Saturday, March 17, 2012

I did not die

And I actually did have a post ready for my seventh day. I did not fizzle out like some poor attention deficit riddled firework that gets ready to explode and then just... dies.

But, for probably one of the first times, Wife put a veto on the post that I was going to put up.

(It's about child rearing. And division of labor. And neglect. And it's satirical.)

Anyway, I'm going to see if I can get it posted elsewhere (which she doesn't seem to mind as much), and then give the link to you all, because I'm completely positive you have been waiting with bated breath to see the conclusion to my efforts.

In the meantime, enjoy probably the creepiest video ever created: a parody of actress Chloe Sevigny discussing toast.

Eat. Dance. Eat.

Peace out.

Tessa wishes you a Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Status update = post

As wife was cooking dinner Anna said: "Mommy, what's that disgusting smell. It smells like poo. And oranges." Then during dinner she insisted on wearing a blanket over head so as to not smell the dinner.

Aaaaand I'm spent. Getting up at 5:30 every day this week was getting up at 4:30. I'm dead now. Thank you daylight savings!

Therefore: status update = post.

Good night! (Real post tomorrow!) 

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Help! Can you identify these objects?

Um, Wife and I need your help with something.

While I would stop short of calling Wife a hoarder, we do have an issue where she insists on collecting stuff that is... garbage.

Like the other day. I was digging around in a drawer, and I pulled this out.

Me:  Sweety, what's this?

Wife: I dunno.

Me: Oh, okay. Well is it okay if I throw it away then?

Wife: No.

Me: Uh... why not?

Wife: Because we might need it some day.

Me: Need it for what?

Wife: For whatever it was made for.

Me:  And what was that?

Wife: I already told you. I don't know.

Me: Rrrrrrright... *looks baffled*

Yes. That's correct. We're keeping a random piece of garbage in the off chance that one of us will wake up one day and think "hey, I could really use a random half-orb piece of technology bereft of context and purpose that appears to be either part of a children's toy or a UFO. Wait, I know! We happen to have one in our bathroom drawer!" *pulls it out triumphantly*

So... if anybody knows what that is, feel free to let me know in the comments. So that I can throw it out. Because then we will know it's garbage.

Also, if you could identify the other pieces of junk from the drawer that Wife is keeping "just in case" that would be, likewise, helpful.

Wife just said she thinks they all look very important. But are they? Are they important? Really?

Please, somebody help us out here.

Monday, March 12, 2012

I hate Crime Shows except Law & Order

Wife likes to watch crime shows.

She doesn't like me around when she watches her programs because she says I get too snooty about them. She's probably right.

I don't mean to get snooty. It's just that for some of those shows (NCIS!) the characters are really unbelievable to me, and the plot-turns seem very contrived, and the dialogue feels like it was lifted from scraps thrown out of a community college screenwriting class. The scraps written by the students that got F's. Stuff that's really contrived and over-explanatory. Like some young cheerleader is being interviewed, and she's all "I don't want to answer your questions, officer. I am a slutty, rebellious teenager with attitude, and I think I'm above the law!" *pouts* Except she actually says that, just to make sure the lowest common denominator understands what's happening. That kind of thing.

Clearly I'm really refined, and I crave entertainment that helps to break down barriers and battle the stereotypes that *accidentally farts loudly* Ahh nevermind. My anus just ruined my point.

Anyway, because of this, I end up laughing or mocking in inappropriate places where what I should really be feeling is really tense and anxious and sitting on the edge of my seat wondering just who the killer is! Is it the creepy pedophile looking guy next door, or the rich aunt that wears lots of makeup? *bites knuckle in suspense*

Sometimes I even make unintentional sarcastic comments.

Shockingly, Wife doesn't enjoy this.

However, we have found a compromise, and that compromise is Law & Order from the 90's. Law & Order from the 90's is a show that, for whatever reason, I love. Maybe the writing was better then. Maybe I'm really into 90's clothes. Maybe it's the weird gavel sound at the beginning of each new scene. Not sure.

But for whatever reason, I am usually thoroughly entertained by an episode, and I rarely find myself laughing in mockery. However, tonight's show had me laughing for another reason. And thankfully Wife was laughing with me.

Scene: young Hispanic policeman and old crotchety policeman are now partners. They're trying to catch a killer.

Young Hispanic: Well, we're tracing him through an Electronic Mail message he sent.

Old Crotchety:  Electronic mail? What kind of newfangled gadget is that? *drinks coffee*

YH: Oh, Electronic Mail? It's just something people use to communicate on college campuses. You can send a message instantaneously.

