The longer you are a sportscaster the more you find out disappointing facts about your place in this world:
1. Whatever fame you gain comes from showing other people accomplishing things.
2. As crazy as the people you are about sports, there truly are people who simply do not care.
3. You are not the first person to use song lyrics to describe a play.
However, the disease that truly seems to run through the hearts of sportscasters from the very top to the smallest television markets.
This is what I call "Berman-Wingo Syndrome".
It is named after ESPN broadcasters Chris Berman and Trey Wingo. Something courses through these two that overwhelms any appearance they make on television. There is that need to somehow get the message to the home viewer that the guy in the suit is friends with the super cool athletes they cover.
Their belief is that if they call the player by his first name in a borderline loving way, we will sit at home and think, "Did you hear that? He called him 'Ben'. They MUST be friends!"
Most people with a brain should realize that a guy who sits in New York or Connecticut throughout the year probably is not really friends with Mr. Manning or the other Mr. Manning (or 'Peyton' or 'Eli' as they call them.)
Honestly, it is kind of like back in high school the dweebie guy would maneuver his way into being a partner in Biology class with the cheerleader and believing that everyone would really believe they were going out. It turns out the only one the kid got to hang out with after the project was a sliced-up frog.
Now, for the most part this seems harmless. Pathetic, but harmless. However Berman-Wingo is at its most dangerous not because the sportscaster seems like an "Entertainment Tonight" anchor swimming in Matt Damon's wake and believing "Well, I am a star, too," but because of what happens when something scandalous happens to the athlete.
As sportscasters coast-to-coast did everything but climb into Lance Armstrong's bike shorts (and, in some cases, while he was wearing them), how do they now look as Lance (whoops, I just did it!) has been exposed as what appears to be quite the fraud?
The ultimate is in the way Berman-Wingo sufferers bowed at the altar of Brett Favre for the first fifteen to eighteen years of his career. Sportscasters thought they were putting themselves into the cool clique by saying, "Brett the Gunslinger", "As only Brett can do", and "This is why we all love Brett!"
That is all great until scandal strikes. When your identity is based in part on desperately trying to convince people you are friends and then people sour on him, what do you do? Wisconsin sportscasters had to deal with people remembering that they worshiped the guy under center for more than a decade. So, now you look bad when their hero retires and unretires and then eventually winds up with the hated rival.
That was a blip compared to the danger of begging people to associate you with someone by kissing his feet and then having a picture of that someone's feet, along with at least one other body part turn the hero into a national joke. You just look like a moron.
Berman-Wingo Syndrome also hit with sportscasters when Mr. Bryant, 'Kobe' to his close sportscasting friends, Mr. Roethlisberger, 'Ben' to his BFFs on the anchor desk and, historically, Mr. Simpson, 'O.J.', or "Juice" became pariahs, whether temporarily or permanently.
There is even the danger of doing the "buddy-buddy" thing such as when a very well-known sportscaster had great radio exchanges with athletes Jason Giambi and Jayson Williams and put the "bro-mance" out there for everyone to hear. Then, he had to walk it WAY back when Giambi was caught up in talk of Performance Enhancing Drugs and Williams was involved in a shooting death.
I say these things as a sportscaster who did get the lesson several times that you are not really tight with these guys because, while you are performing for the cameras, so are they. It does benefit them to give you the impression you are tight so they will let you think you have "a moment" as you stood and talked while you were waiting for him to get his microphone on. The lesson will come when you see them out away from the field and you, at most, get a head nod before he talks to the four women he is hanging out with.
Sadly, even then, the sportscaster will try to use that as proof "'See, we're friends. No, really!"
Luckily, Berman-Wingo is not fatal. Usually, what a "talking head" says is so inane and we are so interchangeable that people probably have forgotten us by the end of the show anyway.
Researchers are still trying to come up with a name for the very sad condition that causes sportscasters to think they sound hip and happening by saying "R-G-Three" at least twenty times each time they do Redskins highlights.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Friday, June 22, 2012
No Words, Just Wisdom
Mom is in her pink dress again. For at least a decade the pink dress symbolized every major event in the family. Weddings, reunions, anniversaries all brought out that pink dress. This time there is nothing festive about the dress.
Mom is gone.
It is the day of the visitation and the funeral. As I stand first in the line but the last of her six sons I get to find things out first. The two biggies are, first, every person seemed to have served on a committee of some sort with my mother and, second, everyone did have a story of some bit of wisdom that my mother passed along to her that really hit home. She seemed to have the words that helped people in the two churches she attended through the toughest of times.
Oddly, I do not have that story of Mom.
Don't get me wrong. We did actually talk about pretty much everything and she would offer perspective through her faith and it almost always came down to me believing, too. Still, she was not the one to come up with the perfect pearl that I could quote or hold on to and I think I usually sold her short because that whole "Faith Thing" was just too easy an answer.
Or so I thought.
It now occurs to me that this is not a bad thing. My Mom's faith in God got her through unimaginable challenges because she knew he would always be there. For me, I found through my much less insurmountable challenges that I would persevere because SHE never doubted that I would.
My Dad died when I was four years old, leaving Mom with six sons and no job. Dad had taken care of a lot of the financial part but I have to believe that at age 42 that it occurred to her that she had not signed up for this.
What she did do was keep living her life. She had already sat through hundreds of Little League Baseball games and worn out multiple stadium seats. (The bleachers were a bit hard so Mom was always prepared for this with a peculiar looking fold-out pad with a back that always looked more uncomfortable than any bleacher. People for miles around knew that when they saw it that Marie must be around and a Pearson must be playing ball.)
Fate gave her no breaks. She had spaced out her kids in a way that meant she sat through twenty-five consecutive years of Youth Baseball without any any time off. Oddly, I am pretty convinced that in that time she learned almost nothing about the game. The one factoid that she had mastered was that whenever I was pitching and the team ran off the field that I must have done something right. After every inning I pitched I would hear "That's the way!" and that meant Mom was paying attention or, at the very least, was still there.
Again, she never gave me any wisdom about baseball but just like with everything later in life I just knew she was there. Everything in Geneseo, Illinois is within five minutes of each other so it may seem like a little thing that she could get there but that little thing and that "That's the way!" from the stands made me know someone was always behind me.
Mom was raised in the depression as part of a big family, too, so she was like a lot of people who grew up then. She could get by on very little. That meant a roast and potatoes on Sunday for a family gathering meant the same roast and potatoes for those still living in the house on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and probably Thursday. That may have been why we all became very adept at the use of ketchup as a food moisturizer.
That is great but what she actually mastered was salesmanship. She could convince us that what other families would consider as lame were special events that we were lucky just to experience.
It blew my mind that we were blessed because we got to go to Hardees (fine dining in town at the time) each Sunday and, if we went the extra eighth of a mile to Kentucky Fried Chicken, somebody must have done something huge!
She also had us convinced that what is known as the Quad Cities were actually real cities and that driving twenty minutes to get there and buying something other than Farm & Fleet Brand Jeans was akin to something Lewis & Clark would admire. So, when she put my brother Dan and I into our 1975 Buick Apollo (it's the only car I remember) and drove us to Denny's in Moline, I figured that this exotic meal of "Dinner Italiano" (probably Ragu on some sort of patty) meant that we must be among the elite. It was either that or at least she had set aside her change for months to make this bounty happen.
Imagine my surprise when I grew up and and people filled me in that Denny's was where they went late at night when they were drunk and looking for something cheap. I am convinced to this day that with that salesmanship Mom could have made millions in Used Cars.
Mom the Salesperson also came through in another way. I have no exact moment when she told me that I was a good-looking kid but she somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, had me believing that there probably was something wrong with the girls who did not really notice me. This notion was some "Mom Magic" because when I look at pictures of me from Seventh Grade through my Junior Year I have to say that I kind of look like the spitting image of every serial killer in his teen years.
