At the end of a long day, after I’ve slowly worked my way across the Valley, when the kids are in bed and while I’m wolfing down a reheated plate of that evening’s dinner in front of the TV, WonderWife™ and I download the events of the day to each other.
Tonight, she told me this story:
A few days ago, WW™ had been watching Life on the Discovery Channel. In one segment there was a small tree frog. The frog couldn’t jump very far, so in order to compensate for it’s lack of vertical leap, the tree frog tenses up its body so that it grows taut, and hurls itself down the side of a cliff. It bounces to the bottom and then it softens up and goes about its business.
Today at the park, she watched Sprout climb to the top of a slide and hang from the bar that ran across of it, as she’s watched her big brother do countless times. Sprout exerted so much force that her body would stiffen up, reminding WonderWife™ of that frog.
There’s no real point to this story, other than I think it’s funny to envision my daughter looking like a tree frog.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Meet the Blogger
Regular readers of this here blog probably know more about me than they should, but if you're interested, I'm the subject of today's "Meet the Blogger" over at Real World: Venus vs. Mars today.
I also want to throw a big thank you out there to uber-blogger Shelle, who runs that site. She is super dedicated and organized and has created a blog that encourages healthy, interesting and sometimes funny discussion and debate between the sexes. I'm proud to be a contributor.
I also want to throw a big thank you out there to uber-blogger Shelle, who runs that site. She is super dedicated and organized and has created a blog that encourages healthy, interesting and sometimes funny discussion and debate between the sexes. I'm proud to be a contributor.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Hot Dog on a Roof
I was by myself when I almost died. I was utterly alone with one thought running through my head: This is it. This is how it’s going to happen, choking to death on a hot dog on the roof of a Home Depot parking lot.
I was in a rush that day, trying to squeeze in some errands during my lunch break. WonderWife™ and I were in the midst of renovating our house, so I was making one of the dozens of trips to Home Depot that I would make that week. Anyone who’s ever shopped at Home Depot knows what a colossal time suck it can be, so there was no time for me to finish my errands, pick up food and get back to my office in time for my next meeting. Thankfully there was a roach coach stationed at the entrance to the store so I picked up a hot dog and headed toward the parking garage. It was one of those jumbo quarter-pounder things so big it might intimidate a man lacking in self-confidence.
I took a huge bite as I walked to my car, which I had left on the top floor of the garage. The dog was extremely hot and the bite got lodged in my windpipe. It was jammed in my throat and I could not breathe. I had no idea what to do. There was not a single other person around. There wasn’t even another car parked up there. Gasping for air, I imagined how long it would take before somebody found me lying dead on the roof, a half eaten jumbo dog in one hand and a box of inordinately expensive box of kitchen tile in the other. As the panic set in, I thought about the unborn son that I would not get to meet because I was hungry and in a hurry. What a stupid, pointless way to go.
I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but after what seemed like minutes I managed to expel the dog from my throat. I was okay, although the hot dog had been so hot that it seared my esophagus and I couldn’t talk for the next few days. It was incredibly painful. But I was alive.
Now that years have passed since the incident, the humor of it is not lost on me. Choking to death on a tube of processed meat next to a home improvement store is one of the more ridiculous ways to meet one’s maker. But had it gone wrong, it would have been tragic as well. I am not exaggerating when I say that I nearly died that day. And as much as I would like to say that my life changed in that moment, that the sky became brighter, air became sweeter and I would forever savor every day that followed, it wasn’t like that. After the adrenaline wore off and my throat healed, my near-death was soon pushed to the back of my mind and stored along with the other stories that make up my consciousness.
I don’t actually think about that day very often…except when I’m eating a hot dog.
I was in a rush that day, trying to squeeze in some errands during my lunch break. WonderWife™ and I were in the midst of renovating our house, so I was making one of the dozens of trips to Home Depot that I would make that week. Anyone who’s ever shopped at Home Depot knows what a colossal time suck it can be, so there was no time for me to finish my errands, pick up food and get back to my office in time for my next meeting. Thankfully there was a roach coach stationed at the entrance to the store so I picked up a hot dog and headed toward the parking garage. It was one of those jumbo quarter-pounder things so big it might intimidate a man lacking in self-confidence.
