Unlike many of their contemporaries, my sons are not very well versed when it comes to profanity. Even within the scope of relatives, I've been told that my niece's children out on the East Coast -- who range from both older and younger than Marty and Casey -- have the vocabulary of proverbial sailors.
Marty and Casey aren't even entirely sure what qualifies as swear words. Its not because their parents are against profanity. Amy has no qualms about utilizing the full array of curse words, and I have a tendency to work blue enough that I have to remember to limit the saltiness for certain settings (I've had to say the words "Sorry, Father" and "Sorry, Sister" enough times during my life that I'm sure it will be brought up during my "Defending Your Life" highlight reel.)
However, we have always made it a point to not swear around the kids if possible. That's actually how it was when I was a kid, to be honest. I still remember when I was about 13-years-old and my adult male relatives decided that I was now old enough that the didn't need to edit their language any more. I remember being more than a little surprised that the word 'f*ck' was as popular a term with many of them as it was. Suddenly, there was a lot of f*ck this and f*ck that floating around the garages and backyards. I was fairly impressed, based on how liberally they proceeded to swear once the handcuffs were off, that they had managed to keep a lid on it for as long as they did.
Lately, however, I have found that I have slipped more than normal. Not surprisingly, this has happened while I was behind the wheel. One day not that long ago, I was taking the kids to daycare in our van, as opposed to the Ford Taurus that I typically drive. Turns out that my travel mug full of coffee doesn't really fit in the cup holder of the van. As I rounded a corner, the cup and the coffee went flying. "Son of a bitch!," I let out.
Without hesitation, I heard a chuckle from the rear. "Son of a bitch," Marty said. "That's funny."
I told him that he shouldn't say that, and when he asked why not, I said that it just wasn't a nice thing to say.
"Why did you say it then?," he asked.
I never did come up with a good answer for that.
Then, not long after that, someone cut me off as we were driving to go to a movie, causing me to slam on the brakes. "Damn it!," I said, managing to stop short of unleashing a torrent of colorful descriptions of the driver of the other vehicle.
This time it was Casey that mimicked me, shouting, "Damn it!" a few seconds after I did.
When I said that they did not need to repeat me every time that I happened to cuss, Casey just smirked at me. He's a little more worldly than his brother and I'm pretty sure that he commits every slip from every adult he knows to memory so that he can impress his fellow (future) first graders.
I'll continue to try to watch what I say, but I'm sure I'll slip again. And, I'm just as sure that they'll call me on it when I do.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Brazil
A few months ago, my office hired a part-time guy from Brazil. Yes, Brazil the country. Carnival, bossa nova and all of that. We brought him in partly because in addition to Portuguese, he also speaks Spanish. He turned down an offer to work at Ambercrombie & Fitch to take the office job.
He came in just as nice as could be. Nobody could understand a word that he was saying -- one of our customers, after talking to him on the phone, thought that he was Middle Eastern, and tried to relay back to me what he thought was said...wholly unsuccessfully -- but he said it in a very pleasant tone.
Then we started to learn a little more about him. About how he had been a bee keeper in Hawaii and Florida while studying in the United States. How he has a degree in agronomy that he hasn't figured out anything to do with. How he dragged his young wife to Brazil so that he could finish college, only to have her drag him back to the comparatively frigid Midwest.
All of that was normal. Sort of. I mean, the bee keeping stuff was kind of odd, but if you're an agronomy major there's only so many internships available to you probably.
Our first clue that there was more to him, though, was during an early staff meeting I asked if there were any additional questions or comments. He raised his hand. "Yes, he said, in his lilting accented English and pointing at two coworkers, "I don't like them."
He was joking (we're pretty sure), but it caused us to start paying attention to the gibberish that was coming out of his mouth. Turns out that once you can decipher it, there's a lot of stuff like that. It's like having a South American Latka Gravas in a shirt and tie.
