Archive for May, 2012
Image courtesy of Wikipedia.org
After reading today’s earlier post, in which I declared my beach-trip maidenhood, the Puddinette was quick to make one key editorial suggestion. See, while it’s certainly true that I’ve never been on a vacation dedicated to spending most of one’s time on a beach, that’s not to say I haven’t ever been on a beach while on vacation.
In fact, I’ve been on two Caribbean cruises, and we honeymooned in Jamaica. But we spent a limited amount of time beach-going on those trips.
Nonetheless, if anyone out there happened to be thinking, “Oh, the poor dearie has never seen the ocean” and was perhaps taking up their checkbook to make a hefty donation to the “Get Puddin to the Coast” fund, um, I guess put the pen down. Maybe. I mean, if you want to donate to my vacation fund, I certainly wouldn’t send it back. Goodness knows traveling with a small basketball team like the Puddin Family isn’t cheap. Souvenirs alone are like…
Ahem. Never mind.
Anyway, so yes, I’ve beached before. This, however, will be my first all-beach-all-the-time trip. And I’m very much looking forward to it.
I hope that clears up any misunderstandings.
Now, then, I have even more EXCITING NEWS!
No, I didn’t sell the book yet. Not that exciting.
But…BUT! Netflix has finally seen fit to send me Underworld: Awakening! I don’t know if my number came up in the bingo-style DVD hopper or if perhaps someone who works at Netflix reads Puddintopia*, or what. Perhaps, in the immortal words of Mr. Miyagi, simply “Buddha provide”. Either way, indeed, there was much rejoicing.
So then, as soon as the kids are asleep and not likely to be bothered by the sounds of a cheesy vampire-werewolf-gunfire romp, I’m going to watch the hell out of it.
It’s okay to be jealous.
I won’t hold it against you.
*HAHAHAHAHAHAH. Shyeah, right. And monkeys’ll fly outta my butt!
Clearly, as I so artistically rendered in breathtaking detail yesterday, my intention for summer is to weep when driving off to work pretty much every day between now and Labor day while my kids wave good-bye. Of course, they won’t just be waving; they’ll be giving me a set of evil smirks, too, that say, “We’re free to irritate Mom alllllll day, and you have to go to work and be suppressed by The Man.”
Or, well, something along those lines. I might have added my own assumptions in there.
At any rate, after I spent all evening last night pouting, I decided to do something about it. And that’s why I just booked my first ever summer beach trip.
For the record, yes, I realize that being a beach-vacation-virgin at almost 40 year of age is the very definition of lame. Please try to keep your pointing, chortles, and sneers to a minimum, thankyouverymuch.
As I made our reservations, though, something else occurred to me. Namely, that this getting away for a few days with little responsibility beyond keeping my progeny fed and entertained gave me an outstanding opportunity to branch out and sample some beer from, you know, out there. In America. Which is not something I get to do too often.
Um. That really wasn’t a suggestion. You can read it here.
While you do that, I need to go make up a very extensive list of summer chores for my kids.
Does “Re-roof the house” need a hyphen or not, do you think?
The kids came home from school today, finally released from another agonizing year of boredom, stupid rules, assorted nonsense, and cafeteria gruel.
At least, I’m sure that’s what it seemed like to them.
To the Puddinette and I, though, it seems that we blinked and somehow lost 9 months of time.
On August 18th, 2011, I wrote this to go with several pictures of the first day of school, such as this one:
And then, much too suddenly, it was this morning, when we took this picture for the last day of school:
Yeah, ok, so school’s out. Do I have a point, other than the standard parental whining along the lines of, Oh, Time, where hast thought gone?!
Why, yes, yes, I do.
See, today I realized that while most every morning for the past 9 months has looked something like this:
The next three months are going to look a whole lot more like this:
It’s Just. Not. Fair. I tell you. Not fair at all.
Of course, then, I’ve been telling the puddinlings that Life isn’t generally fair for years now.
I just thought, it’s just, you know, supposed to be not fair in my favor.
I appear to have been mistaken.
