short version of my argument is that I personally hate guns but think you have the right to own them. (Well, certain kinds.) I hate guns because they exist for the sole purpose of destroying things. I also know that if I owned one I would Barney Fife my way into blowing off a toe or would have it taken from me and used against me in a confrontation. I don't believe guns are as big a deterrent as people think. A gun can escalate a situation from dangerous to deadly in an instant. Then there are the sad stories like the recent tragedy outside Pittsburgh. A father, by all accounts a trained hunter, killed his own son because he got into his truck with a round still in the chamber. The gun accidentally fired, hitting the boy. That's why I don't want to own a gun.
So let's talk about you. I don't care if you own guns. I simply wish you would own fewer guns. I know many responsible, highly-trained gun owners. With their guns they feed their families and friends all winter long. I would never advocate taking away that right. I do, however, think there should be limits on the types of weapons available for purchase by Joe Citizen. Why does anyone outside the military or police need something like an AK-47? Seriously? Please don't talk to me about the zombie apocalypse or that the government might come for your stuff. News flash: If the government wants your stuff, they've got bigger guns/missiles/nukes than you do.
Over the last week I have read three bumper-sticker-style arguments over and over again:
-Guns don't kill people. People kill people.
I don't even understand this one. Yes, people kill people. But sometimes it is with something at the end of their arm called a gun. Therefore, guns do kill people.
-Criminals will always be able to get guns. Besides there are many ways to kill people. I guess we should just ban beer,knives and toasters that can be thrown into bath tubs.
I agree criminals will have ways to get guns. I also understand that there are many ways to kill a person. I too played the board game Clue as a child. But by reducing the availability of weapons maybe we could limit opportunities.
-Teachers should be armed.
I'm sorry, maybe I am completely naive, but I think this is a really bad idea. Law enforcement professionals and military personnel are trained, well-practiced individuals who will tell you it is still difficult when the shit goes down. Are we to believe that teachers, trying to wrangle a room of children, are going to disarm someone bent on destruction and chaos like these previous school shooters? To me it is an unlikely deterrent at best and a tragedy waiting to happen at worst. Now if you want to talk to me about posting an officer in every school, I'm listening. I'm not sure how we'll pay for it, but I'm listening. Someone had the idea of using military veterans as professional security in schools. Again, I'm listening.
I like to think our kids don't have to learn their ABCs in bunkers to guarantee their safety, but, as I said, I don't have all the answers. Tragedies such as Sandy Hook are all too common. Only through the considerate, reasoned exchange of ideas can we begin to take steps to make them a thing of the past.
Sadly, the What, Where and When of this case are all too obvious. The Who is, of course, the saddest piece. Innocent children and their brave protectors senselessly struck down. Lives ended nearly before they'd begun. Too heartbreaking to think about, I don't want to hear the stories of these beautiful little children. I pray for their peace and for the comfort of their families. Grief is a helluva thing; a burden that we all bear at some point, just not always in the way this community is forced to endure it.
The Why is an important piece of the puzzle. I do not care to know much about the darkness that resided inside this punk, but somebody must learn what made him do what he did. With that knowledge, perhaps the next Newtown/Columbine/Virginia Tech can be thwarted. If there were less of a stigma attached to mental illness, if there were more understanding of just what can be helped, perhaps these kids would still be alive. Mental illness is a tricky business involving many complex layers. There are questions of access, health care and arguments I don't want to make here.
The How of this event is an argument I am ready to take up tonight. Twenty-seven people were slaughtered last Friday, murdered at close range by gunfire. Before I wade any further into a debate about gun laws, gun control and gun ownership let me make clear three things: 1. I don't pretend to have all the answers, but a debate in this country about this issue is more than overdue. 2.In theory, I believe anybody should be able to own anything, but something must change because I believe the ease of access to weapons makes these incidents more frequent. 3. I'm not an idiot, nor am I an inflexible partisan sheep unwilling to have my ideas challenged. So if all you want to do is call me a liberal weenie or a left wing pu**y instead of talking about the issue then please stow it.
The short version of my argument is that I personally hate guns but think you have the right to own them. (Well, certain kinds.) I hate guns because they exist for the sole purpose of destroying things. I also know that if I owned one I would Barney Fife my way into blowing off a toe or would have it taken from me and used against me in a confrontation. I don't believe guns are as big a deterrent as people think. A gun can escalate a situation from dangerous to deadly in an instant. Then there are the sad stories like the recent tragedy outside Pittsburgh. A father, by all accounts a trained hunter, killed his own son because he got into his truck with a round still in the chamber. The gun accidentally fired, hitting the boy. That's why I don't want to own a gun.
So let's talk about you. I don't care if you own guns. I simply wish you would own fewer guns. I know many responsible, highly-trained gun owners. With their guns they feed their families and friends all winter long. I would never advocate taking away that right. I do, however, think there should be limits on the types of weapons available for purchase by Joe Citizen. Why does anyone outside the military or police need something like an AK-47? Seriously? Please don't talk to me about the zombie apocalypse or that the government might come for your stuff. News flash: If the government wants your stuff, they've got bigger guns/missiles/nukes than you do.
Over the last week I have read three bumper-sticker-style arguments over and over again:
-Guns don't kill people. People kill people.
I don't even understand this one. Yes, people kill people. But sometimes it is with something at the end of their arm called a gun. Therefore, guns do kill people.
-Criminals will always be able to get guns. Besides there are many ways to kill people. I guess we should just ban beer,knives and toasters that can be thrown into bath tubs.
I agree criminals will have ways to get guns. I also understand that there are many ways to kill a person. I too played the board game Clue as a child. But by reducing the availability of weapons maybe we could limit opportunities.
-Teachers should be armed.
I'm sorry, maybe I am completely naive, but I think this is a really bad idea. Law enforcement professionals and military personnel are trained, well-practiced individuals who will tell you it is still difficult when the shit goes down. Are we to believe that teachers, trying to wrangle a room of children, are going to disarm someone bent on destruction and chaos like these previous school shooters? To me it is an unlikely deterrent at best and a tragedy waiting to happen at worst. Now if you want to talk to me about posting an officer in every school, I'm listening. I'm not sure how we'll pay for it, but I'm listening. Someone had the idea of using military veterans as professional security in schools. Again, I'm listening.
I like to think our kids don't have to learn their ABCs in bunkers to guarantee their safety, but, as I said, I don't have all the answers. Tragedies such as Sandy Hook are all too common. Only through the considerate, reasoned exchange of ideas can we begin to take steps to make them a thing of the past.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Giving Thanks.
To the ridiculous couple that brought their one year-old child to the theater to watch "Skyfall", I say: Thank you.
Thank you for reminding me that the world is still full of selfish assholes.
Thank you for setting up your baby station/refugee camp across four seats in my row.
Thank you for being impervious to my glares.
Thank you for reminding me I have work to do if I plan on winning Idiot Parent of the Year 2012.
Thank you for teaching me restraint. I limited myself to a simple "Are you for real?" when I really
wanted to punch your lights out.
Thank you for teaching your child to pipe up during every quiet moment of important conversation
or dramatic tension. That is real skill in a one year-old.
Thank you for not realizing that it may be difficult to wrestle a stroller up stadium theater stairs
because YOU SHOULD NOT BRING A BABY IN A STROLLER TO THE MOVIES.
Thank you for not thinking there was a chance your baby would cry as soon as the lights went down.
Thank you for making even more noise trying to shush the baby than the child was actually making
on its own. "Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba" is neither quiet, nor soothing.
Thank you for muttering in your native tongue while you loudly rustled through every bag you
brought. I don't speak your language, but even I know you can't find the bottle either.
Thank you for making my first child-free date night in a loooong time anything but child-free.
And by "Thank you" I, of course, mean "Screw you."
Thank you for reminding me that the world is still full of selfish assholes.
Thank you for setting up your baby station/refugee camp across four seats in my row.
Thank you for being impervious to my glares.
Thank you for reminding me I have work to do if I plan on winning Idiot Parent of the Year 2012.
Thank you for teaching me restraint. I limited myself to a simple "Are you for real?" when I really
wanted to punch your lights out.
Thank you for teaching your child to pipe up during every quiet moment of important conversation
or dramatic tension. That is real skill in a one year-old.
Thank you for not realizing that it may be difficult to wrestle a stroller up stadium theater stairs
because YOU SHOULD NOT BRING A BABY IN A STROLLER TO THE MOVIES.
Thank you for not thinking there was a chance your baby would cry as soon as the lights went down.
Thank you for making even more noise trying to shush the baby than the child was actually making
on its own. "Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba" is neither quiet, nor soothing.
Thank you for muttering in your native tongue while you loudly rustled through every bag you
brought. I don't speak your language, but even I know you can't find the bottle either.
Thank you for making my first child-free date night in a loooong time anything but child-free.
And by "Thank you" I, of course, mean "Screw you."
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
O-R-I-O-L-E-S!
I have rooted for the Dallas Cowboys since I was a little boy and during the winter I eat, sleep, and breathe Washington Capitals hockey, but the Baltimore Orioles are my first and one true sports love. The O's have always held a special place in my fan heart, that cartoon bird a constant presence in my fan soul. The battle with the Brewers in 1982 and the World Series season in 1983 are among my earliest sports memories. My grandfather was a great baseball fan and thankfully my mother carried on the tradition by introducing me to the joy a baseball season can bring. I took it from there, acquiring baseball cards (caring little about value, more about picking up O's), ripping open the morning paper to scour box scores and hanging on every word broadcast by Chuck Thompson, and later, Jon Miller. I have enjoyed many an hour watching games with friends, talking O's with my father-in-law, debating rivalries, analyzing statistics and discussing our Birds with anybody who wants to chat. Orioles baseball is a link, bonding community and family, connecting past and present.
