If in a big box store
you are compelled
to buy a t-shirt
emblazoned "McStud"
because you think
its funny and hipster
there is the proof
that you are a tool
in service to tools
Showing posts with label public embarrassment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label public embarrassment. Show all posts
17 September 2011
26 August 2011
Schlubs
I'll own up now, I am not a fashion plate. Never have been, probably never will be. I clean up well but sartorial endeavors are generally not on my screen for most of daily life. So I'm not sure just how much credibility I have in this particular area of human interest.
This is not to say I am completely ignorant of how to dress, or what to wear, or at least how to put on clothes and not look like a dweeb when I leave the house. Most of the time I do want to maintain a minimum standard of neatness and decorum, just by personal inclination. What that means is that sometimes I even tuck in my t-shirts. And I don't go grocery shopping in flip flops and cutoffs.
Which brings me to the subject of this post: Schlubs, and the women they inflict themselves upon.
I took Wee Lass out for dinner over the weekend, after which we went for a stroll down the main street to window shop and have ice cream. Something was bugging me, though, something that started during dinner and came into full bloom while we were out walking. There were an unusual number of schlubs out that evening. It started with the guy in the restaurant who was wearing a tank top and what looked like satin basketball shorts, along with bizarro black tennis shoes complete with red piping. He looked like he had just crawled out of a hamper.
His wife (I assume she was his wife, they were eating together with two kids and behaving like a family unit) on the other hand was dressed casually, too, but so much more put together. Simple black top with white capri pants and canvas deck shoes. Maybe not knock-'em-dead elegant, but it looked good. It looked like she gave a hoot about simple things like matching! and neat! and 'I didn't just get up!'.
When we left the restaurant I was sensitized to the phenomenon, as I really started to notice the walking fashion victims attached to arms of (for the most part) much more 'with it' lady companions. Wrinkled t-shirts, river rat shoes, baggy cargo shorts, ragged jeans with flip-flops and far too many logos for beer and cars and drinking establishments. All of these contrasted with nice summer dresses, well-fitting shorts, interesting shoes (I confess, my knowledge of womens shoe etiquette is sketchy), even just simple tops and intriguing accessories. While it wasn't a top hat and tails evening, just a casual weekend night out, the ladies looked a lot better than the dudes. Like they actually thought about it. The guys, they made me wonder in some cases if they had scintillating personalities (or money) or if maybe they were just plain lucky to be in the company of the women with them.
In the interest of full disclosure, I was wearing a plain tan t-shirt (tucked in), off white shorts and canvas tan casual shoes with light brown laces. I wouldn't have won any awards for world-class casual dress, no doubt, I felt I could hold my own against the Larry, Darryl and Darryls out that night. My daughter was wearing a casual summer top over flower-patterned shorts, along with her favorite golden sandals
To paraphrase Al Pacino in And Justice For All..."Don't you care, guys? don't you even care?".
I know it isn't earth-shattering, maybe even flirts with shallowness, but I bring this up because I didn't used to care. And now? I do. I don't know why, I just do. While I'm not so much a block head that I would try to outshine the sun, I do want feel like I belong in the same part of the sky. And that means, for better or worse, that I have to care about how I shine.
This is not to say I am completely ignorant of how to dress, or what to wear, or at least how to put on clothes and not look like a dweeb when I leave the house. Most of the time I do want to maintain a minimum standard of neatness and decorum, just by personal inclination. What that means is that sometimes I even tuck in my t-shirts. And I don't go grocery shopping in flip flops and cutoffs.
Which brings me to the subject of this post: Schlubs, and the women they inflict themselves upon.
I took Wee Lass out for dinner over the weekend, after which we went for a stroll down the main street to window shop and have ice cream. Something was bugging me, though, something that started during dinner and came into full bloom while we were out walking. There were an unusual number of schlubs out that evening. It started with the guy in the restaurant who was wearing a tank top and what looked like satin basketball shorts, along with bizarro black tennis shoes complete with red piping. He looked like he had just crawled out of a hamper.