The chubby kid with braces and plastic glasses so thick that I accidentally burned some ants when the sun hit them the wrong way was going to be fine because Mom believed it.
In my life, I have quoted Mark Twain or Martin Luther King and every song written between 1982-1992. I have never quoted Mom. Pretty much every bit of advice I ever heard her give was from a Bible verse so I know I underestimated her wisdom. No, she did not come up with "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it, " but she lived it. That is probably more important.
The other one is "Bloom where you're planted." It is the centerpiece of the incredibly inaccurate impression that I sometimes did of Mom. Obviously, she did not come up with this one either but as I have moved from place to place with varying levels of success I did often take my voice to a high-pitched realm and assumed that there is no way that Mom's simple quote could possibly apply but then I have somehow gone out and proved her right.
Her message was to just shine in whatever situation you are in. She convinced my brothers and me that the fact that most of our toys did not quite go together because they were hand-me-overs from cousins and other people simply meant we would be more creative than everyone else. I did not actually know these things should not go together but I was able to come up with games involving a hand-me-down Lone Ranger with a broken arm and no lasso, twelve army men of varying sizes, a monkey with mustard and jelly stains and a vibrating Electric Football set.
She developed that creativity in me despite the fact that I could pretty much tell she had no idea what I was talking about. Throughout my life I would make pop culture references that I know she did not get but she figured they must be funny because I said them. People around me may not be thrilled by this because now I probably expect laughter at every inane thing that pops out of my mouth because Mom was there and Mom laughed.
Whenever I was dumped in my life (and believe me, I was dumped a lot!) just hearing that she knew I would move on made me realize that I would be fine because Mom knew I would be.
The salesmanship came in because we would talk and she would marvel at how well I was handling being dropped on my head by a woman or two or, in my case, ninety-three. I know now that she was telling me about how incredible it was that my sense of humor was getting me through these tough times because I needed to actually use my sense of humor to persevere. Mom said I was handling it well so I just handled it.
I am not sure if Mom was Tony Robbins or Vince Lombardi, or both.
When a boss did not quite understand what I was bringing to the table she just knew that I would convince him otherwise. I did because, well, you know.
When another boss succeeded in getting me out the door over the beliefs of everyone else working with me, Mom did not tell me how to fix the problem but was so absolutely sure that I would deal with it and be able to support my family that, well, you know.
I am sure she worried. I am sure she wondered how she would get through hard times. I am sure she thought that having a youngest son who called himself, "The Forgotten Trip to the Drug Store" probably had her thinking there might be trouble with this one.
She just sounded so sure that there wouldn't be trouble. Having convinced myself I am a writer I have worked to come up with my own way of putting things like "Bloom Where You're Planted." She acted like it was brilliant when I said, "If it doesn't kill you or make you pregnant, it's not a big deal."
I am kind of proud of it but I would not have gotten here without the thought that if Mom believes you will be fine then you will be fine.
So, as my wife, three-year old daughter and eight-month old son move forward without her, I do know that I do not always have to have brilliant words or even that sage advice that will last them a lifetime.
They will just know that I know they will shine. And so they will.
THAT'S THE WAY, MOM!
Mom is gone.
It is the day of the visitation and the funeral. As I stand first in the line but the last of her six sons I get to find things out first. The two biggies are, first, every person seemed to have served on a committee of some sort with my mother and, second, everyone did have a story of some bit of wisdom that my mother passed along to her that really hit home. She seemed to have the words that helped people in the two churches she attended through the toughest of times.
Oddly, I do not have that story of Mom.
Don't get me wrong. We did actually talk about pretty much everything and she would offer perspective through her faith and it almost always came down to me believing, too. Still, she was not the one to come up with the perfect pearl that I could quote or hold on to and I think I usually sold her short because that whole "Faith Thing" was just too easy an answer.
Or so I thought.
It now occurs to me that this is not a bad thing. My Mom's faith in God got her through unimaginable challenges because she knew he would always be there. For me, I found through my much less insurmountable challenges that I would persevere because SHE never doubted that I would.
My Dad died when I was four years old, leaving Mom with six sons and no job. Dad had taken care of a lot of the financial part but I have to believe that at age 42 that it occurred to her that she had not signed up for this.
What she did do was keep living her life. She had already sat through hundreds of Little League Baseball games and worn out multiple stadium seats. (The bleachers were a bit hard so Mom was always prepared for this with a peculiar looking fold-out pad with a back that always looked more uncomfortable than any bleacher. People for miles around knew that when they saw it that Marie must be around and a Pearson must be playing ball.)
Fate gave her no breaks. She had spaced out her kids in a way that meant she sat through twenty-five consecutive years of Youth Baseball without any any time off. Oddly, I am pretty convinced that in that time she learned almost nothing about the game. The one factoid that she had mastered was that whenever I was pitching and the team ran off the field that I must have done something right. After every inning I pitched I would hear "That's the way!" and that meant Mom was paying attention or, at the very least, was still there.
Again, she never gave me any wisdom about baseball but just like with everything later in life I just knew she was there. Everything in Geneseo, Illinois is within five minutes of each other so it may seem like a little thing that she could get there but that little thing and that "That's the way!" from the stands made me know someone was always behind me.
Mom was raised in the depression as part of a big family, too, so she was like a lot of people who grew up then. She could get by on very little. That meant a roast and potatoes on Sunday for a family gathering meant the same roast and potatoes for those still living in the house on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and probably Thursday. That may have been why we all became very adept at the use of ketchup as a food moisturizer.
That is great but what she actually mastered was salesmanship. She could convince us that what other families would consider as lame were special events that we were lucky just to experience.
It blew my mind that we were blessed because we got to go to Hardees (fine dining in town at the time) each Sunday and, if we went the extra eighth of a mile to Kentucky Fried Chicken, somebody must have done something huge!
She also had us convinced that what is known as the Quad Cities were actually real cities and that driving twenty minutes to get there and buying something other than Farm & Fleet Brand Jeans was akin to something Lewis & Clark would admire. So, when she put my brother Dan and I into our 1975 Buick Apollo (it's the only car I remember) and drove us to Denny's in Moline, I figured that this exotic meal of "Dinner Italiano" (probably Ragu on some sort of patty) meant that we must be among the elite. It was either that or at least she had set aside her change for months to make this bounty happen.
Imagine my surprise when I grew up and and people filled me in that Denny's was where they went late at night when they were drunk and looking for something cheap. I am convinced to this day that with that salesmanship Mom could have made millions in Used Cars.
Mom the Salesperson also came through in another way. I have no exact moment when she told me that I was a good-looking kid but she somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, had me believing that there probably was something wrong with the girls who did not really notice me. This notion was some "Mom Magic" because when I look at pictures of me from Seventh Grade through my Junior Year I have to say that I kind of look like the spitting image of every serial killer in his teen years.
The chubby kid with braces and plastic glasses so thick that I accidentally burned some ants when the sun hit them the wrong way was going to be fine because Mom believed it.
In my life, I have quoted Mark Twain or Martin Luther King and every song written between 1982-1992. I have never quoted Mom. Pretty much every bit of advice I ever heard her give was from a Bible verse so I know I underestimated her wisdom. No, she did not come up with "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it, " but she lived it. That is probably more important.
The other one is "Bloom where you're planted." It is the centerpiece of the incredibly inaccurate impression that I sometimes did of Mom. Obviously, she did not come up with this one either but as I have moved from place to place with varying levels of success I did often take my voice to a high-pitched realm and assumed that there is no way that Mom's simple quote could possibly apply but then I have somehow gone out and proved her right.
Her message was to just shine in whatever situation you are in. She convinced my brothers and me that the fact that most of our toys did not quite go together because they were hand-me-overs from cousins and other people simply meant we would be more creative than everyone else. I did not actually know these things should not go together but I was able to come up with games involving a hand-me-down Lone Ranger with a broken arm and no lasso, twelve army men of varying sizes, a monkey with mustard and jelly stains and a vibrating Electric Football set.
