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Before my daughter was born–before I even knew I was having a daughter–the wife and I had, uh, heated “debates” of what we would name our offspring. Seeing how I come from a family of many boys (no girls) and The Wife had no interest in little girls’ clothing we just assumed it would be a boy. Kinda of silly because it was 50-50 either way, yet neither of us really considered the possibly of having a daughter. I wanted my boy to have a good, strong Italian name. Nothing too over the top like Guido, but Tony, Paulie, and Vinny were all possibilities (basically anything that ended in an “ee” sound). The Wife wanted more classical names like those of English royalty (James, George, William). Hmmm…Maybe we should compromise: Jamie, Georgie, Willie.
The girl’s name was relatively simply. The first name The Wife threw out was Babygrl1 and I kinda liked it. Of course, I couldn’t admit I liked it–not after she immediately shot down my suggestion to name a boy Giovanni. But that night, I started thinking more and more about it and really began to embrace it. It was the same number of letters as our last . . . . .
I don’t really have a nickname, but if I were to bestow one upon myself (because giving yourself a nickname is always a fine idea) I would likely be called Wart Boy. Unfortunately for Wart Boy the nickname isn’t clever or meaningful on any level. I am Wart Boy because of my propensity to host and grow warts (the boy part is fairly self-explanatory). Despite my portly appearance, I’d like to think I’m generally of good health. I rarely get sick or catch colds. But when it comes to defending myself against the virus that causes warts I’m 72-pound weakling with girlie arms.
All my life I’ve been prone to getting warts. About twice a year I’d have to see the doctor to get a wart or two frozen off. It was no big deal—I considered it part of my routine checkup. I’ve had so many warts removed from my body I consider myself to be an amateur dermatologist (or at least one who only works with warts). A wart here. A wart there. All in all: relatively no big deal.
One of my favorite wart stories (that’s right: I have more than one) occurred when my beloved cat scratched . . . . .
Last week I walked passed a booth of volunteers trying to get people to register to vote. A gal jumped in front of me and asked with her biggest smile, “Are you registered to vote?”
“Of course I am,” I said politely. While I saw no need to be rude, this was a conversation I really didn’t want to participate in. Being completely exhausted with work and having a newborn to worry about 90 percent of my brainpower was focused on something else. I was on autopilot: barely aware that I was even talking to her.
“That’s wonderful,” she replied. “Would you like to volunteer your time?”
And without realizing what I was doing, I blurted out laughing, “No.” I feel a little bad because I respect what she was doing…but volunteer work is just something I don’t believe in. Kinda like charity and the Easter Bunny.
I hate fees. I don’t think this a word that makes me cringe more than fees. I know some things have a price; other things have a cost. But there’s something about fees. Name something–anything–that you ever paid a “fee” for–was something you actually wanted? When you get a parking ticket, you hafta . . . . .
So think I killed someone recently. It was not my intent to kill them (that would be first degree murder), but rather a course of circumstances that I was involved in lead to their probable death (second degree manslaughter–a far lighter sentence). But we’ll get to that in a moment.
Recently I attempted to sell a mobile phone I was no longer using. A year ago it was top of the line, but I didn’t care much for it and hardly used it (I’m old school: I need a keyboard). I posted the phone on craigslist for $200 because they were selling for about $250 on eBay and I saw nothing cheaper than $240 on craigslist.
Ahh craigslist…it’s a great place to buy and sell goods. Unfortunately, you have to deal with craigslist people. I don’t think highly of craigslist people: you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy outside of craigslist. Sure, craigslist is great when you’re trading with a decent person. But in my experience, 95 percent of craiglisters are illiterate, stupid, cheap, rude, dishonest, or just downright annoying.
Part of it is my doing. I sell things cheap so I’m dealing with . . . . .
My school is located in a low-income neighborhood. Because of that, many students do not have internet access at home. It blows me away how anybody can not have internet in today’s world. My goodness—everything is done online. But you know that already. The internet should be a priority. Cancel the cable TV. Don’t give every member in your household a cell phone. Skip a meal once a week. Anything to come up with the $15 or so need for basic DSL. Hell, even Time Warner advertises “This is not a promotional price.” It’s inexcusable that these kids don’t have internet at home.
Because they don’t have internet I open up my classroom before school so they can play games and watch YouTube videos (school-appropriate, of course). Some of the kids who come in like to watch YouTube videos of the latest stars, which is fine by me–as long as it’s school appropriate (hmmm…maybe these kids do have internet at home and their parents won’t let them watch rap videos–kids don’t lie, do they?).
One day a group of fifth grade boys gathered around the computer to jam to the latest crap the RIAA passes off as music. “Mr. Nerd, . . . . .