Sunday night, when the Orioles clinched a playoff berth for the first time in fifteen years, I was covered in goosebumps and flooded with warm memories dating back to childhood: Imitating Eddie Murray's exaggerated leaned-back batting stance, being lucky enough to win a contest to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, Camden Yards $5 center field bleacher seats, firing tennis balls off the front steps pretending to be Brooks and Cal, the '93 All-Star festivities, the 1989 'Why Not ?' season (Bob Melvin!), walking the seemingly unending ramps up to Memorial Stadium's upper deck, Eddie Murray answering our relentless chants of "Eddie-Eddie-Eddie" with a mammoth blast to center field, Wild Bill Hagy, getting an early sneak peek of Camden Yards as a student journalist, skipping class to watch playoff games, The Streak, getting misty-eyed during the final game on 33rd Street, Grace eagerly tracking the Oriole Bird through the stands, the greenest grass you'll ever see, the simple joy of sharing cold beers and batting practice with your best friends...
Of course, there have been plenty of dark times. Most of the Angelos Era. Tony F-ing Fernandez. Jeffrey Maier. 0-21 to start 1988. (For which I feel totally responsible. I jinxed the team by attending my first Opening Day that year, a 12-0 shellacking at the hands of the Brewers.) Albert Belle. Fifteen years of season-submarining, spirit-crushing eight game losing streaks, sometimes in May, sometimes in August, but always present. Despite all the lean times, true fans have loyally donned the orange and black of our heroes, cheering them even when hope and faith had left the yard.
That is why this season is so awesome. Years of despair flattened expectations. Sure, Buck seemed to be building something, but a .500 season was as likely as there being meaningful dialogue in tonight's presidential debate. As the team kept winning I kept looking skyward for the other shoe. I was sure every loss was the first in a string of twelve. As the wins continued to pile up it was difficult to ignore that something special was brewing. Succeeding despite such an upside down run differential? Unlikely. Winning almost every extra inning game and one run decision they played? Improbable. Contributions from cast-offs like Nate McClouth, Carlos Quentanilla and Miguel Gonzalez? Seriously? Incredibly, yes. Pitching, power and a sprinkle of Orioles Magic was a recipe for success that hearkened back to the O's powerhouses of my youth.
I don't know what will happen tonight or Friday or beyond. In many ways it doesn't matter; the Birds are in the hunt for the pennant. They are relevant again. Summer was fun. September was meaningful. October (Yes, October) is full of possibility. This team has given its fans the greatest gift any team can give - restoration of hope and faith. So, in the words of former Orioles public address announcer, the late Rex Barney, I say to the 2012 Baltimore Orioles, "Thank Yooooouuuuu."
Sunday night, when the Orioles clinched a playoff berth for the first time in fifteen years, I was covered in goosebumps and flooded with warm memories dating back to childhood: Imitating Eddie Murray's exaggerated leaned-back batting stance, being lucky enough to win a contest to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, Camden Yards $5 center field bleacher seats, firing tennis balls off the front steps pretending to be Brooks and Cal, the '93 All-Star festivities, the 1989 'Why Not ?' season (Bob Melvin!), walking the seemingly unending ramps up to Memorial Stadium's upper deck, Eddie Murray answering our relentless chants of "Eddie-Eddie-Eddie" with a mammoth blast to center field, Wild Bill Hagy, getting an early sneak peek of Camden Yards as a student journalist, skipping class to watch playoff games, The Streak, getting misty-eyed during the final game on 33rd Street, Grace eagerly tracking the Oriole Bird through the stands, the greenest grass you'll ever see, the simple joy of sharing cold beers and batting practice with your best friends...
Of course, there have been plenty of dark times. Most of the Angelos Era. Tony F-ing Fernandez. Jeffrey Maier. 0-21 to start 1988. (For which I feel totally responsible. I jinxed the team by attending my first Opening Day that year, a 12-0 shellacking at the hands of the Brewers.) Albert Belle. Fifteen years of season-submarining, spirit-crushing eight game losing streaks, sometimes in May, sometimes in August, but always present. Despite all the lean times, true fans have loyally donned the orange and black of our heroes, cheering them even when hope and faith had left the yard.
That is why this season is so awesome. Years of despair flattened expectations. Sure, Buck seemed to be building something, but a .500 season was as likely as there being meaningful dialogue in tonight's presidential debate. As the team kept winning I kept looking skyward for the other shoe. I was sure every loss was the first in a string of twelve. As the wins continued to pile up it was difficult to ignore that something special was brewing. Succeeding despite such an upside down run differential? Unlikely. Winning almost every extra inning game and one run decision they played? Improbable. Contributions from cast-offs like Nate McClouth, Carlos Quentanilla and Miguel Gonzalez? Seriously? Incredibly, yes. Pitching, power and a sprinkle of Orioles Magic was a recipe for success that hearkened back to the O's powerhouses of my youth.
I don't know what will happen tonight or Friday or beyond. In many ways it doesn't matter; the Birds are in the hunt for the pennant. They are relevant again. Summer was fun. September was meaningful. October (Yes, October) is full of possibility. This team has given its fans the greatest gift any team can give - restoration of hope and faith. So, in the words of former Orioles public address announcer, the late Rex Barney, I say to the 2012 Baltimore Orioles, "Thank Yooooouuuuu."
Sunday, September 16, 2012
I Have A Bad Feeling About This:An Open Letter To Gary Bettman
Dear Gary Bettman,
You sir, are an idiot. I'm sorry. That's no way to start a letter. And if my daughter heard me say that she'd remind me I'm not supposed to say that word. You sir, should be ashamed of yourself. It's not just that you have tried to make professional hockey into the NBA on Ice. It's not that you are presiding over your third(!) work stoppage during your tenure as NHL commissioner. It's not that everyone I know agrees you resemble the Count from Sesame Street. (One player lockout-ah-ah-ah, two player lockouts ah-ah-ah, three player lockouts ah-ah-ah.) It's not that you oversaw the unnecessary Southern Expansion Strategy. It's all of the above.
I'm not an economist, nor an accountant. I don't have to be, because the number-crunched details of the labor negotiations do not matter. I don't care about the salary cap. I don't want to see your books. I don't care about revenue sharing or what percentage operating expenses are devoted to player salaries. I'm not saying you and the owners should cave into every request of the players (who are not absolved of sin in this), but as the caretaker of major league hockey in North America you can not cancel even one more game.
When you last locked out the players it cost an entire season. An entire season without NHL hockey. It is a wonder missing an entire season didn't destroy the NHL forever. You are lucky that there were enough dopes like me who love the game so much that, despite millionaires and billionaires spitting in our faces, we tuned back in and even paid outrageous prices to attend games. You were also incredibly fortunate that when hockey returned last time, it was buoyed by the emergence of two dynamic rookies, Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby. A season of empty arenas was wiped from memories by acrobatic goals and a rivalry reborn. You will not be so lucky this time. Ovechkin will have to have a huge bounceback (fingers crossed) to be the player he was then. Crosby is one hard check away from moving from Mario's basement to the Lindros-Lafontaine Wing of the NHL Retirement Home. You must make the owners understand how damaging this lockout will be if games are actually cancelled. Get training camps open on time. Be ready on Opening Night. Get this done.
And if you need any more incentive, I make you this vow: I will not cut my hair until the lockout ends.* I am need of a haircut now, so this brillo pad will be a honkey afro before long. Aside from my brother-in-law who encourages me to grow the fro to match his own, no one wants to see my hair expand like a well-watered Chia Pet. There is a reason, except for the unfortunate Afro Summer of '95, my hair hasn't been much longer than crew cut length in over thirty years. But I'll do it Gary, I'll unleash this hair helmet on the world if you don't do what is right. So, please Mr. Commissioner, save hockey, save the eyeballs of those around me. End this unnecessary conflict now.
*I reserve the right to break this vow around the time my wife looks at my head and says, "Dude, really?"
You sir, are an idiot. I'm sorry. That's no way to start a letter. And if my daughter heard me say that she'd remind me I'm not supposed to say that word. You sir, should be ashamed of yourself. It's not just that you have tried to make professional hockey into the NBA on Ice. It's not that you are presiding over your third(!) work stoppage during your tenure as NHL commissioner. It's not that everyone I know agrees you resemble the Count from Sesame Street. (One player lockout-ah-ah-ah, two player lockouts ah-ah-ah, three player lockouts ah-ah-ah.) It's not that you oversaw the unnecessary Southern Expansion Strategy. It's all of the above.
I'm not an economist, nor an accountant. I don't have to be, because the number-crunched details of the labor negotiations do not matter. I don't care about the salary cap. I don't want to see your books. I don't care about revenue sharing or what percentage operating expenses are devoted to player salaries. I'm not saying you and the owners should cave into every request of the players (who are not absolved of sin in this), but as the caretaker of major league hockey in North America you can not cancel even one more game.
When you last locked out the players it cost an entire season. An entire season without NHL hockey. It is a wonder missing an entire season didn't destroy the NHL forever. You are lucky that there were enough dopes like me who love the game so much that, despite millionaires and billionaires spitting in our faces, we tuned back in and even paid outrageous prices to attend games. You were also incredibly fortunate that when hockey returned last time, it was buoyed by the emergence of two dynamic rookies, Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby. A season of empty arenas was wiped from memories by acrobatic goals and a rivalry reborn. You will not be so lucky this time. Ovechkin will have to have a huge bounceback (fingers crossed) to be the player he was then. Crosby is one hard check away from moving from Mario's basement to the Lindros-Lafontaine Wing of the NHL Retirement Home. You must make the owners understand how damaging this lockout will be if games are actually cancelled. Get training camps open on time. Be ready on Opening Night. Get this done.