She developed that creativity in me despite the fact that I could pretty much tell she had no idea what I was talking about. Throughout my life I would make pop culture references that I know she did not get but she figured they must be funny because I said them. People around me may not be thrilled by this because now I probably expect laughter at every inane thing that pops out of my mouth because Mom was there and Mom laughed.
Whenever I was dumped in my life (and believe me, I was dumped a lot!) just hearing that she knew I would move on made me realize that I would be fine because Mom knew I would be.
The salesmanship came in because we would talk and she would marvel at how well I was handling being dropped on my head by a woman or two or, in my case, ninety-three. I know now that she was telling me about how incredible it was that my sense of humor was getting me through these tough times because I needed to actually use my sense of humor to persevere. Mom said I was handling it well so I just handled it.
I am not sure if Mom was Tony Robbins or Vince Lombardi, or both.
When a boss did not quite understand what I was bringing to the table she just knew that I would convince him otherwise. I did because, well, you know.
When another boss succeeded in getting me out the door over the beliefs of everyone else working with me, Mom did not tell me how to fix the problem but was so absolutely sure that I would deal with it and be able to support my family that, well, you know.
I am sure she worried. I am sure she wondered how she would get through hard times. I am sure she thought that having a youngest son who called himself, "The Forgotten Trip to the Drug Store" probably had her thinking there might be trouble with this one.
She just sounded so sure that there wouldn't be trouble. Having convinced myself I am a writer I have worked to come up with my own way of putting things like "Bloom Where You're Planted." She acted like it was brilliant when I said, "If it doesn't kill you or make you pregnant, it's not a big deal."
I am kind of proud of it but I would not have gotten here without the thought that if Mom believes you will be fine then you will be fine.
So, as my wife, three-year old daughter and eight-month old son move forward without her, I do know that I do not always have to have brilliant words or even that sage advice that will last them a lifetime.
They will just know that I know they will shine. And so they will.
THAT'S THE WAY, MOM!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
8 Minutes to Hell
I have run as many as eight miles at a time.
I have voluntarily taken part in training regimens which involved thick-necked trainers (still not sure if they were male or female) thrusting me into machines whose use should probably be cause for Congressional hearings on torture.
None of that compares to the ache and shame that comes from finding an eighteen-year old DVD that sounds innocuous enough. It was called 8 Minute Abs. Thanks to about a decade of considering a walk to the Dairy Queen for the large Blizzard as exercise I found out it could be considered as 8 Minutes to Hell.
"Why don't you try this?" my wife said. She found it in a bargain bin at Wal-mart a few years back and had it sitting under the Frankie Avalon-Annette Funicello classic "Back to the Beach" in our entertainment center.
I had convinced myself I was on a program. I would run something along the lines of a mile and then walk for probably a couple miles and every once in a while I would do some ab exercise I saw LL Cool J do on Conan. I did not think it through that that was not the only exercise the Cool James that Ladies Love did.
I thought to myself, "I'm a man." What could this silver disc intended for housewives do for someone as masculine as I? How challenging could this be?
Of course these questions came from a person who was never aware he was putting on weight until seeing family pictures where his neck had become his most prominent feature. I did not look like the "Before" picture on Weight Watchers but I could have been used as the second or third picture on the five step program.
Now the DVD is in the player. Sporting the "Mid-life Crisis Workout Uniform" of shorts that are supposed to be baggy but aren't and a faded St. Louis Cardinals t-shirt, I am now ready to hit "Play" on the remote.
The music begins and it sounds like a MUZAK version of the Pointer Sisters classic "Automatic" (look it up). The video fades up to three people in tank tops sitting in what appears to be a vacant lot. Speaking of vacant that describes the woman in the video who, of course, is blonde and has pasted the kind of smile on her face that would give a forty year old man the impression that she would be his if he bought her a Zima and tried his one dance move to impress her. (Obviously, it has been a while since I was in the single world.)
The two men have the same smiles and are wearing pants tight enough that you can actually see freckles through the material. They certainly are pleased to be laying on mats in a field!
"Hey, Gang!" Our leader seems welcoming enough and I envision 90's housewives taking time out from watching "Young & the Restless" and eating Ho Hos to do a few sit-ups. I think that a man such as myself should cruise through this.
Mr. Tanktop on the DVD has a bubblyness that seems limitless. The only other man I ever described as 'bubbly' was wearing an ascot so this is new ground.
The clock on the screen begins and Tanktop tells me that the movements are "safe and effective and fun" so again I know this will be a snap.
He starts with The Basic Crunch. I lay back and do this nice easy starter and in my mind I mock the women who paid for this supposed workout. I can almost see them in their elastic-banded sweatpants struggling to lean up for forty-five seconds. "Piece of cake," I think. Too many pieces of cake are part of why I am trying this.
Next comes the Right Oblique Crunch. Tanktop says, "This works the 'Love Handles', remember those?" I do not recall anyone really wanting to use anything of that nature for any positive purpose so I am not sure why the term is used. He talks about feeling it tighten up but I am feeling more of a folding sensation. Still, I feel confident that I will make it to the next step.
That of course is the Left Oblique Crunch. In trying to raise up, I realized that while I am left-handed in some things and right-handed in others I am definitely not 'left-obliqued'! This should not hurt. I am moving like three inches and feeling like a small ferret is biting me under the rib cage.
Still, it's only eight minutes. I am home free. Of course then I notice that I am not even to the halfway point as the stellar mid-nineties t.v. graphics show.
Continuing to lay on my back the next step is Toe Touches. Tanktop tells me to raise my legs up and touch the bottom of my feet. After stretching and straining and beginning to wish him dead, I hear Tanktop admit that touching the bottom of my feet is physically impossible which makes me hate him... yes I hate him just a little bit more. He keeps telling me I am doing great and I think I may be lightheaded enough to forget that this was recorded during the first term of the Clinton administration so odds are he does not really mean it.
At this moment I am aware that the blood that normally goes to my brain is now locked in my pelvic tilt.
Next he says, "Hands placed under the buttocks" which is not that much fun when and it is time for the Reverse Crunch. It is a maneuver that brings back memories of every enchilada I have ever eaten. It is an exercise that is not as painful as the others but it is also a maneuver that makes me glad that I am alone. There is no way to avoid the type of sound-smell combo that would drive you out of any exercise class.
Thankfully, I am allowed to remove my hands from under my buttocks for the Right Side Crunch. This looks simple and easy (as Tanktop keeps mentioning) and I notice that my belly button is maneuvering first six inches to the right and then four inches to the left. My body is officially a Jell-o Jigglers commercial. I can start to feel pain in areas I am not actually supposed to be exercising.
Following the Right Side Crunch they bring us the Left Side Crunch. I wonder how it is possible that even though I never exercise the muscles on the Right or the Left, I am this much weaker on the left. Three times I lift my elbow across my body and I notice that even though Tanktop never stops talking he is still doing three crunches for every one I do. The only thing drowning out my groaning in pain is the sound of the shame in the back of my head.
Up next is the Push Through. This implies that all I am doing is a simple move of leaning upward with my hands extending downward for a simple crunch. I am not proud that I had the thought that since it had been more than a decade since the DVD was made that I kind of hoped that one or more of the people on the video could possibly be dead.
It's time to put my hands under my buttocks again and I do not have the courage to look at the clock. I assume that this is all some cruel joke that the Eight Minutes is really using some offshoot of the Metric System and that it really translates to three hours and forty-five minutes in American time. I am supposed to extend my legs straight upward to work my lower abdomen. I start to think that after this maneuver that any discussion my wife and I have of more children will be moot.
