Exiting GuyLand

Posted by He Said

This last week I heard a news story on NPR about this phenomenon where boys CHOOSE not to be men until in their late 20's.  What makes you a man? According to this story and the author of a book called GuyLand, it entails graduating from high school, financial independence, marriage and children.  So that’s what makes you a man?  I can assure you I know several males who meet those requirements and do not qualify as men.  I won't name names unless you make a direct financial contribution to my retirement fund.  This story made me think about this, and I believe I have a new life event to add to this list.

For those of you who don't know, we have a dog who is the reincarnation of Houdini but goes simply by the name Charmin.  Go ahead, search the blog and catch up.  I can wait.

So now that you are all up to speed on the fact that our dog can jump over the moon to explore the neighborhood, I have an update for you. It's getting worse. She now loves to do it anytime she wants whether we are home or not. Please, don't comment that it's a behavioral problem. I GET IT.  To fix this issue I started taking her to a dog training class at Petsmart taught by a great lady by the name of Roxanne Kimball.  I had hoped training my dog to understand that I am the leader of the pack would changer her behavior.  I had hoped she would start to stick around when we leave her in the backyard.

This is not what happened.  In fact it has gotten worse.  Normally she only jumps out when we leave.  Recently she has leapt out when we put her out to take care of business, she hears someone or something outside and over she goes. So it’s official.  Yes, I am a crappy dog parent.

The other morning I swore to start walking her regularly.  You know, because exercise is supposed to make your dog happy and suppress the wanderlust. This of course is traumatic in its own right because Charmin gets very protective of of the family when she is on her leash.  She is great at doggy daycare.  They love her there.  Put her on a lease to take her for a walk and she turns into Cujo growling, snapping and all the while wagging her tail like she WANTS to go play, but the second voice in her head is telling her to kill them…kill them all.

So the first day of our new routine, off we went down the street, headed towards the new home construction area.  It's bustling with early morning construction workers.  Full of buff, hard hatted, tattooed and flannel wearing construction workers. You know what I am talking about.  Man's man kinda guys. The kind of guys who have testicles hanging from the backs of their Mini Monster Trucks and fully loaded gun racks in the windows.  You know men who are native Nevadans.

Then I realized.  Here I am walking my dog with her pink collar and her pink leash. I’m comfortable with my masculinity I can handle it.  Then I realize on my way out I had to grab the last travel mug to bring my morning liquid crack with me.  It's not just any mug.  It's a bright pink coffee mug.

Seriously pink.

I realize I look like a walking breast cancer awareness ribbon.

I won’t lie.  I considered crossing the street.

Let me tell you. Nothing graduates you faster from guy land like walking through a construction crew with all pink accessories.  Ok, except maybe walking through WalMart in a Utilikit, but that’s a story for another day. 

Well, My Dream of Being a Backup Dancer for Lady Gaga Just Sashayed Off the Dance Floor

Posted by She Said

Oh, I truly believed myself to be a decent dancer. Good even. Sadly though, two things have burst this little fantasy of mine. First, that damn XBox Kinect Dance Central game. Don’t get me wrong, it is a blast. Great songs. Great moves. Great fun.

Until the replay.

Some sick, twisted geek at Microsoft thought it would be funny to let everyone see what they look like during a sped-up replay at the end of the song. Seriously, I did NOT need to see what I look like dancing during a replay. I know I look SO much cooler than that. In my head.

Second, I completed, and not gracefully, a hip hop exercise class at the gym this morning. I was all over the hip rolls, the attitude, and the sashays. That is, until I saw my reflection in one of the twenty hundred billion fifty mirrors emblazoned on every possible hard surface. As I step-tapped left to right while everyone else step-tapped right to left, I had to come to terms with the fact that I. Am. Not. A. Dancing. Queen.

If I were honest though, I could probably look to the way-back, known as my twenties, and discovered this a lot sooner. My friend, John, and I would drive to San Francisco in the wee hours to hit some hard-core thumpin’ dance beats. We’d dance FOR HOURS. Much of my time was spent with my eyes closed, dancing alone, stationed in front of one of the speakers. That’s right. I was THAT cool kid.