His wife (I assume she was his wife, they were eating together with two kids and behaving like a family unit) on the other hand was dressed casually, too, but so much more put together. Simple black top with white capri pants and canvas deck shoes. Maybe not knock-'em-dead elegant, but it looked good. It looked like she gave a hoot about simple things like matching! and neat! and 'I didn't just get up!'.
When we left the restaurant I was sensitized to the phenomenon, as I really started to notice the walking fashion victims attached to arms of (for the most part) much more 'with it' lady companions. Wrinkled t-shirts, river rat shoes, baggy cargo shorts, ragged jeans with flip-flops and far too many logos for beer and cars and drinking establishments. All of these contrasted with nice summer dresses, well-fitting shorts, interesting shoes (I confess, my knowledge of womens shoe etiquette is sketchy), even just simple tops and intriguing accessories. While it wasn't a top hat and tails evening, just a casual weekend night out, the ladies looked a lot better than the dudes. Like they actually thought about it. The guys, they made me wonder in some cases if they had scintillating personalities (or money) or if maybe they were just plain lucky to be in the company of the women with them.
In the interest of full disclosure, I was wearing a plain tan t-shirt (tucked in), off white shorts and canvas tan casual shoes with light brown laces. I wouldn't have won any awards for world-class casual dress, no doubt, I felt I could hold my own against the Larry, Darryl and Darryls out that night. My daughter was wearing a casual summer top over flower-patterned shorts, along with her favorite golden sandals
To paraphrase Al Pacino in And Justice For All..."Don't you care, guys? don't you even care?".
I know it isn't earth-shattering, maybe even flirts with shallowness, but I bring this up because I didn't used to care. And now? I do. I don't know why, I just do. While I'm not so much a block head that I would try to outshine the sun, I do want feel like I belong in the same part of the sky. And that means, for better or worse, that I have to care about how I shine.
15 June 2011
The STFU Files: On Not Being A Weiner
Begging your pardon, dear readers, I must veer off into current events (of the American political variety), so please bear with me while I get this out of my head. Kind o f like passing a mental kidney stone.
(Ahem)
First of all, let me say up front that Anthony Weiner (you know the one) is a dumbass of the first order. But it isn't so much for the "media transfers" he made. To me, the pictures and the texting aren't the main issue. It's the lying about it that really kills me.
Have none of these guys learned anything, anything at all in this era of New Media and the 24/7 news cycle?
Lots of things get texted and sent that, in the hands of someone with malice or righteous justice on their minds, could have a lot of hay made out of them. Agendas abound in the information age, so its best to make yours clear and stay ahead of the curve. Or the pack, if one has reason to believe one has a lot of ill-wishers out there.
I reckon a lot of people are horrified on moral grounds, too. And a case can be made for that, I suppose, if moral purity were the sole arbiter of fitness for office.
But.
I. Don't. Care. It's fruitless and boring. Boring.
If one is looking to politicians for moral role models, perhaps one should recalibrate one's notions of a role model. People will argue that poor decision making in personal life automatically translates into poor decision making in professional life. True? Maybe, maybe not. Depends on the individual. Just because someone is imbued with a supposed true moral compass, by themselves or by their followers, does not mean the decisions they make are the right or good ones. Don't believe me? Then refresh your memory by looking back to all the bad decisions based on bad and wrong information (and right information that was flat out ignored) that got the country involved in the mess that was Iraq. That people lied and so many died...Somehow, that's more obscene to me, in light of the lives destroyed, resources squandered, in a war that was prosecuted on falsehoods.
Nothing Weiner did rises to the level of national security risk. He needs to apologize to his family, friends, the women with whom he was involved and to his constituents, not the world. This is why the nature of his offense doesn't really interest me. I don't expect anyone to live their lives without doing something that will most likely be considered as stupid, especially in the political arena. What I would hope they wouldn't do, is lie about it if confronted with something, justified or not.
