I have a confession to make... it took me years to like the Indigo Girls. I know this could be considered blasphemy in many of my girl circles (no pun intended for my circle sisters), but even through my teenage angst years something about the melody in the music made it hard for me to listen to them on repeat. I was more Belinda Carlisle and less Ani Defranco. Eventually, as things that get repeated over and over do, the Indigo Girls grew on me.
Recently, I was listening to Closer to Fine and I realized a few things. We all go through this search to find who we are, and there are a million ways to explore that. Some of us ignore the call of being different, some of us seek it and others fall off the path at the curve. This year I've been somewhere between seeking a different path and falling off the curve. It's a fine line.
A year ago I left my reliable job of a decade to try to re-sort my priorities. I had loved my work, but I felt like I was sucking at being a mom and wife. I took a job with less hours, got certified to teach yoga, and found my way back to a little sanity. My job is only eight hours less a week but it is amazing what great coworkers in a relaxed environment can do for your psyche. Oh and a little thing called Fridays off. That too.
In my year of resetting, I've pushed my boundaries in a lot of areas. I've always had a lot of anxiety - it is my natural wavelength. For a long time I believed anxiety is what drove me and without it, I'd just be lazy. I had a third-grade teacher, Mr. Harrison, who used to sing to our class "Lazy Bones" when he didn't like the work we did. He would also once in a while throw a chair in anger. This is my anxiety, always warning me about the dangers of being lazy, whilst throwing a punch every once in a while to keep me on the straight and narrow.
Staying on the straight and narrow was never a question until I met my husband Micah. He is a quintessential dreamer - not in the head in the clouds way, but in the "Why do we have to conform?" way, the "I don't want to live a certain way just because that's what you are supposed to do" way. It certainly sounds good in theory. Who doesn't want to live a carefree life, tilling the earth, backpacking through the wilderness... insert total stereotype of a privileged lady exploring the ends of the earth (maybe minus the high heels).
A few years ago Micah wanted to travel the world for two years...WITH KIDS. I smiled, sweated on the inside, then did a jig when I got a new position at work that would be silly to turn down. As the years passed, that dream turned into a sabbatical for our ten-year anniversary. Mind you neither of us are tenured professors, so the idea of a sabbatical seemed ludicrous to me. It's not that I didn't want to travel the world, who wouldn't, but how would we ever make that work without us both leaving our jobs permanently? I obviously forgot who I married. Micah has a knack for crazy ideas working out in his favor. As we were both preparing to leave our jobs to take the summer off to travel, Micah got a new job offer. He was effectively able to get the time off and have a job to come back to. This made it much more palatable for me; even if my future after the trip is a big question mark. Small details.
So, on to the true purpose of this blog! I am hoping to take you with us inside our family's travels around Europe this summer and all the shenanigans that ensue. There will be some soul searching (hopefully not because I've lost it on a child in public), a lot of boundary pushing and I'm sure a nice dose of anxiety-calming pranyama (breath control). Being that it took me weeks to write this first blog post, I'm hoping to be similar to your favorite author who you wait for their next novel with baited breath vs. the television series you used to like but has overstayed its welcome (ahem...Silicon Valley). Our first stop is Lisbon for a month. I'm hoping those Portuguese lessons Micah's been taking are helpful because I'm ready to play the mute American by his side. Stay tuned.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
Saturday, December 5, 2015
37 Thoughts On Turning 37
I turned 37 Wednesday. 37 is weird because it's kind of a blah age. There's nothing attached to it, you're not at an arbitary milestone like 30 or 35, and you're still far enough away from 40 that you don't have to freak out about it (yet).
Birthdays are always great for reflection, so I thought I'd jot down some things that are on my mind as I hit this completely manufactured moment. 37 things, in fact.
1. There was another mass shooting Wednesday. Actually there were two. Between the continued gun violence in the United States and the continued threat of terrorism around the globe, it is very easy to be pessimistic about our collective future. It seems bleak. I wonder - has it always been like this? If you were turning 37 during World War II, or during the AIDS epidemic of the 80's, would you have said the same thing? Does it always seem like the current situation is the worst? Or is this actually the worst?
2. I used to be very sheepish about letting people know it's my birthday, unlike my sister who tattoos it on her eyelids and then blinks rapidly at everyone she sees the entire month of October. Facebook has taken care of this, and as a result, pretty much everyone I've ever known now tells me happy birthday. I do very much appreciate their good intentions, but I am still catching up on what is proper Facebook etiquette regarding birthday wishes. It seems like the current trend is you must "like" every single birthday wish people post on your wall. Some people even reply to each comment, which I commend, but that's starting to venture dangerously close to Thank You Note territory, and I'm not sure "HBD!" is deserving of all that.
4. What gives, dentists' offices from my childhood? Goofus and Gallant are only so entertaining. I'd have been much more likely not to cry about an impending dentist visit if I knew I could play Ms. Pac Man GRATIS.
5. Here's a life lesson you are able to process better at 37 than at 27, and certainly at 17. Stop caring so much about what others think of you. There are only so many hours in the day - there is enough else to worry about in your life than to sit in a meeting wondering if people thought the question you asked was stupid or could have been phrased better. Be comfortable with who you are, and accept that you aren't perfect and never will be. You'll sleep a lot better.
6. Somehow that advice is easier to take when it doesn't involve something you create. I will probably give up on writing this list 10 times before I publish it because I'll worry people won't like it or think it's boring or pointless. It will definitely be too long. That's when I need to collect myself, read the item before this, and stop being such a baby. Plus no one is going to read past 3-4 items on this list anyway, our attention spans are about .00000001 microseconds now.
7. I've had this conversation with several of my friends recently about our experiences growing up and what we want for our kids. When I look back on my formative years, I wouldn't say I have regrets necessarily - but I do wish I wasn't so afraid of whatever it was I was afraid of. That is to say, I NEVER got in trouble. I didn't drink, try drugs, break curfew, anything. I was a total goody-goody. I don't say that to encourage illicit behavior, or disparage rule-followers. But I do think it would have done me good to test my boundaries more.
8. The movie American Pie came out when I was in college, and many of my college friends loved it because it was so reminiscent of their high school experiences. That movie didn't remind me a DAMN THING of high school. That version of American Pie would never make it to theaters, because no one wants to watch two hours of kids driving around aimlessly before eventually defaulting to renting a movie.
9. When it comes to my kids, I feel like I want them to be less like me in this regard, but it's hard to know where to draw the line, or how to react as a parent if/when the time comes. Like I hope they skip school their senior year and go get drunk and play video games at a friend's house, but I suppose I'll still have to punish them for it if they get caught. Or will I? Can I secretly give them a fist-bump and toussle their hair when Mom's not looking?
10. For lunch on my birthday I had shawarma at Yalla's at Krog Street Market. If you know me well, you know that I am quite likely (if not downright compelled) to eat shawarma whenever it is available. I ate it nearly daily when I lived in Israel, in part because I knew I couldn't get comparable product in the States. I was like a squirrel, saving up shawarma nuts for the long winter. Well Yalla, I tip my cap to you, because your shawarma is the best I've had this side of the Atlantic. There is literally a zero percent chance I'll ever eat anywhere else at Krog Street as long as you are open and putting french fries on the pita like God intended.
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| Happiness is a coke and a big-ass shawarma |
11. My relationship to sports is surprisingly different at 37 than it was before. My world used to revolve around them, and while it feels incredibly cliche to admit it, having kids upended my priorities immensely. I still follow sports closely, but in terms of watching them, it's pretty much down to pro football and soccer, with a dash of Texas sports when the teams aren't terrible. So not that often.
12. This has spilled over to my professional life as well. I grew up wanting to work in sports, and have been fortunate to do so for my entire career to this point, but that is likely to change in the near future. I got laid off from my job with the Hawks recently, and at other points in my life that might have been a devastating blow. I find myself at peace with it, in part because the notion of doing something outside the industry no longer scares me. I'd like to still be a part of something I have a passion for, so I'm looking to see if I can break into the shawarma vertical.
13. As a corrollary to #5, in my job search I am trying not to worry about what others think about what I do next. Growing up my goal was to be on SportsCenter, but eventually I decided to pursue a different path. I remember feeling like I was giving up and letting everyone down, which is quite silly. It's pretty narcissistic to think anyone expends any mental energy concerning themselves with your professional direction (outside of your parents perhaps), they've got their own lives to worry about.