And if you need any more incentive, I make you this vow: I will not cut my hair until the lockout ends.* I am need of a haircut now, so this brillo pad will be a honkey afro before long. Aside from my brother-in-law who encourages me to grow the fro to match his own, no one wants to see my hair expand like a well-watered Chia Pet. There is a reason, except for the unfortunate Afro Summer of '95, my hair hasn't been much longer than crew cut length in over thirty years. But I'll do it Gary, I'll unleash this hair helmet on the world if you don't do what is right. So, please Mr. Commissioner, save hockey, save the eyeballs of those around me. End this unnecessary conflict now.
*I reserve the right to break this vow around the time my wife looks at my head and says, "Dude, really?"
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Is this what middle-aged feels like?
What's the difference between 37 and 100? Not much in my neighborhood, at least as it pertains to age. To my college age neighbors I likely seem an ancient 37. Yesterday, I got out the door a little later than usual for my morning walk so I was walking among students heading to Salisbury University for class. A blond bicycle gang, more Mean Girls than Hell's Angels, rolled past trailing a cloud of perfume and smug indifference. Athletes jogged by making my "fitness" walk look meager and pointless. Surrounded by hoodies and skateboards, pony tails and short shorts, I felt as awkward and uncool as I did when I actually attended the university twenty years ago.
The students eyed me warily. My first generation iPod may as well have been a Walkman, my white daddy sneakers sandals with black socks. My backpack, worn to keep my pockets free of keys, phone and wallet, had them wondering whether I was an old student or some sort of creeper. I'd have been less conspicuous had I donned a trench coat and shouted "Pervert Alert. Pervert Alert."
I spotted an older gentleman, maybe mid-50's, walking on the opposite sidewalk. I searched his eyes for a hint of old man solidarity only to be spurned. His eyes conveyed not solidarity, but contempt as he lumped me in with the other backpack-toters. I longed to stop him and explain that I was not one of the punks that pukes in his yard every weekend. That I don't leave the neighborhood covered in broken beer bottles. I'm on his side. Alas, I stayed silent as he blew past. But my encounter brought me to my senses. Why did I care what these kids thought? I chastised myself for ever feeling awkward and uncool even when I was in school. The heck with these kids. And the heck with that older guy. No longer a young punk and not yet an old man, it's my time to feel comfortable right where I am. But those damn kids better stay off of my lawn.
The students eyed me warily. My first generation iPod may as well have been a Walkman, my white daddy sneakers sandals with black socks. My backpack, worn to keep my pockets free of keys, phone and wallet, had them wondering whether I was an old student or some sort of creeper. I'd have been less conspicuous had I donned a trench coat and shouted "Pervert Alert. Pervert Alert."
I spotted an older gentleman, maybe mid-50's, walking on the opposite sidewalk. I searched his eyes for a hint of old man solidarity only to be spurned. His eyes conveyed not solidarity, but contempt as he lumped me in with the other backpack-toters. I longed to stop him and explain that I was not one of the punks that pukes in his yard every weekend. That I don't leave the neighborhood covered in broken beer bottles. I'm on his side. Alas, I stayed silent as he blew past. But my encounter brought me to my senses. Why did I care what these kids thought? I chastised myself for ever feeling awkward and uncool even when I was in school. The heck with these kids. And the heck with that older guy. No longer a young punk and not yet an old man, it's my time to feel comfortable right where I am. But those damn kids better stay off of my lawn.
Welcome.
I know of a couple new people who are checking out my page (Which basically doubles my readership. Thanks guys!) so I thought I'd link to some of my favorite posts to help them catch up. A Greatest Hits album, if you will. If by greatest I mean least boring and by hits I mean posts people have told me they enjoyed. The posts range from my thoughts on my disdain for Coldstone Creamery, ethnic profiling ,my never ending battle with lawn tools, grocery shopping with an infant, my raging germophobia, filthy bowling alleys, cursing at Santa, why you should visit the potty before visiting the playground, traveling with a three-year-old, and condoms in the ocean.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Something in the Air
I could tell something was different as soon as I walked outside. I don't know how you measure it, maybe the Hormone and Stupidity Saturation Index? A few blocks into my morning walk I had my explanation; it is New Student Arrival and Orientation Day at Salisbury University. Here's to all the beer to be consumed and casual sex to be had tonight. Cheers and be safe you crazy kids.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Fly Nemo Fly!
Last Saturday, Grace and I were having a rad father-daughter hang out day while Amanda worked. After we buzzed the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru rocking out to Led Zeppelin, Grace threatened to ruin the mood by asking a question that I had secretly been dreading for some time. No, she didn't ask "Where do babies come from?" or "Could you please explain your curious affinity for Storage Wars?"
She made the perfectly reasonable request to fly her kite. That may not sound like a big deal to you, but I am something like the Chicago Cubs of kite flying. Even when things start out promising they usually end in disaster. Mostly, though, kites and I never sniff promising. Kite flying is the kind of activity that can stymie the technically-challenged. It requires intricate tasks like knot tying and uses intimidating words like "aerodynamics", "lift" and "Assembly Required". Knowing how to do stuff/fix things/put stuff together is a glaring hole in my Dad resume. (How can I teach Grace skills that I do not possess? I need to get learning.) I have previously documented my battles with machinery, but my fight with kites dates back even further, to childhood. Too much wind, not enough wind, bad equipment-my kite was less likely to get off the ground than John Madden after his third helping of Turducken. I also once, around age nine, got knocked down by a kite someone had left anchored unattended in the sand. The kite itself was high in the sky, out of my sightline, and the clear string was impossible to see as I ran across the beach. That string caught me across the throat, lifted me off my feet and slammed me down faster than a Hulk Hogan clothesline. Finally, Grace's kite expectations are likely inflated because most, if not all, of her kite experience is the sky carnival that the Kite Loft kite shop flies above their boardwalk shop.
Fortunately, BrainStormProducts LLC, manufacturer of our meager Finding Nemo kite made a kite that isidiot Bryan-proof. No knots to tie, minimal assembly, a cartoon clownfish and a sustained breeze made me look like a hero. Given Grace's reaction you would have thought I was Orville Wright. Shouts of "Yayyayyayayyay!" and "Fly Nemo Fly!" filled the playground. I think Grace even shouted too. Then she grabbed the string and took off running full speed, her hair flowing behind her in perfect time with the kite tails flapping fifty feet above. Of course, I was bored after about forty seconds. Then, staring up at the floating kite, she told me she wanted to hold my hand. So we stood hand in hand, wordlessly watching Nemo dance on the breeze and I suddenly wished the moment could last forty years. Perfect Saturday, and my love of kites, restored.
She made the perfectly reasonable request to fly her kite. That may not sound like a big deal to you, but I am something like the Chicago Cubs of kite flying. Even when things start out promising they usually end in disaster. Mostly, though, kites and I never sniff promising. Kite flying is the kind of activity that can stymie the technically-challenged. It requires intricate tasks like knot tying and uses intimidating words like "aerodynamics", "lift" and "Assembly Required". Knowing how to do stuff/fix things/put stuff together is a glaring hole in my Dad resume. (How can I teach Grace skills that I do not possess? I need to get learning.) I have previously documented my battles with machinery, but my fight with kites dates back even further, to childhood. Too much wind, not enough wind, bad equipment-my kite was less likely to get off the ground than John Madden after his third helping of Turducken. I also once, around age nine, got knocked down by a kite someone had left anchored unattended in the sand. The kite itself was high in the sky, out of my sightline, and the clear string was impossible to see as I ran across the beach. That string caught me across the throat, lifted me off my feet and slammed me down faster than a Hulk Hogan clothesline. Finally, Grace's kite expectations are likely inflated because most, if not all, of her kite experience is the sky carnival that the Kite Loft kite shop flies above their boardwalk shop.
Fortunately, BrainStormProducts LLC, manufacturer of our meager Finding Nemo kite made a kite that is
Monday, August 20, 2012
News Flash: Zoos Are Smelly, Water Is Wet and Tomatoes Taste Tomato-ey
Everything is bigger in Texas, especially the nerve of Jennelle Carrillo. This mental giant is suing the Dallas Cowboys because she severely burned her bum on a bench outside Cowboys Stadium. According to ESPN.com's story, "The suit alleges that Cowboys Stadium posted no warning signs alerting fans that the benches could be hot." I'm sorry that Ms Carrillo needed skin grafts after getting burned worse than the Cowboys' secondary, but did she really need a sign to know that a black marble bench setting in the August sun might be hot? (Sure, you can debate the wisdom of placing a black marble bench in direct sun, but I don't believe Jerry Jones is out to intentionally harm ticket holders. Unless, of course, the bench had a sign reading "Reserved for Redskins Fans Only".) My three-year-old figured out this mystifying "heat" concept the first time she grabbed a seat belt that had been hanging in the sunlight. Maybe I should have sued Honda instead of teaching Grace complex scientific notions like "absorption" and "hot sun". I tripped over the untied laces of my One Stars the other day; somebody get me the Converse lawyers on the phone!
I suppose Ms. Carrillo should be thankful she wasn't wearing what I believe is the customary daily attire of most Texans- assless chaps. Of course, if she had then she probably could sue Assless Chaps Inc. for failing to attach a tag reading, "Warning:these assless chaps are indeed assless." Even though I realize personal responsibility took a vacation long ago, this story pisses me off. This lady makes me wish tort reform would include getting beaten senseless if your lawsuit was deemed frivolous. Her lawyer, according to ESPN.com, told KDFW that Carrillo has suffered "mental anguish, physical pain and disfigurement as a result of her wounds." He, apparently, forgot to mention that these were self-inflicted wounds. The Cowboys' offensive line ought to be allowed to use Ms. Carrillo's lawyer as a tackling dummy. Only a greedy horse's ass would file this lawsuit. Texas hasn't seen an act this repugnant in the thirty years since J.R Ewing was last on television.