But I never, ever got a date out of it.

However, that might have been more due to the fact that the dance floor was filled with shirtless, sweaty gay boys than any misconceived ideas of my cool factor? Maybe I am just out of practice? Maybe I am still that cool kid dancer?

Ahhh, who am I kidding. I’ll give up thinking I’m all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips and just get used to the fact that people may giggle on the dance floor in my near vicinity. So be it.

What the Hell?

Posted by She Said

What the hell has happened to personal responsibility? Seriously. I know there are people out there roaming the streets, just looking for that obviously icy sidewalk to “slip” on, hoping to cash in on a few. Or those that claim they had no idea they could gain a lot of weight from eating too many Big Macs and Super Sized fries and soda. WHAT? You gain weight if you eat lots of crappy food? I’m shocked.

I mostly thought these people existed largely as a means of feeding the sensationalist Interwebs.

Until now.

A friend of mine, she wants to be called Loretta, works in a grocery store, and it is her job to deal with any people that might come in with a complaint, or should I say a “complaint.” <eye roll> Here are some of the things she has heard recently:

I bought this avocado two weeks ago and it rotted.

What the hell? You mean if I don’t eat a piece of fruit, it will go bad!? GASP! That’s just bull. I would demand my money back, fo sho.

I brought in my bag last time, and the checker didn’t give me my bag refund.

What? You mean, if I forget, I can spend two bucks in gas getting back to the store and get my nickel? Oh, hells ya! I’m all over that.

I bought this piece of meat from you, and we cooked it last night, and it was terrible. Here’s my receipt.

Yeah, I got nuthin’ on the cajones it must have taken to actually pull that one off, but someone did. And they got their money back.

People, seriously. Take some responsibility for yourselves. Or I might just start suing your asses for pissing me off.

You are Going DOWN, Grandpa

Posted by She Said

Our family recently joined a gym, and as much as as it surprises me to say it, I am actually enjoying it. Originally it was the variety of programs for the kids that got us to step foot in there in the first place, but now Greg is training for his first 5K. And me? I took full advantage of the FREE month of Pilates given to me, a membership prize, so to speak. Now that my month is up and there is no way in hell I am going to shell out more bucks to continue Pilates, I have now turned to the world of the <free> group classes. My first (and so far only) one was the Body Push class which uses a barbell and weights during its THREE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED seconds of torture fulfilling and body-bettering exercise.

Luckily, I saw a woman who has a daughter at the same school as my kids heading to the class at the same time, so I tagged along with her and got the scoop on what to expect from the class.

The class was incredible, truly. But it wasn’t the challenge of the class or the collective energy of the group keeping up with the chiseled and humorous instructor that was the most memorable part of my inaugural Body Push.

Nope.

It was the 50-something man behind me asking me if the woman I was talking to when I entered the class was my DAUGHTER.

My daughter? Excuse me, Grandpa?

How <insert expletive of choice here> old do you think I am?

It must have been the daggers darting from my eyes that made him backpedal. Or maybe it was the tone of my answer, “No. We have kids at the same school,” I seethed, spittle and all. Which I am certain made me look even more youthful.

“She looks like she is about 16,” he about-faced.

OK, then, TECHNICALLY I could be her mother.

Shut. Up.

Artificially Speaking

Posted by She Said

Last night Greg and I had a couple of friends over for dinner. I have known both Pat and Andrew for many years, and I met both of them while working at SNCAT, a no longer in business public access television station. Boy, have we got stories about Sharon Angle. Wait, did I say that out loud? Oy!

Pat long ago moved away from the excitement that is Reno and continues to be an incredibly talented photographer and creative genius. Gee, what I would give to be the assistant on one of his shoots. Damn it, there I go again. I said that out loud, didn’t I? Now I’ve got you wondering what Pat shoots, don’t I? Go ahead, check out his site.

Andrew, always a master of words, has a phenomenal relationship with the English language and has a large clientele lucky enough to have him working for them. Seriously, the guy is scary-smart.