14. Historically, at 37 I am pretty near to the mid-point of my life, or what the average lifespan would be. Apparently, that is changing. There are smart people who think the first people to live to see 150 are already alive, and advances in technology and medicine are bringing us closer to defeating diseases that have wiped out entire civilizations in the past. It's weird to ponder living that long. On the one hand it sounds great - who doesn't want to spend as much time on Earth as they can (current pessimism about the downfall of humanity aside)? On the other hand, I guess you can forget about retiring at 60. Or 90. Or 120?
15. People who drive golf carts would all fail geometry based on their interpretation of the 90-degree cart rule.
16. Speaking of Texas sports (#11), our hated rivals the Oklahoma Sooners will be in the upcoming College Football Playoffs. I asked my friends the other day - should we be rooting for or against them? It would seem obvious we should root against them, since they are the scum of the Earth and deserve nothing but terrible terribleness, but I would argue that nothing would be more fun than OU winning the whole thing, allowing us to forever lord over them that during this championship year they still got their asses handed to them by the boys in Burnt Orange.
17. Now that I'm 37, I am trying to start thinking more about how to take care of my body so I can live to still be a working man at 117. I've been running more frequently and for longer distances, and I even started flossing for goodness sake. This week I decided it was high time to add some push-ups into my exercise routine. I am following a plan set out by hundredpushups.com, which purports to have me doing 100 pushups at a time in six weeks. There are different workout regimens based on your current pushup abilities. I started out thinking I could hang with the column for people who could do 11+, then after one set immediately dropped down to the 6-10 camp. Now I think I have to start at the "less than 5" level. Good grief I am weak. Thankfully I don't care anymore what you think, or that would greatly trouble me.
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| 1-10 is fine, provided the 1 is over Oklahoma |
18. We are becoming so polarized as a society, and a lot of it is because technology has allowed us to filter out any opinions that differ from our own. That's how you end up with people who don't vaccinate their kids, or think climate change is a hoax. You know, morons. I am trying to fight this tendency the bravest way I know - by not unfollowing people on Facebook who disagree with me. I did it once, and felt so guilty about it I've vowed not to repeat it. The current debate over gun legislation is really testing my limits.
19. Politics is a dangerous topic. With that said, I don't understand the current fuss over Donald Trump and Ben Carson. I know they are leading the polls right now, but we are still nearly a year from the actual election. Spoiler alert - they ain't winning. Donald Duck and Carson Daly have as good a chance of being President in 2016 as they do.
20. If somehow one of them (or some other cartoonish figure) does end up getting elected, the thought has crossed my mind that it might be time to hit the old dusty trail and check out some other, less crazy part of the globe. These days, there don't seem to be too many places that provide the kind of normalcy one might seek to raise a family. It dawned on me that the country that most has its shit together right now is Germany. That's right, if things continue to get worse in the United States, I may have to emigrate to Germany. That is a sentence that makes complete sense in 2015.
21. I suspect people are more likely to get involved in politics and their communities as they get older, or at least that was the paradigm when I was growing up. I think you have to be crazy to get into politics, but I will say I daydream sometimes of running a grassroots organization to affect change. That change? I want to see the South, just one time, not be the last place in the country to adapt to modern standards. We are always last. I know it's hard, South, to give in on gay marriage, legalized drugs, desegregation, common sense political districting, women's rights to choose, creationism, Confederate symbols, separation of church and state, universal healthcare, gun control, and so on. But can we band together on one issue and take, as we say to our kids, one no thank you bite? Can we try one bite of vegetables? Metaphorically, and also literally, speaking?
19. Politics is a dangerous topic. With that said, I don't understand the current fuss over Donald Trump and Ben Carson. I know they are leading the polls right now, but we are still nearly a year from the actual election. Spoiler alert - they ain't winning. Donald Duck and Carson Daly have as good a chance of being President in 2016 as they do.
20. If somehow one of them (or some other cartoonish figure) does end up getting elected, the thought has crossed my mind that it might be time to hit the old dusty trail and check out some other, less crazy part of the globe. These days, there don't seem to be too many places that provide the kind of normalcy one might seek to raise a family. It dawned on me that the country that most has its shit together right now is Germany. That's right, if things continue to get worse in the United States, I may have to emigrate to Germany. That is a sentence that makes complete sense in 2015.
21. I suspect people are more likely to get involved in politics and their communities as they get older, or at least that was the paradigm when I was growing up. I think you have to be crazy to get into politics, but I will say I daydream sometimes of running a grassroots organization to affect change. That change? I want to see the South, just one time, not be the last place in the country to adapt to modern standards. We are always last. I know it's hard, South, to give in on gay marriage, legalized drugs, desegregation, common sense political districting, women's rights to choose, creationism, Confederate symbols, separation of church and state, universal healthcare, gun control, and so on. But can we band together on one issue and take, as we say to our kids, one no thank you bite? Can we try one bite of vegetables? Metaphorically, and also literally, speaking?
22. Kobe Bryant is retiring. Kobe is one year older than me, and the number of pro athletes my age or older continue to dwindle. I think there are only six in the NBA this season, and in the NFL it's like Charles Woodson, Peyton Manning, Matt Hasselbeck, and then a raftfull of kickers. It's a little depressing to see your athletic heroes facing (sports) mortality.
23. At 37, I'm trying to take a step back and reflect, to make sure I'm not clinging to habits and routines simply because they are how I've always done them. I went to the dermatologist a few weeks ago and she asked me if I was still using shampoo. Of course I am, I said - I'm not a heathen. She told me it probably wasn't necessary, you know, since I have no hair. Well fuck me, I haven't had hair for going on 15 years, and it literally never occurred to me that I was wasting my time with shampoo. What else am I blindly following? I'm looking at you, "wearing pants."
24. And yet, there is comfort in knowing that no matter how much the world changes, some things will always be the same. Like my iPad just crashed and deleted the last seven things I wrote in this list, and it sucked just as bad as when that happened to me writing papers back in high school. Still I press on, but excuse me for one second while I shout a torrent of profanity into a pillow.
25. I do not like watching children's TV programming, so we watch a lot of music and concerts on YouTube in my house. This has led me to rediscover a lot of hilarious music videos from back in the day. Right now my kids are obsessed with ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down". We watch it several times a week, and as such I've seen every inch of that video. And so I ask you - what's going on with the keyboardists right here? That seems like a very 70's thing - synchronized keyboarding.
26. I'm now old enough that the pop culture of my youth is being romanticized on the big screen. I saw Straight Outta Compton earlier this year, and it whisked me back to a magical time when, as a young, white, Jewish grade schooler, I listened to the cassingle of that song over and over on my walkman and felt like a total badass. It was the radio edit - and it wasn't until years later I actually heard the unrated version that had the likes of Tipper Gore in such a huff.
27. It's probably a good thing I didn't get the version with all the curse words - I didn't handle hiding that so well from my parents. One time we were on a road trip, and I was listening to my favorite album at the time, "A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing" by Black Sheep. One song was like ALL curse words, but I was determined to sing it out loud, censoring the words as needed as I went. I was doing a pretty bang up job for awhile, so it was then quite a surprise to my sisters when I shouted out "Didn't give a fuck so I shot him in the toe!" I thought I nailed it, since the actual line features a gunshot wound to a much more painful area, but I guess I forgot about the fuck. Fuck, I forgot!
28. I am referencing my age a lot, but I don't feel that old most of the time. I first truly felt my age a few years ago, when I took my employees to trivia night. One of the questions was "What was the name of Tony Soprano's daughter on The Sopranos?" I knew it immediately, but everyone else looked at me with a collective blank stare. None of them had ever seen The Sopranos. The Sopranos! It's not like the question was what Archie Bunker called his son-in-law on All in the Family or who introduced the Beatles to America. The Sopranos was on the air for several years in this century! I still can't believe the generation gap is so large as to make The Sopranos ancient news.
29. Star Wars comes out next week, and there are commercials everywhere telling you - imploring you - to get your tickets now before they sell out. That movie is going to be in theaters for nine months, playing 15 times a day. I feel confident I'll catch it at some point.