I took a huge bite as I walked to my car, which I had left on the top floor of the garage. The dog was extremely hot and the bite got lodged in my windpipe. It was jammed in my throat and I could not breathe. I had no idea what to do. There was not a single other person around. There wasn’t even another car parked up there. Gasping for air, I imagined how long it would take before somebody found me lying dead on the roof, a half eaten jumbo dog in one hand and a box of inordinately expensive box of kitchen tile in the other. As the panic set in, I thought about the unborn son that I would not get to meet because I was hungry and in a hurry. What a stupid, pointless way to go.
I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but after what seemed like minutes I managed to expel the dog from my throat. I was okay, although the hot dog had been so hot that it seared my esophagus and I couldn’t talk for the next few days. It was incredibly painful. But I was alive.
Now that years have passed since the incident, the humor of it is not lost on me. Choking to death on a tube of processed meat next to a home improvement store is one of the more ridiculous ways to meet one’s maker. But had it gone wrong, it would have been tragic as well. I am not exaggerating when I say that I nearly died that day. And as much as I would like to say that my life changed in that moment, that the sky became brighter, air became sweeter and I would forever savor every day that followed, it wasn’t like that. After the adrenaline wore off and my throat healed, my near-death was soon pushed to the back of my mind and stored along with the other stories that make up my consciousness.
I don’t actually think about that day very often…except when I’m eating a hot dog.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Looking For a Random Stranger…
I spent last night with a bunch of total strangers.
After reading about Chatroulette in Time magazine, I was curious. It's new tech, so I had to check it out. Little did I know that it would scratch a voyeuristic itch that I didn’t even know that I had.
Chatroulette is a simple concept. Logging on to the website enables you to see through the web cam of any one of the 20,000 other people who are also logged in, and they in turn are looking through yours. It is all completely anonymous. No personal information is given. All you know about the person is what you can see through the small window on the screen. At any time, either person can press a button and jump a different random person and once you do there is no way to return to the pervious webcam.
Although you can see and hear each other, there is very little chatting going on. Most of the interactions are slient and last less than a second before somebody presses the “next” button and disappears. During the time I spent on the site, I came face to face with dozens of different people from all over the world. Most of the time, it was a singular guy (some of whom I could tell were disappointed that I was not a hot chick), but there were also women and various groups of people huddled around their webcams.
Sometimes interesting and unexpected things showed up on the screen. One person had their camera focused solely on the neck of their guitar as they sat there and played music. Another had the camera trained on a glass bong. Sometimes the camera showed an empty room. This being the internet, there were also some naked people, One large woman wore nothing but a bustier. One couple was having sex in front of the camera. The creep factor was also high and every so often a guy playing with himself would appear on the screen. These images were fleeting and easily erased with the click of a button. Most of the time, however, it was just regular people staring at each other.
Gazing at these strangers reminded me of the distinct feeling of being a teenager at a party, looking at a girl across the room. As soon as her gaze met mine, I would shyly turn away even though making eye contact with her was my goal. Although we were all logged into a site with the singular purpose of looking at each other, the majority of the time either the stranger or I would press the “next” button as soon as our eyes connected.
The “next” button gets pressed quite a lot and each time that it is, the program gives the same message as it loads up the next camera feed, “Looking for a random stranger…”
You never know what would appear on the screen each time the button is clicked. I began to imagine a Hitchcockian scenario that had me clicking to the next person, inadvertently witnessing some crime being committed and soon finding myself on the run for having seen too much. (The eventual movie that follows would inevitably star Shia LeBouf.) But that never happened.
My collective experience on Chatroulette was made up of micro-moments. There were a few times when a brief connection was made. One person complimented me on my beard before clicking away. Another told me I looked creepy and I managed to return the sentiment before I pressed the button. One guy said, “I’m looking for Jessica Alba” before nexting me. At one point I kept my camera on when I had to leave the room and I returned to find a woman staring closely at her screen, curiously trying to identify the objects on my bookshelf that she could see through my camera. As soon as I poked my head back into the shot, she was gone.