He told one story about when he tried to buy toothpaste when he first came to the U.S. in Florida. He translated the Portuguese "pasta de dente" into paste for teeth. However, he struggled a little with the "th" sound, so he went into the store and said to the lady behind the counter, "I need paste for my teets." We're not clear on exactly what he was given, but apparently he can run a marathon without chafing.
Then, we found out that he's actually a published children's storybook writer in his native country. The story is about a frog and a fly that fall in love with each other. After reading it in both Portuguese and English, I told him that it was better in Portuguese. I wasn't trying to be insulting...it actually did flow better in the language in which it was written. He acknowledged that trying to get words about frog on fly love to translate wasn't as easy as he thought it would be.
All of that was great, but then came this...his You Tube work. We're honestly not sure what to make of it, but it did make the other manager in our area laugh so hard that he hyperventilated.
Lord knows what's coming next. Were he Argentinian, I'd probably be worried that something might come out about his lineage, but being Brazillian he seems safe with that. The biggest worry is finding out that he's got another name...he's already got too many to fit on a business card. It's like 10 or 11 words, if you count all the de's.
One thing my sitcom life was missing was the truly wacky character. Sometimes if you just stay patient, inspiration comes walking in the door...fresh off an Ambercrombie & Fitch employee orientation.
He came in just as nice as could be. Nobody could understand a word that he was saying -- one of our customers, after talking to him on the phone, thought that he was Middle Eastern, and tried to relay back to me what he thought was said...wholly unsuccessfully -- but he said it in a very pleasant tone.
Then we started to learn a little more about him. About how he had been a bee keeper in Hawaii and Florida while studying in the United States. How he has a degree in agronomy that he hasn't figured out anything to do with. How he dragged his young wife to Brazil so that he could finish college, only to have her drag him back to the comparatively frigid Midwest.
All of that was normal. Sort of. I mean, the bee keeping stuff was kind of odd, but if you're an agronomy major there's only so many internships available to you probably.
Our first clue that there was more to him, though, was during an early staff meeting I asked if there were any additional questions or comments. He raised his hand. "Yes, he said, in his lilting accented English and pointing at two coworkers, "I don't like them."
He was joking (we're pretty sure), but it caused us to start paying attention to the gibberish that was coming out of his mouth. Turns out that once you can decipher it, there's a lot of stuff like that. It's like having a South American Latka Gravas in a shirt and tie.
He told one story about when he tried to buy toothpaste when he first came to the U.S. in Florida. He translated the Portuguese "pasta de dente" into paste for teeth. However, he struggled a little with the "th" sound, so he went into the store and said to the lady behind the counter, "I need paste for my teets." We're not clear on exactly what he was given, but apparently he can run a marathon without chafing.
Then, we found out that he's actually a published children's storybook writer in his native country. The story is about a frog and a fly that fall in love with each other. After reading it in both Portuguese and English, I told him that it was better in Portuguese. I wasn't trying to be insulting...it actually did flow better in the language in which it was written. He acknowledged that trying to get words about frog on fly love to translate wasn't as easy as he thought it would be.
All of that was great, but then came this...his You Tube work. We're honestly not sure what to make of it, but it did make the other manager in our area laugh so hard that he hyperventilated.
Lord knows what's coming next. Were he Argentinian, I'd probably be worried that something might come out about his lineage, but being Brazillian he seems safe with that. The biggest worry is finding out that he's got another name...he's already got too many to fit on a business card. It's like 10 or 11 words, if you count all the de's.
One thing my sitcom life was missing was the truly wacky character. Sometimes if you just stay patient, inspiration comes walking in the door...fresh off an Ambercrombie & Fitch employee orientation.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Fourth of July
Independence Day. The Fourth of July. It's a holiday that I had drilled into my head as a child in Delaware, which like any of the original colonies, has numerous markers heralding the spot where different significant things happened. "Washington slept here" signs were a standard punchline when I was a kid, but funny though they might be, they were something that I actually saw on a regular basis. Half of the schools are named for Revolutionary War heroes, so you begin to learn the names even before you have any idea of what they mean. And, being so close to Philadelphia, I was well versed in Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell and the various Franklin-named institutions.