30. As the parents of two young boys, I know the times are coming when we have to delicately explain to them how their bodies (penises) work and try to lay some ground rules about their care and maintenance. Jamie just turned four, and we were at the doctor for his yearly check up last week. Our pediatrician asked us if we had any concerns, at which point I looked over at Jamie, who was staring Lil' Jamie in the eye and grinning. That might be a concern, doc. That might be a concern.
31. I mentioned I've been using my time to get in better shape. I ran a personal-best 10K over Thanksgiving, but my time wasn't what was most important to me - that was making sure no one requiring adult supervision at the movies beat me. At one point a couple of kids passed me, but I bore down and overtook them on the final hill leading up to the finish line. The next step is to beat all the runners with strollers. You gotta have goals.
32. I don't play daily fantasy, though it seems like it'd be right up my alley. I don't have much of a stake in whether it is declared legal or not, despite the fact that it is quite obviously gambling. I think gambling should be legal, so I'm not against the concept, but the whole kerfuffle over whether it is or isn't reminds me once again that life is about one thing and one thing only - loopholes. In every facet of life rules are set up, and then we spend all our time trying to do everything the rules prohibit without actually, technically, breaking them. Next March or April, do yourself a favor and walk through your local grocery and check out the Kosher For Passover fare. Cakes, bagels, bacon cheeseburgers - you name it, they've somehow engineered a way to make all the things you love to eat but aren't supposed to over Passover, which while technically legal from an ingredient standpoint, misses the whole point of the exercise in the first place.
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| Nope. |
33. My grandparents got us a Nintendo when I was little, something my parents would never do. It was a joyous occasion, truly one of the highlights of my childhood. In related news, my in-laws got our son an iPad-like device. I wasn't really in favor of it. I am such a hypocrite.
34. Coming up with 37 different things to write about is hard. I should have done this when I turned 12.
35. I wish I knew then what I know now. That's a common phrase, and as I mentioned it certainly applies to wishing I'd tested my limits a little more when I was younger. Sometimes I wonder what I will say later on in life that I wish I knew during this time. I think I may know what it is - and that is dinner/bedtime for our boys. It's really the only time of day we get to relax and play with them, and in many ways it's truly wonderful. Also in many ways, I can't wait for it to be over so we can decompress. Am I going to regret feeling that way? I feel guilty typing it even now, but man, it sure is nice to have a little quiet time when the kids are finally down. Sorry to let you down, future me, I have a feeling you'll remember throwing the football with your children more than binge-watching Orange Is The New Black. At least that show has nudity?
36. I missed most of the on-line dating revolution. I spent a brief period on JDate before I met my wife, but I was off the market before the agony of dealing with Tinder or removing exes from your social media posts became a real concern. Getting laid off has a whiff of that. I still haven't changed my job title on LinkedIn. I don't suppose I can say "It's Complicated" for my current occupation can I?
37. I said before that the number 37 really has no meaning, but that's not entirely true. For anyone my age, the number 37 will always be associated with a scene from the movie Clerks. And now that's how old I am. I'm 37??? I'll try not to do anything on the way to the parking lot.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Wisdom and Shit and Sadness
Today is Emmett's first birthday, which means today is the final planned entry for Wisdom and Shit. I was trying to think of something I might write to commemorate the event, a final perhaps longer-form piece of advice I could give him.
Then last night I heard the news that Harris Wittels passed away. Now, Emmett doesn't know who Harris Wittels is, and people who read this may not know him either. He's probably best known as the creator of the HumbleBrag twitter account, but for fans of comedy he's remembered more for his hilarious podcast appearances across a variety of shows, all of which I wholeheartedly recommend. Wittels' death affected me deeply, and I'll explain why.
When I started doing Wisdom and Shit for Jamie, I was working nights in my previous gig at NBA.com. Because I was always on opposite schedules from everyone else, I had a LOT of time to kill during the day. I started listening to comedy podcasts as a way to pass the time, and my favorite quickly became Comedy Bang Bang (a show I still listen to religiously).
Every day I would agonize over what to write (foolish, I know, it's just a silly Tumblr my sisters and like three other people read), doubting the merits of nearly every post. Then I started listening to CBB, where Wittels was a frequent guest. Each time he appeared he'd do a segment called "Harris's Phone Corner" (later renamed Harris's Foam Corner for some reason), where he'd read off some of the jokes he'd written on his phone that weren't deemed good enough for his standup act.
These jokes were mostly terrible (hence their absence from his stage show), and were almost always greeted with derision. Yet he presented them time after time, and never flinched. This may not seem like a big deal, but it was to me (and it should be noted, the segment was still hilarious).
The fear of failure is a very difficult obstacle for most people to overcome. Maybe I am adding gravitas to a situation that doesn't merit it, but his willingness to submit himself (and specifically, his creations) to mockery and disparagement struck a chord with me.
It was like he didn't care what people thought. Yet anecdotally, I know he cared a great deal. He often talked on Analyze Phish (another podcast I strongly recommend, even if you care not a whit for the band or their music) about how personally he took negative comments from fans of the band. Still he continued to share his failures.
I thought of Harris's example often as I was trying to come up with advice for Jamie and later on Emmett. Any time I got stuck (which was often), I remembered Harris's foam and felt better about the whole thing. That's not to say my stuff was any good, or even any better than the leftovers he treated us to on the show. But the point was it didn't matter. Just do it and don't worry about how people receive it.
And that's about as important wisdom as I can pass along to anyone.
Happy birthday Emmett, and rest in peace Harris.
Then last night I heard the news that Harris Wittels passed away. Now, Emmett doesn't know who Harris Wittels is, and people who read this may not know him either. He's probably best known as the creator of the HumbleBrag twitter account, but for fans of comedy he's remembered more for his hilarious podcast appearances across a variety of shows, all of which I wholeheartedly recommend. Wittels' death affected me deeply, and I'll explain why.
When I started doing Wisdom and Shit for Jamie, I was working nights in my previous gig at NBA.com. Because I was always on opposite schedules from everyone else, I had a LOT of time to kill during the day. I started listening to comedy podcasts as a way to pass the time, and my favorite quickly became Comedy Bang Bang (a show I still listen to religiously).
Every day I would agonize over what to write (foolish, I know, it's just a silly Tumblr my sisters and like three other people read), doubting the merits of nearly every post. Then I started listening to CBB, where Wittels was a frequent guest. Each time he appeared he'd do a segment called "Harris's Phone Corner" (later renamed Harris's Foam Corner for some reason), where he'd read off some of the jokes he'd written on his phone that weren't deemed good enough for his standup act.
These jokes were mostly terrible (hence their absence from his stage show), and were almost always greeted with derision. Yet he presented them time after time, and never flinched. This may not seem like a big deal, but it was to me (and it should be noted, the segment was still hilarious).
The fear of failure is a very difficult obstacle for most people to overcome. Maybe I am adding gravitas to a situation that doesn't merit it, but his willingness to submit himself (and specifically, his creations) to mockery and disparagement struck a chord with me.
It was like he didn't care what people thought. Yet anecdotally, I know he cared a great deal. He often talked on Analyze Phish (another podcast I strongly recommend, even if you care not a whit for the band or their music) about how personally he took negative comments from fans of the band. Still he continued to share his failures.
I thought of Harris's example often as I was trying to come up with advice for Jamie and later on Emmett. Any time I got stuck (which was often), I remembered Harris's foam and felt better about the whole thing. That's not to say my stuff was any good, or even any better than the leftovers he treated us to on the show. But the point was it didn't matter. Just do it and don't worry about how people receive it.
And that's about as important wisdom as I can pass along to anyone.
Happy birthday Emmett, and rest in peace Harris.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Demitri Martin is a swell guy
Let me start with this. I am a smart guy, but I'm more gullible than I care to admit. I'll get back to that in a minute.
A year or so before I got married, I was planning to go see a Demitri Martin show in Atlanta with my brother in law Will and my friend Michael. At the last minute I had to cancel, which was a bummer because I am a big fan of his comedy and was excited to see him.
Will and Michael, the ungrateful schmucks, went to the show without me. So much for solidarity. They must have felt bad about it though, because to cheer me up they brought home a poster from the concert, signed by Martin himself. I thought this was pretty cool.
Time has faded the writing, but Martin wrote simply: "Thanks for not coming to my show, you dick" and signed his name.
I wish I'd seen that show, but honestly that poster was an excellent consolation prize. I liked it so much that I put it up in my cubicle at work, dirty word be damned.