After all, isn't it supposed to be an admirable trait, to own ones' supposed transgressions?
To paraphrase Dieter from Sprockets, "This habit of exposing yourself has become tiresome!"
(Ahem)
First of all, let me say up front that Anthony Weiner (you know the one) is a dumbass of the first order. But it isn't so much for the "media transfers" he made. To me, the pictures and the texting aren't the main issue. It's the lying about it that really kills me.
Have none of these guys learned anything, anything at all in this era of New Media and the 24/7 news cycle?
Lots of things get texted and sent that, in the hands of someone with malice or righteous justice on their minds, could have a lot of hay made out of them. Agendas abound in the information age, so its best to make yours clear and stay ahead of the curve. Or the pack, if one has reason to believe one has a lot of ill-wishers out there.
I reckon a lot of people are horrified on moral grounds, too. And a case can be made for that, I suppose, if moral purity were the sole arbiter of fitness for office.
But.
I. Don't. Care. It's fruitless and boring. Boring.
If one is looking to politicians for moral role models, perhaps one should recalibrate one's notions of a role model. People will argue that poor decision making in personal life automatically translates into poor decision making in professional life. True? Maybe, maybe not. Depends on the individual. Just because someone is imbued with a supposed true moral compass, by themselves or by their followers, does not mean the decisions they make are the right or good ones. Don't believe me? Then refresh your memory by looking back to all the bad decisions based on bad and wrong information (and right information that was flat out ignored) that got the country involved in the mess that was Iraq. That people lied and so many died...Somehow, that's more obscene to me, in light of the lives destroyed, resources squandered, in a war that was prosecuted on falsehoods.
Nothing Weiner did rises to the level of national security risk. He needs to apologize to his family, friends, the women with whom he was involved and to his constituents, not the world. This is why the nature of his offense doesn't really interest me. I don't expect anyone to live their lives without doing something that will most likely be considered as stupid, especially in the political arena. What I would hope they wouldn't do, is lie about it if confronted with something, justified or not.
After all, isn't it supposed to be an admirable trait, to own ones' supposed transgressions?
To paraphrase Dieter from Sprockets, "This habit of exposing yourself has become tiresome!"
27 February 2011
Gork, or Stylin' with Irish Gumbo
Well, dear readers, its confession time. I am, it seems, a geek. Or maybe a dork. Perhaps both.
Aha! I'm a GORK!
"Hey, Irish, don't be hatin' on yo'self! Why you think that?" I can hear you say. Although why you would say it that way, I don't know. It amuses me, I guess.
Anyway, as to why. Two things have made me think I'm a gork. To wit:
ITEM THE FIRST:
Earlier today I finally did my taxes for the year. I had been dreading it, so I put it off as long as I thought I could. The weird thing was, once I got into them...I enjoyed it. You read that right: I enjoyed it. Best I can figure, I enjoyed it because I turned off the radio and the TV, sat down and really focused on something for a while, and got it done. No interruptions, no distractions, I FINISHED A THOUGHT, for the first time in months. Hooray! What's wrong with me?
ITEM THE SECOND:
How many of you have two pairs of glasses, one regular for most tasks and one tinted for outdoors/driving? Show of hands...good! Those of you who do, listen up, I am about to offer a lifestyle tip.
If one wants to appear self-assured, cool, even, then make sure that when you get in the car and you go to put on your driving glasses...that you remove your regular glasses beforehand. Trust me, it will save some embarrassment, and no one will point and laugh at you flailings and pokings. Not that it has happened to me...within the past week.
So there you have it, dear readers, two of the many steps on that steep slide into gorkdom. Take your time, be careful, I'll be waiting for you at the bottom, wearing my two pairs of glasses...
Aha! I'm a GORK!
"Hey, Irish, don't be hatin' on yo'self! Why you think that?" I can hear you say. Although why you would say it that way, I don't know. It amuses me, I guess.