Wait, what? "Dallas" is on again? New episodes? Well, that's more preposterous than this lawsuit.
I know some of you are thinking that I wouldn't be writing this if it were a different team being sued. Trust me, I am a much bigger fan of common sense than of even the Dallas Cowboys. And remember, any attack on America's Team, is an attack on America, an attack on all of us.
[Dropping to one knee as two assistants drape me in the American flag to the fading strains of "Battle Hymn of the Republic"]
I suppose Ms. Carrillo should be thankful she wasn't wearing what I believe is the customary daily attire of most Texans- assless chaps. Of course, if she had then she probably could sue Assless Chaps Inc. for failing to attach a tag reading, "Warning:these assless chaps are indeed assless." Even though I realize personal responsibility took a vacation long ago, this story pisses me off. This lady makes me wish tort reform would include getting beaten senseless if your lawsuit was deemed frivolous. Her lawyer, according to ESPN.com, told KDFW that Carrillo has suffered "mental anguish, physical pain and disfigurement as a result of her wounds." He, apparently, forgot to mention that these were self-inflicted wounds. The Cowboys' offensive line ought to be allowed to use Ms. Carrillo's lawyer as a tackling dummy. Only a greedy horse's ass would file this lawsuit. Texas hasn't seen an act this repugnant in the thirty years since J.R Ewing was last on television.
Wait, what? "Dallas" is on again? New episodes? Well, that's more preposterous than this lawsuit.
I know some of you are thinking that I wouldn't be writing this if it were a different team being sued. Trust me, I am a much bigger fan of common sense than of even the Dallas Cowboys. And remember, any attack on America's Team, is an attack on America, an attack on all of us.
[Dropping to one knee as two assistants drape me in the American flag to the fading strains of "Battle Hymn of the Republic"]
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
The Top Ten Reasons My Wife Is Absolutely Awesome
It's unlikely I could successfully pen a romantic sonnet. No one wants to listen to any love song that I might compose. I don't have a nearby mountain from which to shout news I'd like to share. Instead I have scaled my keyboard so the entire Internet may hear me say, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMANDA. I LOVE YOU." But merely shouting in caps is not enough; please permit me, in the only way I know how (silly, with a dash of humor), to share the ways in which my wife is absolutely awesome. Now right about now, Amanda will be rolling her eyes or dismissively waving her hand. She, engaging in the contemplative self-assessment that often accompanies the occasion of a 29th birthday, will humbly downplay her awesomeness. But she would be wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. So, ladies and gentlemen, I hold here in my left hand, tonight's Top Ten List:
#10: She has embraced my crazy family and shared hers with me. Never underestimate how great it is to have terrific in-laws.
#9: She is one of the most caring people I know. Her generosity of spirit, sharing and caring in even small ways, is a valuable lesson for me.
#8: Two Words: Electric Smile
#7: She's funny. She can put me in my place with a witty retort and possesses the best quality a funny person can have- she is willing to laugh at herself.
#6: She has been my rock. Especially in the last 18 months when grief, and everything that goes into dealing with it, has intensified my anxieties.
#5: She wears her beauty with a natural ease. She's more stunning today than the day I met her. (And I was pretty stunned that day. Mostly stunned that a girl would talk to me, but, well...never mind.)
#4: She is the glue that holds our household together. Paying the bills on time, cleaning, seeking out and scheduling cool activities for Grace-she does it all. (For the record, I did manage to sign Grace up for swim lessons this summer. I know, right?! Of course, I did have to call the YMCA back to reschedule once Amanda pointed out I had signed up for the wrong class.)
#3: I'll say it- she's sexy. You wouldn't believe how potato peeler . . And that with the juggling corkscrew twist. I mean, who would have ever have thought turkey leg screen door? Mind blowing.
#2: She is a wonderful, loving mother who continually guides Grace down the right path. There is no more inexact science than parenting, yet Amanda dons her lab coat every day and ably navigates the challenges.
And the #1 reason my wife is absolutely awesome: She puts up with me. For this she deserves a medal. I come weighed down with idiosyncrasies, dopey ideas and flaws too numerous to list. But I am fortunate enough to have found and married my best friend who helps me bear the load.
I love you Amanda. Happy Birthday.
#10: She has embraced my crazy family and shared hers with me. Never underestimate how great it is to have terrific in-laws.
#9: She is one of the most caring people I know. Her generosity of spirit, sharing and caring in even small ways, is a valuable lesson for me.
#8: Two Words: Electric Smile
#7: She's funny. She can put me in my place with a witty retort and possesses the best quality a funny person can have- she is willing to laugh at herself.
#6: She has been my rock. Especially in the last 18 months when grief, and everything that goes into dealing with it, has intensified my anxieties.
#5: She wears her beauty with a natural ease. She's more stunning today than the day I met her. (And I was pretty stunned that day. Mostly stunned that a girl would talk to me, but, well...never mind.)
#4: She is the glue that holds our household together. Paying the bills on time, cleaning, seeking out and scheduling cool activities for Grace-she does it all. (For the record, I did manage to sign Grace up for swim lessons this summer. I know, right?! Of course, I did have to call the YMCA back to reschedule once Amanda pointed out I had signed up for the wrong class.)
#3: I'll say it- she's sexy. You wouldn't believe how potato peeler . . And that with the juggling corkscrew twist. I mean, who would have ever have thought turkey leg screen door? Mind blowing.
#2: She is a wonderful, loving mother who continually guides Grace down the right path. There is no more inexact science than parenting, yet Amanda dons her lab coat every day and ably navigates the challenges.
And the #1 reason my wife is absolutely awesome: She puts up with me. For this she deserves a medal. I come weighed down with idiosyncrasies, dopey ideas and flaws too numerous to list. But I am fortunate enough to have found and married my best friend who helps me bear the load.
I love you Amanda. Happy Birthday.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Haulin' Oates.
I think I have finally figured out the method to Capitals GM George McPhee's madness. Picking Adam Oates as his fifth straight head coach to be hired without previous head coaching experience is less about controlling a newbie and more about...fashion. McPhee, who often seems more interested in acquiring new scarves than quality centremen, must love that Oates rocks the three-piece suits, making him the best dressed Caps coach in a long time. Bruce Boudreau, who I think admitted his wife dressed him, couldn't be bothered to wipe the ketchup off his face before sitting down for interviews with HBO. And Dale Hunter claimed to own one suit and tie. I just hope Oates will be able to accessorize. With rings. Big, shiny, gaudy Stanley Cup Champion rings.
Despite his inexperience in the top spot, I love the hire of Adam Oates. I think he helps the Caps organization in four key areas: communication, handling Alex Ovechkin, improving the power play and bolstering the coaching staff.
By all accounts, Oates is a strong communicator. He was a captain for many years and played alongside the never-shy Brett Hull for some of his best seasons. Oates should be able to relate to star players because he was one. He has already spoken of treating players like he wanted to be treated. I think most players want to know where they stand. It is okay to have a dog house, but I think coaches should tell a player why they are marooned there. Dale Hunter used the dog house/bench (to some degree of success, mind you) without explanation. Scratched players, according to multiple reports, were left to figure out on their own why they weren't playing. I'm okay with tough love and accountability, but why not communicate? That can work at the junior level, but wears quickly with the big boys.
Speaking of the big boys, is there a player that Oates can (and needs) to nurture more than Alex Ovechkin? I wrote in March that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin. Well, it might be time to watch the streets for flaming tire tracks. Oates has been a star, a captain and a proven leader. He is credited with helping Devils' Russian sniper (and Ovechkin pal) Ilya Kovalchuk develop his two-way game to become a better all-around player. Sound good so far? Ovechkin showed a willingness, albeit begrudgingly, to adapt his game last year. Imagine the growth he can achieve when guided by a more deft hand. The word is Oates' system is up-tempo while remaining defensively responsible. Not Boudreau's wide open, if-you-keep-the-puck-in-the-offensive-zone-forever-you-don't-have-to-play-defense system, nor Hunter's attempt-to-win-every-game-1 to 0 effort. Ovechkin can grow defensively, becoming a more complete player yet still get out and run some. Though, that won't always be the best idea.
I have long told friends that Ovechkin and Backstrom should strive to be Hull and Oates II:Electric Boogaloo. Now that Oates is actually here, maybe he can show the kids how it's done. Ovechkin needs to stop carrying the puck into the zone full-speed attempting to blow by the defense. Hull made a pretty sweet living by prowling the offensive zone, finding a soft spot in the D, waiting for a nifty pass from Oates and pounding it past the goalie. Ovie must possess the puck less to score more. His arsenal of blistering shots would that much more dangerous when accepting a smooth Backstrom saucer than when trying to shoot through the defense on the fly. Maybe this "hockey sense" is not only innate, but able to be cultivated. Jeff Halpern, a former Oates teammate and pupil, said Oates has the "most elite hockey mind I’ve ever come across". Hopefully, the professor can get through to Ovechkin.
If he can get through to Ovechkin, then Adam Oates will have gone a long way towards achieving my (armchair GM that I am) third objective-improving the power play. The Caps power play, once a Top-5 ranked nuclear device feared by opponents, has become stagnant and less effective the last two seasons. Oates was instrumental in improving the Devils' power play, making it more dynamic and productive. Maybe opponents will once again feel shame when going to the box against the Caps.
