Once again, it took a kid to make me not take myself so seriously.
A few months back, I told you the story of walking into the kitchen and seeing my son sitting at the table, happy as could be, chugging a bottle of syrup. When he saw my wife and me staring at him, he put down the bottle, looked at us and said, “YUM!”
Sure, he was sticky and nasty and didn’t sleep for the next 11 days, but by gum, it felt good, so he did it.
My wife and I on occasion remind each other to chug syrup when the other is being a little too caught up in the insignificant things in the world. It’s not in one of those cheesy, new-wave manners, either. It’s usually me going to the cabinet and getting the bottle of syrup and offering to pour for her, which she finds just hilarious. (Let’s just say if there is ever a pillow dodging competition, I will be an early front runner for the gold.)
But anyway, I have found the concept of syrup chugging to be a solid one. Recently, my son tacked on a new one that definitely led to a good day. And when I am having a bad day, I think back to this and realize there is enough seriousness in the world. Lighten up once in a while.
Parker and I were getting ready to leave for school. I was in the kitchen and called for him to come downstairs. I went to the stairs to help him get his shoes on, when I saw him start down the stairs. While wearing a sombrero.
We then had this conversation:
ME: Uh, what you wearing?
PARKER: A hat.
ME: That’s a sombrero.
PARKER: And a hat. I’m gonna wear it to school.
ME: You can’t wear a sombrero to school.
PARKER: Why?
I started to answer, when it occurred to me, I have no idea why you can’t wear a sombrero to school. I mean, they may have rules about hats and such in the school, but why can’t you throw on a sombrero and wear it on the way to school?
ME: You know what, Parker? Wear the sombrero.
PARKER: I am. To school.
When we got to school, Parker hopped out of the car and adjusted his sombrero. He had a little spring in his step, what with his fancy new topper. As we prepared to cross the road, a car passed by. I noticed the driver glanced over at Parker and had a nice little chuckle. Way to pay it forward.
When we got to school, Parker went past his classroom and to my wife’s classroom. (I suppose it goes without saying that she teaches there. She has not been held back in kindergarten for three decades.)
He strolled into her room and said, “Look, Mommy, a sombrero.” My wife looked at me. I shrugged and said, “Why not?”
Parker left his sombrero with Mommy, and I headed off to face the day, certainly taking myself a little less seriously than I normally would.
Maybe it’s something that just fades as you get older. I can see my daughter starting to care on occasion what people think. She’s six now, and we sometimes have lengthy debates on what clothes should be worn or what shoes go with what. Allie hates it when I’m in charge of getting her dressed in the morning, because I am always pushing the one outfit I can do: blue jeans, sweatshirt, ballcap. She prefers these incredibly complicated dresses that require bows to be tied and hair clip-thingees to be put in and matching shoes. Let’s be honest – as I type this, I am not sure if my socks match. No clue. I am not the best choice to be coordinating accessories.
But then there are the other times when she exhibits some of the carefree nature that feels so liberating. Can you recall the last time you were in a store and decided it was the perfect time to sing “Under the Rainbow”? And most of the people who see this find it refreshing. (Granted, some people grumble and stomp and curse under their breath about how kids today don’t behave and a kid should be seen and not heard and how back in their day, when they went to the store, so much as a peep would result in a trip to the switch aisle. Hopefully, these people were on their way to the syrup aisle.)
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating strolling through the store in a Cinco de Mayo get-up while belting out show tunes. I will admit that would be somewhat disturbing. But consider a quick ride on the back of the grocery cart. High five your drug store clerk. When someone catches you singing in the car, roll down your window and say, “Come on, you know the words! Sing along!”
Sure, being goofy once in a while may elicit stares. But don’t worry about that. The people with a little bit of life left in them will feel something stirring. It’s the fun side of you. And it’s wanting to see daylight, just every once in a while. And the people who don’t feel it? They just need some syrup.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Ice to see you
My parents insist I ice skated when I was three. Since I have no memory whatsoever of it, I hardly think that qualifies me as being good, or even capable of it.
So imagine my surprise when, at an ice skating rink, my son told me he wanted me to go ice skating with him, and, without missing a beat, I said, “Sure!” Immediately after my mouth blurted that out, my brain said, “What are you doing? You don’t know how to ice skate.” My mouth responded, “I am sure I can learn,” which caused several people nearby to move a few steps away.
It all started when my wife enrolled my son in a beginner hockey program. It’s a six-week deal, and he learns the basics of hockey. My neighbor, who plays in an adult league, suggested we get Parker involved, since he, well, likes running over people and hitting things with sticks. “He’s got a hockey mentality,” my neighbor said. I think he meant, “Let’s channel the aggression,” but he could have meant, “He should only be around people in body armor, because he’s going to hurt someone.”