*kicks at the dirt*
I have a bit of a confession: I didn’t write anything yesterday. I shouldn’t be terribly happy about that, because I try very hard to Write Something Every Day*. It’s like, one of a handful of real rules I attempt to live by on a daily basis. That list includes, but is not limited to, Don’t be the Drunk and/or Angry Asshole Dad at a Little League Game, and, of course, Your Junk Is NOT For Public Display, Ever.
Maybe some day I’ll share the whole list. It’s mostly common sense stuff that, based on the evening news these days, apparently isn’t always so common anymore.
Anyway, so I didn’t do any writing yesterday, and I totally should have because it was Monday. But it wasn’t just Monday. It was Memorial Day, and as we all know, Memorial Day marks the officially start of Pool and/or Grilling Season.
I suppose some might consider it the official start of summer, too, but as 3 of my 4 children are a bit too quick to point out, it isn’t really summer until later this month. Whether or not that argument has any merit is another post.
Incidentally, I am apparently raising a brood of children who revel in the irritating expression of semantics. I take consolation from the thought that while it makes them occasionally obnoxious to each other, twenty years from now I’ll have either offspring writing a David E. Kelley TV legal dramedy or lawyers in the family to defend me when I finally snap and start spraying neighborhood kids with a high-pressure water hose for riding their Huffys** across my crabgrass-laden yard.
At any rate, yesterday was Monday and I didn’t do any writing. And I should have. I have not one, but two books to work on, and not one, but two blogs I might have written for, and not one, but two Rainbow Brite fan-fiction novellas half-written.
Ahem. Um, yeah. Can we forget I said that last part?
Then again, yesterday was also a holiday. Yes, I realize that the life of a professional writer can lead to times where you have to work regardless of what the calendar says, whether the pool’s open or not, or who’s getting together for a cornucopia of cold beers and grilled meats. The fact of the matter, though, is that today, right now, I’m only an aspiring professional writer. And while that certainly isn’t ideal—my time will come, oh, yes, my time will come—it does have one or two minor benefits. Deciding to take off the occasional holiday, because, well, I can, is one of them, and so I’m not going to sweat it.
I mean, I did sweat; it was over 90 degrees yesterday, but that’s neither here nor there.
The point is that we all tend to focus on achieving that next goal, taking that next step, and chasing that moment of arrival when all our dreams come true. While that’s important—crucial, even—it can also be a little short-sighted.
Sometimes, reaching for that moment means missing out on this moment. Don’t let that happen.
Sometimes you have to play hooky, even if it means playing it from yourself.
*The caveat there is that I do generally not write on Sunday. Not because I’m a crazy zealot or anything, but because I tend to believe that one day out of seven for family and just imagining/thinking rather than actually writing is good for both the soul and one’s scribbly output. It works for me.
**What do you mean, no one has a Huffy anymore? Back in my day, we ALLLLL had Huffys!
It’s Memorial Day weekend, which used to be a time for hoping that it was not rainy and warm enough that the annual parades and grill-outs wouldn’t be ruined. But since it’s 90 degrees today, humid, and sunny in this neck of the woods, apparently we don’t have to worry about such things anymore. The good thing, though, in Old Man Winter doing a pretty shameful job this year of providing any actual, you know, winter, is that it ends up with the last weekend in May feeling like the dog days of August.
Sure, we all know we’ll pay for it later. Like, come actual August. For today, though, it made for positively awesome pool-going. Which is exactly what the family and I did since the Swim Club we belong to went to all the trouble to open up and everything.
Which brings me to today’s Saturday Debate. Against the Puddinette’s wishes, I broke out the Hawaiian shirt this morning for the trip to the pool.
And trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen me strutting the fineness that is Puddin in a loud, floral shirt.
What about you, though, where do you fall on the issue? Yep, here it is, today’s Saturday Debate…
Hawaiian Shirts: Yay or Nay?
As always, I’m happy to provide you with a matching poll as well:
Oh, and hey, do you have some awesome cabana-wear? We all need to see it, so send me a picture, stat!
