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The time has come for me to replace the Almighty Honda. This is not something I want to do. I dread all aspects of it. Even as I write this, I’m doing so in darkness and out of earshot of my car (ya know, just in case it overhears). I think it would be easier to replace The Wife than replace the car, but then again I’ve had the car longer than The Wife (it has seniority). Despite my reservations, the truth is I’m driving a car that’s twice as old as my students and it’s just time for a change.
Reasons for change? Well, did I mention I’m driving a car twice as old as my students? This would be fine if my students were younger than five or older than 25. Anything else in-between means I’m driving an old car. Not a classic. Just old. Kind of like that lame age for Grownups between 35 and 55 when you’re expected to behave responsibly (reckless fun by youngsters is considered “youthful indiscretion;” reckless fun by seniors is “too old to know any better”).
I’ve also noticed I’ve been getting pulled over more often. Not for moving violations–just “checking . . . . .
Leftover pizza presents an interesting challenge for me. There are so many different factors and options that there’s no clear-cut obvious answer. Don’t finish Chinese food? Save it for later! Can’t finish a salad? Throw it out. But pizza is more challenging.
Probably the biggest obstacle leftover pizza presents is there doesn’t have to be leftover pizza. I might be full after two or three slices–but that doesn’t mean I have to stop eating. The only time I truly have to stop eating pizza is when there’s no more pizza left. My ability to continuously (and gluttonously) eat pizza is slightly short of being remarkable (probably because it’s disgusting to see a guy eat slice after slice of pizza for three hours). Back when I was a teenager Pizza Hut started to roll out all-you-can-eat pizza buffets. Now they’re all gone. Why? Because they all lost money when I came in through the door. A lot of money. Why, I think it’s safe to say I am solely responsible for Pizza Hut’s disappointing third quarter in 1996.
I like to eat–this is no surprise to anyone who knows me. I’ve often said eating if my favorite hobby–and pizza is perhaps . . . . .
Cable wins; I lose–a tech is coming out Tuesday for installation. I guess there truly is no such thing as Free Cable. I’m so bummed… I blame this on my love for baseball. Sports is the one television event that needs to be watched live. I can easily download “Community.” I can watch my old VHS recordings of “The OC.” But the only way I get to watch the Dodgers on a daily basis is with cable. And the sad part is I’m not even a Dodger fan! I feel like such a chump.
This is part two of a story I set out to tell the other day. Hopefully this time I’ll stay awake long enough to finish.
I recently moved into an apartment that put me in the ideal situation to steal cable. See, stealing cable is no easy task. You need to find the right conditions to make it work. By my rough (uneducated) statement, it can probably be done in most apartment buildings. Unfortunately, I haven’t lived in any of those apartment buildings until now.
The important thing to remember about stealing cable is that you can’t be picky. You might not get 200 channels. You might not get HD. You might not even get a perfect picture. Luckily for me, I’m willing to settle for what I can get (look at my car, my job, my wife, my life). I don’t need the finer things in life. I don’t need BET, Bravo, or HGTV. Heck, I don’t even need 50 channels. As long as I get ESPN, ESPN2, and Fox Sports I’m a happy man. Anything else is cake because the only reason I want cable is to watch baseball (that and the sheer joy of stealing cable).
Once . . . . .
One of my goals in life has been to steal cable (either I have low ambitions or I’m more morally ambiguous than I realized). Free Cable is like the Holy Grail to this cheapskate. I like the idea of having cable, but I can’t fiscally justify it. Cable bills run north of $60, and I simply can’t see getting $60 a month of entertainment out of television. If I had an extra $2 a day to spend on something, I would blow it on food. A supersize here. A soda there. Maybe even upgrade from London broil to rib eye. Mmmm….rib eye.
I also take great joy in the idea of stealing cable. I hate the pay-TV services. Satellite, fiber optics, cable–they’re all the same. They toy with packages and plans–trying to outdo each other and market the lowest price. But the truth is, they’re all the same. Because $19.99 might seem like a great deal for television. But then you need to add a $10 box rental fee, another $10 for HD–oh, and that $19.99 price only includes local channels (ya know–the free stuff you get with an antenna). If you want TBS, ESPN, or USA that’s a different . . . . .
I’m trying to get rid of my unnecessary crap, so I’m selling ’em on Craigslist. I posted a computer monitor for $50 and a PC for $25 (the PC is a real piece of junk). Each has their own separate listing, yet I get a call like this one.