However, I've usually been ambivalent about the holiday itself. I don't really care about fireworks, I don't really like being in crowds and I don't have that strong of an affinity for parties.
My sons, on the other hand, feel differently. A couple of years ago they spent the Fourth at their aunt's wedding in Texas, hanging out at their new uncle's parents' house. Down there, they don't believe in just having some fireworks...they have the usual town displays like everyone else, but then every other house has their own set of explosions that the ferocity of which would cause widespread panic up North.
Oh and at this particular soiree, they were also shooting off AK-47's. Now, Marty and Casey think that you're only really celebrating the birth of the nation if you've got some assault rifles to put into the mix.
To this day, the boys think that they should get to go to Texas every year for Independence Day...something that makes their uncle feel as though he's done his part in educating them.
One of the things that I find odd is that for as long as I can remember, part of my Fourth of July weekend usually involves watching Wimbledon. Maybe it's just a reminder that we only have to play at paying attention to the royal family and all of the fancy-pants goings-ons...we're not forced to do it. (And, really, how many Americans walking the streets right now honestly have no idea that we even waged war with England? Then again, how many Americans would have trouble telling which was which, England, Great Britain or Canada? You can hope that we're smarter than that, but the low-end comedy of Jeff Foxworthy and Jay Leno has proven otherwise.)
For my part, I have gotten in the habit in recent years of watching documentaries on the History Channel and then the movie version of the musical, "1776." (Amy, a "Boy Meets World" fan -- which, who knew there was such a thing -- still chuckles at Mr. Feeny playing a singing John Adams.)
Speaking of John Adams, its hard not to note that he tends to be a favorite of writers, particularly comedy writers. Not as a writer -- Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison were all better -- but as a person.
The second president was hard-headed and had trouble not saying whatever was bothering him, even though that had a tendency to really annoy people, including his own family. He didn't understand why people didn't see things his way, not so much out of arrogance, but because he really thought that what he believed was the best position. Anyone that's ever spent time in a writers' room on a TV show, will recognize those traits.
He was also just as critical of himself as he was of others. He was exceedingly confident, and didn't understand what the problem with that was. The guy spent most of his life knowing that people didn't like him, but could never figure out why that was such an issue. Based on his writings, he was genuinely perplexed about why people had such a problem with him. Again, most comedy writers can easily relate.
And, then the guy had an inferiority complex. He was the first vice president...and the first to point out that it's a stupid position. While he helped shape the Declaration of Independence, he was in England when the Constitution was being written and was hearing about things a month after they happened, causing him to be pretty useless (Thomas Jefferson was stuck in the same way, but he wasn't quite the worrier that Adams was). And, when he finally got to be president, it lasted for one-term and he was defeated by one of his friends (Jefferson), who completely ripped him in public.
He also had a wife that was much better liked than he was...another thing that most comedy writers can get. People liked Abigail Adams so much that they would keep writing to her even when they weren't on speaking terms with her husband. We're not talking about just anyone... most of the Founding Fathers thought that John Adams most redeeming quality was Abigail. Its like having all of your peers tolerate having you at a party, because that's the only way that your wife will come (something that I'm pretty sure has happened with me personally).
Plus, while Adams was more of a legal writer in public life, the guy was a closet romantic...writing heartfelt letters to the woman he loved. He was the proverbial pain in the ass with a heart of gold, which is how most writers see themselves. He couldn't even stay angry at Jefferson, trading letters with him during retirement right up until they both died. (If you don't know the story, Adams and Jefferson both died on the same day, July 4, 1826...or exactly 50 years after they signed the Declaration of Independence.)
Wasn't really a good president, spent time worrying that everyone liked and respected his peers more than him, but was too stubborn to ever go away. Where he alive today, he probably would've made it through law school and then gone to write for a David E. Kelley law drama...where he'd fit right in.
