Queue
"Should I send it out?"
"I don't know."
"Are you gonna watch it?"
"I don't know."
"Cause if I send it out we can get something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know."
etc, etc, etc.
We've had "War Horse" and "The Hobbit" sitting in their slim red Netflix envelopes for the better part of a month now. They're just sitting there. Unopened, unwatched, and unloved like the A/V club on prom night.
Why did we even bother getting them in the first place?
Well, in the case of "The Hobbit" it was because Calvin had wanted it and I was adamant about not paying money to see it, so I hadn't seen it, but it was a very popular movie, and I try to write about popular things and so I felt a certain professional obligation even though I'm not really paid to do this.
But it's three hours long and I can think of at least seventeen other things I could be doing for three hours.
I could cook dinner, eat dinner, spend quality time with the wife and still have two hours to spend on Youtube looking up novel ways to grow potatoes in small spaces.
And "War Horse" . . . well . . . I'm not afraid to admit I have a soft spot for Spielberg movies. Even when they are saccharine, or boring, or needlessly pedantic, its still fascinating to watch a craftsman at work. Otherwise Jazz and Ballet would have died out long ago.
Its based on a children's book that was turned into a play that was turned into a movie. That means artists from several different disciplines have been fascinated enough by the story to put their stamp on it, so if it looks like a duck and tastes like a duck and crosses the street in single file lines regardless of the traffic, then possibly there is enough meat left on the bones that would make a 2 1/2 hours commitment worth while.
But eh.
What can I say?
Eh.
Due to my post project apathy, honestly, I'd prefer to take a nap right now.
After finishing this blog, of course.
And it occurs to me, just his moment, that if apathy where a disease, an emotional psychological disorder, then it could be easily diagnosed through the lack of interactivity in one's Netflix queue.
And it should be a disorder. The DSM should list it just before arachnophobia and just after anal-retentivness.
There's already a drug for it.
Its called meth.
And if you think the side effects of meth are scary, don't ever try to read the label on your aspirin bottle.
"Hundreds of Tweekers Agree!"
"War Horse is effing minestrone popcorn cheesy poofs!"
or so the poster might say.
But I don't have the time for another addiction, and wouldn't know where to look if I did.
So "The Hobbit" and "War Horse" will remain in apathetic limbo until such time as I care enough to watch them or to trade them in for something else.
and the cycle of abuse continues.
"I don't know."
"Are you gonna watch it?"
"I don't know."
"Cause if I send it out we can get something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know."
etc, etc, etc.
We've had "War Horse" and "The Hobbit" sitting in their slim red Netflix envelopes for the better part of a month now. They're just sitting there. Unopened, unwatched, and unloved like the A/V club on prom night.
Why did we even bother getting them in the first place?
Well, in the case of "The Hobbit" it was because Calvin had wanted it and I was adamant about not paying money to see it, so I hadn't seen it, but it was a very popular movie, and I try to write about popular things and so I felt a certain professional obligation even though I'm not really paid to do this.
But it's three hours long and I can think of at least seventeen other things I could be doing for three hours.
I could cook dinner, eat dinner, spend quality time with the wife and still have two hours to spend on Youtube looking up novel ways to grow potatoes in small spaces.
And "War Horse" . . . well . . . I'm not afraid to admit I have a soft spot for Spielberg movies. Even when they are saccharine, or boring, or needlessly pedantic, its still fascinating to watch a craftsman at work. Otherwise Jazz and Ballet would have died out long ago.
Its based on a children's book that was turned into a play that was turned into a movie. That means artists from several different disciplines have been fascinated enough by the story to put their stamp on it, so if it looks like a duck and tastes like a duck and crosses the street in single file lines regardless of the traffic, then possibly there is enough meat left on the bones that would make a 2 1/2 hours commitment worth while.
But eh.
What can I say?
Eh.
Due to my post project apathy, honestly, I'd prefer to take a nap right now.
