My parent’s anniversary was yesterday, and I forgot. I remembered today when my mother called and said their anniversary was yesterday. This led to me swearing to (not at) my mother and apologizing for forgetting. She said it was ok because no one else remembered either. It’s my brother’s fault that I forgot.
Benny is good with dates. Let me rephrase. Benny is well organized concerning dates; meaning he writes them down. I prefer to rely solely on memory. Which is why, since I’ve known her, I’ve never been able to remember my friend’s birthday. I’m usually a day or two late, and every year I tell myself that I’m going to write it down and next year I’ll remember to call on her birthday. But I’m rarely right. The one year I did remember she was out of the country. Memorization wasted. What I do remember are: obscure movie quotes and situations in which I embarrassed myself when I was fourteen. And the time when I was in kindergarten and, during practice for a talent show, I sniffed loudly directly into the microphone and everyone laughed. When I told my kindergarten teacher about what happened she recommended that I carry tissues. Smart woman.
Every time an important date came up, I could expect a phone call from Benny. Remember, today is Gabe’s birthday. Don’t forget to call Mom today, it’s her birthday. (It’s pretty much always birthdays). Except family birthdays are the days I don’t forget. Thanks for wishing me a happy birthday, Ben. Yes, I know it’s also Dad’s birthday. How can I forget that growing up I never got my own cake? Just last month I was joshing Ben about how he doesn’t actually remember dates so much as he’s prompted. But that’s how most people do it. Great salesmen don’t remember every detail about their clients. They write some key facts down and can bring them up casually in conversation.
A few years back Benny stopped calling to remind me; most likely he assumed that I was an adult, capable (or at least able to look at a calendar) of remembering things like Mother’s Day. What do they say about making assumptions? I still rely on my father to email reminding me to turn my clock forward.
I’ve tried. Really, I have tried to remember important dates. I even made an anagram of the most important days (no I didn’t). I keep telling myself that I need to use a day planner. I purchased multiple Palm Pilots in an effort to force myself in to organization. It’s just not in me. I used to have a working system, but he stopped calling to remind me.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Every Child Should Have One
Now that I have a niece (look at that Abigail, you’re not even a week old and already somebody’s writing a blog about you!), I’m trying to decide what I want her to call me. Sure it seems like it should be easy, place uncle in front of the first name. The End. But I’m not really sure I want to be Uncle Zach; not when pretty much everyone calls me ‘the attach!’. It’s hard deciding among: Uncle Attach!, Uncle the Attach!, or (current top choice) the Attuncle! Currently in last place? Uncle Walrus, because: a) I look nothing like a walrus; and b) my diet in no way involves seal meat. Though this name could be re-evaluated later on in life when I’m more portly and mustachioed. I imagine Uncle Walrus dressed in a red sweater vest and tie. Sort of like a heavier, drunker Mr. Belvedere.
I have made the decision that I’m going to be her crazy uncle. It’s something I feel I missed out on growing up. My uncles were great. They had wonderful stories, and I always liked having them around, but none of them really brought the crazy. Thankfully my mother’s cousin filled that void (in spades!), except that he didn’t show up until I was starting high school, and I feel like I was cheated not having someone like that around during the important developmental early-childhood and tween years. At high school age, the crazy relative is just remembered as the guy who shows up for holiday dinners and tells stories like how he got booted from a merchant marine ship off the Pacific coast of South America because (as the ship’s cook) he was tired of making bagels every morning. No, I want to be the guy who shows up on Abigail’s 8th birthday and asks her if she wants to go see the horsies run. That’s the type of crazy I plan to be.
Of course this means I have to alter my life plans. As my roommate pointed out, it’d be for the best if I remained single. Having a crazy uncle is one thing, but having both a crazy uncle and aunt? That’s when invitations start getting “lost” in the mail. I was planning to have a normal life: a career, family, remembering birthdays, and not showing up in Hawaiian shirts for family funerals. All that’s been tossed out the window. It’s time to reprioritize. How soon do you think I can move to Fiji?