Finally, Oates may prove it is what you know and who you know. There are tons of rumors flying about who (players and coaches, alike) would like to follow Oates to D.C. Free agent Zach Parise would look great in red, white and blue, however, I'm not holding my breath. Larry Robinson could improve the defense a tad. Scott Stevens could instill a little toughness, I'm guessing. And Steve Konowalchuk, my all-time favorite Capital, could bring a giant ice box full of heart to transplant into the too-cool cats skating at Verizon Center. More importantly, if Stevens and Kono rounded out Oates' bench staff, then I could constantly paraphrase one of my favorite Letterman sketches. The Strong Guy, The Bug-Eye, The Genius!
Adam Oates may or may not be the answer. He should be easy to root for, though. Is it October yet? I'm ready to find out if Adam Oates can help find the pot of Cups at the end of the rainbow.
Despite his inexperience in the top spot, I love the hire of Adam Oates. I think he helps the Caps organization in four key areas: communication, handling Alex Ovechkin, improving the power play and bolstering the coaching staff.
By all accounts, Oates is a strong communicator. He was a captain for many years and played alongside the never-shy Brett Hull for some of his best seasons. Oates should be able to relate to star players because he was one. He has already spoken of treating players like he wanted to be treated. I think most players want to know where they stand. It is okay to have a dog house, but I think coaches should tell a player why they are marooned there. Dale Hunter used the dog house/bench (to some degree of success, mind you) without explanation. Scratched players, according to multiple reports, were left to figure out on their own why they weren't playing. I'm okay with tough love and accountability, but why not communicate? That can work at the junior level, but wears quickly with the big boys.
Speaking of the big boys, is there a player that Oates can (and needs) to nurture more than Alex Ovechkin? I wrote in March that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin. Well, it might be time to watch the streets for flaming tire tracks. Oates has been a star, a captain and a proven leader. He is credited with helping Devils' Russian sniper (and Ovechkin pal) Ilya Kovalchuk develop his two-way game to become a better all-around player. Sound good so far? Ovechkin showed a willingness, albeit begrudgingly, to adapt his game last year. Imagine the growth he can achieve when guided by a more deft hand. The word is Oates' system is up-tempo while remaining defensively responsible. Not Boudreau's wide open, if-you-keep-the-puck-in-the-offensive-zone-forever-you-don't-have-to-play-defense system, nor Hunter's attempt-to-win-every-game-1 to 0 effort. Ovechkin can grow defensively, becoming a more complete player yet still get out and run some. Though, that won't always be the best idea.
I have long told friends that Ovechkin and Backstrom should strive to be Hull and Oates II:Electric Boogaloo. Now that Oates is actually here, maybe he can show the kids how it's done. Ovechkin needs to stop carrying the puck into the zone full-speed attempting to blow by the defense. Hull made a pretty sweet living by prowling the offensive zone, finding a soft spot in the D, waiting for a nifty pass from Oates and pounding it past the goalie. Ovie must possess the puck less to score more. His arsenal of blistering shots would that much more dangerous when accepting a smooth Backstrom saucer than when trying to shoot through the defense on the fly. Maybe this "hockey sense" is not only innate, but able to be cultivated. Jeff Halpern, a former Oates teammate and pupil, said Oates has the "most elite hockey mind I’ve ever come across". Hopefully, the professor can get through to Ovechkin.
If he can get through to Ovechkin, then Adam Oates will have gone a long way towards achieving my (armchair GM that I am) third objective-improving the power play. The Caps power play, once a Top-5 ranked nuclear device feared by opponents, has become stagnant and less effective the last two seasons. Oates was instrumental in improving the Devils' power play, making it more dynamic and productive. Maybe opponents will once again feel shame when going to the box against the Caps.
Finally, Oates may prove it is what you know and who you know. There are tons of rumors flying about who (players and coaches, alike) would like to follow Oates to D.C. Free agent Zach Parise would look great in red, white and blue, however, I'm not holding my breath. Larry Robinson could improve the defense a tad. Scott Stevens could instill a little toughness, I'm guessing. And Steve Konowalchuk, my all-time favorite Capital, could bring a giant ice box full of heart to transplant into the too-cool cats skating at Verizon Center. More importantly, if Stevens and Kono rounded out Oates' bench staff, then I could constantly paraphrase one of my favorite Letterman sketches. The Strong Guy, The Bug-Eye, The Genius!
Adam Oates may or may not be the answer. He should be easy to root for, though. Is it October yet? I'm ready to find out if Adam Oates can help find the pot of Cups at the end of the rainbow.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat.
It started out as another fine beach day in Ocean City, Maryland. We lucked into free on-street parking two spots from the sand, unexpectedly ran into friends on the same block of beach and had awesome weather and water temps. We were basking in the sun, reveling in the restorative powers of the sea. Then It showed up. I was knee deep in the surf when I first caught a glimpse of It out the corner of my eye, a flicker across my fear radar. Ba-Dum. I wasn't sure at first exactly what It was. Ba-Dum. As It drew ever closer, It was recognizable, unmistakable even. Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum. I stood paralyzed, not by fear, but by sheer gross-outedness. For floating just a few feet away was a rubber. Not a rubber raft, not a rubber inner tube, but a giant used rubber. Condom. Prophylactic. Love Glove. Jimmie Hat.
Now, I'm no rube; I understand that people and sea creatures pee, crap and decay in the ocean every day. I mean, who hasn't stood up after finishing a 32 oz soda (Ha! Take that Michael Bloomberg.) and realized that the ocean is a whole lot closer than the nearest restroom. I know that beaches as near as New Jersey get closed because medical waste washes up. As a card-carrying germophobe, I know that I shouldn't go near the water thanks to all the invisible disease poisoning the high seas. But this was tangible, concrete, ribbed-for-her-pleasure evidence that I was standing in a giant toilet.
So, what to do next? I didn't want to be done swimming. I'd have a hard time explaining to my three-year-old why we were leaving suddenly. I know I'm not fishing the condom out of the surf. I look towards the life guard but guess he doesn't get paid enough as it is. Nor do I know how to say, "Hey buddy, I know this used Trojan is not likely yours, but can you clean up the beach? And, by the way, if you need a condom that big, well, good for you." with two orange flags. I settle on grabbing the girl, moving further down the beach and hoping for the best.
Grace is getting brave enough that she wants to do more than just jump waves so we head for deeper water. We are having a blast riding the waves, letting them lift us up and over as they roll through because she doesn't yet do well with going under. (She won't close her mouth to keep water out.) Only one wave all afternoon started breaking too far out for us float over the crest. As I clutched Grace tight to me preparing to dive through the wave, what do I see? Of course, it was the used rubber riding the wave like Kelly Slater winging his way to another Hawaiian Tropic title. (Hang One, Brah!) I had no choice but to duck under and hope for the best. In that split second I was convinced I would break the surface with the condom wrapped around my ear or, worse yet, Grace would have it clutched between her teeth like a bear catching a salmon. Alas, the condom was not seen again. Unfortunate, perhaps, because a few minutes later I saw a sanitary napkin float by. They would have made a helluva synchronized swim team.
Now, I'm no rube; I understand that people and sea creatures pee, crap and decay in the ocean every day. I mean, who hasn't stood up after finishing a 32 oz soda (Ha! Take that Michael Bloomberg.) and realized that the ocean is a whole lot closer than the nearest restroom. I know that beaches as near as New Jersey get closed because medical waste washes up. As a card-carrying germophobe, I know that I shouldn't go near the water thanks to all the invisible disease poisoning the high seas. But this was tangible, concrete, ribbed-for-her-pleasure evidence that I was standing in a giant toilet.
So, what to do next? I didn't want to be done swimming. I'd have a hard time explaining to my three-year-old why we were leaving suddenly. I know I'm not fishing the condom out of the surf. I look towards the life guard but guess he doesn't get paid enough as it is. Nor do I know how to say, "Hey buddy, I know this used Trojan is not likely yours, but can you clean up the beach? And, by the way, if you need a condom that big, well, good for you." with two orange flags. I settle on grabbing the girl, moving further down the beach and hoping for the best.
Grace is getting brave enough that she wants to do more than just jump waves so we head for deeper water. We are having a blast riding the waves, letting them lift us up and over as they roll through because she doesn't yet do well with going under. (She won't close her mouth to keep water out.) Only one wave all afternoon started breaking too far out for us float over the crest. As I clutched Grace tight to me preparing to dive through the wave, what do I see? Of course, it was the used rubber riding the wave like Kelly Slater winging his way to another Hawaiian Tropic title. (Hang One, Brah!) I had no choice but to duck under and hope for the best. In that split second I was convinced I would break the surface with the condom wrapped around my ear or, worse yet, Grace would have it clutched between her teeth like a bear catching a salmon. Alas, the condom was not seen again. Unfortunate, perhaps, because a few minutes later I saw a sanitary napkin float by. They would have made a helluva synchronized swim team.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Hey, you got your bacon in my chocolate. No, you got your chocolate on my bacon.
This past weekend, thanks to my awesome aunt, I found a new snack treat - Chocolate Covered Bacon. I'm not sure why it took me so long to discover this fistful of candy-dipped amazingness. Chocolate Covered Bacon. It tastes as good as it sounds. And it sounds like a song Beethoven and Mozart composed together for Jimi Hendrix to play on a magic guitar. If you don't think it sounds good then I'm not sure I want to be your friend. Because if you don't think it sounds good, you are ignoring a couple of undeniable truths:that Bacon is delicious and that Bacon is the most versatile food on Earth. No other food comes close. Think about it. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Condiment, dessert, sex toy.