“Looking for a random stranger…”
There was a guy wearing a Boba Fett helmet, some college guys playing video games, a couple of Japanese guys in an office cubicle, two girls drinking wine, a person with cat on their head, a dude in an alien mask…
“Looking for a random stranger…”
Chatroulette is a strange experience--thousands of strangers all signed on to a website, mutually spying on each other, giving each other permission to sneak glimpses of our lives. We simultaneously become the voyeur and the object. It's surreal. The moments between these strangers were fleeting, but never boring. It is completely hypnotic.
After reading about Chatroulette in Time magazine, I was curious. It's new tech, so I had to check it out. Little did I know that it would scratch a voyeuristic itch that I didn’t even know that I had.
Chatroulette is a simple concept. Logging on to the website enables you to see through the web cam of any one of the 20,000 other people who are also logged in, and they in turn are looking through yours. It is all completely anonymous. No personal information is given. All you know about the person is what you can see through the small window on the screen. At any time, either person can press a button and jump a different random person and once you do there is no way to return to the pervious webcam.
Although you can see and hear each other, there is very little chatting going on. Most of the interactions are slient and last less than a second before somebody presses the “next” button and disappears. During the time I spent on the site, I came face to face with dozens of different people from all over the world. Most of the time, it was a singular guy (some of whom I could tell were disappointed that I was not a hot chick), but there were also women and various groups of people huddled around their webcams.
Sometimes interesting and unexpected things showed up on the screen. One person had their camera focused solely on the neck of their guitar as they sat there and played music. Another had the camera trained on a glass bong. Sometimes the camera showed an empty room. This being the internet, there were also some naked people, One large woman wore nothing but a bustier. One couple was having sex in front of the camera. The creep factor was also high and every so often a guy playing with himself would appear on the screen. These images were fleeting and easily erased with the click of a button. Most of the time, however, it was just regular people staring at each other.
Gazing at these strangers reminded me of the distinct feeling of being a teenager at a party, looking at a girl across the room. As soon as her gaze met mine, I would shyly turn away even though making eye contact with her was my goal. Although we were all logged into a site with the singular purpose of looking at each other, the majority of the time either the stranger or I would press the “next” button as soon as our eyes connected.
The “next” button gets pressed quite a lot and each time that it is, the program gives the same message as it loads up the next camera feed, “Looking for a random stranger…”
You never know what would appear on the screen each time the button is clicked. I began to imagine a Hitchcockian scenario that had me clicking to the next person, inadvertently witnessing some crime being committed and soon finding myself on the run for having seen too much. (The eventual movie that follows would inevitably star Shia LeBouf.) But that never happened.
My collective experience on Chatroulette was made up of micro-moments. There were a few times when a brief connection was made. One person complimented me on my beard before clicking away. Another told me I looked creepy and I managed to return the sentiment before I pressed the button. One guy said, “I’m looking for Jessica Alba” before nexting me. At one point I kept my camera on when I had to leave the room and I returned to find a woman staring closely at her screen, curiously trying to identify the objects on my bookshelf that she could see through my camera. As soon as I poked my head back into the shot, she was gone.
“Looking for a random stranger…”
There was a guy wearing a Boba Fett helmet, some college guys playing video games, a couple of Japanese guys in an office cubicle, two girls drinking wine, a person with cat on their head, a dude in an alien mask…
“Looking for a random stranger…”
Chatroulette is a strange experience--thousands of strangers all signed on to a website, mutually spying on each other, giving each other permission to sneak glimpses of our lives. We simultaneously become the voyeur and the object. It's surreal. The moments between these strangers were fleeting, but never boring. It is completely hypnotic.
Friday, March 5, 2010
What's Your Story?
Twice in the span of one week, I’ve had somebody ask me, “So, what’s your story?” after meeting them for the first time.
That’s exactly how each of them asked it too. “So, what’s your story?”