I do look and see that I have one minute and fifteen seconds to go. It is an incredibly simply Alternating Curl. I just need to raise my right elbow to my left knee and left elbow to my right knee again and again. I think back to the person of my youth who could play three sets of tennis, mow the lawn and then play a baseball game that night.
The me of today hates that guy! Again, why does this hurt my right side a little while my left side is ready to secede from the union?
Finally, in what appears to be a move used to fill the final 30 seconds comes the Curl. It is basically something where you lay your head on the ground then lift it and look at your feet (if you can see them.) Again, there is no way this should be considered exercise. There also is no way that this should hurt. It does though. I start panicking that this somehow is just the warmup to the real workout and that this will be the end for me.
I envision the paramedics arriving to try and save me and seeing the condition I am in and the freeze frame on the t.v. that says "8 Minute Abs" and they just put a blanket over me because there is no hope for this guy. Actually, as we approach the final five seconds Tanktop throws a curveball and says, "Now hold it," expecting me to keep my head up until the end. I fear that I will not be able to speak because I have not done a neck exercise, since....EVER!
Make this stop! Tanktop says, "Release," and tells his little helpers Good Job and tells me he will see me in 24 hours.
I think to my self that this is what the Geneva convention was set up to avoid. Dick Cheney would think this was over the top. I try and come up with reasons that this DVD was part of an elaborate plot to make us all feel insecure because no human could possibly handle this supposedly "low impact" workout.
Actually, what it did was make me think that I just needed to make one less trip to Arby's every month. Thank you Tanktop and the Tanktop-ettes!
I have voluntarily taken part in training regimens which involved thick-necked trainers (still not sure if they were male or female) thrusting me into machines whose use should probably be cause for Congressional hearings on torture.
None of that compares to the ache and shame that comes from finding an eighteen-year old DVD that sounds innocuous enough. It was called 8 Minute Abs. Thanks to about a decade of considering a walk to the Dairy Queen for the large Blizzard as exercise I found out it could be considered as 8 Minutes to Hell.
"Why don't you try this?" my wife said. She found it in a bargain bin at Wal-mart a few years back and had it sitting under the Frankie Avalon-Annette Funicello classic "Back to the Beach" in our entertainment center.
I had convinced myself I was on a program. I would run something along the lines of a mile and then walk for probably a couple miles and every once in a while I would do some ab exercise I saw LL Cool J do on Conan. I did not think it through that that was not the only exercise the Cool James that Ladies Love did.
I thought to myself, "I'm a man." What could this silver disc intended for housewives do for someone as masculine as I? How challenging could this be?
Of course these questions came from a person who was never aware he was putting on weight until seeing family pictures where his neck had become his most prominent feature. I did not look like the "Before" picture on Weight Watchers but I could have been used as the second or third picture on the five step program.
Now the DVD is in the player. Sporting the "Mid-life Crisis Workout Uniform" of shorts that are supposed to be baggy but aren't and a faded St. Louis Cardinals t-shirt, I am now ready to hit "Play" on the remote.
The music begins and it sounds like a MUZAK version of the Pointer Sisters classic "Automatic" (look it up). The video fades up to three people in tank tops sitting in what appears to be a vacant lot. Speaking of vacant that describes the woman in the video who, of course, is blonde and has pasted the kind of smile on her face that would give a forty year old man the impression that she would be his if he bought her a Zima and tried his one dance move to impress her. (Obviously, it has been a while since I was in the single world.)
The two men have the same smiles and are wearing pants tight enough that you can actually see freckles through the material. They certainly are pleased to be laying on mats in a field!
"Hey, Gang!" Our leader seems welcoming enough and I envision 90's housewives taking time out from watching "Young & the Restless" and eating Ho Hos to do a few sit-ups. I think that a man such as myself should cruise through this.
Mr. Tanktop on the DVD has a bubblyness that seems limitless. The only other man I ever described as 'bubbly' was wearing an ascot so this is new ground.
The clock on the screen begins and Tanktop tells me that the movements are "safe and effective and fun" so again I know this will be a snap.
He starts with The Basic Crunch. I lay back and do this nice easy starter and in my mind I mock the women who paid for this supposed workout. I can almost see them in their elastic-banded sweatpants struggling to lean up for forty-five seconds. "Piece of cake," I think. Too many pieces of cake are part of why I am trying this.
Next comes the Right Oblique Crunch. Tanktop says, "This works the 'Love Handles', remember those?" I do not recall anyone really wanting to use anything of that nature for any positive purpose so I am not sure why the term is used. He talks about feeling it tighten up but I am feeling more of a folding sensation. Still, I feel confident that I will make it to the next step.
That of course is the Left Oblique Crunch. In trying to raise up, I realized that while I am left-handed in some things and right-handed in others I am definitely not 'left-obliqued'! This should not hurt. I am moving like three inches and feeling like a small ferret is biting me under the rib cage.
Still, it's only eight minutes. I am home free. Of course then I notice that I am not even to the halfway point as the stellar mid-nineties t.v. graphics show.
Continuing to lay on my back the next step is Toe Touches. Tanktop tells me to raise my legs up and touch the bottom of my feet. After stretching and straining and beginning to wish him dead, I hear Tanktop admit that touching the bottom of my feet is physically impossible which makes me hate him... yes I hate him just a little bit more. He keeps telling me I am doing great and I think I may be lightheaded enough to forget that this was recorded during the first term of the Clinton administration so odds are he does not really mean it.
At this moment I am aware that the blood that normally goes to my brain is now locked in my pelvic tilt.
Next he says, "Hands placed under the buttocks" which is not that much fun when and it is time for the Reverse Crunch. It is a maneuver that brings back memories of every enchilada I have ever eaten. It is an exercise that is not as painful as the others but it is also a maneuver that makes me glad that I am alone. There is no way to avoid the type of sound-smell combo that would drive you out of any exercise class.
Thankfully, I am allowed to remove my hands from under my buttocks for the Right Side Crunch. This looks simple and easy (as Tanktop keeps mentioning) and I notice that my belly button is maneuvering first six inches to the right and then four inches to the left. My body is officially a Jell-o Jigglers commercial. I can start to feel pain in areas I am not actually supposed to be exercising.
Following the Right Side Crunch they bring us the Left Side Crunch. I wonder how it is possible that even though I never exercise the muscles on the Right or the Left, I am this much weaker on the left. Three times I lift my elbow across my body and I notice that even though Tanktop never stops talking he is still doing three crunches for every one I do. The only thing drowning out my groaning in pain is the sound of the shame in the back of my head.
Up next is the Push Through. This implies that all I am doing is a simple move of leaning upward with my hands extending downward for a simple crunch. I am not proud that I had the thought that since it had been more than a decade since the DVD was made that I kind of hoped that one or more of the people on the video could possibly be dead.
It's time to put my hands under my buttocks again and I do not have the courage to look at the clock. I assume that this is all some cruel joke that the Eight Minutes is really using some offshoot of the Metric System and that it really translates to three hours and forty-five minutes in American time. I am supposed to extend my legs straight upward to work my lower abdomen. I start to think that after this maneuver that any discussion my wife and I have of more children will be moot.
I do look and see that I have one minute and fifteen seconds to go. It is an incredibly simply Alternating Curl. I just need to raise my right elbow to my left knee and left elbow to my right knee again and again. I think back to the person of my youth who could play three sets of tennis, mow the lawn and then play a baseball game that night.
The me of today hates that guy! Again, why does this hurt my right side a little while my left side is ready to secede from the union?
Finally, in what appears to be a move used to fill the final 30 seconds comes the Curl. It is basically something where you lay your head on the ground then lift it and look at your feet (if you can see them.) Again, there is no way this should be considered exercise. There also is no way that this should hurt. It does though. I start panicking that this somehow is just the warmup to the real workout and that this will be the end for me.