Anyway, as to why. Two things have made me think I'm a gork. To wit:
ITEM THE FIRST:
Earlier today I finally did my taxes for the year. I had been dreading it, so I put it off as long as I thought I could. The weird thing was, once I got into them...I enjoyed it. You read that right: I enjoyed it. Best I can figure, I enjoyed it because I turned off the radio and the TV, sat down and really focused on something for a while, and got it done. No interruptions, no distractions, I FINISHED A THOUGHT, for the first time in months. Hooray! What's wrong with me?
ITEM THE SECOND:
How many of you have two pairs of glasses, one regular for most tasks and one tinted for outdoors/driving? Show of hands...good! Those of you who do, listen up, I am about to offer a lifestyle tip.
If one wants to appear self-assured, cool, even, then make sure that when you get in the car and you go to put on your driving glasses...that you remove your regular glasses beforehand. Trust me, it will save some embarrassment, and no one will point and laugh at you flailings and pokings. Not that it has happened to me...within the past week.
So there you have it, dear readers, two of the many steps on that steep slide into gorkdom. Take your time, be careful, I'll be waiting for you at the bottom, wearing my two pairs of glasses...
07 January 2011
01 November 2010
Stone Free - Medical Adventures, Part the Third
A very interesting day here in the people's Republic of Gumbolia. It's not often one gets serenaded by Jimi Hendrix while urinating.
What's that, you say? Some explanation is needed? Of course, allow me.
So last week I chronicled my unfortunate encounter with a kidney stone. I am happy to report that most of the week was relatively pain-free. I say relatively because now my Pain-o-Meter has been recalibrated thanks to the aforementioned kidney stone. I followed the doctor's instructions to drink lots (LOTS) of fluids, and stick to the medicine, and wait for things to...pass. They advised me to monitor my 'output' even if that meant filtering said 'output' through a strainer to better catch anything (this becomes critical, later, you'll see). They can be sent for testing, to better determine how to prevent recurrence.
Well, the only strainer I have in the house is my trusty little tea strainer...and there is no way I was going to whiz through that, even if I sterilized it in boiling water. Just couldn't do it.
I didn't have time to go strainer shopping, so I decide to take my chances and bide my time, trusting that the stone would be evicted by the natural flow of things, and that I would know when it did. It's a jagged little stone, right, traveling through rather constricted spaces, right? Some rather sensitive constricted spaces, I must add.
All the past week, I anxiously awaited results. And every day since last Monday, nothing. Nothing, that is, until Sunday morning.
Things...shifted. I noticed a little disturbance going on in Brother John early, and hoped that this might be the end of it. First trip to the loo...a little scratchy, but no stone. Second trip, mid-morning: did the pee-pee dance, still scratchy. Still, no stone. Third trip, just past noon: They told me that sometimes an 'escapee' can be heard hitting the, um...bowl of whatever miracle of modern sanitation one happens to be, um...using. And so it was. Clink.
Amen and hallelujah, I thought, looking down, and there it was, big as day. Well, it felt bigger than day but was really only about the size of a grain of rice. Sitting there, all ready for retrieval...except there was a catch. I wasn't using a strainer. I wasn't even at home.
I was at a urinal in the public restroom at a local park. An automatic flush urinal, right next to the door.
I slowly zipped up, trying not to move too far. Also, I didn't have any tissues or gloves with me, and I couldn't walk away to get some tissue or a towel for fear of setting off the auto flush and thereby washing away the "fruits of my labor", as it were. So it was me, stock still, contemplating reaching into a public urinal(!) barehanded to pick up(!) a kidney stone. And what if someone walked in just as I lifting the "prize" out of the urinal? How to explain that?
Eventually, intellectual curiosity won out over revulsion...I took a deep breath, prayed that no one would come in, and make a lightning grab for the stone. I was like a peregrine falcon on a pigeon, I was moving so fast. Amazingly, I snagged the stone in one try.
I immediately hot-footed it over to the sink before any one else ventured in. I hurriedly washed the thing off (and with a thorough washing of my hands!) and wrapped it in some tissue paper for safekeeping. Hopefully, some good will come of this rather distasteful brush with the public sewer system.