“I’m calling about the computer and monitor.”
“Yes, I still have it.”
“Your ad said I can have both for $50.” Not true. In fact, the monitor ad made no mention of a PC, and the PC made no mention of a monitor.
“No, it does not. I want 50 for the monitor and 25 for the computer.”
“But your ad says I can get both for $50.”
I expected a barter from Craigslist people because Craigslist people are the lowest scum of the earth (yes, even below Mexicans–but that’s because Craigslist people are Mexicans looking for a deal). I’ve been lowballed multiple times on Craigslist–which usually elicits the same response from me (f@$% you). But this was a new approach. Now this scumbag was telling me what my ad said.
“It does not say both for $50. I should know: I wrote the ad.”
Nevertheless, he was insistent. The ad . . . . .
One of my job duties as an after school babysitter/tutor is to provide snacks for the children. The logic is that by the time 3:00 rolls around, the little rugrats are jonesing for some nutrients. My job is to provide those nutrients in the form of salty, dry pretzels and sugar-filled Capri Suns.
(Side note: Capri Suns have become much easier to drink though out the years. When I was a kid it was nearly impossible to put straw through the pouch. Back then the plastic was made of some indestructible material that also could be used to protect the gold in Fort Knox. It took a tremendous amount of force to piece the pouch, which–if not aimed correctly–would often lead to bent straws. My mom would often to use a hole punch because the pouches would not welcome the penetrating straw. Heck, often the easiest way to drink a Capri Sun was to flip it over and stick the straw in the bottom [feel free to draw your own conclusion from this perverted metaphor]. Sure, you had to hold the drink because then it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own–but at least you got your juice. . . . . .
What I’m about to say might be the most controversial thing I’ve ever written. I expect to get more hate mail than I did that time when I wrote an article for my college newspaper that proclaimed we should round up the homeless and have them all sent to Mexico (I offended Mexicans, homeless sympathizers, and [somehow] PETA all in one article). This time, my words will result in more than a meeting with the dean and an apology in the next issue. I expect my controversial words to alienate two or three readers–which is significant when your audience is in the single digits (I’m just glad I have a big family). But enough with my rambling: just get to it.
I hate Dr. Seuss.
Duck. Dodge. Shield face from tomatoes and cinder blocks.
Yes, it’s true–I hate Dr. Seuss. I’m not sure if that makes me un-American (although, I’m pretty sure he was a Nazi–a name like that has to be German). I know Dr. Seuss has a big following. I understand he is beloved by children and adults alike…and I just don’t get it.
I don’t mean to insult anyone who does like the famous wordsmith, but he . . . . .
The after-school tutoring program I work for is entirely voluntary (for the students–not for me: I wouldn’t be doing this without a paycheck–momma didn’t raise no fool). The school identifies students who will benefit from the service, and sends them an application. The parents fill it out and return it to the school, which determines who will be my students. Because the program is voluntary, there is little accountability. Students who were healthy enough to go to school occasionally miss tutoring because they’re sick. Sometimes the tutoring/babysitting conflicts with the parents’ schedule, so the students don’t attend. And sometimes kids just don’t want to go (I can’t really blame them: if they liked school at all they would be able to learn the material during school hours instead of having to give up their afternoons to do it all again).
Attendance was low the first few sessions, but we’ve grown to the point where I’ve met every student. Well, every student but one. But since he’s on my roster, I make sure I call his name every day. “Ausente, Chico? Is Chico Ausente here? Does anyone know Chico Ausente?” It’s become a bit of a running joke betweem me and . . . . .
So it turns out I’m no hero. Apparently my marrow just isn’t good enough. That’s a shame. I do hope that 13-year old girl does find a match–it just looks like it’s not going to be mine. Does this mean I have to give back my cape?
My job is a colossal waste of time and taxpayer dollars. There–I said it. It feels good to get it off my chest. Then again, it also feels good to get a paycheck, so perhaps I won’t say it too loudly or to the people who pay me.
Not that I’m the problem. I’m actually quite good at my job–the problem is the position itself. I work for an after-school tutoring company. The program is designed to help students who possess below-grade level math or reading skills and are struggling to keep up. The school identifies students who might benefit from the service and offers it–at absolutely no expense to the parents at all. The theory behind this free program is to help bring those students up to grade-level skills. Students work with tutors in order to boost their skills and (hopefully) catch them up to their peers. My job is to oversee . . . . .
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