Fast forward to our wedding weekend. The night before the big day, Will and Michael spilled the beans. That poster that I enjoyed so much, that I made sure to point out to visitors to my workspace, was nothing but a sham. A falsehood. A SHANDA.
Michael, who to be clear is not a professional comedian known for clever one-liners, was actually the author of the note. Come to think of it, I'm beginning to wonder if he and Will made up the poster as well. Like I said, I'm gullible.
A good chuckle was had by all, and that was the end of that. Except it wasn't. I wanted something. It wasn't exactly revenge I was after, but maybe a comeuppance? Yeah, a comeuppance would do nicely.
A few years passed, and Michael met a nice young lady foolish enough to marry him. Once they announced their engagement, I knew exactly what I wanted to give them for their wedding present. I was going to get Demitri Martin to autograph a picture of them and frame it, for realsies this time.
I figured Demitri was (is) a comic, would appreciate the amusing nature of the situation, and help a brother out. Unfortunately, I didn't know Demetri or anyone else who did, and his website did not make his contact information readily available except to book him for a show. Frankly, I don't like Michael enough to take the joke that far. I was stumped, and so their wedding came and went. Oh well. They'd have to settle for napkins rings or Bengals coozies.
Then a few months later, literally within a few hours of each other, I learned of two facts:
Fact 1. Michael and Bree were coming to visit Atlanta that upcoming weekend.
Fact 2. Demitri Martin was doing a surprise show in Atlanta THAT VERY NIGHT.
It was fate. This time, I made sure to be in attendance, and I brought a few things with me.
The show was great, and afterwards Will (who tagged along) and I waited patiently while Demitri signed autographs, waiting to find our chance to approach. When it got to our turn, I went for it.
"Excuse me, Demitri. I know you have a line formed here, but do you have time for a quick story?"
He was kind enough to hear me out, so I launched into the specifics. I explained the missed concert, the poster with his alleged signature, how I proudly displayed it at work like an asshole, and the reveal of the hoax at my wedding. I like to think he was amused, but maybe people forge his signature on posters all the time. He is famous after all.
In the end he heard me out and was kind enough to acquiesce to my requests. First, he corrected the much-maligned poster:
Amazing. I thanked Demitri for his time, snapped a quick photo to prove some legitimacy (let's just say I expected some skepticism), and that weekend presented my friends their wedding present.
Is there a moral to this story? Probably not. But I did learn that Demitri Martin is a pretty swell guy (though perhaps a little hard to get ahold of), and I learned to never take any famous person's signature at face value unless I witness it firsthand. You can never be too careful. And you can be too gullible.
A year or so before I got married, I was planning to go see a Demitri Martin show in Atlanta with my brother in law Will and my friend Michael. At the last minute I had to cancel, which was a bummer because I am a big fan of his comedy and was excited to see him.
Will and Michael, the ungrateful schmucks, went to the show without me. So much for solidarity. They must have felt bad about it though, because to cheer me up they brought home a poster from the concert, signed by Martin himself. I thought this was pretty cool.
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| MVP (Most Valuable Possession) |
I wish I'd seen that show, but honestly that poster was an excellent consolation prize. I liked it so much that I put it up in my cubicle at work, dirty word be damned.
Fast forward to our wedding weekend. The night before the big day, Will and Michael spilled the beans. That poster that I enjoyed so much, that I made sure to point out to visitors to my workspace, was nothing but a sham. A falsehood. A SHANDA.
Michael, who to be clear is not a professional comedian known for clever one-liners, was actually the author of the note. Come to think of it, I'm beginning to wonder if he and Will made up the poster as well. Like I said, I'm gullible.
A good chuckle was had by all, and that was the end of that. Except it wasn't. I wanted something. It wasn't exactly revenge I was after, but maybe a comeuppance? Yeah, a comeuppance would do nicely.
A few years passed, and Michael met a nice young lady foolish enough to marry him. Once they announced their engagement, I knew exactly what I wanted to give them for their wedding present. I was going to get Demitri Martin to autograph a picture of them and frame it, for realsies this time.
I figured Demitri was (is) a comic, would appreciate the amusing nature of the situation, and help a brother out. Unfortunately, I didn't know Demetri or anyone else who did, and his website did not make his contact information readily available except to book him for a show. Frankly, I don't like Michael enough to take the joke that far. I was stumped, and so their wedding came and went. Oh well. They'd have to settle for napkins rings or Bengals coozies.
Then a few months later, literally within a few hours of each other, I learned of two facts:
Fact 1. Michael and Bree were coming to visit Atlanta that upcoming weekend.
Fact 2. Demitri Martin was doing a surprise show in Atlanta THAT VERY NIGHT.
It was fate. This time, I made sure to be in attendance, and I brought a few things with me.
The show was great, and afterwards Will (who tagged along) and I waited patiently while Demitri signed autographs, waiting to find our chance to approach. When it got to our turn, I went for it.
"Excuse me, Demitri. I know you have a line formed here, but do you have time for a quick story?"
He was kind enough to hear me out, so I launched into the specifics. I explained the missed concert, the poster with his alleged signature, how I proudly displayed it at work like an asshole, and the reveal of the hoax at my wedding. I like to think he was amused, but maybe people forge his signature on posters all the time. He is famous after all.
In the end he heard me out and was kind enough to acquiesce to my requests. First, he corrected the much-maligned poster:
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| The fake signature on the left, Demitri's real signature on the right. |
Then he added the coup de grace, the one thing I'd sought after for over a year:
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| "Great going plagiarizing me. My lawyers will be in touch - Demitri" |
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| Not photoshopped. |
Friday, February 21, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Jamie's Playlist
As parents, we strive to remember all of the funny individual moments that our children create. Alas, it's impossible. In the moment something may seem so visceral as to leave a permanent imprint on the brain, but we have no shot. There are too many of them. It's one of the great things about photos, blogs, tumblrs, etc, they at least provide some triggers for recollection.
Still, I do have one memory that has stayed with me since Jamie's birth, and I promised myself I'd write this post before our second child is born. Seeing as we are likely within 24 hours of that occurrence, I figure my time has run out to get this on the (web)page.
Jamie was in the hospital for 8 days when he was born. I say this not to be melodramatic. Though we were certainly shook up by this early curveball, we know that many have experienced much worse. Still, the delayed gratification of taking him home led to immense anticipation.
And that is why I know our drive home from Piedmont Hospital took roughly 17 minutes and 25 seconds. I know this because we heard four songs on the radio during that drive, and they've remained with me to this day.
Now I'm not a religious man, and I don't necessarily believe that everything happens for a reason. Still, I've always thought it would be fun to go back and revisit those songs, and see if there are any metaphorical meanings I can extrapolate.
Song 1: Paradise, Coldplay
How cliched, right? Like right out of some holiday chick flick (presumably starring Riggins from Friday Night Lights and one of the Jessicas, Biel or Alba -- or both!), it figures a sappy Coldplay song would be the first one out of the gate. 'Tis no lie though. Right as I keyed the ignition to begin our trek home, the first violin strings of "Paradise" began. It seems too overt to try for some sort of metaphorical angle here -- the surface meaning will do.
Still, I do have one memory that has stayed with me since Jamie's birth, and I promised myself I'd write this post before our second child is born. Seeing as we are likely within 24 hours of that occurrence, I figure my time has run out to get this on the (web)page.
Jamie was in the hospital for 8 days when he was born. I say this not to be melodramatic. Though we were certainly shook up by this early curveball, we know that many have experienced much worse. Still, the delayed gratification of taking him home led to immense anticipation.
And that is why I know our drive home from Piedmont Hospital took roughly 17 minutes and 25 seconds. I know this because we heard four songs on the radio during that drive, and they've remained with me to this day.
Now I'm not a religious man, and I don't necessarily believe that everything happens for a reason. Still, I've always thought it would be fun to go back and revisit those songs, and see if there are any metaphorical meanings I can extrapolate.
Song 1: Paradise, Coldplay
How cliched, right? Like right out of some holiday chick flick (presumably starring Riggins from Friday Night Lights and one of the Jessicas, Biel or Alba -- or both!), it figures a sappy Coldplay song would be the first one out of the gate. 'Tis no lie though. Right as I keyed the ignition to begin our trek home, the first violin strings of "Paradise" began. It seems too overt to try for some sort of metaphorical angle here -- the surface meaning will do.