Now that you know the players, I wanted to share a discussion we had last night about social media, such as Facebook and blogging. Andrew clearly and precisely stated that he did not care for social media or the blogosphere because of the way people artificially and carefully crafted their image.*

Andrew: People very carefully create their images through Facebook and blogs. It is an artificial representation.*

Greg: Do you think I was artificially speaking when I blogged about having to pick the toilet seat cover off of my sweaty ass?

Andrew: <laughing> I think that was a very clever response to my statement. However, I think it does make you out to be a self-deprecating funny guy.*

Greg: <contemplating> I think I am a self-deprecating funny guy.

So, this got me thinking today. When I go back to some of my blog posts and re-read them, I find myself laughing out loud (this one in particular does it to me every time). Am I a funny person face-to-face? Honestly? Probably not so much, especially without some liquid courage in me. So, in some ways, I guess Andrew is right. I am creating this online persona of being funny when perhaps I am not so much? I’ve made some virtual friends via this blog, and I would love to meet them and their families in person some day, but would it be a let down because Libby isn’t as snarky in person? (doubtful) Or I, Rodius isn’t really Greg’s doppelganger? (again, doubtful) Could Yellow Trash Diaries not make me keel over in laughing fits with her base humor in person? (seriously doubt that)

Nah. I don’t think so. I think the core of who I am and my beliefs are accurately represented here, and I truly believe the same is true of my fellow virtual friends. I may play with words a bit, and beg Greg to read a post before I publish it to make sure it’s at least somewhat amusing, but that is who I am. You know, artificially speaking.

____________________

* Andrew speaks much more eloquently and uses much larger words than I have represented here.

SpaChinglish

Posted by She Said

All right, it is the new year, and nothing like sharing an old story to kick my ass into writing again. So, here goes…

Those of you who have stuck with us for a while now know that our last week in China last year included the flat lining of our only functioning, blog-posting capable computer. No amount of wire hangers weighed down with the perfect amount of clothing could revive it. Trust me, we tried. And tried again.

This really sucked because it was our last week in China, which included our vacation to Xi’an. An incredible week with wonderful friends, it was filled will all sorts of fodder for witty and adventurous posts, like the trip to see the Terra Cotta Soldiers. Yeah, the soldiers were spectacular, but it was the getting there that I am going to tell you about.

Our friends, Lilian and Chang, helped get us all onto a tour bus headed to see the soldiers. As the bus started to head out of town, a young Chinese woman stood at the front of the bus and, using a microphone, began what seemed to us to be a very detailed description of how the tour was going to work. Of course, Greg and I don’t speak Mandarin, so it was only a guess that it was something important about the day’s events because she talked non-stop for at least twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. That’s plenty of time to let your imagination go wild with translation possibilities.

Anyway, after she finished, and my eyes returned to a non-glassed-over state, Greg and I turned to Lilian and Chang in the row behind us and asked, “So, what did she say?”

Chang: She talked about the trip.

Me: How is it going to work?

Chang: I’m not sure.

Me: But we are going to see the Terra Cotta Soldiers, right?

Chang: I think so. We are going to make a stop at the Hot Springs.

Me: Oh! We are going to see something else?

Chang: I’m not sure.

And… queue confusion.

Meanwhile, the two gentlemen sitting across from us were listening intently to our conversation. They appeared to be in their late 30s/early 40s, and one was Chinese, and the other appeared Caucasian. Then the Caucasian guy asked Greg and me a question, making it apparent he was of Spanish decent.

Spanish guy: <in English-as-a-second language> Do you know how the tour works?

Greg: No. We were just trying to figure that out.

Chang: <in English-as-a-second language> We are going to stop at the Hot Springs.

Spanish guy: We don’t have a lot of time today. Do we have to tour the Hot Springs too?

Chang: I don’t know.

Then to make things even more interesting, we found out that Spanish guy’s friend was a Chinese-born Spaniard, whose primary language was Spanish. He had left China at 4-years old, and was completely immersed into the Spanish culture, including Spanish school, thus making Spanish his primary language. However, interestingly enough, while he and his friend were visiting various places in China, his Chinese language skills, not used since he was four, were surfacing in a primitive form. In order to help with the language barrier between Greg and I <English speaking>, and them <Spanish speaking>, he tried talking to Chang and Lilian in Chinese to figure out what was going on with the tour.