I envision the paramedics arriving to try and save me and seeing the condition I am in and the freeze frame on the t.v. that says "8 Minute Abs" and they just put a blanket over me because there is no hope for this guy. Actually, as we approach the final five seconds Tanktop throws a curveball and says, "Now hold it," expecting me to keep my head up until the end. I fear that I will not be able to speak because I have not done a neck exercise, since....EVER!
Make this stop! Tanktop says, "Release," and tells his little helpers Good Job and tells me he will see me in 24 hours.
I think to my self that this is what the Geneva convention was set up to avoid. Dick Cheney would think this was over the top. I try and come up with reasons that this DVD was part of an elaborate plot to make us all feel insecure because no human could possibly handle this supposedly "low impact" workout.
Actually, what it did was make me think that I just needed to make one less trip to Arby's every month. Thank you Tanktop and the Tanktop-ettes!
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Good Night Nurse
As a new but somewhat worried dad I put a hopefully sterile gown on over my clothes, waved at the lady at the desk, squeezed out the mystery disinfectant you must put on your hands and strutted into what is known as the NICU.
A woman I have never seen before is standing next to my little guy and gives me the most pleasant of smiles. "Are you Miles' dad?"
I say, "Yes, I'm John."
"Hi John. I'm Pam." The smile fades, but not completely. "I do need to talk to you about your son."
As she tells me that Miles is no longer on the fast track to getting out of the hospital because the doctors are concerned he just can not keep his body temperature regulated, an odd thought hits me.
"What a bizarre career." This is the first and possibly the last time this woman will spend time with me and she gets to deliver the news that our five-day old boy is not ready for the world. She knows that everything was going as well as can be expected for a guy who decided to break on through to the other side about six weeks early.
She also knows that, since there was never a problem with the cavalcade of nurses who had taken care of Miles that at some point it will pop into my head that this must be HER FAULT. She knows it's not and I know it's not but that need to blame someone has to be a part of it when you now envision more tubes and round-the-clock care for your five pound boy.
Until now, my wife and I had been the lucky ones in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Miles was five pounds seven ounces and had passed pretty much every test.
We had listened to these nurses explain to a teenage couple why their four pound boy needs them to be on time for feedings. We did this while she and I rotated in and out for feedings and brought proud grandparents up to help tend to the baby. The nurse asked if either adolescent had a parent who could help take the load off of them. The answer was no.
We had watched a nurse desperately try to explain to a couple that they absolutely had to get a prescription filled today but ran into a slight snag. Neither parent spoke English and the father was trying so hard to understand what his daughter who barely seemed to have enough skin to cover her frail body needed. This happened as I gazed in wide wonder at my little boy as he opened his eyes and looked at me like he actually knew who I was.
As we were heading back down to my wife's room my father-in-law and I walked past three nurses working on a child that seemed to fit into one of the women's hands hoping that their efforts would not end with having to deliver the worst news anyone could deliver. From there we were able to go and look at the pictures we took of Grandpa and Grandson on the digital camera.
Seeing these people who had this calling to work in this environment go from nurturing care-givers to teachers of clueless parents to life-and-death situations and then back made me wonder just what made them think this pendulum of emotion and effort would be the way they wanted to spend their lives.
Yes, we did freak out on the drive to the hospital that this was all happening too soon and there would be problems. However, until night number five of the Miles Pearson Era, our biggest issue was family and friends riding us because we had not posted enough pictures to Facebook.
My wife had gotten to go home on Wednesday and we had established a nice rotation of driving back and forth to the hospital. I was even able to watch most of the Cardinals Playoff games. (I still can't believe their run to the World Championship but even that kind of pales in comparison. I say that despite the fact that had Miles been born on time I probably would have pitched that we name him after World Series MVP David Freese.) But I digress.
So, on Thursday night I headed back to the hospital with freshly pumped breast milk for a feeding. I was a little sleepy but I had gotten used to this process enough that I thought this would be kind of a short visit and I would actually get a good night's sleep and come back first thing and we would start thinking that Miles would come home.
That was until Pam had to tell me the news.
She explained that when Miles was outside the electric blanket they use to keep him warm that he simply could not hold his Body Temperature. This is not anywhere near the most serious thing the other babies and their parents endured but this was MY little guy so nothing existed outside this little six foot space.
Pam told me that if this did not improve that Miles would have to go back in the isolette. The isolette is a giant plastic case that kind of looks like a sneeze guard at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It is where he started and of course it was maybe the biggest step toward knowing he was healthy when he got out of it.
Therefore, the news that he might have to go back in there smacked me around like a flurry from Muhammad Ali. (Sorry for all the Sports references but until I entered family life I was pretty one-dimensional.)
Pam was the perfect mixture of letting me know this was important and assuring me that this was something they had handled and that Miles would handle. Now she had to handle the fragile psyche of a father who had no clue how this should all go.
She gave me the basics of what to say my wife so I could keep her from freaking out when I called her. She then could tell that I needed a task so she put me to work.
Until now, my role had been to feed Miles and change him and then get the heck out of the way so the nurse in charge could go about her business. My only area of expertise was feeding him and making odd faces at him.
"Go with that," she said. Again, she knew that our situation was still nowhere near the most dangerous or scary or even sad. In fact, the baby next to Miles had parents who lived three hours away and did not have the money to come more than every couple of weeks. They also had no help outside this group of nurses who brought the extra care.
However, Pam knew that the only thing that I saw was our guy in his little striped stocking cap and IV running into his toes. She knew that I would be pretty much a zombie going home so she gave me tasks to do.
She explained that hearing my voice and feeling me touch him would be a big help. She offered no guarantees but, even though she probably knew that her job would be easier without me in her way she made sure I felt valuable to the process.
I do not know if she heard me singing, "Sunday Bloody Sunday" by U2 to Miles or heard the endless stream of "Seinfeld", "Caddyshack" and "Saturday Night Live" references I threw at Miles. I know that she told me that watching the little monitors would only drive me nuts.
I also know that she did have at least one or two other babies she had to keep an eye on but it never felt like she left. For about two hours I memorized every inch of my son and took in every breath and heard every beep on the monitors that were there to tell us he was okay.
Pam finally kicked me out when she saw me actually using my fingers to pry my eyes open. "You need to get out of here and be ready for a big day tomorrow. Your wife will need you to help her through things if he is back in the isolette." Again, she knew I needed a task.
The next day Miles was was back in his case. Another amazing nurse was there to give us hope and explain everything to us. We looked around and saw scared parents and tiny babies. Those people were also getting support from women in brightly colored scrubs. Again, I thought, "Where do people like this come from?" How is it possible that there is more than one person like Pam.
I only saw Pam one more time. Luckily, I got to drive Miles home (about ten miles an hour below the speed limit) five days later. I know that Miles might be another baby in a blur of tiny toes and fingers and tubes and charts that help decide what different babies have in their futures.
All I know is that when, for one night, life punched me in the gut and knocked me down Pam picked me up and made sure I knew that all those tiny parts were going to work together and turn Miles into more than just my little guy.
A woman I have never seen before is standing next to my little guy and gives me the most pleasant of smiles. "Are you Miles' dad?"
I say, "Yes, I'm John."
"Hi John. I'm Pam." The smile fades, but not completely. "I do need to talk to you about your son."
As she tells me that Miles is no longer on the fast track to getting out of the hospital because the doctors are concerned he just can not keep his body temperature regulated, an odd thought hits me.
"What a bizarre career." This is the first and possibly the last time this woman will spend time with me and she gets to deliver the news that our five-day old boy is not ready for the world. She knows that everything was going as well as can be expected for a guy who decided to break on through to the other side about six weeks early.
She also knows that, since there was never a problem with the cavalcade of nurses who had taken care of Miles that at some point it will pop into my head that this must be HER FAULT. She knows it's not and I know it's not but that need to blame someone has to be a part of it when you now envision more tubes and round-the-clock care for your five pound boy.