This will always be Jamie's song to me. Any time I hear it it transports me back to Thanksgiving Day 2011. It is a fitting song, as Coldplay's music has had a running thread throughout Hilary's and my relationship. Their song "Yellow" was very nearly our choice for our first dance at our wedding*, and "Swallowed In the Sea" was on the mix CD** I made to play in the car when we moved Hilary to Atlanta from DC.
*As if to prove how our memories fade, Hilary and I have been trying to remember if we used Yellow for some other purpose during our wedding, and neither of us can remember. Maybe it was when we were walking down the aisle? Or father-daughter dance? No idea now.
** Hey, remember those?
Like most Coldplay songs, "Paradise" is fairly uncomplicated and seemingly superficial, yet it still has a way to affect me emotionally. Sue me, I like Coldplay.
Song 2: The Man Who Sold The World, Nirvana
Song 3: Eminence Front, The Who
I love The Who the way most people I know love them, which is to say I think they rock, but I really only know the songs off their Greatest Hits album or from Tommy. And even though I almost exclusively listen to rock radio***, until this drive home I had never heard of this song, from their 1982 album It's Hard.
*** Well, not entirely true. Nowadays I almost exclusively listen to podcasts, and in high school I almost exclusively listened to the Jackson rap stations. Damn I was hip.
Why 97.1 The River chose to play this song that day (ever?) is a mystery to me, but the darndest thing about it is ever since I've heard this song abundantly, and not just on the radio -- in intro music to televised sporting events, at restaurants; it's crazy.
The takeaway with this song is that it's never too late to learn something new, and by that I mean I just learned that the term for this sort of pattern (where once you see a new word or concept you see it repeatedly) is the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, which sounds like the most bad-ass name for something I've ever heard. I wonder if it's too late to convince Hilary of a name change? Baader-Meinhof Hart has a nice ring to it.
Song 4: Closer To Fine, Indigo Girls
I'll be damned if this isn't just the most apt song for this playlist. I have a long, long history with this song. Every girl at summer camp knew this song backwards and forwards and would lean into it like they were on stage in a goddamn Broadway musical. In fact, arguably the most famous camp alum**** once sang this in the camp talent show.
**** And girlfriend of mine for a full twen-tee four ho-urs.
At my older sister's rehearsal dinner, my younger sister and I sang a song set to this tune about how we always thought she was a lesbian.*****
*As if to prove how our memories fade, Hilary and I have been trying to remember if we used Yellow for some other purpose during our wedding, and neither of us can remember. Maybe it was when we were walking down the aisle? Or father-daughter dance? No idea now.
** Hey, remember those?
Like most Coldplay songs, "Paradise" is fairly uncomplicated and seemingly superficial, yet it still has a way to affect me emotionally. Sue me, I like Coldplay.
Song 2: The Man Who Sold The World, Nirvana
This song comes from one of my favorite albums of all time, Nirvana's MTV Unplugged (for my money, the best performance of that entire program's history), and it's a cover of a David Bowie song. The song itself is somewhat inscrutable to me (a quick google search suggests it deals with multiple personalities), but if I could take any lesson away from this to pass along to Jamie, it'd be that talent can be both a blessing and a curse. I wasn't that huge a Nirvana fan when they were around, but even still Kurt Cobain is probably the defining musician of my childhood. He was a genius, but a tortured one. I certainly hope that Jamie (and his baby brother) find things they are good at, things they can share with the world. But sometimes those things can consume us, and ultimately, I believe it's better to be happy than to be famous.
Song 3: Eminence Front, The Who
I love The Who the way most people I know love them, which is to say I think they rock, but I really only know the songs off their Greatest Hits album or from Tommy. And even though I almost exclusively listen to rock radio***, until this drive home I had never heard of this song, from their 1982 album It's Hard.
*** Well, not entirely true. Nowadays I almost exclusively listen to podcasts, and in high school I almost exclusively listened to the Jackson rap stations. Damn I was hip.
Why 97.1 The River chose to play this song that day (ever?) is a mystery to me, but the darndest thing about it is ever since I've heard this song abundantly, and not just on the radio -- in intro music to televised sporting events, at restaurants; it's crazy.
The takeaway with this song is that it's never too late to learn something new, and by that I mean I just learned that the term for this sort of pattern (where once you see a new word or concept you see it repeatedly) is the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, which sounds like the most bad-ass name for something I've ever heard. I wonder if it's too late to convince Hilary of a name change? Baader-Meinhof Hart has a nice ring to it.
Song 4: Closer To Fine, Indigo Girls
**** And girlfriend of mine for a full twen-tee four ho-urs.
At my older sister's rehearsal dinner, my younger sister and I sang a song set to this tune about how we always thought she was a lesbian.*****
***** Not that there's anything wrong with that.
The late, great Mitch Hedberg had a hilarious joke about how songs have different meanings to people depending on the circumstances surrounding when they heard it. For most of my life, I have hated this song. But now, because it was playing as we turned onto our street to begin our journey into parenthood, literally becoming closer to fine with every tire rotation, I can't help but have a positive association with it. And Jamie, though I love you, I'll always blame you for that.
The late, great Mitch Hedberg had a hilarious joke about how songs have different meanings to people depending on the circumstances surrounding when they heard it. For most of my life, I have hated this song. But now, because it was playing as we turned onto our street to begin our journey into parenthood, literally becoming closer to fine with every tire rotation, I can't help but have a positive association with it. And Jamie, though I love you, I'll always blame you for that.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Due Date vs. Snowpocalyse Two: Who Wins?
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| Harts, in happier cold-weather climes |
It's a very strange world we occupy.* Life begins and ends on this planet at every waking moment, which means that no matter what is happening, good or bad, someone is being brought into the world in the midst of it. But you never think it's going to happen to you, right?
* I mean this in a micro sense, but certainly the same could be said on a macro scale as well.
We are coming to the end of Day 2 of "Snowpocalypse Two: The Snowpocalypsing" in Atlanta, and tomorrow looks to be more of the same, which is to say we'll be home another day with no reasonable thought of leaving house. And Hilary could go at any minute.
Which means, we are really, really hoping we hit that due date.
In the immediate lead up to Jamie's birth, I remember the overwhelming anxiety of knowing that my world could be turned upside down at any minute. Minutes felt like hours, hours like days, and days like longer-seeming days.
I wasn't ready, and therefore I didn't want it to happen. But that was all existential. This time? This is legit. This is an actual crisis, or at least a potential crisis if the wheels get put in motion.
Hilary has developed some sciatica-like symptoms in the late stages of her pregnancy. Every time she moves, she winces in pain. To the untrained eye, these bear a striking resemblance to the onset of contractions. Each time it happens, I nearly need a change of underwear.
An aside.
Often times in sports, a player will make a mistake in a game of huge magnitude that in a losing effort ends up being the thing they are remembered for the rest of their lives. Chris Webber's phantom timeout. Buckner's booted grounder. For the old timers, Merkle's Boner. But sometimes that mistake doesn't preclude victory, and it becomes just another footnote of history.**
** The best example I can come up with from recent vintage? Ahmad Bradshaw's excuse-me touchdown from the Giants-Patriots Super Bowl a couple years back.
That's kind of the situation we find ourselves in right now. Our cousins, who live a mile or so from the hospital we are scheduled to deliver at, offered to host us for the duration of the storm. We declined, mostly because this entire weather situation seems like a gross overreaction to what happened here a couple weeks ago, but also because Jamie was born 5 days late (and even that was after an induction), and I've convinced myself it'll go down the same way this time as well. Or because we are morons.
This will either make for a charming anecdote we can share making small talk at parties, or it will be a truly life-altering experience. What will we do if Hilary goes into labor and we can't drive our car on the road? This could legitimately happen. Even as I sit here typing this thought, thinking there is no way this could happen, THIS COULD SERIOUSLY HAPPEN. For fuck's sake, I could be writing this very sentence and Hilary could scream out in agony and I'll have no choice but to start furiously googling how to deliver a baby at home.***
***Though I am sure someone has made a fairly easy to follow DIY video on YouTube.
I've mentioned before on this blog that my friends have a saying that everything always works out for Micah, and I am sure that line of thinking led to us bypassing the safe play of staying closer to the hospital just in case. And again, even though it would be PERFECTLY FUCKING RATIONAL for this baby to be born in the next 24 hours, I still pretty much believe that everything will turn out just fine. Which grand scheme it will, no matter if the baby arrives via the careful hands of an obstetrician or via catcher's mitt.