After finishing this blog, of course.
And it occurs to me, just his moment, that if apathy where a disease, an emotional psychological disorder, then it could be easily diagnosed through the lack of interactivity in one's Netflix queue.
And it should be a disorder. The DSM should list it just before arachnophobia and just after anal-retentivness.
There's already a drug for it.
Its called meth.
And if you think the side effects of meth are scary, don't ever try to read the label on your aspirin bottle.
"Hundreds of Tweekers Agree!"
"War Horse is effing minestrone popcorn cheesy poofs!"
or so the poster might say.
But I don't have the time for another addiction, and wouldn't know where to look if I did.
So "The Hobbit" and "War Horse" will remain in apathetic limbo until such time as I care enough to watch them or to trade them in for something else.
and the cycle of abuse continues.
Friday Five: Choices
Two neat little options landed on my lap today.
One pulling me in one direction, the other in another. Both are just first steps to grander more dreamy things. Both require work, both require luck, and both could end up landing me back where I was before my alarm went of this morning, except maybe a year older and with a higher percentage rate on my student loans.
Doesn't really matter what they are.
I'm not going to tell you even if it did, but it did get me thinking about how I/we make choices and it also reminded me that I've got exactly 47 minutes as of right now to knock back a Friday Five.
So here it is: Five ways of choosing my fate for the next year . . .
in 47 minutes or less.
Number 1. Pro's and Cons List:
This is how you decide things in the most rational way possible. Just make a big long list and tally the points. Whichever option has the most, pick that one.
Doing this mean you will never experience the kind of regret that comes from flipping a coin nor will you ever have to make an alimony payment. However, this kind of logic based reasoning will never get you the cover of a magazine, will not impress your friends and is both boring and totally unsexy.
Number 2. Make the sexier choice:
Picture yourself doing what it is that you're choosing to do, and then ask yourself if you would hit that.
Then ask your self if anyone else would hit that.
and make sure by "any one else" you mean your wife.
But not really.
Cause she'll hit anything.
Number 3. Go full on Taoist and flip a coin:
You, my friend, are the unhewn log. Let the river pull you in the direction that you are meant to go. Give the universe a chance to be your guide. The greatest advantage you have over your enemy is that he is weak and smells of elderberries. And as the coin rises in the air you will know in your heart of hearts which path you really wish to take and you won't even have to look at where the coin landed.
You will anyway, and if its right, you'll narrow your eyes and nod your head in a creepy fashion.
And if its wrong, you'll just put the coin into your pocket and walk away from the person that gave it to you.
It's your quarter now.
God Dammit.
Number 4.
Choose the one that will disappoint your mother the most.
Just kidding.
Finally 5. Ask your wife:
Cause she is always right.
Always.
No matter what she's hitting.
One pulling me in one direction, the other in another. Both are just first steps to grander more dreamy things. Both require work, both require luck, and both could end up landing me back where I was before my alarm went of this morning, except maybe a year older and with a higher percentage rate on my student loans.
Doesn't really matter what they are.
I'm not going to tell you even if it did, but it did get me thinking about how I/we make choices and it also reminded me that I've got exactly 47 minutes as of right now to knock back a Friday Five.
So here it is: Five ways of choosing my fate for the next year . . .
in 47 minutes or less.
Number 1. Pro's and Cons List:
This is how you decide things in the most rational way possible. Just make a big long list and tally the points. Whichever option has the most, pick that one.
Doing this mean you will never experience the kind of regret that comes from flipping a coin nor will you ever have to make an alimony payment. However, this kind of logic based reasoning will never get you the cover of a magazine, will not impress your friends and is both boring and totally unsexy.
Number 2. Make the sexier choice:
Picture yourself doing what it is that you're choosing to do, and then ask yourself if you would hit that.
Then ask your self if anyone else would hit that.
and make sure by "any one else" you mean your wife.
But not really.
Cause she'll hit anything.