Until now, my wife and I had been the lucky ones in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Miles was five pounds seven ounces and had passed pretty much every test.
We had listened to these nurses explain to a teenage couple why their four pound boy needs them to be on time for feedings. We did this while she and I rotated in and out for feedings and brought proud grandparents up to help tend to the baby. The nurse asked if either adolescent had a parent who could help take the load off of them. The answer was no.
We had watched a nurse desperately try to explain to a couple that they absolutely had to get a prescription filled today but ran into a slight snag. Neither parent spoke English and the father was trying so hard to understand what his daughter who barely seemed to have enough skin to cover her frail body needed. This happened as I gazed in wide wonder at my little boy as he opened his eyes and looked at me like he actually knew who I was.
As we were heading back down to my wife's room my father-in-law and I walked past three nurses working on a child that seemed to fit into one of the women's hands hoping that their efforts would not end with having to deliver the worst news anyone could deliver. From there we were able to go and look at the pictures we took of Grandpa and Grandson on the digital camera.
Seeing these people who had this calling to work in this environment go from nurturing care-givers to teachers of clueless parents to life-and-death situations and then back made me wonder just what made them think this pendulum of emotion and effort would be the way they wanted to spend their lives.
Yes, we did freak out on the drive to the hospital that this was all happening too soon and there would be problems. However, until night number five of the Miles Pearson Era, our biggest issue was family and friends riding us because we had not posted enough pictures to Facebook.
My wife had gotten to go home on Wednesday and we had established a nice rotation of driving back and forth to the hospital. I was even able to watch most of the Cardinals Playoff games. (I still can't believe their run to the World Championship but even that kind of pales in comparison. I say that despite the fact that had Miles been born on time I probably would have pitched that we name him after World Series MVP David Freese.) But I digress.
So, on Thursday night I headed back to the hospital with freshly pumped breast milk for a feeding. I was a little sleepy but I had gotten used to this process enough that I thought this would be kind of a short visit and I would actually get a good night's sleep and come back first thing and we would start thinking that Miles would come home.
That was until Pam had to tell me the news.
She explained that when Miles was outside the electric blanket they use to keep him warm that he simply could not hold his Body Temperature. This is not anywhere near the most serious thing the other babies and their parents endured but this was MY little guy so nothing existed outside this little six foot space.
Pam told me that if this did not improve that Miles would have to go back in the isolette. The isolette is a giant plastic case that kind of looks like a sneeze guard at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It is where he started and of course it was maybe the biggest step toward knowing he was healthy when he got out of it.
Therefore, the news that he might have to go back in there smacked me around like a flurry from Muhammad Ali. (Sorry for all the Sports references but until I entered family life I was pretty one-dimensional.)
Pam was the perfect mixture of letting me know this was important and assuring me that this was something they had handled and that Miles would handle. Now she had to handle the fragile psyche of a father who had no clue how this should all go.
She gave me the basics of what to say my wife so I could keep her from freaking out when I called her. She then could tell that I needed a task so she put me to work.
Until now, my role had been to feed Miles and change him and then get the heck out of the way so the nurse in charge could go about her business. My only area of expertise was feeding him and making odd faces at him.
"Go with that," she said. Again, she knew that our situation was still nowhere near the most dangerous or scary or even sad. In fact, the baby next to Miles had parents who lived three hours away and did not have the money to come more than every couple of weeks. They also had no help outside this group of nurses who brought the extra care.
However, Pam knew that the only thing that I saw was our guy in his little striped stocking cap and IV running into his toes. She knew that I would be pretty much a zombie going home so she gave me tasks to do.
She explained that hearing my voice and feeling me touch him would be a big help. She offered no guarantees but, even though she probably knew that her job would be easier without me in her way she made sure I felt valuable to the process.
I do not know if she heard me singing, "Sunday Bloody Sunday" by U2 to Miles or heard the endless stream of "Seinfeld", "Caddyshack" and "Saturday Night Live" references I threw at Miles. I know that she told me that watching the little monitors would only drive me nuts.
I also know that she did have at least one or two other babies she had to keep an eye on but it never felt like she left. For about two hours I memorized every inch of my son and took in every breath and heard every beep on the monitors that were there to tell us he was okay.
Pam finally kicked me out when she saw me actually using my fingers to pry my eyes open. "You need to get out of here and be ready for a big day tomorrow. Your wife will need you to help her through things if he is back in the isolette." Again, she knew I needed a task.
The next day Miles was was back in his case. Another amazing nurse was there to give us hope and explain everything to us. We looked around and saw scared parents and tiny babies. Those people were also getting support from women in brightly colored scrubs. Again, I thought, "Where do people like this come from?" How is it possible that there is more than one person like Pam.
I only saw Pam one more time. Luckily, I got to drive Miles home (about ten miles an hour below the speed limit) five days later. I know that Miles might be another baby in a blur of tiny toes and fingers and tubes and charts that help decide what different babies have in their futures.
All I know is that when, for one night, life punched me in the gut and knocked me down Pam picked me up and made sure I knew that all those tiny parts were going to work together and turn Miles into more than just my little guy.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Birthday Surprise
The surprise was supposed to be when my two year old came downstairs and saw more pictures and dangly items featuring Elmo from Sesame Street than you would see at a Toys 'r' Us.
The real surprise is how this tiny human who still cannot put more than three words together (and a lot of times we guess at what one of the words is) inspires me to be the best person I can be. I mean at this point she already believes I am the most impressive being in her tiny corner of the world. In her eyes, I could get away with being a jerk to other people as long as I still make wacky faces and noises.
The odd part is that, unlike most of my life, I will not settle for being likable enough to make everyone think I am pretty pleasant. She has forced me to become a better person.
Parker Ella Pearson just passed the 24-pound mark so I probably could take her in a fight. So, I figure her power does not come from power.
Plus, I do run into people with whom I have more interesting conversations than "Swing. Outside. Yayy." (That is her part.) My part usually involves, "Yayyy. Good girl. Love you."
The fact that she exists makes me actually pay attention to the world. (Did you know there are other channels besides ESPN and Comedy Central?) I have learned that because I need to know the kind of world Parker in which Parker is growing up.
The weird part in all of this is that she really is pretty easy to fool. All it takes to make her love me is being willing to chase her around in a circle and be able to read the same book about a teddy bear four or five times in a row. I could get away with being the shallow guy that people seemed to prefer when I was single. She would still go crazy when I walk in a room if all I had to offer was running to her and making a tuba-type sound on her belly.
For some reason I look into those blue eyes and I want to earn that giddiness. The more unconditional the love she gives me the more I need to be worthy of it. At this point, as long as I am willing to push her on a swing for twenty or thirty minutes I could definitely be the pretty thoughtless and careless guy who just floated through life and she would still light up and say "DADDY!" every time I am around.
Yet, even with that lack of a challenge I challenge myself. This little girl is forcing me to stop being a GUY. She is making me be a MAN.
I can tell the difference because people who expect me to give them grief and bring a non-stop barrage of "Seinfeld" and "Saturday Night Live" quotes now get commentary on the quality of schools and how we need to do something so our kids do not have to pay for the national debt.
Who is this guy?!
I can say that the ME from my time as a very popular GUY would probably not want to spend a lot of time with this MAN. I definitely have not reached who I want to be--nowhere close yet! It's this little girl, who in just two years of life has made me want to get there.
I just want to know that when she actually does have thoughtful opinions she will be thinking of someone who did everything to make her proud and point at me and say, "Yep, that's my Dad."
The real surprise is how this tiny human who still cannot put more than three words together (and a lot of times we guess at what one of the words is) inspires me to be the best person I can be. I mean at this point she already believes I am the most impressive being in her tiny corner of the world. In her eyes, I could get away with being a jerk to other people as long as I still make wacky faces and noises.