It occurred to me earlier this week that lately I’ve noticed beer being put together with fruit more frequently and in more ways. Which, of course, led me to pondering the whole beer-fruit scenario more completely. Not surprisingly, all that beer rumination let to, well, quaffing a pint or two, but also a post. Said post was published this morning over at Hoperatives.
I know many of you have been wondering, lo these many years, how I feel about fruiting the beer. Well, here’s your chance to finally have that burning question answered.
And if that doesn’t make your Thursday better, um, well…
Maybe a nap, then?
I don’t think I can adequately express just how happy—no, elated—I am about today. Sure, it’s Tuesday, which isn’t something to typically get all wound up over, and yes, I still had to go to work today rather than enact my plan of sitting around in a bathrobe while watching the entire Star Wars saga at once.
But…but…it’s Election Day here in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky!
What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, of course, there’s that whole expressing your individualized will as toward goverance thing, which is pretty cool, even if most of the candidates might only be slightly more electable based on their honesty and trustworthiness than your average potted cactus.
Even beyond that, though, I’m tinkled pink about the arrival of election day because aside from some unfortunate restrictions on when you can buy alcohol today (making it the clear bane of all pub owners), it means I can finally express a great sigh of relief and move on with my life.
A life no longer burdened with All. Of. This. Nonsense:
I know I already complained about this a few days ago, so I’ll spare you the recap rant. But I wanted to point out that what I photographed above is only from Monday’s mail. Yes, fair reader, every single last one of those ads pictured above was stuffed into my groaning mailbox yesterday.
I haven’t counted yet, but I’m pretty sure that brings the total of this season’s political fliers to 1,653,258.
Or does it just seem like that many?
Whatever it is, I worry somewhat about having received so many over the course of the last few weeks. Surely the attention I’ve been getting by flier isn’t typical, right? Am I some kind of superhero voter, perhaps? Does my vote count more than the average American?
Well, whatever, I look forward to an emptier mailbox.
So, you’ve done your civic duty, right? It’s not too late, you know. Get out there and cast your vote!
What are you waiting for? Go on.
No, I don’t watch a movie every weekend, but I did manage to eek out enough time last Friday for another screening. Unfortunately, Netflix has yet to see fit to bestow Underworld: Awakening upon me.
Sad vampire/werewolf-less Puddin is sad.
Luckily, though, I thought, then, that this would be an excellent time to redress a serious and notable absence in my movie-viewing history. I’d recently put Francis Ford Coppola’s Vietnam War epic, Apocalypse Now at the top of my queue, and you know what they say, “if you can’t watch the campy vampire movie you love, love the war movie you’re with”.
Anyway. Yes, yes. I know, I know. There’s really no plausible excuse for having reach 39 years of age and not having seen this already. Hell, it one of Those Movies You’re Supposed to See. And I’ve got a pretty solid record of seeing Those Movies You’re Supposed to See.
Just don’t hold it against me, eh?
Oddly enough, having seen it now, I’m happy to concede that I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing it and not felt a terrible, cold emptiness eating away at me.
Apocalypse Now – I understand why people fawn all over this one and I believe there’s an interesting movie hidden somewhere inside Coppola’s work, like the toy in a box of Trix. But, well, I’ll be damned if I found it. Sure, it succeeded in portraying the insanity and hopelessness of war—especially in Vietnam—and explored darkness in the human soul, but does that need to take three hours? Worse, I just never become invested in any of the characters. Ultimately, it felt like watching a stranger’s vacation slides from a nude beach. That is, I was mostly bored and slightly uncomfortable.
I guess if you have three hours of your life to waste and enjoy being either bored, slightly uncomfortable, or both, this is the movie for you. But I don’t think I’ll be seeing this on again.
No matter what the smell of napalm in the morning smells like.
The mercury’s taunting me at 83 degrees at the moment, and it’s just barely past the middle of May. It’s giving me a kind of dreadful foreboding because I can only assume that two months from now, in the middle of July, we’ll have a string of 17 consecutive days where you’ll be able to fry a sirloin on a sunny patch of sidewalk to my Mother’s preferred level of doneness: extra well done (or as I like to call it, grey as the Cincinnati sky in February).