Bacon makes everything better. No food packs the culinary variety of Bacon. Maybe cheese. Maybe. Some will say bread; I'm not buying it. Sure there is fresh bread, bread pudding, garlic bread, but it doesn't stack up to bacon. What do they call the straightest, most boring, least rhythmic honkey in the neighborhood? Whitebread. What used to be standard prison fare? Bread and water. If they served prisoners Bacon and water, people would be lining up for their stripes and ankle chains.
And the noble Bacon is humble in its versatility. It is content being the star (Nobody has ever called it an LTB.), a co-star (Bacon and eggs!) or a sidekick (crumbled over anything, thereby making that thing even tastier). Jules Winnfield may be a Bad MF-er, but he is flat wrong about the pig (and hairstyle choice). Pound for pound, Bacon is the king of all foods. And a pound of it sounds great right about now.
Bacon makes everything better. No food packs the culinary variety of Bacon. Maybe cheese. Maybe. Some will say bread; I'm not buying it. Sure there is fresh bread, bread pudding, garlic bread, but it doesn't stack up to bacon. What do they call the straightest, most boring, least rhythmic honkey in the neighborhood? Whitebread. What used to be standard prison fare? Bread and water. If they served prisoners Bacon and water, people would be lining up for their stripes and ankle chains.
And the noble Bacon is humble in its versatility. It is content being the star (Nobody has ever called it an LTB.), a co-star (Bacon and eggs!) or a sidekick (crumbled over anything, thereby making that thing even tastier). Jules Winnfield may be a Bad MF-er, but he is flat wrong about the pig (and hairstyle choice). Pound for pound, Bacon is the king of all foods. And a pound of it sounds great right about now.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Traveling With A Three-Year-Old. Or How I Ended Up Wearing Ladies' Deodorant.
Traveling with my daughter Grace is what I imagine it would be like hanging out with Charlie Sheen, minus the hookers and blow. Nobody sleeps, there's lots of arguing, at least one person thinks the weekend is "pants optional" and the hotel room is trashed. After chasing The Girl around Philadelphia for two days, I have so much more respect for those daredevil parents that elect to travel with 2 or 4 or 8 kids. Although, I figure when you reach a certain amount of children you link them together like an old Southern prison chain gang and herd them from place to place.
Even though I have just the one child, she has enough gear that it feels like I'm packing for more. And sometimes weary dads get so caught up packing all the DVD's, books, snacks and crayons that they forget to pack their own stuff. Like their deodorant. Sometimes these dads don't realize their packing error until five minutes before it's time to leave for the rehearsal dinner. These dads get to wear Mommy's deodorant for the night. Fortunately, Secret lives up to at least half its billing. I can't tell you if it is indeed pH balanced for a woman, but it is strong enough for this man.
Whether it was the excitement, all the neopolitan cake or the confusion over why Daddy smelled like Mommy, we had a helluva time getting Grace to sleep later that evening. Bringing The Girl on trips forces many concessions including giving up that sweetest of travel treats: hotel sex. But I draw the line at giving up a good night's sleep. At 11:30, with the lights having been out for a long time, Grace was still up trying to get in more bed jumping than all five little monkeys combined. Fortunately, she didn't pull a monkey move and fall off and bump her head. (Though, the next night an accidental head butt did send Amanda scrambling for an ice pack.) No amount of singing, story-telling, threatening or bribing could get Grace to lay still. Once she did fall asleep, she became a magician, contorting her body to make even a king bed tiny.
I shouldn't complain so much, because traveling really is easier than it used to be. Expressways, GPS and EZ Passes all make my life easier. So do travel games, portable DVD players and book lights. One supposedly useful tool does not, however. Is there a more inconvenient convenience than the juice box? Maybe it should not surprise me that I have trouble with juice boxes considering that I earned the nickname Lil' Squirt for my inability to open a plastic fruit cup without spilling the contents, leaving a urine-looking stain on my lap. I can't be the only adult that hates juice boxes. Any container that, under my daughter's light grip, squeezes enough to send its contents squirting across the car is less than convenient. I know there are those hard plastic boxes with handles that you can put the box in so the kid can't squeeze it, but I have a problem with needing accessories for my snacks. And if I have to remember one more thing to pack for Grace I might forget something less important, like my underwear.
For this trip Amanda bought a juice-toting product that was new to me. Unfortunately, this Minute Maid Pseudo Raspberry Synthetic Red Summer Citrus Cooler was nearly impossible to open. I mean it. I would have an easier time getting into Harvard than into this foil juice packet. Where the arrow points to "Insert Here", there is no plastic circle like on other juice boxes. Only more foil that does not want to be pierced with the meager straw included with the pouch. Like fumbling virgins, multiple pokings failed to produce penetration. Finally, looking like Vincent Vega plunging the adrenaline syringe through Uma Thurman's sternum in Pulp Fiction, I was able to get the straw into the packet. Of course, concentrating on hitting the target with force with my right hand distracted me from noticing how hard I was crushing the pouch with my left hand. Therefore, as soon as the straw punctured the foil, I inadvertently squeezed most of the juice all over the back seat of the CR-V. At this point, it wouldn't be any messier to squeeze the juice from the fruit with my bare hands.
But, as often happens with children, one magic moment can change everything. When Grace walked down the aisle smiling, being a super-cute flower girl, every spill, every "Are we there yet?", every suitcase lugged into the elevator was worth it.
Even though I have just the one child, she has enough gear that it feels like I'm packing for more. And sometimes weary dads get so caught up packing all the DVD's, books, snacks and crayons that they forget to pack their own stuff. Like their deodorant. Sometimes these dads don't realize their packing error until five minutes before it's time to leave for the rehearsal dinner. These dads get to wear Mommy's deodorant for the night. Fortunately, Secret lives up to at least half its billing. I can't tell you if it is indeed pH balanced for a woman, but it is strong enough for this man.
Whether it was the excitement, all the neopolitan cake or the confusion over why Daddy smelled like Mommy, we had a helluva time getting Grace to sleep later that evening. Bringing The Girl on trips forces many concessions including giving up that sweetest of travel treats: hotel sex. But I draw the line at giving up a good night's sleep. At 11:30, with the lights having been out for a long time, Grace was still up trying to get in more bed jumping than all five little monkeys combined. Fortunately, she didn't pull a monkey move and fall off and bump her head. (Though, the next night an accidental head butt did send Amanda scrambling for an ice pack.) No amount of singing, story-telling, threatening or bribing could get Grace to lay still. Once she did fall asleep, she became a magician, contorting her body to make even a king bed tiny.
I shouldn't complain so much, because traveling really is easier than it used to be. Expressways, GPS and EZ Passes all make my life easier. So do travel games, portable DVD players and book lights. One supposedly useful tool does not, however. Is there a more inconvenient convenience than the juice box? Maybe it should not surprise me that I have trouble with juice boxes considering that I earned the nickname Lil' Squirt for my inability to open a plastic fruit cup without spilling the contents, leaving a urine-looking stain on my lap. I can't be the only adult that hates juice boxes. Any container that, under my daughter's light grip, squeezes enough to send its contents squirting across the car is less than convenient. I know there are those hard plastic boxes with handles that you can put the box in so the kid can't squeeze it, but I have a problem with needing accessories for my snacks. And if I have to remember one more thing to pack for Grace I might forget something less important, like my underwear.
For this trip Amanda bought a juice-toting product that was new to me. Unfortunately, this Minute Maid Pseudo Raspberry Synthetic Red Summer Citrus Cooler was nearly impossible to open. I mean it. I would have an easier time getting into Harvard than into this foil juice packet. Where the arrow points to "Insert Here", there is no plastic circle like on other juice boxes. Only more foil that does not want to be pierced with the meager straw included with the pouch. Like fumbling virgins, multiple pokings failed to produce penetration. Finally, looking like Vincent Vega plunging the adrenaline syringe through Uma Thurman's sternum in Pulp Fiction, I was able to get the straw into the packet. Of course, concentrating on hitting the target with force with my right hand distracted me from noticing how hard I was crushing the pouch with my left hand. Therefore, as soon as the straw punctured the foil, I inadvertently squeezed most of the juice all over the back seat of the CR-V. At this point, it wouldn't be any messier to squeeze the juice from the fruit with my bare hands.
But, as often happens with children, one magic moment can change everything. When Grace walked down the aisle smiling, being a super-cute flower girl, every spill, every "Are we there yet?", every suitcase lugged into the elevator was worth it.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Just Another Day At The Office For Caps Fans
Of course he did. Of course Joel Ward took a "terrible" (his word) penalty that led to the Rangers tying Monday night's game with less than seven seconds remaining. Of course the Caps were swept under the tidal wave of excitement in New York and quickly succumbed in overtime. After 25+ years of watching the Caps, of course I should have expected nothing less. Joel Ward was the sorry son of a gun at which Lady Luck pointed her cruel finger, but the truth is if it wasn't Joel Ward it would have been somebody else. A puck would have deflected off Mike Green and found the net. Braden Holtby would have lost the puck in the sun. Alexander Semin, on a breakaway with the GWG on his stick, would have been swallowed by a dragon that swooped down from the Garden rafters. BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER. When you are the Chicago Cubs of the NHL, you know deep down that the other shoe, no matter how preposterous, hovers overhead.
If losing in 3 overtimes in Game 3 was a gut punch, then Monday night's loss was a staggering hay maker. One that I'm not sure that Capitals can recover from. If they can, they will prove they are as resilient as I think they are becoming. If they can not, Joel Ward joins a dubious list that makes any long-time Caps fan wretch. You know the names, you know the moments: The Easter Epic. Petr Nedved. Gonchar falling down in OT. Esa Tikkanen. Joe Juneau failing to connect on an OT penalty shot. Tom Poti. Up 3-1. Martin St. Louis. Devastating moments that leave a trail of broken remote controls, profane tirades, stomped-on emotions and summers of discontent.