The odd part is that, unlike most of my life, I will not settle for being likable enough to make everyone think I am pretty pleasant. She has forced me to become a better person.
Parker Ella Pearson just passed the 24-pound mark so I probably could take her in a fight. So, I figure her power does not come from power.
Plus, I do run into people with whom I have more interesting conversations than "Swing. Outside. Yayy." (That is her part.) My part usually involves, "Yayyy. Good girl. Love you."
The fact that she exists makes me actually pay attention to the world. (Did you know there are other channels besides ESPN and Comedy Central?) I have learned that because I need to know the kind of world Parker in which Parker is growing up.
The weird part in all of this is that she really is pretty easy to fool. All it takes to make her love me is being willing to chase her around in a circle and be able to read the same book about a teddy bear four or five times in a row. I could get away with being the shallow guy that people seemed to prefer when I was single. She would still go crazy when I walk in a room if all I had to offer was running to her and making a tuba-type sound on her belly.
For some reason I look into those blue eyes and I want to earn that giddiness. The more unconditional the love she gives me the more I need to be worthy of it. At this point, as long as I am willing to push her on a swing for twenty or thirty minutes I could definitely be the pretty thoughtless and careless guy who just floated through life and she would still light up and say "DADDY!" every time I am around.
Yet, even with that lack of a challenge I challenge myself. This little girl is forcing me to stop being a GUY. She is making me be a MAN.
I can tell the difference because people who expect me to give them grief and bring a non-stop barrage of "Seinfeld" and "Saturday Night Live" quotes now get commentary on the quality of schools and how we need to do something so our kids do not have to pay for the national debt.
Who is this guy?!
I can say that the ME from my time as a very popular GUY would probably not want to spend a lot of time with this MAN. I definitely have not reached who I want to be--nowhere close yet! It's this little girl, who in just two years of life has made me want to get there.
I just want to know that when she actually does have thoughtful opinions she will be thinking of someone who did everything to make her proud and point at me and say, "Yep, that's my Dad."
Monday, February 21, 2011
Dog vs. Girl
He scratches his face and that act must ALWAYS be combined with licking his nether regions. This is not a relative we must put up with. This is Oscar. Oscar is our dog.
If a relative performed some of the acts this dog does you probably would swear off family reunions. Instead this guy brings nothing but joy with every act.
The ultimate phenomenon is how this ninety pounds of lazy slob can make me feel lucky to have such love in my world. The sad statement about me is how I react when this amazing human being who lives with us constantly shows me what real emotion and warmth are and I sit there like a fat man next to a treadmill.
The human being is my wife Amy. Never has anyone worked so hard to create happiness for me. Yet here I am a blithering idiot for every accomplishment for the dog while the most I seem to muster for Amy is a half-hearted 'That's-great-honey" as I head to the bathroom.
I am moved to baby talk as I express my amazement and awe at how brilliant Oscar is because he peed outside. I have checked...I can do that!
Meanwhile, my wife surprises me and paints our guest room by herself and I am able to muster a "Nice job, Baby," (please notice the comma rather than the exclamation point to show my lack of emotional investment) and then I turn on the television.
There is nothing wrong with loving your dog. He is great and seems to actually have a real personality in everything he does but why do I think he is a genius when he pokes the ball we are using to play fetch away from a bush while this human who is the embodiment of love makes my existence actually have meaning gets a sideways hug more often than not.
Amy will take an entire night to organize everything in our house while still taking time to write a card expressing her innermost love and support for me. I never ignore it but I do not put nearly as much energy into thanking her as I do every time I say, "That's a good boy, Oscar! Yes, yes you are a good boy!" I believe I may be a moron.
Please do understand. I love the woman more than the dog. I do not know if the lower standard we have for dogs is what brings such glee when he will shake hands at my request or why I giggle like a school girl as the dog actually responds when I say "Other foot" by lifting his other foot and shaking hands. Again, it is adorable but hardly what should bring out almost heart-pounding joy.
On the other hand, Amy will pick me up from work and listen to me drone on and on about my boss (let's call her the anti-Christ) has the goal of eliminating my department and that I am not getting any respect. Here I am not showing my wife the respect she deserves for all she does and I whine about it. Irony, John Pearson be thy name.
Mrs. Pearson points out how I am too good at what I do to let someone make me feel down on myself. She points to all of my accomplishments and how my talent is obvious and that no one should have any power to disturb my happiness. She has pulled me from the depths of despair. I am going to let her know...oh wait, the dog is licking my hand. I say, "Thanks Oscar! That is just what I needed. What an incredible dog!"
Doing that implies that the next thing out of my mouth would be, "Oh and Amy, that whole keeping-me-sane thing, that was nice, too." I am an idiot.
I don't know if Amy notices that I don't notice what she does. I would be nowhere as a human being without her.
I will never belittle the therapy that comes from rubbing the dog's belly and it is adorable that he sneezes whenever I am done doing so. He is a great dog but she is the reason that I have stopped having the outlook and attention span of a chihuahua after eating a bag of sugar.
One more irony is that the dog was actually hers before I met Amy. I have checked with her and she will not lick my face first thing in the morning in order to compete. I just need to realize that while I accept and love the dog he is with me because I am part of the package that comes with her.
She actually picked me for some reason and I need to do everything to make sure she knows that I am aware of my luck.
If a relative performed some of the acts this dog does you probably would swear off family reunions. Instead this guy brings nothing but joy with every act.
The ultimate phenomenon is how this ninety pounds of lazy slob can make me feel lucky to have such love in my world. The sad statement about me is how I react when this amazing human being who lives with us constantly shows me what real emotion and warmth are and I sit there like a fat man next to a treadmill.
The human being is my wife Amy. Never has anyone worked so hard to create happiness for me. Yet here I am a blithering idiot for every accomplishment for the dog while the most I seem to muster for Amy is a half-hearted 'That's-great-honey" as I head to the bathroom.
I am moved to baby talk as I express my amazement and awe at how brilliant Oscar is because he peed outside. I have checked...I can do that!
Meanwhile, my wife surprises me and paints our guest room by herself and I am able to muster a "Nice job, Baby," (please notice the comma rather than the exclamation point to show my lack of emotional investment) and then I turn on the television.
There is nothing wrong with loving your dog. He is great and seems to actually have a real personality in everything he does but why do I think he is a genius when he pokes the ball we are using to play fetch away from a bush while this human who is the embodiment of love makes my existence actually have meaning gets a sideways hug more often than not.
Amy will take an entire night to organize everything in our house while still taking time to write a card expressing her innermost love and support for me. I never ignore it but I do not put nearly as much energy into thanking her as I do every time I say, "That's a good boy, Oscar! Yes, yes you are a good boy!" I believe I may be a moron.
Please do understand. I love the woman more than the dog. I do not know if the lower standard we have for dogs is what brings such glee when he will shake hands at my request or why I giggle like a school girl as the dog actually responds when I say "Other foot" by lifting his other foot and shaking hands. Again, it is adorable but hardly what should bring out almost heart-pounding joy.
On the other hand, Amy will pick me up from work and listen to me drone on and on about my boss (let's call her the anti-Christ) has the goal of eliminating my department and that I am not getting any respect. Here I am not showing my wife the respect she deserves for all she does and I whine about it. Irony, John Pearson be thy name.
Mrs. Pearson points out how I am too good at what I do to let someone make me feel down on myself. She points to all of my accomplishments and how my talent is obvious and that no one should have any power to disturb my happiness. She has pulled me from the depths of despair. I am going to let her know...oh wait, the dog is licking my hand. I say, "Thanks Oscar! That is just what I needed. What an incredible dog!"
Doing that implies that the next thing out of my mouth would be, "Oh and Amy, that whole keeping-me-sane thing, that was nice, too." I am an idiot.