Number 3. Go full on Taoist and flip a coin:
You, my friend, are the unhewn log. Let the river pull you in the direction that you are meant to go. Give the universe a chance to be your guide. The greatest advantage you have over your enemy is that he is weak and smells of elderberries. And as the coin rises in the air you will know in your heart of hearts which path you really wish to take and you won't even have to look at where the coin landed.
You will anyway, and if its right, you'll narrow your eyes and nod your head in a creepy fashion.
And if its wrong, you'll just put the coin into your pocket and walk away from the person that gave it to you.
It's your quarter now.
God Dammit.
Number 4.
Choose the one that will disappoint your mother the most.
Just kidding.
Finally 5. Ask your wife:
Cause she is always right.
Always.
No matter what she's hitting.
If I Needed Someone
"Resist the urge to rub your eyes or wipe your sweaty face with your pepper picking hand"
Now there's some good advice right there.
Go ahead, resist that urge.
Cause you know your gonna have it.
And the sweat is gonna trickle from your temple down the left side of your cheek and your gonna wipe it off by rubbing your shoulder against your face, but that's not gonna do the trick and your then gonna want to stop what your doing and wipe your entire face with the bottom of you shirt.
But the sun is overhead and you've been squinting for quite some time and that hand that has been gingerly snapping jalapeños is gonna inadvertently head directly toward your eye socket and then the rest is history. You are now the stupidest person in the world and your wife is ashamed for ever having loved you.
I've been reading a lot of gardening websites this spring, its becoming something of a hobby of mine to watch my plants grow and to make my own decisions as to their care. Previously my garden has been in the hands of my father-in-law, who has done a beautiful job, but works his own hours, decides what and where he wants to plant, decides where and when he wants to harvest, and shows up in my backyard while I'm still sipping coffee in my underwear.
Which is all fine.
I love the man and I suspect he doesn't find me totally disagreeable.
But this year I wanted to try my hand at my own garden. Plant the things I want to plant. Harvest when I want to harvest. Learn something new.
Or in the case of the opening piece of advice, learn something I could've logically figured out, even if by trial and error, but didn't have to cause I read it on some website.
I can resist that urge.
And don't get me wrong. My father-in-law has no intention whatsoever of allowing me to run this show on my own. He still pops by a least twice a week to tell me that my lawn needs mowing and to apply some MiracleGrow, cause my squash is clearly not doing as well as it should be.
Like us all, he is willing to give up some control, but will never give up being needed.
And that's not just a guy thing. Being needed is the core of our self worth, even if it is just ourselves that are in need.
As a parent, not being needed is one of the three major tragedies, right behind the death of a child and stepping on a lego.
Can't wait for them to leave the house, but agonize over all the things we never got the chance to teach them, to tell them, to remind them.
But not being needed is also one of the three great triumphs of parenthood, right behind college acceptance and knowing that there are five cry babies on your son's little league team and your son isn't one of them.
So few things are greater than those first seven steps, the first plunge into the pool, letting go of the bicycle seat.
Or in Vito's case, seeing a four foot high tomato plant rising from the armageddon that used to be his son-in-law's garden.
At least I hope he feels a sense of triumph. A sense of contentment as he lets my pepper picking hands do the plucking. And I'm sure he will watch carefully as I resist the urge to rub my eyes or my sweaty face just as he secretly dowses my anemic cucumbers with enough chemical fertilizers to feed a plantation.
And the thought occurs to me that we are never not needed. Nor are we ever not in need.
But the word "Need" requires some extra classification.
It's too strong. It implies desperation. It implies all or nothing. It even implies, to a great extent, weakness. We may define ourselves by our ability to provide, but we're just as likely to kill ourselves to avoid helplessness.
Which is sooooo weird! Cause we don't even really have to ask. The people who love us see us dog paddling and are more than happy to jump in untethered. Whether its my mom sending me to see a specialist or my father-in-law spritzing my arugula, everywhere I look someone is taking a little extra step to make my world better.