The soundtrack to this farce? "Stone Free" by Jimi Hendrix was playing in my head the whole time.
"...Stone free do what I please
Stone free to ride the breeze
Stone free I can't stay
Got to got to got to get away..."
Lyrics from "Stone Free" by Jimi Hendrix. This song may end up in a Flomax commercial...
What's that, you say? Some explanation is needed? Of course, allow me.
So last week I chronicled my unfortunate encounter with a kidney stone. I am happy to report that most of the week was relatively pain-free. I say relatively because now my Pain-o-Meter has been recalibrated thanks to the aforementioned kidney stone. I followed the doctor's instructions to drink lots (LOTS) of fluids, and stick to the medicine, and wait for things to...pass. They advised me to monitor my 'output' even if that meant filtering said 'output' through a strainer to better catch anything (this becomes critical, later, you'll see). They can be sent for testing, to better determine how to prevent recurrence.
Well, the only strainer I have in the house is my trusty little tea strainer...and there is no way I was going to whiz through that, even if I sterilized it in boiling water. Just couldn't do it.
I didn't have time to go strainer shopping, so I decide to take my chances and bide my time, trusting that the stone would be evicted by the natural flow of things, and that I would know when it did. It's a jagged little stone, right, traveling through rather constricted spaces, right? Some rather sensitive constricted spaces, I must add.
All the past week, I anxiously awaited results. And every day since last Monday, nothing. Nothing, that is, until Sunday morning.
Things...shifted. I noticed a little disturbance going on in Brother John early, and hoped that this might be the end of it. First trip to the loo...a little scratchy, but no stone. Second trip, mid-morning: did the pee-pee dance, still scratchy. Still, no stone. Third trip, just past noon: They told me that sometimes an 'escapee' can be heard hitting the, um...bowl of whatever miracle of modern sanitation one happens to be, um...using. And so it was. Clink.
Amen and hallelujah, I thought, looking down, and there it was, big as day. Well, it felt bigger than day but was really only about the size of a grain of rice. Sitting there, all ready for retrieval...except there was a catch. I wasn't using a strainer. I wasn't even at home.
I was at a urinal in the public restroom at a local park. An automatic flush urinal, right next to the door.
I slowly zipped up, trying not to move too far. Also, I didn't have any tissues or gloves with me, and I couldn't walk away to get some tissue or a towel for fear of setting off the auto flush and thereby washing away the "fruits of my labor", as it were. So it was me, stock still, contemplating reaching into a public urinal(!) barehanded to pick up(!) a kidney stone. And what if someone walked in just as I lifting the "prize" out of the urinal? How to explain that?
Eventually, intellectual curiosity won out over revulsion...I took a deep breath, prayed that no one would come in, and make a lightning grab for the stone. I was like a peregrine falcon on a pigeon, I was moving so fast. Amazingly, I snagged the stone in one try.
I immediately hot-footed it over to the sink before any one else ventured in. I hurriedly washed the thing off (and with a thorough washing of my hands!) and wrapped it in some tissue paper for safekeeping. Hopefully, some good will come of this rather distasteful brush with the public sewer system.
The soundtrack to this farce? "Stone Free" by Jimi Hendrix was playing in my head the whole time.
"...Stone free do what I please
Stone free to ride the breeze
Stone free I can't stay
Got to got to got to get away..."
Lyrics from "Stone Free" by Jimi Hendrix. This song may end up in a Flomax commercial...
30 June 2010
I Didn't Get No Cheese
Tony Hayward.
Joe Barton.
John Boehner.
(sigh)
I held out as long as I could. But this did me in:
Sharron, I must be fresh as a daisy, because I'm not feeling rotten.
At least, not in the way you said it.
(sigh.)
I leave them with this little ditty, circa 1983:
Block of cheese, anyone? Quick, before it spoils!