I guess the most important thing out of all of this is that Hilary and I made the choice to stay home together. Because if this was just my idea that I talked her into, then tomorrow we'd be introducing Itoldyouso Hart to the world.
I kid of course, Hilary is not that mean-spirited or vindictive, two traits we hope to avoid passing along to our soon-to-be child. Instead we want him to be honest, to be selfless, and to be compassionate.
But more than anything, right now, we want him to be patient.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
This Again? Thoughts on having a second child
Everything changes when you have a kid. This is not news - everyone we knew with children told us this before Jamie was born, and it doesn't take a quantum physicist to understand why. New priorities, new hours, new sacrifices, all the stereotypical stuff.
However, as we charge into the final weeks before Baby #2's supposed due date, I am struck by how, much like before Jamie was born, everything in our lives seems at peace, in equilibrium. We have our routines -- we know who is doing what and when, and there is comfort in knowing that everything is taken care of.
Right now there is normalcy, which puts my frame of mind right back where we were P.J. (pre-Jamie) -- clinging desperately to the present and wondering how in the world we'll survive the coming changes.
One was hard? Fuck you - two looks hard. All the effort required by a newborn, with the added bonus of a two-year old who is going to lose his shit for 15 minutes if you don't play Cat Stevens' "Moonshadow" on the Apple TV IMMEDIATELY.
Plus, there's no mystery anymore. We know what's coming, and I'm convinced it's worse knowing our fate than not knowing before Jamie arrived.
In no particular order, the things I'm least looking forward to:
1 - Irregular sleep. No one likes the lack of sleep early parenthood requires, but it's not so much the tiredness or irritability that bothers me. It's that very, very specific sensation of closing your eyes, blinking, and being told that 2-3 hours have passed and it's time to feed the baby again. There is nothing quite like it, like the world is playing a practical joke on you.
My dad has often told the story of the time early in my parents' marriage when my mom came home from school in the afternoon and laid down to take a nap. While she slept, my dad proceeded to change the times on all the clocks, then woke her up to say it was time for her to get up and make dinner, which she proceeded to do, even though it was like 2:30 in the afternoon. Pretty solid prank to be honest, and one I imagine would be way more difficult to pull off today. Yet that's what I think back to every time this happened with Jamie -- that only a minute or two had passed, and my dad was somewhere in the house controlling blackout shades and with some app that allows him to remotely control all the digital clocks on the premises.
I kid of course about this scenario. I know it's not the reality, plus my father is roughly as handy with his phone as the fetus in Hilary's womb. He's one of America's leaders in Jewish culture, education, and pocket dials.
2 - Cleaning bottles. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck cleaning bottles. It's not just that they have to be cleaned every night (though again - fuuuuuuuuuuuuck), it's that my definition of clean is diametrically opposite Hilary's. Palestinians and Israelis are closer to defining the terms of a viable two-state solution than Hilary and I are to agreeing at which point a used bottle becomes clean.
My definition: Rinse with soap and water. Finis.
Her definition: Purchase all-new cleaning supplies. Sterilize entire kitchen. Purify self in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. Put on full-body hazmat suit. Shrink self Innerspace-style to fit within interior of bottles. Rigorously cover every square millimeter with NASA-grade disinfectant. Repeat process thricely.
Oh, do I exaggerate? Whose side are you on anyway?
I do not look forward to cleaning bottles.
3 - Jamie. As if to prove how myopic every parent is in regards to their family, I'm quite certain that no set of parents has ever so lavishly heaped attention on a child as we have Jamie. He already hates it when I wake him up in the morning instead of Hilary, so he is in for a rude awakening when his brother gets here.
I am hopeful he will adjust well to a new sibling, and in truth our friends' eldest children all seem to be adjusting pretty well. But, as I say, surely they all did a better job avoiding spoiling them.
We spend a lot of time talking about whether or not Jamie understands what is happening. He's super verbal (like his old man), so he talks about baby brother, but as far as I know, baby brother makes as much sense to him as a concept as a sensible 401K plan.
Yes, change is in store for us, and no matter how often we've dealt with change in the past and survived, it still feels like this time will be different. I guess we'll find out one way or the other soon enough.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Writing It Down Now So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Dublin and Beyond
It is at this point that I must share something intensely personal (spoiler alert - there is much more of this to come). World travel is not like in the movies, where you meet a tall dark stranger who whisks you away to an island paradise*. Yes, destinations can be glamorous and beautiful, but everyday problems still occur that must be dealt with.
* Surprise - he's going to hunt you for sport!
And that is why, despite warm weather, charming people and breathtaking scenery (and Guinness), what I will remember most from our time in Ireland was the battle raging in my pants, that of thighs vs. chafing. And chafing was taking it to my thighs like Georgia Tech to Cumberland.
Each day in Dublin was an exercise in futility. We'd set out in the morning, and 12 steps from our hotel I was already forced to walk like a man trying to hold a yardstick between my knees. Our dystopian future may end up with us egg-shaped and riding around on scooters, but at least we won't need to carry a metric ton of baby powder with us everywhere we go.
That said, I have to admit that I have buried the lead (Thigh chafing wasn't the lead?) to this point.
There is a reason why it took me this long to recap the last part of our journey, and that is because the end of our trip will be forever linked in my mind with what came directly after.
While in Dublin, Hilary's mood began to change. She was tired. She craved Wagamama. Her boobs hurt, she said.
To each complaint, I jokingly said, "Maybe you're pregnant."
"Ha," she said.
We returned home to the states on a Friday. On Sunday, still grumpy, tired, and boob-hurty, Hilary took a pregnancy test, and this time I was present for the occasion. And what do you know? My boys could swim again!
The first time we found out we were pregnant, I was equal parts excited and terrified. This time, knowing at least what it's like on the other side, I was mostly excited. Although in the weeks since I've noticed that the finish line somehow keeps moving.
Before we had kids, I would always hear parents say how much their lives changed after they started a family. I was nervous about giving up so much of myself and my free time, but in the nearly two years that we've had Jamie we've managed to find an equilibrium.
So it's been disheartening to hear parents now let us in on the information that really, one kid is a breeze. "Just wait until you have two," they say, "then things really get hectic."
All this time I thought we'd cleared the final hurdle, and now you're telling me the race hasn't even begun?
Not cool.
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Some people might not take kindly to new information that threatens to turn their lives upside down.Apparently, I am one of them.
In the immediate aftermath of finding out we were bringing another piece of inventory into the Jewish camping system (as my dad likes to say), my body held a closed door meeting to discuss the news.
After a heated exchange, my appendix decided this was more than it could stomach** and tendered its resignation effectively immediately, no two weeks notice given.
** I know. I couldn't resist.
For the entirety of my adult life, getting appendicitis has been my biggest non-plane-crash-related fear. Literally, any time I would have even a modicum of discomfort in my abdomen, I'd immediately worry that my appendix was about to burst.
Everyone I've spoken with since this happened has found this fact hilarious. "What's wrong with you that you're so afraid of appendicitis?" they snicker.
To which I say, NO - what is wrong with YOU that you aren't MORE afraid of it?
Our appendices are ticking time bombs people. They refuse to go gentle into that good night. Nay, they rage - rage against the dying of the light! They can go at any moment, for any reason, often having nothing to do with finding out your wife is with child.
I have heard too many horror stories about people with appendicitis experiencing intense stomach pain, projectile vomiting, and high fevers***. What fun! But hey, at least if it goes untreated for like 24 hours it can become toxic and potentially life-threatening!
*** But no thigh-chafing, so I suppose that's a plus.
I refuse to believe this is an irrational fear. It is rati-fucking-nal. But I digress. The point of this diatribe is to say that barely 24 hours after finding out Hilary was knocked up, I was in the emergency room getting prepped to have my appendix removed.
And yet - after all the flop sweat I wasted over the years on the subject, it turned out to be likely the most mundane case of appendicitis on record.
In summary: I felt sort of off, Hilary made me grudgingly go to the minute clinic, they sent me on to the hospital, and the next day I was sans appendix, without ever feeling pain any worse than say a really annoying hangnail.