However, I've usually been ambivalent about the holiday itself. I don't really care about fireworks, I don't really like being in crowds and I don't have that strong of an affinity for parties.
My sons, on the other hand, feel differently. A couple of years ago they spent the Fourth at their aunt's wedding in Texas, hanging out at their new uncle's parents' house. Down there, they don't believe in just having some fireworks...they have the usual town displays like everyone else, but then every other house has their own set of explosions that the ferocity of which would cause widespread panic up North.
Oh and at this particular soiree, they were also shooting off AK-47's. Now, Marty and Casey think that you're only really celebrating the birth of the nation if you've got some assault rifles to put into the mix.
To this day, the boys think that they should get to go to Texas every year for Independence Day...something that makes their uncle feel as though he's done his part in educating them.
One of the things that I find odd is that for as long as I can remember, part of my Fourth of July weekend usually involves watching Wimbledon. Maybe it's just a reminder that we only have to play at paying attention to the royal family and all of the fancy-pants goings-ons...we're not forced to do it. (And, really, how many Americans walking the streets right now honestly have no idea that we even waged war with England? Then again, how many Americans would have trouble telling which was which, England, Great Britain or Canada? You can hope that we're smarter than that, but the low-end comedy of Jeff Foxworthy and Jay Leno has proven otherwise.)
For my part, I have gotten in the habit in recent years of watching documentaries on the History Channel and then the movie version of the musical, "1776." (Amy, a "Boy Meets World" fan -- which, who knew there was such a thing -- still chuckles at Mr. Feeny playing a singing John Adams.)
Speaking of John Adams, its hard not to note that he tends to be a favorite of writers, particularly comedy writers. Not as a writer -- Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison were all better -- but as a person.
The second president was hard-headed and had trouble not saying whatever was bothering him, even though that had a tendency to really annoy people, including his own family. He didn't understand why people didn't see things his way, not so much out of arrogance, but because he really thought that what he believed was the best position. Anyone that's ever spent time in a writers' room on a TV show, will recognize those traits.
He was also just as critical of himself as he was of others. He was exceedingly confident, and didn't understand what the problem with that was. The guy spent most of his life knowing that people didn't like him, but could never figure out why that was such an issue. Based on his writings, he was genuinely perplexed about why people had such a problem with him. Again, most comedy writers can easily relate.
And, then the guy had an inferiority complex. He was the first vice president...and the first to point out that it's a stupid position. While he helped shape the Declaration of Independence, he was in England when the Constitution was being written and was hearing about things a month after they happened, causing him to be pretty useless (Thomas Jefferson was stuck in the same way, but he wasn't quite the worrier that Adams was). And, when he finally got to be president, it lasted for one-term and he was defeated by one of his friends (Jefferson), who completely ripped him in public.
He also had a wife that was much better liked than he was...another thing that most comedy writers can get. People liked Abigail Adams so much that they would keep writing to her even when they weren't on speaking terms with her husband. We're not talking about just anyone... most of the Founding Fathers thought that John Adams most redeeming quality was Abigail. Its like having all of your peers tolerate having you at a party, because that's the only way that your wife will come (something that I'm pretty sure has happened with me personally).
Plus, while Adams was more of a legal writer in public life, the guy was a closet romantic...writing heartfelt letters to the woman he loved. He was the proverbial pain in the ass with a heart of gold, which is how most writers see themselves. He couldn't even stay angry at Jefferson, trading letters with him during retirement right up until they both died. (If you don't know the story, Adams and Jefferson both died on the same day, July 4, 1826...or exactly 50 years after they signed the Declaration of Independence.)
Wasn't really a good president, spent time worrying that everyone liked and respected his peers more than him, but was too stubborn to ever go away. Where he alive today, he probably would've made it through law school and then gone to write for a David E. Kelley law drama...where he'd fit right in.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Sick
I hate being sick.
