Losing My Mind

Whoooo!!! It has been an interesting couple of weeks here at the house. Special thanks to The Murls for the recent guest post. Our daughter is four weeks old now, and needless to say we do not have the whole thing figured out. My wife ordered a book last night that she feels certain holds the key to newborn peace and tranquility. Given the small library on the topic of how to properly raise a newborn that has taken root in our house, it’s hard to imagine this new book offering up any heretofore undiscovered wisdom, but we must hold out hope.

The days seem to follow a similar routine. You awaken and lay eyes on your beautiful daughter and thank God above for this gift he’s granted you. Then the day wears on, and things head downhill. And then you find yourself, seated at the computer in the dark of night, looking for black market baby auction services. Uhhh, just kidding…but if you know of such a thing…The biggest downside to the whole thing is that our brain functionality has been cut by somewhere in the neighborhood of 70%. A few days ago I watched my wife drop no less than four things over an impressive five minute stretch.

Meanwhile I’ve been far worse than her. A couple of weeks ago I headed to Target in search of a scale to replace our old one. I wheeled into a nice parking space, turned off the car, and prepared for my quick mission into Target. It was at that point I attempted to hop out of the car, only to be mercilessly jerked back inside by the seat belt I had failed to unbuckle. Still reeling from that episode, I wandered into Target and proceeded to be mesmerized by the various offerings. I wandered up to the checkout with Archer Farms mushroom risotto, Diet Mountain Dew, and about five other items. Only when I was unloading my purchases back at the house did I realize that none of the items I was removing from the bags and putting in the pantry was a bathroom scale, my only reason for going to Target in the first place.

I wish I could say that was my only recent mental lapse, but unfortunately that is not the case. I’ve always had a bad habit of piling my in-between clothes (these are items that are not freshly washed but can, in my opinion, endure another wear before being relegated to the laundry basket for washing) on a table in our closet. Recently I noticed that a shirt near the top of this pile had a faint odor to it. Being the responsible adult that I am, I moved it from the in-between pile in the closet to the laundry basket without another thought. Actually, I momentarily thought it might be the smell of bat pee, but decided against that theory. A few days later on a Saturday I grabbed a pair of shorts from the pile for wear in the course of my errands. While sitting at Great Clips that afternoon, I noticed that these shorts possessed a smell similar to that of the shirt, but an even more virulent version. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it seemed like maybe something garlicy. Either way, I hoped that the lady cutting my hair was far enough away from my shorts region not to notice. I returned home and went about my errands, increasingly bothered by the smell. Finally, I checked in with my wife to see if she thought they smelled. She told me in no uncertain terms that yes indeed they did smell. So I changed shorts and thought no more of it until I got a call at work from her a couple of days later.

“Ummm, do you remember how your shorts smelled horrible on Saturday?”

“Sure, why?”

“Because I just got done washing them and they had a Ziploc bag filled with dog poo in the pocket!”

“Oh, uhh, yeah that would probably explain it.”

Apparently about a week earlier while walking the dogs I had jammed a bag of poo into the lower pocket of my shorts and then completely forgot about it. There’s a feature you don’t see listed in cargo shorts ads!

Shorts have 10 inch inseam, zip fly, and two lower pockets into which you can cram dog poo on walks (note that dog poo should be removed from cargo shorts at end of walk)

Say What? Some Overdue Complaining

***Post by Murls

Well, while the world hasn't been banging down the door for a new post from this guy, I figured I'd give Craig a break and let him tend to his newborn daughter, his winged rats, and whatever else he does for kicks. Perhaps it's time to get back to the basics and do exactly what the subtitle of this blog promises - complain. I'd like to touch on the topic of language, aka, the stuff we say. I won't go after the obvious ones like our common misuse of the terms "ironic" or "literally" (mainly because I'm no English professor either) . . . instead I'll just point out a few phrases I hear often that I would like to see eradicated from the planet.

Disclaimer: I'm a bit of a half-ass curmudgeon in the sense that I ultimately believe in "to each his own", so if you do happen to use any of the following phrases, I promise I won't kick your dog:

1. "It Is What It Is": - now, had you asked me two years ago how I felt about this phrase, I would have told you that anyone who utters it should be forced to, well, watch me kick their dog. I have tempered my stance on this one a bit only because: a) it's wearing me down and every once in a while it's use actually has a sliver of meaning to me, and b) it is old enough now that nobody using it has that smug tone of "I am the most laid back person on the planet, hear me roar", which was certainly intertwined with its initial usage as it became popular among those getting tired of flashing the "it's all good" badge around town. So anyway, here's the overall problem . . . it means NOTHING!!! Just look at the phrase itself . . . it means . . . nothing. Biggest waste of oxygen in the history of our great civilization, other than when I tell people I only smoke cigarettes when I drink. That blue shirt is a blue shirt. Thanks.