Truly, the worst part of the whole experience by FAR was the trump card it gave Hilary regarding health care. I'm not sure what the expiration date is for her being able to hold this over my head. How long until the end of all time and space? That, plus maybe a few weeks added on for good measure.
If you're still reading at this point, you are probably long past wondering why I am including any of this in what is supposed to be a recap of our trip to Ireland, but for me the discovery of the pregnancy (holy shit!) and the appendicitis (HOLY SHIT!) will forever be inseparable from the memories I have of the Emerald Isle.
We hoped that our trip to Europe would be our last hurrah before a large change in the family dynamic, and while from a logistical standpoint (earmuffs kids) I don't think we have any reason to name our kids Eiffel or Erin Go Bragh, I like to think it provided a wonderful close of chapter, a tentpole experience to help demarcate the years as they inevitably begin to smush together.
Plus, I no longer have to worry about appendicitis. Kidney stones, I guess it's your time to shine.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Writing It Down Now So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Vienna
The hills are alive
Vienna marked the first place on our trip that I hadn't been before. There is always some trepidation when you arrive in a new city/country -- what if they don't speak English? What if we can't find our hotel? And what if they don't speak English?
Fortunately, we found Vienna to be remarkably friendly and easy to navigate. Or at least we did after we spent 3 rain-soaked hours walking around cursing at unintelligible street signs (I curse you, random German B letter!) trying to find a cafe a friend recommended to us. After that though? A delight!
Travel is about many things to me: exploring history, observing different cultural norms, obsessively scouring for pickpockets. More than anything, it is the extrapolation of my general outlook on life. Namely, if you allow natural twists and turns to take place, sometimes awesome things will happen. For every fruitless 3-hour search for Babette's Cafe (they weren't even serving food when we got there Richie, you sonofabitch), there are the two memories that stand out for me from our time in Austria.
Memory 1: Exhausted on our second night, we decided to head to bed early after dinner. On our way back to our hotel, we happened to hear what everyone goes to Austria for - the sound of music (eh?). Hilary and I aren't big concert-goers, and we had to get up early the next morning for a bike tour (more on that shortly), but our curiosity led us to investigate. We followed the sound for several blocks then came upon a free concert, where a band was finishing up a cover of "Folsom Prison Blues". It was the last song of their set, but we decided to stick around to see if any other bands were going to play. As we were deciding whether or not to call it a night, we noticed the band that had just played leading a group of people, Pied-Piper like, into an alleyway to perform a more intimate encore.
We joined the group and formed a circle around the band, who proceeded to sing a song we'd never heard of but were certain was a cover of some popular Alt-Folk-Rock band like Avett Brothers or Mumford and Sons or Maclemore. It was an awesome performance, and a great song, and if we'd just headed home we'd have missed the whole thing.
Thanks to the glory that is the internet, you don't even have to imagine the performance in your head. Someone posted the whole thing on YouTube!
Here's a different version of the song, "Nine-to-Five" by Nowhere Train, which will forever be the soundtrack to all my memories of this vacation.
Memory #2: The next day we went on a bike tour of the Wachau Valley, a famous wine region of Austria.
Sidebar: My friends and family most often make fun of me (to my face anyway - I can't vouch for what they say behind my back so much, at least not until I finish bugging all of their houses) for never being properly dressed for any occasion. If everyone else is wearing coat and tie, I'm in a dress shirt at best. What can I say, I like to be comfortable.
I assumed a bike tour in June would make for a lot of sweating, so I dressed in a dry-fit shirt and mesh shorts. Little did I realize it would be 50 degrees and rainy, allowing me to fulfill what I like to call Yanover's Law: No matter the weather, there will always be one idiot in shorts. In this case, idiot = me.
Repping Texas. Always repping Texas.
Our tour was scheduled as an all-day affair, with our group riding between several different villages along the Danube to sample various wineries. However, one village/winery into the trip, we were informed the river was starting to flood (it turned out to be the start of the worst flooding in Central Europe in a decade). We were going to have to cut our trip short and turn back.
This was disappointing news to be sure (even though I was freezing my tits off), but what could we do? You can't fight Mother Nature.
And so our wine and biking tour ended, but a new one soon began: Wasting Time And Getting To Know A Bunch of Strangers While Stuck At A Restaurant And Then On A Train Back to Vienna. They really should come up with a better name. There were 12 of us, comprised of 4 Americans, 2 Russians, 2 Norwegians, 2 South Africans, and 2 Hong Kongians (Hong Kongites? Chinese?), plus our Dutch tour guide.
I would love to recount the hilarious conversations we had, but as is typical with these things, you had to be there.*
*Hang on, let me check YouTube. Nothing ... yet.
Oh screw it, I'll recount one. One of our Russian compatriots spent about 30 minutes of the train ride back trying to convince us that there were kangaroos in Austria, based on having seen signs in some stores that said "No Kangaroos Allowed".** I'll assume they were joke signs playing off the similarities between Austria and Australia, but either way he could not be talked off of it, getting more and more exasperated at our unwillingness to believe him as time wore on.
** Internet check again and bam. No Kangaroos.
So, life, lemons, lemonade, and all that.
What I took away most of all from the unexpected change of itinerary was a general feeling of brotherhood with my fellow man. It is so easy to become depressed when watching, oh, all of the news, but actually spending quality time with people from other countries is a great reminder that we really do have a lot in common, and can get along pretty easily when given the opportunity. I was freezing and soaked, yet I felt warmer than at any other point on our vacation.
Also, it is awesome that everyone else has to learn to speak English, it's a real perk of being American.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Writing It Down So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Paris
My grandfather has always told me that anytime I travel I should write down my memories, that way I'll always have a record of my journeys to look back on later in life. Like most advice given by my elders, I've completely ignored it - until today.
Having a kid has taught me, among many other lessons, that you truly have to cherish your opportunities to travel and see the world, because they come fewer and further between now that SOMEBODY has to be home to feed the little bastard all the time.
So in an effort to keep a record of our trek to Europe, I am going to try to file at least one missive from each portion of our journey. This is Paris.
I don't feel the need to rehash the entirety of our time in France; rather I think a snippet of one of the days will adequately sum up all of the thrills and frustrations that come with being a stranger in a strange land.
We had been told by a friend that there was an excellent falafel place in Paris called L'as Du Falafel. I realize Paris is known for food that is much hoitier and/or toitier, but in my experience, where there is falafel there is often also shawarma, and I made a deal with myself long ago that if shawarma were within a 10-mile radius of my mouth, it'd soon be in my stomach as well.
We went to L'as Du Falafel for lunch on Wednesday, and while standing in line for it, I found myself in a familiar setting. I recognized someone I knew.
Note: This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I have run into former campers at the Vatican, a former girlfriend's college roommate in Nice, and once, in Prague, a girl I had met at a high school retreat for one goddamn weekend in 10th grade (It may seem quite ridiculous that I would remember/recognize her, but to be fair, her first name was Hart. Hard to forget someone like that when you are me.). At this point, running into people I know all over the world is a trivial experience, much akin to the surprise I get when I win a dollar on a scratch and win lottery ticket.
Therefore, it was no surprise that standing in line for falafel was a girl I went to college with -- not even someone I was especially friendly with, just one of the multitude of Jewish girls at Texas that vomited in their mouths at the thought of hanging out with my fraternity. Not that I am bitter. All kidding aside, it was nice to see her and catch up for a few minutes, and while the "holy shit" factor of crossing paths so randomly with someone has worn off, it really is one of the warmest feelings you get when traveling.
That warm feeling was immediately followed by one of the coldest feelings you get when traveling -- getting solicited. It's truly one of the worst parts of being an American abroad. You are almost instantly recognizable and generally seen as a giant walking dollar sign. Or Euro. Whatever.
The falafel stand is right in the midst of the Jewish section of town, which in this case meant our solicitor was not selling Eiffel Tower replicas or handbags, he was selling something I'm even less interested in -- orthodox religion*.
* It is here I must give my standard disclaimer that everyone should feel free to believe and observe what they like, but I have particuar disdain for the fundamentalist sects of every religion, who often feel the need to lecture you on how you are doing it all wrong. GOOD. I'M GLAD I AM. NOW LET ME SIN IN PEACE.