They always say that doctors make the worst patients. Well, apparently, I missed my calling because I hate feeling under the weather. I despise it.
And, when I don't feel well, I am even more miserable to be around than normal...and that's saying something.
Earlier this week, I had to got to a sleep-study to see if I have sleep apnea. The video that they show you to explain what's going to happen, which features a bald guy with glasses. The only other patient at this place was another guy that was bald, with glasses. I have no idea why my bald, bespectacled brethren are the poster children for sleep issues, but apparently we are.
Here's the thing about a sleep-study...you don't sleep. They hook you up to various electrodes that measure this and that. Then they go into another room to make sure that the camera and intercom works so that they can watch you all night. Then they tell you to relax and go to sleep.
Sure.
You're alone in a room with a TV and a Sleepmatic bed, and a stranger watching you in another room. As I flipped through the channels on the TV, I noticed that it got the Playboy channel. Apparently there's a fertility clinic in another part of the building. Then I remembered the stupid camera and intercom. So, instead I watched the Bill Murray classic, "Meatballs" and "Mythbusters" until they told me that I needed to try to sleep.
Oh, I laid there. I tried to roll over, entangling myself in the wires. Finally, I semi-rolled onto my shoulder and stayed there. Time past slowly. When I drifted off a little bit, the person buzzed in to tell me to try to lay on my back. So, I did. And then I laid there some more. And, then I had to go to the bathroom. The more I tried to not think about having to go to the bathroom, the more that I had to. Finally, I had to figure out how to do that.
Here's the thing, the intercom can buzz in to you, but they don't really tell you how to signal them. I tried to just say, "I have to go to the bathroom" in a normal voice. Nothing happened. I tried it a little louder. Nothing.
I started trying to find some paper to write a note to hold up to the camera when the intercom buzzed and the voice on the other end said, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"
After that, I started the whole process again until finally I heard them waking up the other patient. Then they came for me. I don't know how much I actually slept, but it didn't feel like much at all.
With glue and adhesive from the electrodes still all over me, I went to my office. I finally left early to go try to get some sleep and when I woke up, I had a 102-degree fever.
For the rest of the week, I've been miserable and I've had to restrain myself from inflicting that misery on too many others. My staff seemed annoyed that I didn't want to talk to them, but in reality, when I'm sick I normally have to hold my tongue to keep from screaming at anyone and everyone. As it was, I came dangerously close to telling one of the owners of the company that work for to go do something unseemly with his laptop computer.
I'm not any better at home. I don't like people touching me when I'm sick...which is an issue with two kids around. The more I don't want them to touch me, the more they want to...in part, because they figure if they get sick they can hang out an watch TV. Funny that I never get to do that.
Instead, I just end up in some sort of sickness purgatory...forcing myself to do whatever I can, while not really accomplishing anything.
At the end of the workweek, I finally had occasion to talk to my boss on the phone. I sounded like Froggy from "The Little Rascals," which was actually a step-up. For the past two days, I've sounded like Harvey Fierstein. He helpfully pointed out that I sounded horrible. Thankfully, it would've hurt my throat too much to unleash a torrent of obscenities.
Worse than my voice, I'm coughing...which is pretty much the most obnoxious symptom there is. Vomitting and diarhea can at least be done in private. There's no way to get around people knowing that you're coughing and there's no way for others to hide their distasteful looks that you're spreading germs. You can do the Dracula cover -- coughing into the crook of your arm -- all you want...it doesn't make any difference. Lepers are treated more sympathetically than someone with cough.
I'd love to think that I'm going to get to rest over the weekend, but I don't really have those things. I just have different jobs that I do on the weekend, with different people that I have to try not to yell at.
Meanwhile, I'm sucking down so many vitamins that GNC should be offering me a stock option. Anytime now, all that immunity boosting better start paying off soon, or there's going to be a whole lot of yelling going on up in here.
As soon as I can actually talk, that is.