Personally, I feel sorry for Joel Ward. There are examples of sports figures that have gone from hero to goat even faster, but Ward took quite a hit in twelve days. As someone who has taken a penalty in overtime of a playoff game, I feel his pain. Obviously, my beer league playoffs didn't have nearly as high stakes, but, believe me, two minutes never moved slower than watching a sudden death period from the penalty box. Fortunately, my buddies bailed me out. Joel Ward was not so fortunate, yet he manned up and spoke to reporters after the game. He didn't run from his mistake and Dale Hunter shouldn't run from him in Game 6. I have friends who would bench him or release him outright, but is there any player who will play harder than Joel Ward Wednesday night?
Because I am stupid I am trying to remain upbeat. Every bit of historical evidence suggests that there is no reason for optimism. Yet, I shall remain positive. Positive that the Caps can win Game 6. If for no other reason than a Game 7 loss would be that much more excruciating. And expected.
If losing in 3 overtimes in Game 3 was a gut punch, then Monday night's loss was a staggering hay maker. One that I'm not sure that Capitals can recover from. If they can, they will prove they are as resilient as I think they are becoming. If they can not, Joel Ward joins a dubious list that makes any long-time Caps fan wretch. You know the names, you know the moments: The Easter Epic. Petr Nedved. Gonchar falling down in OT. Esa Tikkanen. Joe Juneau failing to connect on an OT penalty shot. Tom Poti. Up 3-1. Martin St. Louis. Devastating moments that leave a trail of broken remote controls, profane tirades, stomped-on emotions and summers of discontent.
Personally, I feel sorry for Joel Ward. There are examples of sports figures that have gone from hero to goat even faster, but Ward took quite a hit in twelve days. As someone who has taken a penalty in overtime of a playoff game, I feel his pain. Obviously, my beer league playoffs didn't have nearly as high stakes, but, believe me, two minutes never moved slower than watching a sudden death period from the penalty box. Fortunately, my buddies bailed me out. Joel Ward was not so fortunate, yet he manned up and spoke to reporters after the game. He didn't run from his mistake and Dale Hunter shouldn't run from him in Game 6. I have friends who would bench him or release him outright, but is there any player who will play harder than Joel Ward Wednesday night?
Because I am stupid I am trying to remain upbeat. Every bit of historical evidence suggests that there is no reason for optimism. Yet, I shall remain positive. Positive that the Caps can win Game 6. If for no other reason than a Game 7 loss would be that much more excruciating. And expected.
Sunday, May 06, 2012
I'm Over the Overstuffing.
On a whim the other day Amanda submitted Grace's photo to a Gap casting contest. Normally we're not into those sorts of things, but we figured, "Why not? Maybe she'll be plucked from obscurity and have a little fun." Deep down, though, I know the truth. Grace's big break will come when A&E produces Hoarders:Toddler Edition. Grace, at just age three, is a precocious hoarder. Unfortunately, in this regard, she is doomed by heredity. My grandmother is a textbook case shopaholic/hoarder, my mother epitomizes the "One person's trash is another person's treasure" mindset(In a good way; she can breathe new life into broken down furniture and junk.) and I am one of those people who likes to keep things because I "know I can use it for something". Grace doesn't stand a chance. Recently, she was drinking lemonade from a 20-oz. fountain cup and straw. Upon finishing she told me we could not throw away the cup or straw because she needed them for a "project". She proceeded to explain how she would cut them, fold them, glue them and cover them with glitter, with the end result being a house. Creative, yes, but Grace seems to have also inherited my procrastinator gene; the cup house sits unfinished on the counter instead of in the garbage where it belongs.
If Amanda and I aren't careful, we will raise a true bag lady. Grace already loads her toy shopping cart with junk and pushes it from room to room. It is not a huge leap from there to shouting bible verses at passing cars and sharing your bowl of tuna with your twelve stray cats. In fact, if she wanted to pack her posessions and hit the road today she already has plenty of bags. Tote bags, purses, recycled gift bags, backpacks - our playroom has held more sacks than Jenna Jameson. And stuff! Trinkets, fake jewelery, toys, crayons, papers, stickers-we have so much stuff. Don't get me wrong- I appreciate all the gifts, large and small, that she has been given. Heck, I enable her hoarding by picking up inexpensive stickers here and there or encouraging her to collect cool rocks and sticks on our exploration expeditions. But some days walking into my house feels like I've been dropped into the Death Star trash compactor. If I can't raise C-3PO on the radio soon, the walls will keep closing in and I'll be crushed in a pile of Barbies and Disney Princess DVDs. (I just realized that I put myself in Luke Skywalker's shoes. Lame. I used to, and always will, pretend to be Han Solo, the coolest smuggler in the galaxy.)
So, why does my house, and the houses of most people I know, contain too much stuff? Because America has become the Land of Accumulation populated by an army of hoarders. I don't mean the clinically diagnosed, mentally ill that won't throw away rotting food or who poop in a grocery bag and toss it in the corner. I mean the normal people that fill their homes and lives with things. To some, acquisition is a sport, keeping up with the Joneses. To others, new and shiny things are substitutes for other items missing from their lives. Sometimes I think we get trapped into thinking we "need" crap that we really don't. Why else would I be consumed by an avalance of Tupperware every time I open the cabinet when, in truth, we only use the same three or four containers over and over? Wedding registries, that's why.
Hear me out. When you get in that store with that scanner you start firing away like you are Han Solo blasting your way out of the Mos Eisley space port. (See, he's much cooler than that tunic-wearing loser from Tatooine.) Senseless Acquisition Mode takes over."Goblets? Hell, yes we need crystal goblets! Probably about seventeen of them. Picnic basket? I love picnics! Useless spoon rest? You bet. Of course, the spoon rest is only useless until the night your new bride comes home and, instead of thanking you for the spaghetti dinner, rips you for staining the countertop with sauce. The point is, running around Macy's, Target or Bed Bath and Beyond you can lose your mind, adding things to your wish list that you neither need, nor would ever spend your own money to purchase. Follow the wedding with a baby shower, baby's first Christmas, birthdays, Arbor Day-there are dozens of excuses for moregifts junk to enter the home.
Oh well, maybe Grace's Hoarder's money will pay for a new storage shed. Otherwise, all three of us will have to take to the streets with our shopping carts.
If Amanda and I aren't careful, we will raise a true bag lady. Grace already loads her toy shopping cart with junk and pushes it from room to room. It is not a huge leap from there to shouting bible verses at passing cars and sharing your bowl of tuna with your twelve stray cats. In fact, if she wanted to pack her posessions and hit the road today she already has plenty of bags. Tote bags, purses, recycled gift bags, backpacks - our playroom has held more sacks than Jenna Jameson. And stuff! Trinkets, fake jewelery, toys, crayons, papers, stickers-we have so much stuff. Don't get me wrong- I appreciate all the gifts, large and small, that she has been given. Heck, I enable her hoarding by picking up inexpensive stickers here and there or encouraging her to collect cool rocks and sticks on our exploration expeditions. But some days walking into my house feels like I've been dropped into the Death Star trash compactor. If I can't raise C-3PO on the radio soon, the walls will keep closing in and I'll be crushed in a pile of Barbies and Disney Princess DVDs. (I just realized that I put myself in Luke Skywalker's shoes. Lame. I used to, and always will, pretend to be Han Solo, the coolest smuggler in the galaxy.)
So, why does my house, and the houses of most people I know, contain too much stuff? Because America has become the Land of Accumulation populated by an army of hoarders. I don't mean the clinically diagnosed, mentally ill that won't throw away rotting food or who poop in a grocery bag and toss it in the corner. I mean the normal people that fill their homes and lives with things. To some, acquisition is a sport, keeping up with the Joneses. To others, new and shiny things are substitutes for other items missing from their lives. Sometimes I think we get trapped into thinking we "need" crap that we really don't. Why else would I be consumed by an avalance of Tupperware every time I open the cabinet when, in truth, we only use the same three or four containers over and over? Wedding registries, that's why.
Hear me out. When you get in that store with that scanner you start firing away like you are Han Solo blasting your way out of the Mos Eisley space port. (See, he's much cooler than that tunic-wearing loser from Tatooine.) Senseless Acquisition Mode takes over."Goblets? Hell, yes we need crystal goblets! Probably about seventeen of them. Picnic basket? I love picnics! Useless spoon rest? You bet. Of course, the spoon rest is only useless until the night your new bride comes home and, instead of thanking you for the spaghetti dinner, rips you for staining the countertop with sauce. The point is, running around Macy's, Target or Bed Bath and Beyond you can lose your mind, adding things to your wish list that you neither need, nor would ever spend your own money to purchase. Follow the wedding with a baby shower, baby's first Christmas, birthdays, Arbor Day-there are dozens of excuses for more
Oh well, maybe Grace's Hoarder's money will pay for a new storage shed. Otherwise, all three of us will have to take to the streets with our shopping carts.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Enemy of the Germophobe #3 - Myself
"Have you been in the Germ Tent yet? If not, you've got to check it out. It's terrific." This is how Grace and I were greeted as we stumbled upon County Government Day in the mall parking lot which was little more than a collection of fire trucks and other county vehicles open for inspection and, of course, the Germ Tent. Umm, nice lady, clearly you don't know me very well. I had indeed not yet been in the Germ Tent and, despite her pleasant demeanor, this gal was not going to convince me to get within 100 feet of anything called the Germ Tent. I've seen the trailers for Contagion, thank you very much. The young lady (I'm assumimg she was a representative of the county, though it's possible she's just a really big fan of germs) must have recognized the horrified look on my face because she proceeded to explain that the Germ Tent was simply a tent with a black light that illustrated how many germs covered your hands. I nodded, thanked her for the invitation, took Grace's surely germ covered hand and slowly backed away.