When we arrived at the ice rink, the folks there told us it was time to get Parker dressed. There were boxes and boxes of shin guards, hockey pants, helmets, etc., and we moved down the assembly line turning Parker into a heavily-protected Michelin man. He loved the fact that, when he fell, he just kinda bounced and rolled.
Once Parker was fully suited up, we noticed Allie watching him closely. She looked over and saw a little girl her age putting on her hockey gear, and my wife and I immediately knew what she was thinking: She was thinking she wanted a pony.
But she was also thinking she might want to try hockey. In a flash, she joined her brother, ready to go as the three-foot Granatos. (You see, Tony and Cammi Granato were brother and sister, and they played hockey, and ... oh, nevermind.)
When it was time to hit the ice, the coaches for the clinic helped them onto the rink. They divided the kids into two groups: Those who could skate, and those who couldn’t. It was easy to tell which group was which: One group was skating, and the other group was on the floor looking like a bunch of awkward turtles.
To teach the kids how to skate, they start with plastic chairs. The kids put their hands on the seat of the chair for stability and move along, using it kind of like a walker. After a few tries, Allie got the hang of it and was moving at a pretty good clip. Parker? Not so much. He really had no desire to go anywhere. He was perfectly content. My wife and I watched across the ice as several coaches tried to convince him to skate. At one point, they got him grabbing the chair and we saw him gliding across the ice. We then noticed his legs weren’t moving. He was basically getting an escort around the ring. Another coach carried him for a lap, at which point he had decided he had had enough.
He came off the ice and told us he didn’t want to skate anymore. I sat him down, gave him a hug, and said, “Quitters don’t get lunch.”
Ha! Kidding. My wife and I both tried to encourage him to get back on the ice, to no avail. As the clinic began to come to a close, Parker had an apparent change of heart, at which point he said I would be his on-ice guide.
My kids are still at the age where they think Daddy can do anything. Daddy can make it stop raining. Daddy can bring a squished ladybug back to life. Daddy can reattach Elmo’s severed head. It’s amazing what good timing, a little sleight of hand and a lot of distraction can do for your credibility. But I figured there was no way to fake my way through this one. I told my wife what the plan was, and that I would need a few minutes to, well, learn how to ice skate.
As I was lacing up my skates, the woman at the rink asked me if I was a good skater. “I don’t remember ever having skated before,” I responded. She chuckled, which did not bode well for me. “Just remember to march,” she said. I nodded, although I still have no idea what she meant.
When I got to the ice, I saw all of these little kids zooming about. I am sure they would have loved to see a grown-up sprawled on the ice, flopping around like an octopus as I tried to avoid a concussion. I set one skate on the ice, and then the second. I stood for a moment, took a deep breath and ... wanna guess what happened next?
I skated. Just glided across the ice. Fortunately, I have roller bladed for years, and that skill apparently translates quite easily. I took a few quick laps and got Parker on the ice, who was now just thrilled about going skating. (Allie opted to go eat some lunch, saying the hockey clothes were “smelly.”)
Our first couple of laps were done with me standing behind Parker, holding his hands while he skated. When it became evident that continued skating while hunched over and holding a 3-year-old would most likely send me to traction, I opted for the chair approach. Parker held on, moving his little legs as best he could, sometimes going four or five steps before faltering. After about an hour, he had shown a lot of improvement, and within a couple of clinics, I bet he will be skating on his own.
I’m glad he got back on the ice, and he has shown excitement about going back and trying again. When the kids take on any activity, I only have two requirements: Try your hardest, and have fun. If you do that, you’ll do fine. And you’ll get lunch.
So imagine my surprise when, at an ice skating rink, my son told me he wanted me to go ice skating with him, and, without missing a beat, I said, “Sure!” Immediately after my mouth blurted that out, my brain said, “What are you doing? You don’t know how to ice skate.” My mouth responded, “I am sure I can learn,” which caused several people nearby to move a few steps away.
It all started when my wife enrolled my son in a beginner hockey program. It’s a six-week deal, and he learns the basics of hockey. My neighbor, who plays in an adult league, suggested we get Parker involved, since he, well, likes running over people and hitting things with sticks. “He’s got a hockey mentality,” my neighbor said. I think he meant, “Let’s channel the aggression,” but he could have meant, “He should only be around people in body armor, because he’s going to hurt someone.”