They always say that doctors make the worst patients. Well, apparently, I missed my calling because I hate feeling under the weather. I despise it.
And, when I don't feel well, I am even more miserable to be around than normal...and that's saying something.
Earlier this week, I had to got to a sleep-study to see if I have sleep apnea. The video that they show you to explain what's going to happen, which features a bald guy with glasses. The only other patient at this place was another guy that was bald, with glasses. I have no idea why my bald, bespectacled brethren are the poster children for sleep issues, but apparently we are.
Here's the thing about a sleep-study...you don't sleep. They hook you up to various electrodes that measure this and that. Then they go into another room to make sure that the camera and intercom works so that they can watch you all night. Then they tell you to relax and go to sleep.
Sure.
You're alone in a room with a TV and a Sleepmatic bed, and a stranger watching you in another room. As I flipped through the channels on the TV, I noticed that it got the Playboy channel. Apparently there's a fertility clinic in another part of the building. Then I remembered the stupid camera and intercom. So, instead I watched the Bill Murray classic, "Meatballs" and "Mythbusters" until they told me that I needed to try to sleep.
Oh, I laid there. I tried to roll over, entangling myself in the wires. Finally, I semi-rolled onto my shoulder and stayed there. Time past slowly. When I drifted off a little bit, the person buzzed in to tell me to try to lay on my back. So, I did. And then I laid there some more. And, then I had to go to the bathroom. The more I tried to not think about having to go to the bathroom, the more that I had to. Finally, I had to figure out how to do that.
Here's the thing, the intercom can buzz in to you, but they don't really tell you how to signal them. I tried to just say, "I have to go to the bathroom" in a normal voice. Nothing happened. I tried it a little louder. Nothing.
I started trying to find some paper to write a note to hold up to the camera when the intercom buzzed and the voice on the other end said, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"
After that, I started the whole process again until finally I heard them waking up the other patient. Then they came for me. I don't know how much I actually slept, but it didn't feel like much at all.
With glue and adhesive from the electrodes still all over me, I went to my office. I finally left early to go try to get some sleep and when I woke up, I had a 102-degree fever.
For the rest of the week, I've been miserable and I've had to restrain myself from inflicting that misery on too many others. My staff seemed annoyed that I didn't want to talk to them, but in reality, when I'm sick I normally have to hold my tongue to keep from screaming at anyone and everyone. As it was, I came dangerously close to telling one of the owners of the company that work for to go do something unseemly with his laptop computer.
I'm not any better at home. I don't like people touching me when I'm sick...which is an issue with two kids around. The more I don't want them to touch me, the more they want to...in part, because they figure if they get sick they can hang out an watch TV. Funny that I never get to do that.
Instead, I just end up in some sort of sickness purgatory...forcing myself to do whatever I can, while not really accomplishing anything.
At the end of the workweek, I finally had occasion to talk to my boss on the phone. I sounded like Froggy from "The Little Rascals," which was actually a step-up. For the past two days, I've sounded like Harvey Fierstein. He helpfully pointed out that I sounded horrible. Thankfully, it would've hurt my throat too much to unleash a torrent of obscenities.
Worse than my voice, I'm coughing...which is pretty much the most obnoxious symptom there is. Vomitting and diarhea can at least be done in private. There's no way to get around people knowing that you're coughing and there's no way for others to hide their distasteful looks that you're spreading germs. You can do the Dracula cover -- coughing into the crook of your arm -- all you want...it doesn't make any difference. Lepers are treated more sympathetically than someone with cough.
I'd love to think that I'm going to get to rest over the weekend, but I don't really have those things. I just have different jobs that I do on the weekend, with different people that I have to try not to yell at.
Meanwhile, I'm sucking down so many vitamins that GNC should be offering me a stock option. Anytime now, all that immunity boosting better start paying off soon, or there's going to be a whole lot of yelling going on up in here.
As soon as I can actually talk, that is.
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