Hot Friday Five

The mercury is once again on the rise.

Yet rather than poking my eyes out with a fork, I'm going to sit under the A/C vent and write about it.

Top Five Reasons to Unreasonably Hate the Heat:

1. Replacing the air filter
When it's hot, we run the A/C all day. When we run the A/C all day the air filter becomes caked with house dust, which we all know as dead skin. Replacing them requires a trip to Home Depot, then to pay a heavy price for what is essentially a pair towel, high ceilings means dragging out the big ladder, the aluminum frame of the filter never fits so I always tear a little skin off my finger tips getting it open. Because I've been fighting with it a huge load of dust falls in my face and onto the floor which I have to clean up before my wife freaks out. I have to vacuum the grate. I have to fight with the lever to lock the new one in. I have to get the dirty one into the trash where one little bump from my clutzy self will deliver a dead skin bomb all over the house. I hate chores, but this one is off the hook.

2. Wearing clothes
I sweat. I am moving all day and I drink a lot of fluids. My clothes start sticking to my skin around 8:30am and by the time I can peel them off in the late afternoon, they weigh twice what they did in the morning. They are sticky with layer after layer of man in motion perspiration.

3. Man stink
There maybe a subtle genetic sexual pheromone advantage in the musk of men, but my socks can empty a room.

4. Raging Fury
There's a reason why Canadians are so even tempered. Cool climate. Cool People. Hot Climate, however, and people will kill over a Youtube video.

5. My Poor Wife
For who in their right mind would want to have sex with a cranky, sticky, stinky naked old man covered in debris after a dead skin bomb?


Cantankerous

I discovered a Readers Digest in my bathroom this morning. It's curious for I haven't seen one of those in probably ten years and it's inexplicable how it made its way to the magazine stack on my toilet. The space is almost always reserved for old Entertainment Weeklys and depending on the situation, a book of crossword puzzles about 33% completed.

The Readers Digest isn't something I would catch myself perusing, but I had the time and clearly no other place to go.

What could go wrong, for there is so much that I want to know? Yet so little of things I want to know are contained within the pages that I started looking for a crossword puzzle. In doing so,  I flipped upon a two page article by Mitch Albom.

The guy who wrote "Tuesdays with Morrie" If you didn't already know that. And for the record there's no real reason that you should.

I wouldn't even be all that surprised if you've never come across "Tuesdays with Morrie" either. It was a blip on the pop culture feel good map for a time. Sold millions. Inspired 47. Changed the lives of several. (I daresay there is a possibility that the one person who was transformed by Mitch's freshman effort could conceivably be reading this, and to you I say "Are you lost sweetie?")

Anywho . . .

The article was about Siri, Apple's 2011 version of 2001's HAL. In it Mitch complained about how we are forming relationships with our phones and have lost the art of connecting with other human beings.

To which I must cordially respond "Bah!"

Siri is a slick toy for people who have time for such things, but it in no way effects human connectivity, except for the fact that it singles you out as the kind of person who has time for such things. Such people deserve a little head tilt, not a two page diatribe, but Mitch must be at that stage in his career where he is too widely read to use bad words and too well respected to say anything of consequence.

Nice way to Andy Rooney yourself into irrelevance.

But I'm still tripping on how the Reader's Digest got into my throne room. I'm not opposed to mind trash, I'm a purveyor of it, but I'd be less surprised to find porn than I am to find Mitch Albom's take on Siri.

And I don't begrudge the Reader's Digest audience for I too would like 5 Easy Ways to burn more belly fat, I just don't remember anyone sitting on my toilet long enough to peruse.

Yet it had to come from somewhere. And if my luck holds, then it was most likely a friend or loved one who I am dangerously close to offending by poking direct fun at their game time reading material.

Which leads me back down the path from which I started.

I've gotten a little cranky. Old man cranky. Get off my lawn , cranky.

Blame it on the pain. Blame it on the lack of nicotine, the heat of the never-ending summer, and a few sleepless nights for which there was no escape.

I gots the flavor of bitter bean in my mouth and here I am asking you to kiss me. Poking you with a sharp stick a telling you it feels good.

And for the most part it does feel good. A little giggle and a WTF. Lets you know you're still alive and that I can still muster a little sting.

Yet that can be hard on the people around me who just want to be nice productive people and live their positive lives and read about how Siri is an example of why we are losing our humanity.

One second thought . . .

Maybe we just need a safety word, so that I know that you think I've gone a little too far.

Something that says slow down, ease up, smell a few roses, lets take our time. Something that says its okay to be nice. Something that won't offend anyone.

Something like "Mitch"









Friday Five: That's My Boy

It has occurred to me there has been very little dad stuff popping up on my dad blog. It's not by design, I just post what's on my mind at the moment its on my mind regardless of the shuffle. So, here is a conscience Friday Five:

Five Reasons I am proud of my boy:

1. He's generous.
Each night Calvin rushes into the house to gather snacks for the ever growing group of neighborhood kids. Now all kids are either sadists or socialists or if they've grown up rich, functionally retarded, but each night when we tell him that he can't feed everyone, he eyes us with suspicion, for his friends are hungry and we clearly have the best snacks on the block. No doubt there will be a very positive lesson on the merits of capitalism soon, but for now I like to know that my semi-only child knows how to share.

2. He's kind.
In soccer practice, we keep telling him to go after the ball and kick it, but he looks up at us with his misty little eyes and tells us that he doesn't want to hurt anyone. To which we tell him that's what shin guards are for.

3. He's creepy smart.
There's is a game he's been playing on the computer that is vastly beyond his years and requires constant problem solving and creative building. I won't say what that game is, because it's totally inappropriate for 7 year olds and I don't care, but I'm fascinated by his tenacity and how quickly he levels up. He did cry when I accidentally killed him while helping him with some of his control settings, so he's not exactly ready for World of Warcraft, but I think he is quite beyond Frogger.

4. He's incredibly brave.
Calvin is terrified of things. Dogs, school, motorcycles, butterflies, tractors, you name it. Overprotective parenting, coupled with traumatic experiences and a genetic predisposition for anxiety disorders, and you've got one twitchy little squirrel on your hands. And there is no cure for it. Well that's not entirely true, there's drugs and there's Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Guess which one we've been using for the last few years? And he's actually getting it. Yesterday he told his mom that he has decided he's not going to be afraid to go to school. When your amygdala is out of control, it takes a huge set of balls to recognize that your brain is playing with your and for you to be determined to fight back. I like to think he has those balls. In fact I think they should rename Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and call it something like "Testicle Enlargement" or "Pair Growth."

5. He scored his first goooooooaaaaaal.
Sure it was only a scrimmage. Sure it was only a scrimmage against a girls team, but I must say, watching my boy take that ball from mid field and kick the only goal of the game did wonders for the size of my testicles as well.

Sure he may skip while the other kids run,

He may dress up like a video game elf,

and he may throw a tantrum or two,

but that's my boy.

That's my boy.