Both times I was flummoxed. My story? I don’t have a story. I’m in my late thirties, married with two kids. I’m perfectly average in every way. I grew up in the suburbs. I went to college. I graduated and got a job. No run ins with the police. No family tragedies. Hardly the stuff of enticing conversations.
I’m not sure what these people (both women, by the way) were trying to get from me. “What’s your story” is an incredibly broad question that implies that I, in fact, have a story to tell.
I’m sad to say that I did not respond with charm and wit either time. I stammered and repeated the question back to them, “What’s my story?” and gave a short bio of my career. Boring. I’m surprised the women kept talking to me after my lame responses.
It wasn’t until the drive home after the second time that an answer occurred to me. The next time somebody asks me what’s my story I will be ready.
“I was born a poor black child…”*
*It's not offensive, it's a reference.
That’s exactly how each of them asked it too. “So, what’s your story?”
Both times I was flummoxed. My story? I don’t have a story. I’m in my late thirties, married with two kids. I’m perfectly average in every way. I grew up in the suburbs. I went to college. I graduated and got a job. No run ins with the police. No family tragedies. Hardly the stuff of enticing conversations.
I’m not sure what these people (both women, by the way) were trying to get from me. “What’s your story” is an incredibly broad question that implies that I, in fact, have a story to tell.
I’m sad to say that I did not respond with charm and wit either time. I stammered and repeated the question back to them, “What’s my story?” and gave a short bio of my career. Boring. I’m surprised the women kept talking to me after my lame responses.
It wasn’t until the drive home after the second time that an answer occurred to me. The next time somebody asks me what’s my story I will be ready.
“I was born a poor black child…”*
*It's not offensive, it's a reference.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Table Scraps, Volume #5: Peanuts and Parenting
Table Scraps are little bits of writing that aren't quite enough to be full posts. But just because they are little, doesn't mean they can't be shared. So every once in a while, I dust them off and throw them together.
I took the Bean to his first sporting event, the Harlem Globetrotters. Sitting in the stands, I taught the Bean to shell peanuts, the way my dad taught me when he took me to sporting events. While he seemed to enjoy watching the game, he was more interested in putting the empty peanut shells on his fingers and entertaining his friend, who had come with us. And it dawned on me as I watched him that I have created a little ham.
Everyone always talks about how daughters are supposed to loooooove their daddies. Daddies are their world. This has not happened to me with Sprout. Everytime I take what I think is a step forward in my relationship with her, she bluntly reminds me that I'm nowhere close to the center of her world. Right now, she refuses to give me hugs and kisses. Sometimes when I leave in the mornings, but always at night before she goes to bed. Sprout continues to cling to her mommy, just like she always has and maybe always will. She is an impossibly frustrating child, wrapped up in a very cute package.
It feels like I spend my time parenting a pre-schooler being elated and completely mesmerized and entertained by him to being blindingly mad at him. WonderWife™ and I have very different parenting styles. Mine is to get really frustrated and mad at him, which is always a great way to parent.
__________________
I took the Bean to his first sporting event, the Harlem Globetrotters. Sitting in the stands, I taught the Bean to shell peanuts, the way my dad taught me when he took me to sporting events. While he seemed to enjoy watching the game, he was more interested in putting the empty peanut shells on his fingers and entertaining his friend, who had come with us. And it dawned on me as I watched him that I have created a little ham.
__________________
Everyone always talks about how daughters are supposed to loooooove their daddies. Daddies are their world. This has not happened to me with Sprout. Everytime I take what I think is a step forward in my relationship with her, she bluntly reminds me that I'm nowhere close to the center of her world. Right now, she refuses to give me hugs and kisses. Sometimes when I leave in the mornings, but always at night before she goes to bed. Sprout continues to cling to her mommy, just like she always has and maybe always will. She is an impossibly frustrating child, wrapped up in a very cute package.
__________________
It feels like I spend my time parenting a pre-schooler being elated and completely mesmerized and entertained by him to being blindingly mad at him. WonderWife™ and I have very different parenting styles. Mine is to get really frustrated and mad at him, which is always a great way to parent.
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