When we arrived at the ice rink, the folks there told us it was time to get Parker dressed. There were boxes and boxes of shin guards, hockey pants, helmets, etc., and we moved down the assembly line turning Parker into a heavily-protected Michelin man. He loved the fact that, when he fell, he just kinda bounced and rolled.
Once Parker was fully suited up, we noticed Allie watching him closely. She looked over and saw a little girl her age putting on her hockey gear, and my wife and I immediately knew what she was thinking: She was thinking she wanted a pony.
But she was also thinking she might want to try hockey. In a flash, she joined her brother, ready to go as the three-foot Granatos. (You see, Tony and Cammi Granato were brother and sister, and they played hockey, and ... oh, nevermind.)
When it was time to hit the ice, the coaches for the clinic helped them onto the rink. They divided the kids into two groups: Those who could skate, and those who couldn’t. It was easy to tell which group was which: One group was skating, and the other group was on the floor looking like a bunch of awkward turtles.
To teach the kids how to skate, they start with plastic chairs. The kids put their hands on the seat of the chair for stability and move along, using it kind of like a walker. After a few tries, Allie got the hang of it and was moving at a pretty good clip. Parker? Not so much. He really had no desire to go anywhere. He was perfectly content. My wife and I watched across the ice as several coaches tried to convince him to skate. At one point, they got him grabbing the chair and we saw him gliding across the ice. We then noticed his legs weren’t moving. He was basically getting an escort around the ring. Another coach carried him for a lap, at which point he had decided he had had enough.
He came off the ice and told us he didn’t want to skate anymore. I sat him down, gave him a hug, and said, “Quitters don’t get lunch.”
Ha! Kidding. My wife and I both tried to encourage him to get back on the ice, to no avail. As the clinic began to come to a close, Parker had an apparent change of heart, at which point he said I would be his on-ice guide.
My kids are still at the age where they think Daddy can do anything. Daddy can make it stop raining. Daddy can bring a squished ladybug back to life. Daddy can reattach Elmo’s severed head. It’s amazing what good timing, a little sleight of hand and a lot of distraction can do for your credibility. But I figured there was no way to fake my way through this one. I told my wife what the plan was, and that I would need a few minutes to, well, learn how to ice skate.
As I was lacing up my skates, the woman at the rink asked me if I was a good skater. “I don’t remember ever having skated before,” I responded. She chuckled, which did not bode well for me. “Just remember to march,” she said. I nodded, although I still have no idea what she meant.
When I got to the ice, I saw all of these little kids zooming about. I am sure they would have loved to see a grown-up sprawled on the ice, flopping around like an octopus as I tried to avoid a concussion. I set one skate on the ice, and then the second. I stood for a moment, took a deep breath and ... wanna guess what happened next?
I skated. Just glided across the ice. Fortunately, I have roller bladed for years, and that skill apparently translates quite easily. I took a few quick laps and got Parker on the ice, who was now just thrilled about going skating. (Allie opted to go eat some lunch, saying the hockey clothes were “smelly.”)
Our first couple of laps were done with me standing behind Parker, holding his hands while he skated. When it became evident that continued skating while hunched over and holding a 3-year-old would most likely send me to traction, I opted for the chair approach. Parker held on, moving his little legs as best he could, sometimes going four or five steps before faltering. After about an hour, he had shown a lot of improvement, and within a couple of clinics, I bet he will be skating on his own.
I’m glad he got back on the ice, and he has shown excitement about going back and trying again. When the kids take on any activity, I only have two requirements: Try your hardest, and have fun. If you do that, you’ll do fine. And you’ll get lunch.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Fairy Tale
My wife and I recently completed one of the more difficult financial transactions we have ever had to endure: We negotiated with the Tooth Fairy.
It was an exciting time leading up to the my daughter’s first tooth coming out. (Yes, “exciting” is relative. When you’re married with kids, wiggly teeth tends to get you all riled up.) My wife first noticed it and showed it to me. I immediately cringed and looked away. I don’t like seeing loose teeth, and for this I blame one of my sisters.
You see, one time when I was a child and had a loose tooth, one of my sisters decided she would help me get it out. The tools she would need: Some thread from Mom’s sewing cabinet and a doorknob.
I am not sure who actually came up with this idea, but it was clearly an older sibling. I wonder if such an extraction has ever actually worked. She sat me down in a chair and, for some reason, I let her tie the string around my tooth and then to the doorknob. And slam went the door. And nowhere went the tooth. What she WAS able to accomplish was to shred my mouth up with the door-slam speed of thread zipping across it.
I am not sure how that tooth (and any others) came out, but I assure you it was done without breathing a peep of it to my sister.