And they're not "Needed" so much as they are the blessing that comes with all the baggage that a family can manage.
We need to stop thinking of the word "Need" as the cape of the martyr and the scream of a victim and soften it's edges a bit in order to help and be helped.
To love and be loved.
Cause the best way to tell someone you love them is to juice their zucchini once in a while.
And remind them not to rub their eyes with their pepper picking hand.
Now there's some good advice right there.
Go ahead, resist that urge.
Cause you know your gonna have it.
And the sweat is gonna trickle from your temple down the left side of your cheek and your gonna wipe it off by rubbing your shoulder against your face, but that's not gonna do the trick and your then gonna want to stop what your doing and wipe your entire face with the bottom of you shirt.
But the sun is overhead and you've been squinting for quite some time and that hand that has been gingerly snapping jalapeños is gonna inadvertently head directly toward your eye socket and then the rest is history. You are now the stupidest person in the world and your wife is ashamed for ever having loved you.
I've been reading a lot of gardening websites this spring, its becoming something of a hobby of mine to watch my plants grow and to make my own decisions as to their care. Previously my garden has been in the hands of my father-in-law, who has done a beautiful job, but works his own hours, decides what and where he wants to plant, decides where and when he wants to harvest, and shows up in my backyard while I'm still sipping coffee in my underwear.
Which is all fine.
I love the man and I suspect he doesn't find me totally disagreeable.
But this year I wanted to try my hand at my own garden. Plant the things I want to plant. Harvest when I want to harvest. Learn something new.
Or in the case of the opening piece of advice, learn something I could've logically figured out, even if by trial and error, but didn't have to cause I read it on some website.
I can resist that urge.
And don't get me wrong. My father-in-law has no intention whatsoever of allowing me to run this show on my own. He still pops by a least twice a week to tell me that my lawn needs mowing and to apply some MiracleGrow, cause my squash is clearly not doing as well as it should be.
Like us all, he is willing to give up some control, but will never give up being needed.
And that's not just a guy thing. Being needed is the core of our self worth, even if it is just ourselves that are in need.
As a parent, not being needed is one of the three major tragedies, right behind the death of a child and stepping on a lego.
Can't wait for them to leave the house, but agonize over all the things we never got the chance to teach them, to tell them, to remind them.
But not being needed is also one of the three great triumphs of parenthood, right behind college acceptance and knowing that there are five cry babies on your son's little league team and your son isn't one of them.
So few things are greater than those first seven steps, the first plunge into the pool, letting go of the bicycle seat.
Or in Vito's case, seeing a four foot high tomato plant rising from the armageddon that used to be his son-in-law's garden.
At least I hope he feels a sense of triumph. A sense of contentment as he lets my pepper picking hands do the plucking. And I'm sure he will watch carefully as I resist the urge to rub my eyes or my sweaty face just as he secretly dowses my anemic cucumbers with enough chemical fertilizers to feed a plantation.
And the thought occurs to me that we are never not needed. Nor are we ever not in need.
But the word "Need" requires some extra classification.
It's too strong. It implies desperation. It implies all or nothing. It even implies, to a great extent, weakness. We may define ourselves by our ability to provide, but we're just as likely to kill ourselves to avoid helplessness.
Which is sooooo weird! Cause we don't even really have to ask. The people who love us see us dog paddling and are more than happy to jump in untethered. Whether its my mom sending me to see a specialist or my father-in-law spritzing my arugula, everywhere I look someone is taking a little extra step to make my world better.
And they're not "Needed" so much as they are the blessing that comes with all the baggage that a family can manage.
We need to stop thinking of the word "Need" as the cape of the martyr and the scream of a victim and soften it's edges a bit in order to help and be helped.
To love and be loved.
Cause the best way to tell someone you love them is to juice their zucchini once in a while.
And remind them not to rub their eyes with their pepper picking hand.
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