I was born in New Jersey and lived there until I was ten (technically, 9 and 11 months–but who’s really counting?). When my family packed up and moved to southern California I suppose we were kinda like the Clampetts. Actually, we were nothing like the Clampetts. They were rich and proud of their roots.
Once in California, my parents tried to dress me for the part–or at least what they thought the part was. I wore loud, outrageous shirts. I remember a bright orange thing with no sleeves: it looked like a karate vest crossed with a pumpkin. Crimes against nature like floral-print shorts and aviator sunglasses too large for my face. My hair was combed in a style that completely didn’t fit my head–or even suitable for the hair I was born with (you can’t slick dense, curly hair). I’ll admit: I was excited too–it was exhilarating to be cool and on the cusp of fashion greatness. Alas, “cool” is a relative term. What I thought was cool was miscast in Southern California, and–unfortunately for my self-esteem–the kids started laughing at me before I even made it to the bus stop.
In junior high I decided to adopt the . . . . .
I live a charmed life. Or at least I like to tell people I live a charmed life. Being unable to find a full-time job and having a wife in her 30s seems to disprove that theory. Nevertheless, I like to tell people I live a charmed life because it feels like I never lose–only, that’s not quite right. I usually end up coming out a little ahead. When I feel like something bad happens to me, it’s only a matter of time before something good happens to me to make it all better. I’m the kind of person who will go to Jack and the Box while leaving my coupons at home only to find an extra taco in my order because someone screwed up. My cell phone breaks and T-Mobile replaces it with something better. One time I bought something at Target that didn’t work. Target refused to give me a refund, so I called the manufacture. Not only did they mail me a refund, they also sent me coupons for other free stuff “for my troubles.” When life gives me lemons, it also gives me a pitcher of water, a cup of sugar, and a crystal cup . . . . .
At my apartment complex, we have a lovely little area that is full of all sorts of treasures. Boxes of old VHS tapes. Three-fourths of a kitchen room set. Slightly used shoes with torn laces. Broken coffeemakers. Old computers. Thirty-two-inch 75-pound CRT “big” screen TVs. All available–all free of charge–and found in trash area. Most residents are kind enough to keep the truly great prizes outside of the trash bin. Some folks throw it away (maybe that’s a sign that it truly is trash). But you know what they say: “One man’s trash…”
About two months ago I found a grand prize. Someone had decided they no longer need two of the finest barstools you’d ever seen. The chairs had aluminum frames with padded swivel tops. Unlike most of the treasure I find in the trash, these chairs were in remarkable shape. The fabric was clean, unstained, and without rips. All four legs sat flat on the group without the slightest hint of a wobble. The seats turned without any grinding, squeaking, or resistance of any kind. Dare I say it (I dare, dare)–these chairs were as like new as something could possibly be. There was no doubt in my . . . . .
The Wife calls me a sports snob. It’s a term I have come to embrace because it’s true: I don’t like talking sports with most people because most people are idiots. Well, maybe idiots is too harsh of a term–they’re not as knowledgably as me (probably because they have families and lives and all that stuff). Remember that time when I went to the Angel game and I was appalled because the “fans” next to me had no idea who Mark Teixeira was (or how to say his name)? Yeah, stuff like that.
My snobbery is only part of my problem. I work at an elementary school that literally has three male employees (the AP, custodian, and me). Sure, it’s nice knowing I pretty much have a private bathroom (although messy situations become harder to deny), but it also leaves with me a sports void because I have no one to talk to. Being a sports snob and trying to discuss the read option with a pregnant fourth grade teacher isn’t exactly fulfilling. Even if I tried to dumb myself down just for the sake of talking to another human being it wouldn’t be possibly.
I’ve tried keeping an open . . . . .
Hockey tradition dictates thou must’n shave thy beard until thy team is eliminated from the playoffs. I’m not much of a fan of hockey, but I certainly like the tradition (one of many hockey traditions I enjoy including hitting guys with sticks and dating women way too hot for you). Since I am a proponent of tradition, I adopted that philosophy towards a sport I actually care about: baseball.
I don’t talk about it much, but I’m a huge Yankee fan. It’s one of the traits I inherited from my father. I grew hearing stories about Mickey Mantle and how much my father wanted to change my first name to Bucky Dent. When I was five and started playing t-ball, I was thrilled to be on the Yankees (although, three of the four teams in the league were named Yankees). Interests come and go. People drift in and out of your life. Seasons change. People get older. Life goes on. The one thing that remains my consistent is my Yankee fan love (and an unhealthy Derek Jeter obsession).
That’s why every October I wear a playoff beard. Some years, the Yanks go deep and I go a month without shaving. . . . . .
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