But ever since then, the idea of teeth coming out of your head? Just not so pleasant to me. But my wife insists that I take part in all of these defining moments. Since we have had kids, I have looked at more unpleasant things at my wife’s behest than I care to imagine. And I am not sure why. The conversation usually goes like this:
HER: Hey, take a look this.
ME: Ewww.
HER: Oh, quit being a dork. It’s your child. Does it smell funny?
ME: Ewww.
HER: Yeah, I thought so, too. Hmmm. We’ll keep an eye on it. So, what should we do for dinner?
I finally mustered up the courage to wiggle Allie’s tooth a little. Partly, I did this because in addition to my wife informing me that I was a scaredy-cat, my daughter was chiding me, too. There is just so much emasculation you can take from a 6-year-old before you belly up to the bar.
Once I confirmed what we already knew – yes, it’s loose; congratulations – I removed myself from the process. “Let me know when it falls out,” I told my wife.
A few days later, we were getting the kids ready for bed, when I went in the bathroom and saw my wife and daughter up close to the mirror, my wife looking as though she was trying to fit her entire hand in my daughter’s mouth. “Uh, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Grabble frobba toof,” Allie said.
“Trying to get the tooth out,” my wife translated.
I just left the room, thoughts of thread racing through my mind.
Apparently the tooth was still hanging in there, so they decided to let nature and gravity take its course. A few mornings later, we were awoken VERY early to a very excited girl, showing off her brand new gap-toothed grin. She was excited about the tooth finally coming out, but even more excited about the Tooth Fairy’s pending visit.
Later that day, it occurred to my wife and me that it had been many moons since the Tooth Fairy had paid us for our used body parts. (She is undoubtedly the inspiration for the kidney thief urban legend). Way back in our day, I believe the Tooth Fairy dealt in coins.
I considered setting the stage for coins by explaining to Allie something like, “Back when your mother and I were kids, the Tooth Fairy didn’t give us money. Instead she put us to work in the tooth mines. For every tooth we lost, we had to log 40 hours, breaking big rocks into smaller rocks and smaller rocks in new teeth. And if we stopped working for even a minute, she’d have the Easter Bunny come over and punch us in the small of the back. So be thankful for whatever you get, because it will undoubtedly be better than getting kidney punched by a giant rabbit.”
I was shocked when my master plan was vetoed. Instead, we started asking around, and found that inflation had driven the tooth industry well into the paper money realm. Anywhere from a buck on up to $5. The Tooth Fairy has apparently had some investing luck to be able to turn around that kind of dough.
We went back and forth on the issue (“Two dollars? Three?” “How about we go back to the tooth mine/Easter Bunny story?” “Why do I bother including you?”) and finally came to terms with the Tooth Fairy. She would be offering up $2 for each tooth. Allie was very pleased with the trade (although she did tell her aunt that she was hoping for something in the $5 range; good luck with that).
She is now checking her other teeth on a regular basis, since she has realized she can get straight up cash for her teeth. I need to remind her that it is a one shot deal, and getting her brother to knock out permanent teeth is no way to make cash. When the next one comes loose, I know she will be eager for it to fall out. I hope she doesn’t call my sister.
It was an exciting time leading up to the my daughter’s first tooth coming out. (Yes, “exciting” is relative. When you’re married with kids, wiggly teeth tends to get you all riled up.) My wife first noticed it and showed it to me. I immediately cringed and looked away. I don’t like seeing loose teeth, and for this I blame one of my sisters.
You see, one time when I was a child and had a loose tooth, one of my sisters decided she would help me get it out. The tools she would need: Some thread from Mom’s sewing cabinet and a doorknob.
I am not sure who actually came up with this idea, but it was clearly an older sibling. I wonder if such an extraction has ever actually worked. She sat me down in a chair and, for some reason, I let her tie the string around my tooth and then to the doorknob. And slam went the door. And nowhere went the tooth. What she WAS able to accomplish was to shred my mouth up with the door-slam speed of thread zipping across it.
I am not sure how that tooth (and any others) came out, but I assure you it was done without breathing a peep of it to my sister.
But ever since then, the idea of teeth coming out of your head? Just not so pleasant to me. But my wife insists that I take part in all of these defining moments. Since we have had kids, I have looked at more unpleasant things at my wife’s behest than I care to imagine. And I am not sure why. The conversation usually goes like this:
HER: Hey, take a look this.
ME: Ewww.
HER: Oh, quit being a dork. It’s your child. Does it smell funny?
ME: Ewww.