2. "We are building a house" (past tense "We built a house"): To be fair, I am less enraged by this phrase than I am truly confused as to how it became so accepted in our culture, seemingly without any scrutiny. I remember as a youngster I would talk with adults that would casually state "I'm building a house", and my thoughts would immediately turn to "whoa, this guy's a badass" and then "I wonder how this dermatologist finds time to build a frigging house". Then I slowly realized that what this phrase really meant was that these people were simply "ordering" a house. You found some land, or maybe a real estate agent found it for you, and then you promised someone money in return for them building you a house. Hmm, sounds familiar . . . oh, I know why, cuz it sounds like every other transaction in the history of commerce! Just because you and your wife spent 3 weeks trying to decide whether the backyard should have a patio or a deck does not mean you "built" the house. So taking the easy joke here, I guess you also "removed" your appendix last year, or had the following conversation at a party: "My wife and I are building a fantastic SUV. It's coming along beautifully, and we're putting cherry maple in around the stereo."

"You did what, nancyboy?"

My suggestion: innocuously replace with "we are having a house built". Then we can be friends.

3. "Regular Coke is too sweet": I hear this one all the time and it's never quite sat well with me. I would propose that no human has ever tried Diet Coke and liked it in an organic sense - it's always affected by that person's desire to cut calories, etc. Most people train themselves to like the vile stuff, and for this I applaud them. Honestly. They have more willpower than I ever will, because I can't even do consecutive sips. Every once in a while a waiter will mix up the glasses and I'll accidentally go tearing into a straw-full, and at that moment my entire life flashes before mine eyes. And then there's the aftertaste. In other words, if John Pemberton invented Diet Coke in 1886 instead of regular Coca Cola, ol' Mr. Pemberton would have spent the rest of his life living in a cardboard box.

So here's where this gets tricky - there's just something about regular Coke being "too sweet" that carries a purist tone to it, much like someone who has removed all televisions from their house carrying on about how much better their life is. First, Diet Coke is hardly a minimalist's dream - there's enough artificial sweetener crap in there to make a slice of grapefruit consumable, so let's not get too proud of our newly matured palates. Second, you once liked regular Coke!!! That's what started this!!! Again, it's impressive that you taught yourself to enjoy the taste of artificial sweeteners more than good old high fructose corn syrup, but that is all that's happened here. Jared disciplined himself to lose 4,000 lbs. eating dry Subway sandwiches - surely he hasn't all of a sudden decided that a Big Mac tastes like ass.

An Important Warning for Users of Baby Monitors

Before this post goes any further, I want to get it on the record that I know the topic I'm about to cover has been more than fully addressed over the years and is fodder for lame comedy. Still, with as many warning labels as I've come across over the years, this one still just completely floored me. Also, I'm a new dad with limited time on my hands trying to keep my throngs of readers satiated, so work with me here.

Anyway, this past weekend I decided to go ahead and attempt to set up the video monitor for the nursery. I took it out of the box and noticed the sticker at the bottom left instructing me to remove the larger sticker with the picture of the generic baby from the screen before attempting to use the monitor.


That is fantastic. I can just picture it now:

"Hey hon, can you check the monitor and make sure our baby is okay?"

"Hang on...yep, looks like he's sleeping just fine."

"Oh, that's great."

"You know, it is weird, though, he's wearing a yellow outfit now instead of the red one we put him in."

Wife walking over and looking at the monitor: "That is weird, plus, didn't he used to be Asian?"


Honestly, I know we've lost our intellectual edge as a country and have been passed in scholastic aptitude by many a hungry and studious nation, but has it really come to this? Oh, and to any parents who actually needed this warning, just a heads up that when you buy picture frames the picture that is already in there is not actually of your family and friends.

Checkmate

Where in the stages of lame does attempting to play online chess fall? My sense is that it’s pretty high on the scale. And yes, I did attempt to play chess online recently. The most depressing part? I couldn’t even gain any acceptance among the subset of the population hanging out in Yahoo! chess rooms this evening. My first would-be competitor booted me off of his virtual table. I had tried to join an intermediate level game, but I guess the guy thought me too lowly for competition, what with my 0-0 chess record on the site. I suppose he is unaware of my brief stint on the chess team in seventh grade, or he would have accorded me more respect.

Fresh off that humbling episode, I entered the beginner room area. I joined one game and waited five minutes for the other person who had entered to play to press Start. No luck, so I exited and joined another game. There I waited, and waited some more. Finally, he messaged an apology. It was something to the effect of “Sorry, I have people over and got distracted.” Then he exited the game before it even began. When you get rejected twice on Yahoo! chess, once for lack of an adequate chess resume, and once because the other guy has social activities going on that don’t allow him time to placate your game request, it’s a bit humiliating. Perhaps the backgammon room is more inclusive.