As we ate, a Chasid with no regard for personal space entered ours to ask if we wanted to lay tefillin. We politely said no, and hoped that would be the end of it, but solicitors are not ones to take no for an answer, at least not the first several times. So he asked us if we were Jewish, which, thinking quickly and hoping to avoid an endlessly drawn out situation that no matter how it goes down does NOT end in me laying tefillin, I simply said, "No."
This caught him by surprise. "You're not Jewish?" he asked.
"Nope." I said.
"I could have sworn you were Jewish," he said, rightly assuming that any American eating at a falafel stand in fucking Paris is probably a member of the tribe.
"Sorry," I said. "B'Hatzlacha!"
Kidding! I didn't say that, but I wouldn't have felt any shame if I had. I am proud of my Jewish heritage, but the ends justify the means, and in this case the ends of eating my delectable shawarma undisturbed far outweighed any remorse I might have for baldly** lying right to someone's face. Also, to be fair, I'm pretty sure by his definition I'm not a Jew anyway, so I think we're all good here.
Having a kid has taught me, among many other lessons, that you truly have to cherish your opportunities to travel and see the world, because they come fewer and further between now that SOMEBODY has to be home to feed the little bastard all the time.
So in an effort to keep a record of our trek to Europe, I am going to try to file at least one missive from each portion of our journey. This is Paris.
I don't feel the need to rehash the entirety of our time in France; rather I think a snippet of one of the days will adequately sum up all of the thrills and frustrations that come with being a stranger in a strange land.
We went to L'as Du Falafel for lunch on Wednesday, and while standing in line for it, I found myself in a familiar setting. I recognized someone I knew.
Note: This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I have run into former campers at the Vatican, a former girlfriend's college roommate in Nice, and once, in Prague, a girl I had met at a high school retreat for one goddamn weekend in 10th grade (It may seem quite ridiculous that I would remember/recognize her, but to be fair, her first name was Hart. Hard to forget someone like that when you are me.). At this point, running into people I know all over the world is a trivial experience, much akin to the surprise I get when I win a dollar on a scratch and win lottery ticket.
Therefore, it was no surprise that standing in line for falafel was a girl I went to college with -- not even someone I was especially friendly with, just one of the multitude of Jewish girls at Texas that vomited in their mouths at the thought of hanging out with my fraternity. Not that I am bitter. All kidding aside, it was nice to see her and catch up for a few minutes, and while the "holy shit" factor of crossing paths so randomly with someone has worn off, it really is one of the warmest feelings you get when traveling.
That warm feeling was immediately followed by one of the coldest feelings you get when traveling -- getting solicited. It's truly one of the worst parts of being an American abroad. You are almost instantly recognizable and generally seen as a giant walking dollar sign. Or Euro. Whatever.
The falafel stand is right in the midst of the Jewish section of town, which in this case meant our solicitor was not selling Eiffel Tower replicas or handbags, he was selling something I'm even less interested in -- orthodox religion*.
* It is here I must give my standard disclaimer that everyone should feel free to believe and observe what they like, but I have particuar disdain for the fundamentalist sects of every religion, who often feel the need to lecture you on how you are doing it all wrong. GOOD. I'M GLAD I AM. NOW LET ME SIN IN PEACE.
As we ate, a Chasid with no regard for personal space entered ours to ask if we wanted to lay tefillin. We politely said no, and hoped that would be the end of it, but solicitors are not ones to take no for an answer, at least not the first several times. So he asked us if we were Jewish, which, thinking quickly and hoping to avoid an endlessly drawn out situation that no matter how it goes down does NOT end in me laying tefillin, I simply said, "No."
This caught him by surprise. "You're not Jewish?" he asked.
"Nope." I said.
"I could have sworn you were Jewish," he said, rightly assuming that any American eating at a falafel stand in fucking Paris is probably a member of the tribe.
"Sorry," I said. "B'Hatzlacha!"
Kidding! I didn't say that, but I wouldn't have felt any shame if I had. I am proud of my Jewish heritage, but the ends justify the means, and in this case the ends of eating my delectable shawarma undisturbed far outweighed any remorse I might have for baldly** lying right to someone's face. Also, to be fair, I'm pretty sure by his definition I'm not a Jew anyway, so I think we're all good here.
** I suppose every lie I tell is done baldly.
After lunch Hilary and I headed to Montmarte to see Sacre' Coeur and walk around the artist colony. On our way up to the church, I saw a group of men trying to sell bracelets, and knew we'd have to get by them to reach our destination. One approached me, and once again any respect for my personal space went right out the window. I tried to change directions, but he beat me to it and began to try to forcibly put a bracelet on my arm.
I literally had to yank my arm free from him, and heard my self angrily say, "Please don't touch me!"
It's probably the angriest I've spoken to anyone outside my immediate family since I told Amy Cohen to PLEASE shut the fuck up when everyone was trying to nap on the last day of camp one summer. Both of them had it coming.
I'm curious how successful that level of aggression is as a sales tactic, but I had no interest in sticking around to find out. At least he didn't want me to lay tefillin.
As it turns out, traveling is a lot like being a parent. There are moments of sheer joy and wonder, but you often times have no idea what you are doing and you are constantly suspicious that someone is trying to steal your wallet.
After lunch Hilary and I headed to Montmarte to see Sacre' Coeur and walk around the artist colony. On our way up to the church, I saw a group of men trying to sell bracelets, and knew we'd have to get by them to reach our destination. One approached me, and once again any respect for my personal space went right out the window. I tried to change directions, but he beat me to it and began to try to forcibly put a bracelet on my arm.
I literally had to yank my arm free from him, and heard my self angrily say, "Please don't touch me!"
It's probably the angriest I've spoken to anyone outside my immediate family since I told Amy Cohen to PLEASE shut the fuck up when everyone was trying to nap on the last day of camp one summer. Both of them had it coming.
I'm curious how successful that level of aggression is as a sales tactic, but I had no interest in sticking around to find out. At least he didn't want me to lay tefillin.
As it turns out, traveling is a lot like being a parent. There are moments of sheer joy and wonder, but you often times have no idea what you are doing and you are constantly suspicious that someone is trying to steal your wallet.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
I wanted to make you a man Jamie, instead you made me a woman
I have a confession.
In the lead up to, and aftermath of, Jamie's birth, I didn't read much parenting material. I am sure this makes me a bad parent in some respects (ignorance is bliss?), but my general approach has been that there are so many conflicting opinions on how to raise a baby, I just try to do what feels natural.
I didn't read much, but I did read a little. And the one nugget that managed to stick with me had more to do with the changes we go through as parents than anything I gleaned about raising a child.
I read somewhere that post-pregnancy, the mother tends to experience many changes in hormone levels*. This I knew. What I didn't know is that studies have shown that fathers undergo hormonal changes as well, including a drop in testosterone levels.
* You. Don't. Say.
Less testosterone? I did not like the sound of that. I am a man. I want to remain that way. So ever since Jamie was born, I have tried to pay attention to my hormones to see if I could tell a difference.
Sports? That's a manly pursuit. Still love 'em. Check.
Sex? Yeah, still want it. Check.
Fistfights? Well, maybe I'm not quite as manly as I like to think.
The point is, in the six months since Jamie joined the family, I'd never seen any evidence of a decline in masculinity.
Until recently, that is.
With Jamie down for a nap this past Sunday, Hilary and I took the opportunity to play a little DVR catch up. I'd heard good things about the season finale of Saturday Night Live, so we put it on.
For those that didn't see, the episode ended with a tribute to Kristen Wiig, who is leaving the show after seven pretty spectacular seasons. Check it out:
Watching her say goodbye to her fellow castmembers, my eyes started to well, and soon enough, I was experiencing a salty discharge -- I was crying**.
** much to Hilary's delight, I might add.
Typically speaking, I am not a man giving to great expressions of emotion. I didn't cry when we got married, I didn't cry when Jamie was born, and I didn't cry at his naming -- things I've seen several of my male friends do.
By my count I have cried exactly one time in the last decade, and that was when my grandfather died.
So pre-Jamie, it took a death in the family -- the first close family member of mine to pass away, in fact -- to get the waterworks flowing inside me.
Now that Jamie is here? Apparently all I need is the Target Lady saying goodbye to late night television to turn me into a blubbering mess.
Goodbye testosterone. It was nice knowing you.
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