HER: Yeah, I thought so, too. Hmmm. We’ll keep an eye on it. So, what should we do for dinner?
I finally mustered up the courage to wiggle Allie’s tooth a little. Partly, I did this because in addition to my wife informing me that I was a scaredy-cat, my daughter was chiding me, too. There is just so much emasculation you can take from a 6-year-old before you belly up to the bar.
Once I confirmed what we already knew – yes, it’s loose; congratulations – I removed myself from the process. “Let me know when it falls out,” I told my wife.
A few days later, we were getting the kids ready for bed, when I went in the bathroom and saw my wife and daughter up close to the mirror, my wife looking as though she was trying to fit her entire hand in my daughter’s mouth. “Uh, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Grabble frobba toof,” Allie said.
“Trying to get the tooth out,” my wife translated.
I just left the room, thoughts of thread racing through my mind.
Apparently the tooth was still hanging in there, so they decided to let nature and gravity take its course. A few mornings later, we were awoken VERY early to a very excited girl, showing off her brand new gap-toothed grin. She was excited about the tooth finally coming out, but even more excited about the Tooth Fairy’s pending visit.
Later that day, it occurred to my wife and me that it had been many moons since the Tooth Fairy had paid us for our used body parts. (She is undoubtedly the inspiration for the kidney thief urban legend). Way back in our day, I believe the Tooth Fairy dealt in coins.
I considered setting the stage for coins by explaining to Allie something like, “Back when your mother and I were kids, the Tooth Fairy didn’t give us money. Instead she put us to work in the tooth mines. For every tooth we lost, we had to log 40 hours, breaking big rocks into smaller rocks and smaller rocks in new teeth. And if we stopped working for even a minute, she’d have the Easter Bunny come over and punch us in the small of the back. So be thankful for whatever you get, because it will undoubtedly be better than getting kidney punched by a giant rabbit.”
I was shocked when my master plan was vetoed. Instead, we started asking around, and found that inflation had driven the tooth industry well into the paper money realm. Anywhere from a buck on up to $5. The Tooth Fairy has apparently had some investing luck to be able to turn around that kind of dough.
We went back and forth on the issue (“Two dollars? Three?” “How about we go back to the tooth mine/Easter Bunny story?” “Why do I bother including you?”) and finally came to terms with the Tooth Fairy. She would be offering up $2 for each tooth. Allie was very pleased with the trade (although she did tell her aunt that she was hoping for something in the $5 range; good luck with that).
She is now checking her other teeth on a regular basis, since she has realized she can get straight up cash for her teeth. I need to remind her that it is a one shot deal, and getting her brother to knock out permanent teeth is no way to make cash. When the next one comes loose, I know she will be eager for it to fall out. I hope she doesn’t call my sister.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Fading fantasy
For the first time in 15 years, I will not be participating in fantasy football. And I could not be more thrilled.
For those of you not familiar with fantasy football, it is a colossal waste of time and one of the biggest drains of human production in the history of mankind. And painfully addicting.
Essentially, with fantasy football, sports fans get together and everyone picks a team made up of various NFL players. The players’ individual performances during that week translate into your team’s performance. If your guys put up better numbers than your opponents’ guys, you win. Simple as that.
The first year I played fantasy football was in college, back around 1991. We would all get together in a room and spend a few hours drafting players. I cannot say for certain, but I would assume beer was somehow involved, too.
Now, Old Man Mike will share something with the kids out there: Back in 1991, we had to wait until the next day to get our complete football stats. Someone had to go and get the Tuscaloosa News each Monday for the updated information. I know what you’re saying: Why not check the Internet? Well, son, because the Internet was in its beginning stages, and only one person in our fraternity house had a connection. He had a service called Prodigy, and it took about 11 hours to find out how many rushing yards Barry Sanders had. And since back then you had a limited number of free minutes, he was not real keen on having us rack up a $32,000 online bill.
I also know what you’re saying: But Old Man Mike, why not watch the crawl on ESPN or ESPN2 or ESPN the Ocho? Well, son, because back in my day, we only had ONE ESPN, and there was no crawl with continually updated stats. We survived on a bare-bones 56 channels, and if we wanted satellite, the dishes were the size of a swimming pool. Life was tough, but we somehow made it through.
But over the years, I continued to play fantasy football. The Internet certainly made fantasy football far more widespread. It also made people with no lives far more evident. When we used to pick players pre-Internet, we would usually have one football magazine that had done a little blurb for the fantasy geeks. I recall one season where there was an argument because one of the players refused to let anyone look at the magazine, since he had bought it. He learned a very easy and simple rule of life: Not sharing can result in wedgie rash, administered by an angry mob who will, by the way, get your magazine.