Chinese Spaniard: <something in Chinese>

Chang: <something in Chinese>

Chinese Spaniard to Spanish guy: <something in Spanish>

Spanish guy to us: I’m not sure how this is going to work.

Us to Chang and Lilian: <something in English>

Chang to Chinese Spaniard: <something in Chinese>

Chinese Spaniard to Spanish guy: <something in Spanish>

Spanish guy to us: <something in English>

Us: Ah! OK! I think we’ve got it!

We all had a very good laugh about the confusion, but we completely appreciated how a little SpaChinglish could be used to solve a mystery.

 

(Lilian and Chang)

What’s Thankgsiving Without Wings.

Posted by He Said

There are many laws and rules which shape our lives and the world we live in.  Gravity, Physics, Murphy’s Laws and a more specific but particular favorite of mine is the If You Have Been Married For Any Length Of Time You Will Be Required To Purchase Feminine Hygiene Products For Your Wife Law. Now let me be clear, I don’t find this embarrassing or awkward in any way.  It’s life.  In fact, there is something particularly enjoyable about being asked if I would mind “picking something up” when I KNOW it’s going to give me fodder  for a good mocking.

My wife looks at me all doughy eyed as this is going to be a HUGE inconvenience for me. “Will you pick up some panty liners for me?”

YES. In my head I am already processing, realizing that there is a good joke in here somewhere.  In fact I thought about it so much I apparently stood there looking dumbfounded because I paused long enough for her to ask if it was a big deal, and then for her to retract her question.  After a bit of convincing that no, really, this is just funny for me because the If You Have Been Married For Any Length Of Time You Will Be Required To Purchase Feminine Hygiene Products For Your Wife Law has just kicked in and I think its funny.

So I ask “What kind?”
She Said: “It doesn’t matter.”
Me ( very skeptical ): “What size?”
She Said ( very mockingly ): “There is only one size.”
Me: (throw skeptical WTF are you saying look).
She: (throws are you an idiot look)
Me: (quickly retract skeptical WTF look and say) “Ok, I will get some at the store.”

Now in a society that has human beings of many shapes and sizes I just assumed that there would be super tiny panty liners for oh say a size 0 woman. Everything we buy has choices to be made.  For a moment I thought I just MIGHT be right about this (I was right once before) and then the moment passed and I realized that of course I MUST be wrong.  There probably is only one kind of panty liner.  Right?  Getting my wife’s preferred panty liner details was like pulling teeth.

When I finally got to the Feminine Hygiene products aisle I see that I was right.  There is more variation in panty liners than Ford has in its auto lineup.  To prove it I had to use the panorama app on my phone to capture it.

So the texting conversation went a little something like this.

Me: There is only one kind (include picture above).
She: LMAO.  Unscented. I don’t care what brand.
Me: What brand do u usually buy. Only generic say unscented.
She: Always. I think. Usually grab the best deal. Go figure.

The cheapest unscented brand was a box of 24 for like a dollar.  I KNEW if I brought this home there would be something about them that was wrong.  I just couldn’t get myself to do it.  I couldn’t find the Always brand in unscented. So I started browsing the various types.  Just a small sampling of the “one size” as my wife put it.

Regular, regular with wings, regular with wings scented, long, long with wings, long with wings with baking power, all night, super thin and all variations in between.  My favorite choice of all were the thong shaped. I thought about bringing those home just for fun to prove that I could screw this up somehow.

In the end I found a non $1 brand that met the detailed requirements and purchased those.

This blog is the follow up to the mocking my wife got when I got home. I don’t think I will be letting this go anytime soon, and as such, I don’t think I will be asked to buy panty liners anytime soon.

What’s In A Number Anyway

Posted by He Said

This last week there has been an unusual focus from the kids on numbers.  I don’t know if it has to do with what the kids are studying in school, a change in what Susanne and I are asking of the kids, or that Susanne has been counting the stacks of $100 bills we have been saving since we moved out of the house.  Regardless there has been a lot of Braedyn walking around the house counting by 1, 10, 20 and even by 100’s as high as he can go.  And he can count high, let me tell you. As proud a parent as it makes me to hear him get started, it’s a little like listening while sober to someone sing “Bottles of beer on the wall” and counting down from one billion.  Yeah.  It really is a little like that.