05 April 2010
Monday Sunshine: Haiku, Shameless Wildlife Edition
At ease on the post,
Seagull shits in broad daylight.
He cares not, why should I?
20 February 2010
From The STFU Files: Tiger Woods Edition
Alright, folks, time for a short rant:
Tiger Woods doesn't need to apologize to his 'fans'. He doesn't need to call a press conference to tell the world that not keeping his dog in the right yard is "unacceptable". In fact, apologizing in such a manner doesn't seem much like an apology at all. It just seems like a page torn from the Plastic Persona Media Guide to Reputation Damage Control: Spin. The apology reeks of nothing more than a transparent attempt to avoid losing the endorsement deals because of public 'outrage'. That is obscene, just like the sickening amounts of money that companies dole out to "superstars". As if blinding talent and ability in an extremely specific skill set automatically translates into good judgment and discerning intellect when it comes to choice of soft drink, fast food, wristwatch, cell phone, or any other ephemera of modern life.
It's a sham, it's arrogant and it makes me want to invoke the Right To Privacy From Celebrities Personal Lives. Frankly, this falls in the category of things I don't want or need to know. Another incredibly talented athlete, awash in money and adulation, free from the daily grind of having to truly work for a living* gets found out on his infidelity?
Someone needs to explain to me why this is important.
Mr. Woods is correct in that what he did was unacceptable. What he did, however, is not new or different. It has been going on since men and women have been men and women. That he did it makes it no worse and no different than any other schmuck who committed adultery. It certainly does not make it more interesting.
How many people really know Tiger Woods? How many people are really his friends? You can be a fan, you can be interested in what he does as a golfer** but if you let it influence your life to the point where you feel you need an apology because of his bad behavior, it is time to reconsider your own values. Why are you looking to Tiger to be your moral compass?
The only people Tiger should be apologizing to is the wife, the friends and the family. In private. Press conferences do not count.
Go home, Mr. Woods, sit down and STFU for a while. Then look your loved ones in the eye and tell them you are sorry. That is the only way it will truly be meaningful.
*Please, spare me the crap about how much practice and travel and oh how hard it is to get that ball in the little cup. Boo hoo. Golf is not hard work, no matter how much time you spend in the sun. My father was an auto mechanic for 45 years, and a good one. Did he get a multi-million dollar endorsement deal because he could change a head gasket? No. That's difficult and dirty work, to do it every day for that long. Dad had the calluses and the grime under the nails to prove it. No one carried my father's tool chest for him.
**For the record, I think Tiger Woods is astounding at what he does. So is Michael Phelps. I can't do what they do, nor do I judge my self-worth by what others are good at doing. However, I don't know them, I'm not their family or friends. Whether dipping a wick or taking ill-advised hits from a bong, it really has no bearing on how I live my life. I don't look to them for validation or support. Why would I? That is what friends and family do. Friends and family also call you on your bad behavior, and forgive you if you sincerely admit to your transgressions.
22 January 2010
Hold On, Let Me Check...Uh, No?
Rare is the day that I do not see something interesting on my way driving to and from the Big City wherein I earn my daily bread, and last Monday was no exception. The parking lot of the building where I work slopes down to a busy road, and when leaving I often have to stop and wait for traffic to clear.
Idling at the bottom of the slope, on a bluish workday evening, I was absentmindedly staring across the road when a bright pink blur passed in front of my car. It was a Dodge Intrepid, and it was a brilliant shade of Pepto-Bismol. Clean, too.
Wow, I thought, you don't see that very often. A courtesy shuttle for a "gentlemen's club", perchance?
So I turned right out of the parking lot, and found my car right behind the Bismolmobile. It sort of looked like a taxi that had been retired from service. I was looking for any faded taxi sticker marks or company name when I noticed the bumper sticker on the back. There it was, big as day, and it read:
"HONK IF YOU GOT A BA-DONKA-DONK!"
I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Nope, still there.
I'm slightly sad to say, I did not honk. But only slightly.