But the more the Internet stats became real-time, the more into it some people got. And from interest like that sprung a fantasy football cottage industry. There are now magazines. And websites. And books. And talk shows. And radio shows. I knew I was not long for this ride when an entire 30-minute radio show could field calls from people asking who they should “start” in their pretend football league.
My dwindling interest in the game was pretty evident last year, when I was chided on several occasions for being a ghost manager, one who never swaps out players or trades or, basically, plays. The fact of the matter, I was just not interested in spending hours and hours pouring over stats and digging into injury reports and the like. My time is so fractured these days that I simply could not muster the desire to care about the Chiefs’ back-up running back. My evening hours are few and far between to begin with, and I have ventured into such foolish areas as kids’ bedtime and sleeping.
So, with little remorse, I threw in the towel this year, deciding not to play fantasy football. I told my wife this, and when I said it, I was a little embarrassed at how I sounded. I made it sound like I had opted to have my left arm removed. I went on to tell her that it had been a big strain on me to try and keep up with the stats and the players and I just think that this is the best choice.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I don’t care. I didn’t care about fantasy football when you did play, so why would I care about it now? Please, stop talking about it. I really, really, truly do not care.”
Clearly, she felt my pain.
So this year, I will just enjoy the games that I feel like watching, and peruse the standings and box scores on Mondays, just like in the olden days. That was a simpler time, one that I am more accustomed to, I suppose. In fact, all this talk of the good ol’ days has me yearning for more of the days of old. I’m thinking wedgie.
For those of you not familiar with fantasy football, it is a colossal waste of time and one of the biggest drains of human production in the history of mankind. And painfully addicting.
Essentially, with fantasy football, sports fans get together and everyone picks a team made up of various NFL players. The players’ individual performances during that week translate into your team’s performance. If your guys put up better numbers than your opponents’ guys, you win. Simple as that.
The first year I played fantasy football was in college, back around 1991. We would all get together in a room and spend a few hours drafting players. I cannot say for certain, but I would assume beer was somehow involved, too.
Now, Old Man Mike will share something with the kids out there: Back in 1991, we had to wait until the next day to get our complete football stats. Someone had to go and get the Tuscaloosa News each Monday for the updated information. I know what you’re saying: Why not check the Internet? Well, son, because the Internet was in its beginning stages, and only one person in our fraternity house had a connection. He had a service called Prodigy, and it took about 11 hours to find out how many rushing yards Barry Sanders had. And since back then you had a limited number of free minutes, he was not real keen on having us rack up a $32,000 online bill.
I also know what you’re saying: But Old Man Mike, why not watch the crawl on ESPN or ESPN2 or ESPN the Ocho? Well, son, because back in my day, we only had ONE ESPN, and there was no crawl with continually updated stats. We survived on a bare-bones 56 channels, and if we wanted satellite, the dishes were the size of a swimming pool. Life was tough, but we somehow made it through.
But over the years, I continued to play fantasy football. The Internet certainly made fantasy football far more widespread. It also made people with no lives far more evident. When we used to pick players pre-Internet, we would usually have one football magazine that had done a little blurb for the fantasy geeks. I recall one season where there was an argument because one of the players refused to let anyone look at the magazine, since he had bought it. He learned a very easy and simple rule of life: Not sharing can result in wedgie rash, administered by an angry mob who will, by the way, get your magazine.
But the more the Internet stats became real-time, the more into it some people got. And from interest like that sprung a fantasy football cottage industry. There are now magazines. And websites. And books. And talk shows. And radio shows. I knew I was not long for this ride when an entire 30-minute radio show could field calls from people asking who they should “start” in their pretend football league.
My dwindling interest in the game was pretty evident last year, when I was chided on several occasions for being a ghost manager, one who never swaps out players or trades or, basically, plays. The fact of the matter, I was just not interested in spending hours and hours pouring over stats and digging into injury reports and the like. My time is so fractured these days that I simply could not muster the desire to care about the Chiefs’ back-up running back. My evening hours are few and far between to begin with, and I have ventured into such foolish areas as kids’ bedtime and sleeping.
So, with little remorse, I threw in the towel this year, deciding not to play fantasy football. I told my wife this, and when I said it, I was a little embarrassed at how I sounded. I made it sound like I had opted to have my left arm removed. I went on to tell her that it had been a big strain on me to try and keep up with the stats and the players and I just think that this is the best choice.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I don’t care. I didn’t care about fantasy football when you did play, so why would I care about it now? Please, stop talking about it. I really, really, truly do not care.”