I need stories to tell. About bar fights, and broken limbs. Stories involving rickety planes and motorcycle failure. The time I fought of a grizzly bear in the Yucatan. About forgetting anniversaries and random tattoos and ever more random women. Tales that are uncomfortable to tell at dinner, but inappropriate to tell while at the hospital.
The one thing I would never do is put my niece in harms way. Like I’ll never have her help me smuggle drugs up from Guatemala. But I’ll totally tell her about the time I did (and subsequent jail time spent in a forced labor camp outside of Mexico City).
I want Abigail to realize that her uncle loves her; and also realize that she never, ever wants to be anything like me.
I have made the decision that I’m going to be her crazy uncle. It’s something I feel I missed out on growing up. My uncles were great. They had wonderful stories, and I always liked having them around, but none of them really brought the crazy. Thankfully my mother’s cousin filled that void (in spades!), except that he didn’t show up until I was starting high school, and I feel like I was cheated not having someone like that around during the important developmental early-childhood and tween years. At high school age, the crazy relative is just remembered as the guy who shows up for holiday dinners and tells stories like how he got booted from a merchant marine ship off the Pacific coast of South America because (as the ship’s cook) he was tired of making bagels every morning. No, I want to be the guy who shows up on Abigail’s 8th birthday and asks her if she wants to go see the horsies run. That’s the type of crazy I plan to be.
Of course this means I have to alter my life plans. As my roommate pointed out, it’d be for the best if I remained single. Having a crazy uncle is one thing, but having both a crazy uncle and aunt? That’s when invitations start getting “lost” in the mail. I was planning to have a normal life: a career, family, remembering birthdays, and not showing up in Hawaiian shirts for family funerals. All that’s been tossed out the window. It’s time to reprioritize. How soon do you think I can move to Fiji?
I need stories to tell. About bar fights, and broken limbs. Stories involving rickety planes and motorcycle failure. The time I fought of a grizzly bear in the Yucatan. About forgetting anniversaries and random tattoos and ever more random women. Tales that are uncomfortable to tell at dinner, but inappropriate to tell while at the hospital.
The one thing I would never do is put my niece in harms way. Like I’ll never have her help me smuggle drugs up from Guatemala. But I’ll totally tell her about the time I did (and subsequent jail time spent in a forced labor camp outside of Mexico City).
I want Abigail to realize that her uncle loves her; and also realize that she never, ever wants to be anything like me.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Both Hands on the Wheel
When you’re first learning to drive, you’re taught to hold your hands (as if the steering wheel were a clock) at 9 and 3, or 10 and 2. I’m sure there are people who argue the merits of one over the other, but those people are boring and need to date more. Nonetheless, it seems the prevailing mindset is to teach teenagers that having both hands gripped firmly on the wheel is best, preventing one from having a free hand for texting. No doubt it’s also because the “left hand only at 7” method of driving isn’t smart to teach to girls and boys who aren’t capable of making a right hand turn without crossing in to oncoming traffic. On the whole teenagers make horrible drivers. Then again most people aren’t good drivers until they’re 25 and forced to confront their own mortality for the first time.
Like all things that high schoolers do, they believe they’re the best at it. Which is why they take stupid risks; driving with their knees or speeding 100 miles an hour on a four-lane divided highway. At some point you realize your mother is right and that it doesn’t matter how fast you get there if you get there in an ambulance. And it’s only 15 miles, so you’re shaving all of two minutes off your drive time. Better use that extra one-thirtieth of an hour wisely!
Using both hands to drive seems so absurd. It’s not like your parents used both hands. More likely one hand rested on the ledge by the driver-side window, or held a cigarette as they blew second hand smoke into your face. I drove for three months while slightly leaning toward the driver-side door and woke every morning with hip pain for the next six months. It was at that point that I moved my seat a bit forward and started driving like I was eighty. I bet most people don’t drive with two hands because it just doesn’t look cool.