I hadn't been that bemused since a few years back, when I saw a guy wearing a shirt that announced in big, bold caps: DON'T ASK ME FOR SHIT! Roger that, Sparky, you needn't worry that I'd ask you for anything, least of all THAT...
21 November 2008
Barf-A-Roni, The San Francisco (Un) Treat
Since I embarked upon this experiment in blogging I have realized that writing a ‘daily column’ is not as easy as it seemed. Topics can be elusive. As an example, tonight I was scrounging around and getting a bit desperate. It is also true that sometimes these things seem to write themselves, and this is one of those times. Tonight’s topic: public vomiting.
Specifically, public vomiting as it relates to Wee Lass, and the embarrassment incurred.
I made up my mind this afternoon that if I managed to clear the backlog on my To Do list at work soon enough, I would leave early and perhaps enjoy a bit of down time before dinner and (wait for it)…grocery shopping! I know what you are saying “Gumbo, dude, reel it in! You’re out of control!” Oh, I will; I am nothing if not a master of discipline. So anyway, things worked out, I crossed the last item off the list, and I swiftly put on my cloak of invisibility. A few spy rolls, a quick sidestep past the front desk and I was in the car and on the highway. Yesss!!! I made it home, kissed the kid and parked my keister on the couch, beer in hand. Tasty Anchor Holiday beer, if you are interested. Highly recommended!
Wee Lass and I took in some SpongeBob and then we trekked over to our favorite neighborhood Italian eatery (Hail, Pazani!) for dinner. The plan was to eat and then forage for victuals. A salad for the Spouse, a prosciutto Panini for me and Wee Lass tucked into her favoritest dish: spaghetti with butter and salt, “Butter noodles” in her lingo. We cut them up, Wee Lass tucks in, happiness ensues, ja? Comrades, the answer to that question is a big, fat NEIN!
Notice I said the plan “was” to go shopping. The intersection of Wee Lass and butter noodles, on this cold and snowy evening, was an unfortunate vector producing highly unpleasant results. My daughter is a connoisseur of butter noodles. She can go on about the right amount of butter (“Lots!”) and the correct sprinkling of salt (“Lots!”) and even the proper length of said noodles. The noodles have to be long enough to be ‘slurpy’. There are two traits, however, that Wee Lass manifests with maddening randomness: an inability to listen to her wise Da and lapses in common sense. Which the Spouse and I never do, so I dunno where the girl gets it!
So it was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wee Lass inhale a wad of spaghetti sized for a truck driver from Naples. Her cheeks bulged like a squirrel. “Don’t take big bites!” I said. Wee Lass looked up at with a blank stare, spaghetti draped on her chin like a moose eating pondweed. She was struggling to chew as she nodded at me. I looked down to get a bite. When I looked up, there she was with another egg size ball of noodles in her mouth. “Hey! Small bites!” She didn’t look back because she was coughing, mouth working like a spasmodic fish. You know what happened next. Wee Lass looked up, eyes widening to saucer-size. Silence. The Spouse kicked into SuperMom-ICU nurse-mode, grabbing my sandwich basket and turning it into an ad hoc emesis basin (barf bucket, in layman’s terms). BARRFFF! Good timing, Mommy! I launched myself out of the booth and hot-footed it over to the napkin holder for emergency spill absorbents. By the time I got back, disaster had struck. The basket was too small, Wee Lass had gone off like a lawn sprinkler, and the spaghetti bowl was the next closest container. Wee Lass was slumped down in the seat looking sad. The Spouse was glaring up at me, hands upright in front of her. Eewww. “This…is…DISGUSTING!” she hissed. No shit. The Spouse and Wee Lass slunk off to the bathroom to clean up, while I played Coast Guard to their Exxon Valdez. Man, those napkins can seem mighty small all off a sudden.