Clearly, she felt my pain.
So this year, I will just enjoy the games that I feel like watching, and peruse the standings and box scores on Mondays, just like in the olden days. That was a simpler time, one that I am more accustomed to, I suppose. In fact, all this talk of the good ol’ days has me yearning for more of the days of old. I’m thinking wedgie.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Hot about the A/C
A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I keep up my home warranty for the peace of mind it brings me.
Wow, how a few weeks can change things.
Our A/C, which was manufactured around the McKinley presidency, had been misbehaving. Something was causing it to drip water onto our ceiling, which caused a little brown spot near the return vent.
We positioned some buckets down below the vent, cut off the A/C and then called our warranty company. In order to get someone out immediately, it would have to be an emergency. This was not an emergency, they said, since our downstairs unit was working. Fine, whatever.
About two days later, a repairman came out. And guess what he found? That’s right. Nothing. Everything was working fine, he said.
Week later, drip, drip, drip. More spots on the ceiling. Let me just save everyone some time and let you know that we went through the exact thing again this time, as well as the next time. The only difference was that, on the third visit, the water stains were getting much larger, and the repairman made the comment to my wife, “Now, I’m not saying you’re lying about the leaks ...”
I am fairly sure it is by the good grace of deep breaths and happy thoughts that he did not take the express trip down the stairs. I think he was implying that we were trying to get a new air conditioner unit out of this. Well guess what, genius – we just want our current air conditioner to work, and not create nasty brown stains all over our ceilings. Yes, it’s an old unit, but plenty of old things work fine, including Roger Clemens and Paul Newman. Yet, neither Roger or Paul has damaged my ceiling. My A/C has.
So the fourth time this happened, I called my home warranty company and told them to get someone out there and it had better not be from the same company. They told me I would have to pay an additional service fee to get another company. I made it very clear that, in fact, I would not be paying a fee.
The fourth guy gets out there and, big shock, can’t find anything. He tells me that he would really have to be there when it was leaking to see what was happening.
It’s now a Saturday afternoon, about 4:30. Drip. Drip. Drip. Here it comes again. I call the home warranty company, and tell them it is now officially an emergency, and to get someone out NOW. She starts to tell me about “guidelines.” I cut her off and say, “Look, here’s the deal – it is now an emergency. You will get someone out here. And you will pay for it. If you do not feel you can do that, you can transfer me to your supervisor.”
By about 5, I had wrestled with the supervisor enough to win the “it’s an emergency” battle. I was told they would dispatch someone right away. Well, about 8:30, I called them back, and spoke with someone who, I can only hope, is not planning a career in customer service. She tells me that it’s a Saturday night, and there’s no one who can come out. I tell her hogwash, that the phone book is full of 24-hour places. She tells me that I can call one of them and get reimbursed. “Outside authorization,” she tells me. That’s what I have.
So I finally line up a local company (which I should have just called from the get-go), and he’s set to come out at about 10:30. I call back the home warranty company – as I was instructed – to tell them that someone is coming out, I will pay them up front, and they will reimburse me. “Sir, you can’t do that. You don’t have outside authorization.”
At this point, I began to develop that loud, heartbeat pounding sound in my temple that means I am about to possibly implode with anger. I mumbled something into the phone. “Excuse me?” the person on the other end of the line said. I said it again. My wife tapped on the shoulder and whispered, “Unclench your jaw.”
“SUPER... VISOR... NOW...” I said. A few minutes later, the world’s most deserving wedgie candidate got on the phone and began to tell me about how they don’t do that (they do) and they wouldn’t have done that (they did). I asked for the name of his supervisor. When he told me, I said, “Get him on the phone. Now.”
“Sir I can’t do that, it’s 10:30 on a Saturday. That would be unprofessional.”
“I’ll find his number. Get him on the phone or I will.”
He puts me on hold, and comes back a few minutes later. Amazingly, they suddenly DO do that, and DID give me authorization. Shock.
The local guy arrives and he diagnoses the problem, and sees about 800 other issues that the other guys – shock – missed. I had found the leak in the attic, and had placed a bucket up there, too. I kept about five gallons of water from seeping onto my ceiling.
I am in the process of getting reimbursed for my after-hours call, which I only hope I receive in a timely fashion. At that point, I will set my sights on getting them to pay for my ceiling. Sure, the fine print is in there about not paying for secondary damage. But the secondary damage was a little speck. Had it been fixed the first, second, third or fourth time, I wouldn’t be looking at an entire ceiling replacement.