Just a few days ago, we were all sitting around in our family time circle.  For newcomers this is me on the couch with my iPhone and/or laptop, Susanne at the dining table on her laptop AND iPhone and both the kids either watching a movie, or playing on their iPods.  Like I said, family time, I mean we are all in the house at once, what more can you ask for.

So there we are, enjoying family time and Braedyn starts counting by 1,000’s.

“One thousand, two thousand, three thousand” and no, I will not edit this for brevity, if I have to live through it, then so do you, “four thousand, five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand, eight thousand, nine thousand and one MILLION!”

He looked at me with an ear to ear grin, just bursting with pride.  He was SO thrilled with himself and looking for confirmation of his grand feat, and what does this un-father of the year do?  I look at him, tell him, great job, but “after nine thousand comes ten thousand.” 

He pauses for a moment and says “No dad, when you count to one thousand by one hundreds there are no ten one hundreds, so there are no ten thousands.”

Now this is logic that is hard to argue with. I mean when you think about it, he has a point.  There are ten 1’s when counting to ten and there are ten 10’s when going to 100 and there are ten 100’s when you are going to 1,000.  So who am I to argue that somebody really screwed up this counting thing and that Braedyn’s logic is sound. But I tried to explain that there really were 10,000’s and more on the way to one million.  All I did was make my son feel bad.  I took note of this, slotted it in the back of my mind in the section “thing’s NOT to correct my son about”  and said, “well, ask about it in school and let me know. “  End of the argument and we all returned to family time.  I don’t think I ruined him for life.  I won’t know till he calls from from jail to bail him out.  That will likely wait till he is at least 18.

As I said, this has been the week of numbers.  Saturday the three of us (Susanne had left me yet again, and yes, she came back) were on our way to get a little high.  Doughboy Donut sugar high that is.  Nothing like an angel cream stuffed chocolate covered donut to start the day.  Halfway to our destination Braedyn pipes up with a comment about lines of cars being the definition of traffic. I of course was shocked that he was focused on SOMETHING, ANYTHING other than how to piss his sister off in the car. So I jumped on the opportunity to keep the conversation going.

Me: “Yes, technically the cars don’t have to be in a line to be traffic, there just have to be lots of cars on the road to be a lot of traffic.”
Braedyn: “Like in China where there are lots of cars?”
Me: “Yes, and in China there were thousands of cars on the road, wasn’t there?”
Braedyn: “Yeah, maybe millions, or even billions!”
Me: “Yeah, maybe!”

Emily had been strangely quiet up to this point, and I was wondering if she was even paying attention when she pipes in with “or maybe more, maybe one hundred and three!”

This time I kept my mouth shut, I mean, what’s in a number anyway.

Houdini, Part Freakin’ Two

Posted by She Said

Our dog saga continues, much to my chagrin. Charmin, although her squeezable softness is remarkable, should have been named Tigger due to the freak-of-nature height she reaches in her every jump. We (we being Greg) have lined our fence with an electric wire, which presumably would keep any dog cowering away from the fence in fear of getting shocked. That would be true for any dog that subscribes to the Pavlov theory, and if you haven’t already guess, that would NOT be our dog. She’ll be damned if she is going to let a little jolt stop her from riding along with me as I take the kids to school, attend a birthday party, or even tag along for those once-a-year “fun” check ups.

This, let me assure you, IS. A. BITCH.

Our test run with the fence resulted in me coming home to her terrorizing the construction workers in our expanding neighborhood. The best part? She kept jumping into the back yard of the cookie cutter home that looks just like ours only several doors away. Hey, I never said she was brilliant, just impervious to the powers of conditioning.

As my friend Kerry would say, Oy! I have a headache in my eye!

Gotta love her persistence!

Actually, no I don’t.

They Got Dad's Dancing Gene

Download now or watch on posterous

p144.mov (11396 KB)

Posted by He Said

I don't think this needs any explanation. I'm sure it's cute now, but high school is gonna be a bitch.