While I am mopping up, furtively glancing about to see if anyone was staring, one of the waitstaff/busboys stops and says “Can I get those for you?” hands reaching out to get the dishes, “Is this….” the smile fading quick as he looks at the wrecked bowl of spaghetti “…done?” I smiled weakly at him. “Uh, yeah, we’re done. She’s not going to finish that.” He picked up the bowl like it was radioactive. “Sorry.” He carefully walked away, barf bowl out in front of him like a grenade about to go off.
Specifically, public vomiting as it relates to Wee Lass, and the embarrassment incurred.
I made up my mind this afternoon that if I managed to clear the backlog on my To Do list at work soon enough, I would leave early and perhaps enjoy a bit of down time before dinner and (wait for it)…grocery shopping! I know what you are saying “Gumbo, dude, reel it in! You’re out of control!” Oh, I will; I am nothing if not a master of discipline. So anyway, things worked out, I crossed the last item off the list, and I swiftly put on my cloak of invisibility. A few spy rolls, a quick sidestep past the front desk and I was in the car and on the highway. Yesss!!! I made it home, kissed the kid and parked my keister on the couch, beer in hand. Tasty Anchor Holiday beer, if you are interested. Highly recommended!
Wee Lass and I took in some SpongeBob and then we trekked over to our favorite neighborhood Italian eatery (Hail, Pazani!) for dinner. The plan was to eat and then forage for victuals. A salad for the Spouse, a prosciutto Panini for me and Wee Lass tucked into her favoritest dish: spaghetti with butter and salt, “Butter noodles” in her lingo. We cut them up, Wee Lass tucks in, happiness ensues, ja? Comrades, the answer to that question is a big, fat NEIN!
Notice I said the plan “was” to go shopping. The intersection of Wee Lass and butter noodles, on this cold and snowy evening, was an unfortunate vector producing highly unpleasant results. My daughter is a connoisseur of butter noodles. She can go on about the right amount of butter (“Lots!”) and the correct sprinkling of salt (“Lots!”) and even the proper length of said noodles. The noodles have to be long enough to be ‘slurpy’. There are two traits, however, that Wee Lass manifests with maddening randomness: an inability to listen to her wise Da and lapses in common sense. Which the Spouse and I never do, so I dunno where the girl gets it!
So it was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wee Lass inhale a wad of spaghetti sized for a truck driver from Naples. Her cheeks bulged like a squirrel. “Don’t take big bites!” I said. Wee Lass looked up at with a blank stare, spaghetti draped on her chin like a moose eating pondweed. She was struggling to chew as she nodded at me. I looked down to get a bite. When I looked up, there she was with another egg size ball of noodles in her mouth. “Hey! Small bites!” She didn’t look back because she was coughing, mouth working like a spasmodic fish. You know what happened next. Wee Lass looked up, eyes widening to saucer-size. Silence. The Spouse kicked into SuperMom-ICU nurse-mode, grabbing my sandwich basket and turning it into an ad hoc emesis basin (barf bucket, in layman’s terms). BARRFFF! Good timing, Mommy! I launched myself out of the booth and hot-footed it over to the napkin holder for emergency spill absorbents. By the time I got back, disaster had struck. The basket was too small, Wee Lass had gone off like a lawn sprinkler, and the spaghetti bowl was the next closest container. Wee Lass was slumped down in the seat looking sad. The Spouse was glaring up at me, hands upright in front of her. Eewww. “This…is…DISGUSTING!” she hissed. No shit. The Spouse and Wee Lass slunk off to the bathroom to clean up, while I played Coast Guard to their Exxon Valdez. Man, those napkins can seem mighty small all off a sudden.
While I am mopping up, furtively glancing about to see if anyone was staring, one of the waitstaff/busboys stops and says “Can I get those for you?” hands reaching out to get the dishes, “Is this….” the smile fading quick as he looks at the wrecked bowl of spaghetti “…done?” I smiled weakly at him. “Uh, yeah, we’re done. She’s not going to finish that.” He picked up the bowl like it was radioactive. “Sorry.” He carefully walked away, barf bowl out in front of him like a grenade about to go off.
Next week, I’m bringing a poncho. And a bigger tip.
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