I don't know if Amy notices that I don't notice what she does. I would be nowhere as a human being without her.
I will never belittle the therapy that comes from rubbing the dog's belly and it is adorable that he sneezes whenever I am done doing so. He is a great dog but she is the reason that I have stopped having the outlook and attention span of a chihuahua after eating a bag of sugar.
One more irony is that the dog was actually hers before I met Amy. I have checked with her and she will not lick my face first thing in the morning in order to compete. I just need to realize that while I accept and love the dog he is with me because I am part of the package that comes with her.
She actually picked me for some reason and I need to do everything to make sure she knows that I am aware of my luck.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Hostage Situation
I sit in my darkened room yearning for the outside world but wonder, "What if they come back?!" "What will I do?"
I stare at the clock wondering "Dare I try to breathe in the freedom that momentary escape can bring?" Just a few seconds outside this house could give hope that all is not lost.
NO! I must not try. I must stay put. If they return and I am not here waiting there is no telling how long this ordeal will go on.
The captors I speak of are not terrorists. They are not even criminals. They are the most ruthless and sadly the most clueless of hostage-takers. They are REPAIR MEN.
The words, "We'll be there first thing in the morning" apparently works on some offshoot of the metric system in their world. The words resonate in my brain like a Michael Bolton song meaning even though you hate it there it is inside your head.
I even asked what 'first thing in the morning' means and the answer was 9:30. Assuming since they said 'in the morning' I take it to mean a.m. Around 10:15 I call my captors.
"Oh, they're running a little behind. I can't imagine it would be more than an hour."
In the time-space continuum these life-nappers seem to exist going up on a down escalator.
Thank goodness I have the digital clock because if there was any ticking or tocking parts of my brain would start oozing out of my head. It is a depressing notion that my world can have the feel of a fat man in quicksand because my refrigerator is on the blink. Or is it "the fritz"? I'll go with "the blink."
Twenty more minutes pass and I call this man who controls the destiny of my day.
"We had to get parts and the place we go doesn't open until eleven so we had to wait." What kind of place opens at eleven?
Then, I make the classic mistake. I dare to ask, "Shouldn't you have had the part already if you were supposed to be here 'first thing in-the-morning'?" That question will cost me at least another hour.
I think to myself, "At least Patty Hearst's captors gave her some chores, like armed robbery. I am just here."
Ten minutes later Buford or Jimmy or whatever his name is calls and says that they have gotten the part so "We should be headed your way soon."
"Soon" is never good. At least if they give a specific amount of time you can use the classic Repairman Quotient: TxCxB+OxPxS=A
That is Time they tell you times Complaint Calls they receive times Breaks for cigarettes plus Orbits they make around the neighborhood despite having directions plus Phone Call asking for those same directions times Stalling because he did not like the tone of your last call equals Actual time of arrival. (Give or take 43 minutes).
It works out to 3.376 hours to every hour they tell you.
Now it's about passing the time. Do I dare get on the treadmill? Wait the treadmill could be too loud so I would not hear the doorbell. So, I can do nothing that makes noise of any kind.
I return to the couch and start to see smoke rise from the remote as I explore all of the options of daytime television. I begin to envy the view that a hamster on a wheel has.
NOON comes and goes. I begin realize that possibly these people do believe there are people on this planet who have jobs that do not entail driving around listening to the latest from Toby Keith. I have nothing against Mr. Keith but well over seventy percent of repair men in my life have been listening to him when they drove up.
Our original conversation did feature a specific mention that I had to be at work by 1:30. Of course that means they will arrive at 1:15 and take a look at what needs to be fixed and I then have to go into another equation where I figure out the last possible second I can leave and still be only a couple of minutes late for work.
To be fair, I was wrong. They got there at 1:13. Sadly in my state of despair and desperation I actually decided that meant they were early! It is they hypnotic power they have. I could not act mad because, "I don't want the repair guy to think I am a jerk."
As I ponder my impending lateness for my own job I finally ask, "How long will it be?"
The response, as always, "Prally 'baht an hahr." Translation: Pro-bab-ly a-bout an hour.
I tell them that I really have to leave. The two men look at each other with an expression that says, "Mission Accomplished: Another person's day in the crapper."
As one guy picks up the tools and puts them in the truck the other says they can be back in two days.
You know of course when they will arrive. "First thing in the morning."
I stare at the clock wondering "Dare I try to breathe in the freedom that momentary escape can bring?" Just a few seconds outside this house could give hope that all is not lost.
NO! I must not try. I must stay put. If they return and I am not here waiting there is no telling how long this ordeal will go on.
The captors I speak of are not terrorists. They are not even criminals. They are the most ruthless and sadly the most clueless of hostage-takers. They are REPAIR MEN.
The words, "We'll be there first thing in the morning" apparently works on some offshoot of the metric system in their world. The words resonate in my brain like a Michael Bolton song meaning even though you hate it there it is inside your head.
I even asked what 'first thing in the morning' means and the answer was 9:30. Assuming since they said 'in the morning' I take it to mean a.m. Around 10:15 I call my captors.
"Oh, they're running a little behind. I can't imagine it would be more than an hour."
In the time-space continuum these life-nappers seem to exist going up on a down escalator.
Thank goodness I have the digital clock because if there was any ticking or tocking parts of my brain would start oozing out of my head. It is a depressing notion that my world can have the feel of a fat man in quicksand because my refrigerator is on the blink. Or is it "the fritz"? I'll go with "the blink."
Twenty more minutes pass and I call this man who controls the destiny of my day.
"We had to get parts and the place we go doesn't open until eleven so we had to wait." What kind of place opens at eleven?
Then, I make the classic mistake. I dare to ask, "Shouldn't you have had the part already if you were supposed to be here 'first thing in-the-morning'?" That question will cost me at least another hour.
I think to myself, "At least Patty Hearst's captors gave her some chores, like armed robbery. I am just here."
Ten minutes later Buford or Jimmy or whatever his name is calls and says that they have gotten the part so "We should be headed your way soon."
"Soon" is never good. At least if they give a specific amount of time you can use the classic Repairman Quotient: TxCxB+OxPxS=A
That is Time they tell you times Complaint Calls they receive times Breaks for cigarettes plus Orbits they make around the neighborhood despite having directions plus Phone Call asking for those same directions times Stalling because he did not like the tone of your last call equals Actual time of arrival. (Give or take 43 minutes).
It works out to 3.376 hours to every hour they tell you.
Now it's about passing the time. Do I dare get on the treadmill? Wait the treadmill could be too loud so I would not hear the doorbell. So, I can do nothing that makes noise of any kind.
I return to the couch and start to see smoke rise from the remote as I explore all of the options of daytime television. I begin to envy the view that a hamster on a wheel has.
NOON comes and goes. I begin realize that possibly these people do believe there are people on this planet who have jobs that do not entail driving around listening to the latest from Toby Keith. I have nothing against Mr. Keith but well over seventy percent of repair men in my life have been listening to him when they drove up.
Our original conversation did feature a specific mention that I had to be at work by 1:30. Of course that means they will arrive at 1:15 and take a look at what needs to be fixed and I then have to go into another equation where I figure out the last possible second I can leave and still be only a couple of minutes late for work.
To be fair, I was wrong. They got there at 1:13. Sadly in my state of despair and desperation I actually decided that meant they were early! It is they hypnotic power they have. I could not act mad because, "I don't want the repair guy to think I am a jerk."
As I ponder my impending lateness for my own job I finally ask, "How long will it be?"
The response, as always, "Prally 'baht an hahr." Translation: Pro-bab-ly a-bout an hour.
I tell them that I really have to leave. The two men look at each other with an expression that says, "Mission Accomplished: Another person's day in the crapper."
As one guy picks up the tools and puts them in the truck the other says they can be back in two days.
You know of course when they will arrive. "First thing in the morning."
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