However, after checking out the fire equipment and climbing through the bookmobile, my curiosity got the best of me. Grace and I lathered up our hands with the special germ detecting lotion and plunged into the darkness of the Germ Tent. I wish I could report that we were nearly germ free; instead, under the black lights, our hands looked like we had dipped them in white paint. The scary thing is that I am a vigilant handwasher and we had recently washed them. I'm going to blame the germ-fest on the five minutes we spent on the bookmobile (Shared kids' books in a warm, sealed bus? More like the petri dishmobile.) because I don't want to think that I'm toting around that many germs on a regular basis. After leaving the tent, another county worker helped us wash our hands at one of those foot-pump washing stations. I scrubbed Grace's hands and evidently didn't spend enough time on mine because the worker reminded me that I should always wash my hands for thirty seconds. Me? Me? You are going to lecture me on handwashing protocols? If you didn't look like you were struggling with the foot-pump causing a lame water output I would have washed my hands all day. Because that's what I do.
I proudly wear my germophobe title. Recently, a discussion with friends, one of whom is a fellow phobe, turned to various anti-germ tactics. I don't mean run of the mill stuff like lamenting that not all public restrooms have outswinging doors or how many layers of toilet paper create an adequate barrier between ass and toilet seat. No, I'm talking next level stuff like the wisdom of attempting to turn the public restroom faucet on and off with your foot. (For the record, I don't think that is worth the risk; I'm so clumsy that there is a 50/50 chance that I would fall in the floor attempting such a graceful move and that would be a hundred times worse than touching the faucet.) So, this county lady doesn't know it, but I've got hand washing cred.
Obsessive hand washing is just the tip of the iceberg, though. Recently, my germophobia/hypochondria reached a new low when I decided to boil my clean silverware. Why did I boil my fresh-washed silverware, you ask? The short answer is because I don't own an autoclave. The long answer is that I don't have a dishwasher and after a couple days too long in the sink our silverware had a film on it that looked impervious to soap and water alone (in my warped, overcautious brain). I scrubbed the silverware like always but, sitting there in the drying rack, it just didn't "look" clean. So, of course, the next obvious step anyone would have taken would be to boil it until sterile.
Once you answer the question "Am I really going to boil my silverware?" in the affirmative a few more questions pop up. How long does one stand over a roiling pot of silverware before determining it is "done"? One minute? Ten minutes? They don't cover this info in Food Network Magazine or Hypochondriacs Illustrated. Or, why are there no specific kitchen tools for removing silverware from a boiling cauldron? It is far more likely that someone would get scalded by boiling water or stabbed with sharp knives as I remove them with regular tongs, than would be done in by eating with tainted silverware. But I don't let common sense get in the way of a good obsession. Sad to say that, lately I've had to look no further than my own hands and sink (not a hotel or bowling alley) to find an Enemy of the Germophobe.
However, after checking out the fire equipment and climbing through the bookmobile, my curiosity got the best of me. Grace and I lathered up our hands with the special germ detecting lotion and plunged into the darkness of the Germ Tent. I wish I could report that we were nearly germ free; instead, under the black lights, our hands looked like we had dipped them in white paint. The scary thing is that I am a vigilant handwasher and we had recently washed them. I'm going to blame the germ-fest on the five minutes we spent on the bookmobile (Shared kids' books in a warm, sealed bus? More like the petri dishmobile.) because I don't want to think that I'm toting around that many germs on a regular basis. After leaving the tent, another county worker helped us wash our hands at one of those foot-pump washing stations. I scrubbed Grace's hands and evidently didn't spend enough time on mine because the worker reminded me that I should always wash my hands for thirty seconds. Me? Me? You are going to lecture me on handwashing protocols? If you didn't look like you were struggling with the foot-pump causing a lame water output I would have washed my hands all day. Because that's what I do.
I proudly wear my germophobe title. Recently, a discussion with friends, one of whom is a fellow phobe, turned to various anti-germ tactics. I don't mean run of the mill stuff like lamenting that not all public restrooms have outswinging doors or how many layers of toilet paper create an adequate barrier between ass and toilet seat. No, I'm talking next level stuff like the wisdom of attempting to turn the public restroom faucet on and off with your foot. (For the record, I don't think that is worth the risk; I'm so clumsy that there is a 50/50 chance that I would fall in the floor attempting such a graceful move and that would be a hundred times worse than touching the faucet.) So, this county lady doesn't know it, but I've got hand washing cred.
Obsessive hand washing is just the tip of the iceberg, though. Recently, my germophobia/hypochondria reached a new low when I decided to boil my clean silverware. Why did I boil my fresh-washed silverware, you ask? The short answer is because I don't own an autoclave. The long answer is that I don't have a dishwasher and after a couple days too long in the sink our silverware had a film on it that looked impervious to soap and water alone (in my warped, overcautious brain). I scrubbed the silverware like always but, sitting there in the drying rack, it just didn't "look" clean. So, of course, the next obvious step anyone would have taken would be to boil it until sterile.
Once you answer the question "Am I really going to boil my silverware?" in the affirmative a few more questions pop up. How long does one stand over a roiling pot of silverware before determining it is "done"? One minute? Ten minutes? They don't cover this info in Food Network Magazine or Hypochondriacs Illustrated. Or, why are there no specific kitchen tools for removing silverware from a boiling cauldron? It is far more likely that someone would get scalded by boiling water or stabbed with sharp knives as I remove them with regular tongs, than would be done in by eating with tainted silverware. But I don't let common sense get in the way of a good obsession. Sad to say that, lately I've had to look no further than my own hands and sink (not a hotel or bowling alley) to find an Enemy of the Germophobe.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
They Can't Blow It Every Year, Right? Right?
I was going to do a Capitals' playoff breakdown, but, really, what is there to know? The Caps are as puzzling as the enduring success of Jay Leno or the apparent appeal of Two and a Half Men. In their first round series that starts tonight, the Caps may be pulverized, leaving Ted Leonsis and George McPhee to scrape the road kill off F Street. Or...the team may wake up, be the team they are capable of being and march through the Eastern conference. After all, the Caps have hovered a hair above a .500 winning percentage all season. It's not a huge stretch to think they could win 16 of their next 28 games.
My optimism, as it usually is regarding the Capitals fortunes this time of year, is, if not insane, at least undeserved. This team has broken my heart year after year. Yet, each season I find something to cling to, something that I can point to that says, "This is the year." This season there are actually two things that make me believe (however foolishly).
The first is that for the first time in years the Caps come in with low expectations. A Stanley Cup favorite in the preseason, the Caps stunk it up enough to slip in the seventh seed and draw the defending champs. Despite what George McPhee thinks, anything this team wins is gravy. Perhaps lowered expectations will remove pressure and help this team pull off upsets instead of choke jobs.
The second factor is Coach Dale Hunter. Go ahead, stop laughing. I'll wait. No, seriously, stop laughing. Sure, some of his coaching moves and most of his press conferences make him seem borderline illiterate. Sure, as he does little more than chew gum and sip water on the bench, he looks more bored than my wife at a baseball game. (She just doesn't get the grand beauty of the game.) Sure, Hunter may just be doing McPhee a favor by keeping the bench warm after Bruce Boudreau was fired. But maybe he is stupid like a fox. (That's how the saying goes, right?) Hunter has elicited stronger play out of certain guys that have been scratched then worked hard to get back in the line-up. His style of play, if executed properly, could thrive in the postseason. Fans have no idea what Dale is doing behind the scenes to improve this team and change the culture of playoff ineptitude. Maybe Dale Hunter, one of the most clutch players in Caps history, becomes the most clutch coach in Caps history.
I can dream, right? A mountain of evidence and past history suggests that my optimism is misplaced. The beauty, however, lies in the fact that anything is possible before the puck drops for Game 1. And if the Caps are bounced early then I have the whole spring to join America the Stupid in sitting through Two and a Half Men reruns.
My optimism, as it usually is regarding the Capitals fortunes this time of year, is, if not insane, at least undeserved. This team has broken my heart year after year. Yet, each season I find something to cling to, something that I can point to that says, "This is the year." This season there are actually two things that make me believe (however foolishly).
The first is that for the first time in years the Caps come in with low expectations. A Stanley Cup favorite in the preseason, the Caps stunk it up enough to slip in the seventh seed and draw the defending champs. Despite what George McPhee thinks, anything this team wins is gravy. Perhaps lowered expectations will remove pressure and help this team pull off upsets instead of choke jobs.
The second factor is Coach Dale Hunter. Go ahead, stop laughing. I'll wait. No, seriously, stop laughing. Sure, some of his coaching moves and most of his press conferences make him seem borderline illiterate. Sure, as he does little more than chew gum and sip water on the bench, he looks more bored than my wife at a baseball game. (She just doesn't get the grand beauty of the game.) Sure, Hunter may just be doing McPhee a favor by keeping the bench warm after Bruce Boudreau was fired. But maybe he is stupid like a fox. (That's how the saying goes, right?) Hunter has elicited stronger play out of certain guys that have been scratched then worked hard to get back in the line-up. His style of play, if executed properly, could thrive in the postseason. Fans have no idea what Dale is doing behind the scenes to improve this team and change the culture of playoff ineptitude. Maybe Dale Hunter, one of the most clutch players in Caps history, becomes the most clutch coach in Caps history.
I can dream, right? A mountain of evidence and past history suggests that my optimism is misplaced. The beauty, however, lies in the fact that anything is possible before the puck drops for Game 1. And if the Caps are bounced early then I have the whole spring to join America the Stupid in sitting through Two and a Half Men reruns.
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