I know, I know. It bothers me too. But she’s my mother, so I choose to overlook it. At least I’ve weaned her off the A1 sauce.
Anyway, so it’s hot today, and this summer promises to be a scorcher. Obviously, this got me to thinking about mowing the lawn and having a cold, refreshing beer afterwards. In fact, I rambled on about it at some length in a Hoperatives post. Why not check it out over there and come back? Go on, we’ll wait.
Great. That brings us to today’s Saturday Debate…
The best lawnmower beer: kolsch, wheat, blond ale, light lager, or, um, other?
As usual, I’ve crafted a poll for you debating pleasure. So leave your particular pair of cents, eh?
If you’re anything like me – and let’s be honest, here, who wouldn’t want to be exactly like me? – you come home after a long day at the office, slip into your evening jacket, shake yourself up an ice cold martini, and leisurely peruse the day’s mail while puffing on a pre-dinner pipe in the library.
Ok, so I don’t really do that either. Usually I have to take out the trash or plunge a toilet as soon as I get home.
Nothing says Welcome Home quite like, “Oh, hi, honey. Shitter’s clogged.”
That’s okay, though. I don’t mind; it’s all part of being the modern Renaissance Man. Or at least that’s what I tell myself halfway through a six-pack.
Ahem. Anyway, I do like to check the mail first thing. You know, just in case Ed McMahon wants to award me a few Publisher’s Clearinghouse millions from beyond the grave or something. As it turns out, there’s typically nothing but the occasional bill, maybe an ad magazine, or perhaps a form letter from Local Corporate Community College X suggesting I go back to school and get a certificate in Computer Support Services.
Um, thanks, LCCCX, but, just, No. I think I’ll ride my career out with that silly Bachelor’s in Computer Science and Math I earned from, you know, the accredited university back in 1995. But, hey, maybe I’ll stick your letter up on the fridge, just in case I decide to call for more information (I won’t).
Of course, in addition to all that very compelling daily correspondence, there’s been this lately:
In case you’re wondering, that’s a picture of all the political fliers/mailer cards we’ve received over the past, I dunno, 10 days.
Look at it there. All of it. Tremble before it’s massive glory.
Oh, and I took this picture on Monday. More, so very much more, has arrived since then.
The most impressive thing is that there’s only about four individual types of card there. Maybe five. Whatever, the point is that they’re sending me doubles. Triples, even. It’s the very definition of insanity.
I’m stockpiling these in case the winter we didn’t get this year returns doubly pissed off and frigid next year. In which case I’ll have an ample supply of fuel to burn for warmth. So, I guess, thanks, candidates for that.
But seriously, candidates, THIS IS STUPID. Look, not only is your mailer card not going to affect my voting decision, sending me multiple versions of the same thing makes me believe that either:
- You have been employing the “shotgun” method of direct mailings, which includes all the precision and grace as a 13 year-old hopped up on 2 quarts of “Mt. Dew Code: HEADBUZZ XTreeeeeme” trying to shoot a housefly with a fully-automatic paintball gun.
- You have no idea who you’ve been sending these things to and probably don’t care as long as you spend your budgeted campaign dollars and some statistic someplace (actually compiled by a guy nicknamed “Slumpy”) demonstrates adequate “regional traction”
Either way, such a display does not lead me to believe you and/or your respective campaign teams have your shit together or could find my house on Google Maps, let alone your own collective backsides.
So, as I’ve explained that all the nonsense photographed above is not going to have any affect on my actual voting methodology, could we stop wasting money on all this crap? I mean, sure, fine, if you must, send me one (1) mailer card. Whatever. But after that?
Here’s an idea: take the money you’d have pissed away sending me six of the same pointless, glossy card and donate that sum to the local school.
Try improving my kids’ education instead of wasting money at futile attempts to promote yourself.
That might change my opinion of who to vote for.
In the meantime, I’ll be waiting here with my rainbows, unicorns, and flying donkeys for word that someone’s done that.