Because isn’t that the point of driving? To look cool? That’s why we have sports cars, right? It’s the reason we love Steve McQueen. The chase scene in Bullitt is why he’s one of the coolest people of all time. When I took my driving test I had to parallel park keeping both hands on the wheel. Nobody does that! The proper way to parallel park is to put your right arm around the back of the passenger seat and palm the wheel as you back into the space. You’re not cool turning the wheel hand over hand.
But really, who cares if you look cool while driving when nobody notices except you? That group of sexy sorority girls in the Ford Mustang convertible that you passed on the highway? You’re never going to see them again, so what does it matter what they think of you? Besides, you need to find action in spite of the fact that you drive a Honda Civic, not because of it. I'm comfortable driving two-handed. It feels right to me. After trying the 10 and 2, I recently switched to a 9 and 1. Well, more like a 9 and 12:50. Do I look cool driving with both hands on the wheel? I don’t think it matters.
Like all things that high schoolers do, they believe they’re the best at it. Which is why they take stupid risks; driving with their knees or speeding 100 miles an hour on a four-lane divided highway. At some point you realize your mother is right and that it doesn’t matter how fast you get there if you get there in an ambulance. And it’s only 15 miles, so you’re shaving all of two minutes off your drive time. Better use that extra one-thirtieth of an hour wisely!
Using both hands to drive seems so absurd. It’s not like your parents used both hands. More likely one hand rested on the ledge by the driver-side window, or held a cigarette as they blew second hand smoke into your face. I drove for three months while slightly leaning toward the driver-side door and woke every morning with hip pain for the next six months. It was at that point that I moved my seat a bit forward and started driving like I was eighty. I bet most people don’t drive with two hands because it just doesn’t look cool.
Because isn’t that the point of driving? To look cool? That’s why we have sports cars, right? It’s the reason we love Steve McQueen. The chase scene in Bullitt is why he’s one of the coolest people of all time. When I took my driving test I had to parallel park keeping both hands on the wheel. Nobody does that! The proper way to parallel park is to put your right arm around the back of the passenger seat and palm the wheel as you back into the space. You’re not cool turning the wheel hand over hand.
But really, who cares if you look cool while driving when nobody notices except you? That group of sexy sorority girls in the Ford Mustang convertible that you passed on the highway? You’re never going to see them again, so what does it matter what they think of you? Besides, you need to find action in spite of the fact that you drive a Honda Civic, not because of it. I'm comfortable driving two-handed. It feels right to me. After trying the 10 and 2, I recently switched to a 9 and 1. Well, more like a 9 and 12:50. Do I look cool driving with both hands on the wheel? I don’t think it matters.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Best Man for the Job?
Now that Bristol Palin’s had the chance to lose all her baby weight (ah to be 18 and no longer pregnant), she’s heading out to tell young’ins that abstinence is the only sure-fire way to prevent pregnancy. Which of course is true. But try telling a bunch of teenagers that instead of intercourse they should just stick with sexting; let me know how that works out. And while we could debate the merits of abstinence only education vs. a more comprehensive approach (including contraceptives), it wouldn’t fit nicely into a pre-packaged piece between commercial breaks; and I’d bet that neither you nor I have the in-depth knowledge to make headway on this topic. Which is why I’m thankful for Levi Johnston.
In a, let’s say exclusive, interview with CBS news, Johnston gave his opinions on the abstinence issue. See, his opinion matters because he’s a former high school hockey star and recent high school drop out. Oh, sorry. His opinion matters because he (in hockey terminology) scored on an empty net. Granted, if Bristol Palin, in her “Keep it in Your Pants ’09 Abstinence Tour” (sponsored by irony) is going to tell her side of the relationship/RNC staged engagement that was her connection to Johnston, then he has every right to defend himself and tell his side of the story. Which is exactly what he did a few months ago on Tyra Banks’ show: because nothing screams credibility like Tyra.