OC: Oh, you mean with one of those computer thingamabobbers? *brushes the idea away dismissively with his hand* Those things are for the birds. I tried one once. Lost about 14 games straight of Solitaire."

Yes. He was talking about a computer as if it was this optional thing. Kind of like a cover for your iPhone. Or washing your hands after going to the bathroom.

Then later, they had started tracking the killer on this thing called a Message Board. And what they did, GET THIS, is they triangulated the guy who was using the signal of a cellular phone as a modem.

Old Crotchety: Now, what are we doing right now? Does this involve more technology?

Young Hispanic: Yes. This involves technology again. We're going to catch the killer using it.

OC: I hate technology. And all you young people who use it are crazy.

YH: But see, we're not crazy, because we're going to use it right now to do our job.

Computer specialist: Okay, we're about ready to track this guy down. *pulls out a gigantic metal antenna almost as big as himself connected to a mobile computer device that's almost too heavy to carry* Let's go!

Yes. Nothing more inconspicuous than that contraption whilst narrowing in on a killer. He won't know what hit him. "Help! I'm being attacked by a skinless terminator! Oh, wait, it's just a guy carrying an antenna that's bigger than his body. And I'm under arrest. Blast technology! You ruined me!"

Perfect for catching a killer. Or contacting Extra Terrestrials. 

When it was all over, I looked at Wife and was like "Wow, it's so incredible that technology has advanced so much in so little time!" And she replied simply: "It was almost 20 years ago." And I was like "Wow. The 90's were a freaking long time ago" and she was like "you're so good at math."

Take home lesson: technology doesn't move as fast as we think it does.

Also, are there any crime shows we should be putting on our queue?

Sunday, March 11, 2012

A Visit to the Eye Doctor

I went to the eye-doctor recently.

I've always kind of hated going to the optometrist/ophthalmologist/oculist/occultist (did you catch that joke there? It's a doozie!) because I always felt like a spectacle (oh, another one! I'm on a roll!)

(Those jokes were so cheesy that by invocation of the laws of humor blogging I am now required to kill myself like a failed Ninja which I believe involves disembowelment and a lot of bowing. I'm not going to do it though. Mostly because it might make me throw up, and I'm phobic.)

Anyway, going to the eye doctor is always a funny experience for a guy with a blind eye. There's always some drama. When I was younger, it was annoying. In elementary school, the following conversation took place pretty much any time I interacted with an Eyeball Professional.

Female Eyeball Professional: All right, go ahead cover your left eye and look at the letters on the wall. What can you see?

Me: (reads a bunch of letters)

FEP: Perfect. Now cover your right eye and do the same.

Me: My eye is blind.

FEP (skeptically): That's okay, sweetie. Go ahead and just give it a try. Tell me what letters you see.

Me: Okay... (covers eye and looks at the screen) I can't see any letters.

FEP: (Switches screens so the letters are larger) What about now?

Me: ...I really can't see any.

FEP: (Switches to the really huge "E") All right, try this one.

Me:  I can't see it. I can't see anything. I can't even tell where I'm supposed to look.

FEP (as if this is a revelation): Young man, you are blind in that eye!

Every. Single. Year.

I always wanted to say something snarky like "And clearly you are deaf, because I told you I was blind before we started" but I was too nice as a child.

 All right young man, now I'd like you to close both eyes and read this chart to ascertain whether or not you can see through your eyelids. 
(Photo attribution: here)

Anyway, after years of being lazy and baked by the sun, now my eye is so deformed looking it makes me look vaguely like a serial killer and there's no way anybody on earth would be surprised to hear it is blind. In fact, most people are surprised to discover that I'm not a raging homicidal maniac intent on personally massaging the tender, blood-filled walls of their heart as it beats its last beats if they notice my eye before anything else. 

These days when I see an Eyeball Professional, the mood is different. They are riveted by me. Not only do they not need to be "tipped off" that the weird orb in my face looking the wrong direction is blind, but they are more than eager to sit down and take a gander at the sucker.

I've finally begun to realize that they are just fascinated by the thing. I mean, it really is a novelty. It's like a relic from the 80's--they like to look at just what the surgeons did to me. Where they hacked it open, and what they took out. They find it fascinating.

But that's okay. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel like a celebrity kind of. A really poor, anonymous, deformed celebrity. Except for then they always want to dilate my eyes even when I don't need it, and that gets annoying.

Anyway, my latest visit was weird. I went to a new clinic because I had new insurance. So, I was prepping myself for the same routine. "Hi, how are you, nice to meet you... WHOA what the FREAK is that nasty grape doing in your left eye socket and can I study it for the next 30 minutes please?"