I know that I have a long road ahead of my to wage war with the home warranty people. But I am diligent in these matters. I don’t like getting mistreated. When I do, it makes me angry, and I have no choice but to fight. I am ready to lock horns for what is right. I just need to remember to unclench my jaw.
Wow, how a few weeks can change things.
Our A/C, which was manufactured around the McKinley presidency, had been misbehaving. Something was causing it to drip water onto our ceiling, which caused a little brown spot near the return vent.
We positioned some buckets down below the vent, cut off the A/C and then called our warranty company. In order to get someone out immediately, it would have to be an emergency. This was not an emergency, they said, since our downstairs unit was working. Fine, whatever.
About two days later, a repairman came out. And guess what he found? That’s right. Nothing. Everything was working fine, he said.
Week later, drip, drip, drip. More spots on the ceiling. Let me just save everyone some time and let you know that we went through the exact thing again this time, as well as the next time. The only difference was that, on the third visit, the water stains were getting much larger, and the repairman made the comment to my wife, “Now, I’m not saying you’re lying about the leaks ...”
I am fairly sure it is by the good grace of deep breaths and happy thoughts that he did not take the express trip down the stairs. I think he was implying that we were trying to get a new air conditioner unit out of this. Well guess what, genius – we just want our current air conditioner to work, and not create nasty brown stains all over our ceilings. Yes, it’s an old unit, but plenty of old things work fine, including Roger Clemens and Paul Newman. Yet, neither Roger or Paul has damaged my ceiling. My A/C has.
So the fourth time this happened, I called my home warranty company and told them to get someone out there and it had better not be from the same company. They told me I would have to pay an additional service fee to get another company. I made it very clear that, in fact, I would not be paying a fee.
The fourth guy gets out there and, big shock, can’t find anything. He tells me that he would really have to be there when it was leaking to see what was happening.
It’s now a Saturday afternoon, about 4:30. Drip. Drip. Drip. Here it comes again. I call the home warranty company, and tell them it is now officially an emergency, and to get someone out NOW. She starts to tell me about “guidelines.” I cut her off and say, “Look, here’s the deal – it is now an emergency. You will get someone out here. And you will pay for it. If you do not feel you can do that, you can transfer me to your supervisor.”
By about 5, I had wrestled with the supervisor enough to win the “it’s an emergency” battle. I was told they would dispatch someone right away. Well, about 8:30, I called them back, and spoke with someone who, I can only hope, is not planning a career in customer service. She tells me that it’s a Saturday night, and there’s no one who can come out. I tell her hogwash, that the phone book is full of 24-hour places. She tells me that I can call one of them and get reimbursed. “Outside authorization,” she tells me. That’s what I have.
So I finally line up a local company (which I should have just called from the get-go), and he’s set to come out at about 10:30. I call back the home warranty company – as I was instructed – to tell them that someone is coming out, I will pay them up front, and they will reimburse me. “Sir, you can’t do that. You don’t have outside authorization.”
At this point, I began to develop that loud, heartbeat pounding sound in my temple that means I am about to possibly implode with anger. I mumbled something into the phone. “Excuse me?” the person on the other end of the line said. I said it again. My wife tapped on the shoulder and whispered, “Unclench your jaw.”
“SUPER... VISOR... NOW...” I said. A few minutes later, the world’s most deserving wedgie candidate got on the phone and began to tell me about how they don’t do that (they do) and they wouldn’t have done that (they did). I asked for the name of his supervisor. When he told me, I said, “Get him on the phone. Now.”
“Sir I can’t do that, it’s 10:30 on a Saturday. That would be unprofessional.”
“I’ll find his number. Get him on the phone or I will.”
He puts me on hold, and comes back a few minutes later. Amazingly, they suddenly DO do that, and DID give me authorization. Shock.
The local guy arrives and he diagnoses the problem, and sees about 800 other issues that the other guys – shock – missed. I had found the leak in the attic, and had placed a bucket up there, too. I kept about five gallons of water from seeping onto my ceiling.
I am in the process of getting reimbursed for my after-hours call, which I only hope I receive in a timely fashion. At that point, I will set my sights on getting them to pay for my ceiling. Sure, the fine print is in there about not paying for secondary damage. But the secondary damage was a little speck. Had it been fixed the first, second, third or fourth time, I wouldn’t be looking at an entire ceiling replacement.
I know that I have a long road ahead of my to wage war with the home warranty people. But I am diligent in these matters. I don’t like getting mistreated. When I do, it makes me angry, and I have no choice but to fight. I am ready to lock horns for what is right. I just need to remember to unclench my jaw.
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