I’d never realized that to become an expert on teen pregnancy all one needs to is accidentally knock up your high school sweetheart who happens to be the daughter of the governor when said governor is tapped to be a vice presidential nominee. I doubt Johnston would be the expert that CBS believes him to be if he’d been able to wrap it tight for just a few more months. Had he done so, we might be engaging in an actual dialogue on this important topic, rather than letting the debate play out between a pair of former high school flames, treating it almost like it’s another meaningless high school argument. But if we really did discuss this issue there’d no doubt be much less gossip. And if we’ve all learned one thing from high school it’s that gossip might be the one thing that always draws our attention.
In a, let’s say exclusive, interview with CBS news, Johnston gave his opinions on the abstinence issue. See, his opinion matters because he’s a former high school hockey star and recent high school drop out. Oh, sorry. His opinion matters because he (in hockey terminology) scored on an empty net. Granted, if Bristol Palin, in her “Keep it in Your Pants ’09 Abstinence Tour” (sponsored by irony) is going to tell her side of the relationship/RNC staged engagement that was her connection to Johnston, then he has every right to defend himself and tell his side of the story. Which is exactly what he did a few months ago on Tyra Banks’ show: because nothing screams credibility like Tyra.
I’d never realized that to become an expert on teen pregnancy all one needs to is accidentally knock up your high school sweetheart who happens to be the daughter of the governor when said governor is tapped to be a vice presidential nominee. I doubt Johnston would be the expert that CBS believes him to be if he’d been able to wrap it tight for just a few more months. Had he done so, we might be engaging in an actual dialogue on this important topic, rather than letting the debate play out between a pair of former high school flames, treating it almost like it’s another meaningless high school argument. But if we really did discuss this issue there’d no doubt be much less gossip. And if we’ve all learned one thing from high school it’s that gossip might be the one thing that always draws our attention.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Braggadocio
I’m awesome. On a scale of zero to awesome I’m an 18.5, which is above Steven Seagal, but below a Steven Seagal impersonator playing in a Steven Seagal cover band. In the morning I collect the awesome hairs from my nightly shedding and sell them to a shaman who makes potions to cure blindness and impotence.
I’m awesome when I make cinnamon buns and I’m doubly awesome when I make cupcakes. I look awesome walking down the street; I look awesome riding my bike. When I weed the garden I perform two important functions: getting rid of weeds; and letting the flowers soak up my inherent awesomeness. I’m like the sun x10 to flowers. I’m growing a sunflower inside my house that’s fourteen feet high. Because I’m awesome.
They say the average male thinks about sex every 25 seconds. I’m so awesome I think about sex every 12.5 seconds. I think about being awesome every 8 seconds. Every three minutes and twenty seconds the two overlap and I think about awesome sex. That’s right, I just solved an algebra problem in my head by using my awesome math skills.
In seventh grade I was reading at a tenth grade level, which is such an awesome reading level that I decided to stop there. No point in going further. I’d already achieved the level of awesome.
I realize that others should know about just how awesome I am. So head to your fall out shelters, cause I’m about to drop a knowledge bomb on you: I’m awesome; but I’m not a jerk about it.
I’m awesome when I make cinnamon buns and I’m doubly awesome when I make cupcakes. I look awesome walking down the street; I look awesome riding my bike. When I weed the garden I perform two important functions: getting rid of weeds; and letting the flowers soak up my inherent awesomeness. I’m like the sun x10 to flowers. I’m growing a sunflower inside my house that’s fourteen feet high. Because I’m awesome.
They say the average male thinks about sex every 25 seconds. I’m so awesome I think about sex every 12.5 seconds. I think about being awesome every 8 seconds. Every three minutes and twenty seconds the two overlap and I think about awesome sex. That’s right, I just solved an algebra problem in my head by using my awesome math skills.
In seventh grade I was reading at a tenth grade level, which is such an awesome reading level that I decided to stop there. No point in going further. I’d already achieved the level of awesome.
I realize that others should know about just how awesome I am. So head to your fall out shelters, cause I’m about to drop a knowledge bomb on you: I’m awesome; but I’m not a jerk about it.
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