Wells Fargo ATMs

One last quick anecdote from the hospital. By the third day in the hospital my appearance and smell was much closer to that of a homeless vagrant you might find attempting to sell you a newspaper downtown than the newly inspired proud father I had become. A trip home for a lengthy shower and shave (I neglected to pack shaving gear) was in order. Going home also had the added benefit of shielding my wife from the prison-worthy lunch offering the hospital would be serving her, so it was a win-win.

For some reason, the parking deck at Northside is cash only. So I swung by the Wells Fargo ATM in the atrium to get some walking around money to pay the attendant. The welcome screen on the ATM was just baffling to me. It was something along the lines of "Tell us about your ATM experience on Twitter @Wells Fargo!". Am I missing something? What kind of an experience could you possibly have at an ATM that would warrant comment on Twitter?

"@Wells Fargo, just requested and successfully received $40 out of your ATM at Northside Hospital. Thanks!"

"@Wells Fargo, thanks for the awesome stamps your machine on N Highland Rd dispenses."

The only noteworthy ATM experiences that come to mind are probably not what they're looking for.

"@Wells Fargo, just got pistol whipped at your Piedmont Rd ATM. Lost $200, my GPS, and a 12-pack of Budweiser out of my back seat."


UPDATE: Not surprisingly, it doesn't look like Wells Fargo has the whole social media thing down yet. They seem to scour Twitter and link to everyone who mentioned them. They might want to take a minute to scan those folks Twitter feeds. Look at the post I highlighted with the area. Good to know! (You have to click on the print screen image. ***Warning: R rated language, though I did block the word in question out.)

A Birth and a Personal Accomplishment

It has been just over a week now since my daughter was born. Before I continue with my snarky observations, I should first express my thanks to Northside Hospital. The place clearly has the art of bringing babies into the world down to a science, and every single person we worked with there had a great personality and seemed truly sympathetic to what you’re going through. In the back of your mind you know they’re working their way down the baby assembly line there, and that your daughter is one of probably 20 kids they will personally help deliver that week. Still, they in no way give off that kind of a vibe, and my wife and I were truly appreciative.

I’ll skip most of the specifics of the three nights spent in the hospital. There was a little bit of sleeping the first night, interrupted every 15 minutes or so by the very un-soothing sounds emanating from the trucks at the hospital loading docks, located conveniently right outside our window. Our daughter came early the next afternoon, and we got even less sleep that night and the following one. I can’t blame our daughter for the lack of sleep. She slept right through those nights, choosing to wait until we got back home to start keeping us up throughout the nights. In the hospital, it was the never ending carousel of nurses and techs coming in the room every 30 minutes. Sunday night, our third night, the most talkative woman in America was assigned to be our nurse or tech (I forget which). Remember that we had been in the hospital for two-and-a-half days at that point and were beyond tired. This woman had no problem staying up and working through the night, and she was only too happy to explain this phenomenon to us in excruciating detail. Sometime late in the evening on one of her frequent visits she launched into a monologue about the fact that the sound of a neighbor’s loud dog did indeed bother her a great deal even though working late nights didn’t. I never quite got the connection but had absolutely no intention of asking her for clarification. Instead, as I lay on my semi-cushioned bench in the corner of the room I was torn between whether to focus my efforts on tuning her out and trying to sleep or darting across the room and smashing my wife’s tray of uneaten food into the wall in desperate protest.

That does bring me to the topic of the food, and this really must be addressed. God bless the poor, poor souls stuck in that hospital without friends or family to get them food to replace the cafeteria meals that are served to the helpless patients. I didn’t taste the food, but I did see it, and I believe it would have been right at home in the finest prison mess halls our country has to offer. I understand that providing gourmet meals is not the core mission of a hospital, but if you are going to charge 15 grand and keep people in your care for multiple nights, they really are owed better than a piece of chicken (I believe) that looks like it has been strenuously mashed flat and then left to dry for days on end.

Those are minor grievances, though, and the whole experiencing was truly life changing. I left the hospital with a new perspective and sense of purpose. You might be inclined to question just how powerful this new-found inner strength really is. It’s understandable, but your doubts should evaporate entirely when I tell you that after returning home from the hospital I managed to successfully watch all 135 minutes of Waterworld (though it did take me five separate sessions due to a combination of baby duties and revulsion to the movie). I'm going to add to my accomplishment by saving anyone who has had thoughts of watching this movie the trouble. Plot summary- Kevin Costner has gills; also he's a total jerk, but not as much of one as all the evil dudes that ride jet skis and are commanded by Dennis Hopper (truly heartbreaking that he participated in this travesty); everyone's looking for some land, because the earth is covered with water, which blows; Kevin Costner and a few lucky folks find it, right after Kevin Costner walks on to Dennis Hopper's giant boat and manages to blow it up after openly confronting Hopper and not getting shot by either Hopper or any of his approximately 2,000-3,000 minions on board.

Well, I guess this post ended up a bit all over the place. My apologies for that. I'll close out with a summary: birth of my daughter- good; watching Waterworld- bad. That is all.

Waterworld- Exellent preparation for the horrendous children's movies in my future