I sat waiting in the waiting room, filling out the paperwork, and when the time came, the doctor came out and brought me into the office. He sat me down, looked me straight in the eye and had no reaction.


At first I was kind of relieved. Like, okay, finally I'm treated just like everybody else.

But then I started to feel... miffed. He didn't care. He didn't even seem interested. Had he not noticed what he had in his office? Was he too obtuse to realize what he had access to? This eye, sir, has been cited in medical texts of the 1980's. I was a special case! I was cutting edge! And you just look at me like I'm some random guy off the street with two normal eyes.

I mean seriously, the audacity.

Then he looked over my paperwork and said, "so, are you still teaching middle school?" I hadn't written anything about teaching middle school on my paperwork. I hadn't taught middle school for years.

"No..." I replied, looking baffled.

When he saw my confusion, we talked and discovered that I had seen him half a decade before when I taught at the local school district. I had no recollection of this. I was kind of thinking, but didn't dare to hope, that even though I couldn't remember him at all, I might be so memorable to him because of you-know-what. That maybe it wasn't ME he was remembering, but a special eye-condition that he couldn't get out of his mind...

And then he said it, the thing that let me know that I still had it--that this eye still had swagger.

"So, how's that eye of yours doing?"

I was flooded with relief. I was special again! I was different. My uniqueness hadn't been stripped away by some highfaluting "everyone is the same" robot. I sighed deeply.

I didn't even cringe when he asked the inevitable: "Do you mind if I dilate you so I can get a look inside that left eye again...?"

This guy? He had remembered my situation for years. He had earned access to the inner regions of my cornea. "Have at it," I said.

And then he had his way with my face for the next 30 minutes, and I just basked in the glory of my atrocious looking congenital defect and the awesomeness it afforded me.

So listen. It may be true that my eye looks a little bit like somebody took a flame-thrower to a marshmallow and then attached it to my face with a hot glue gun, but by golly if it doesn't have its fringe benefits as well.

Don't you wish you were deformed and really special and unique like me?

Left eye wants to visit you in your dreams tonight!
(Drawing attribution: here)

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Health Tip and a Banner

Two things for today:

First, a brief word of caution: I've read several studies now that indicate that the hour shift for daylight savings increases risk of heart attack in humans. (That sentence is only accurate if you change "read several studies" to "saw a headline on the Yahoo homepage that may or may not have said this, I don't really remember because I wasn't paying attention.") This definitive fact being the case, I think it's important that we all take some precautionary steps.

1. Go to bed one hour early (unless you're watching a really good movie).

2. Sleep in one extra hour.

3. Figure out if this change happens tonight or tomorrow night. Because I can never remember.

4. Take a Bayer because it's a blood-thinner. I think. Either that or it eats holes in your stomach. Sometimes I get the random headlines I see on the Yahoo homepage a little mixed up...

Whew. We're all a little safer now, methinks. I think my civil duty for the day is done.

Second thing:

Wanna see a new banner that someone gave me?

It's pretty spectacular. I think you're going to like it.

I must say, as a former drug and alcohol addiction evaluator, I couldn't agree with this banner any more than I do. Especially the part encouraging people to read Weed. I think it's pretty clear that that's a better thing to do. Which pretty much means that I'm fighting a war against drugs. And all I did was have a last name that's synonymous with ganja.

Also, I love how it so clearly communicates the rarely-spoken message that if you smoke weed you will age 400 years in two days and your eyes will be made of blood. If I had quarter for every time I saw THAT happen...

(Does anybody else notice the special surprise I noticed as I studied it closely?)

Friday, March 9, 2012

McViva Sandwich and a lofty goal.

Goal for The Weed: post in this blog every single day for one week starting today.

Every day.

Goal for you: don't judge me if what I produce is below the standard of quality that you are accustomed to here at The Weed. I know I've probably coddled you, and that you might be really used to high brow things around here, like deep discussions of cameras being put up my rectum and the like, so this might be very hard for you to do.

I'll do my best not to disappoint you. But if what I come up with is crap, I'm posting it. I might even post photos of literal crap if it comes to that.


In conclusion:

 This is the sandwich that Viva, my 3-year-old, asked me to make for her yesterday. English muffin, not toasted. Cheddar cheese. Broccoli. No condiments.
 Am I weird to think this is insane???

Post #1? DONE.

Take that, blog. WHAT NOW?

(PS, anybody care for a McViva Sandwich? I might start selling them from my mini-van. Down by the local elementary school. Wearing a wife-beater.)