Pyramid peddlers be gone

You know if there's any group of people that get on my nerves six ways til Sunday it's pyramid peddlers. I swear I get irritated just thinking about them, those wide-eyed weasels with their cheesy conversation starters and their supposedly slick spiel on how to get rich quick. I don't mean to sound overly nasty but I just think the planet would be a better place without these people.

Meryl and I were accosted at the local Wal-Mart by a man-and-woman team just the other day and in the children's toy department of all places! They paid her a compliment and, being the well-meaning stupe that I am, I answered back with a sincere thank you and follow-up reply. That's when the guy mistook my expression of gratitude as his opportunity to get his foot in the door. I was quick to cut him off once I caught on to the game.

First of all the guy was sporting a lightweight tan jacket zipped up to the neck so all potential marks could easily read the pyramid scheme logo on his lapel. I suppose that would have been a worthwhile tactic were it not for the fact that anybody with half a brain would have recognized the label as a well-known Ponzi scheme. Sure, the company he represented may sell the occasional mortgage, insurance package or investment instrument, but you can tell by the look on the guy's face that the way he plans on making money is by getting other people who are equally as gullible as he was to sell their integrity along with the names and numbers of their friends and family. I'm no genius but even I can spot the shady smile and rapid-fire schlock coming out of someone's mouth that in essence negates whatever he's saying and instead serves as his own pisspoor attempt to delve into my pocket or social network or both.

How gross!

While I was quick to rat this couple out to customer service, I don't know what good it did. On the relatively few occasions I've been targeted by these types of people, the most recent onces occurred at a Wal-Mart or Sam's. Once two guys from the Bush-backed cult known as Teen Challenge solicited me for a donation as I was walking in a Wal-Mart, and at Sam's it seems like there's always a fund raising car wash going on for some transient fly-by-night church slash tax shelter. Sometimes I think the fickle finger of Sam Walton is reaching beyond the grave and inviting these greed demons into his stores. As if getting the government to usurp our private property rights wasn't enough!

I think what bothers me most about the pyramid peddlers though is that they fail to see their own ignorance and greed and instead assume (or at least hope) that the rest of us are as gullible as they were. They think that because they were dumb enough to plunk down cash for an initial investment in garbage shilling, so will we. Fat chance.

Think about it. The guy I met recently touted himself an investment manager who had recently moved down from New Jersey. OK, his accent led credence to the Jersey part, but aside from that I wasn't buying. If he was successful in New jersey, why was he here in a Georgia Wal Mart trying to drum up customers or fellow pyramid peddlers? Secondly, while I have a large number of people I consider family and friends, and their respective intelligence levels spans the smarts spectrum, I can't think of one who would actually be dumb enough to trust their child's inheritance with some schlub I claimed to have met at the local megalomart. And they sure as hell aren't going to trust me with it!

I'm sorry. I just keep better company than that.

Whether it's Pampered Shit or White Trash Living or Crymerica or Scamway or Unimaginative Memories or any of that garbage, I am just no interested.

On the flip side, we're out of Thin Mints and I wouldn't mind trying those Samoas this year.

Bootleg blog template

As of late I have messed up my blog template and had to temporarily resort to what I used as a blog template back in the day. Let me know how badly this sucks and I may speed up my response time for fixing it. Otherwise this may get deprioritized on my list of pointless things to get accomplished.

Pass the Grand Duchy on the left-hand side

Barring the Vatican, Luxembourg is the tiniest country I've visited so far. My wife and I arrived there after roughly two and a half hours of driving having started our route on Avenue de Franklin Roosevelt leading out of Gent in Belgium and eventually snaking along the E411 leading to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Much like the invitations motorists find when entering Switzerland, Monaco or other small European countries, Luxembourg greets new arrivals with billboards advertising tax shelter opportunities and anonymous banking. Beyond the billboards we found ourselves in the nation's capital city, also called Luxembourg, or as we say in our kinda talk Luxembourg.

Getting there was half the fun as I recall which was good because Elaine and I didn't spend more than an afternoon in the country. We got out of the car and explored the main park before wandering around in the shops downtown. Luxembourg and especially Luxembourg City is a moneyed part of the planet. We were without child at the time but even still Elaine was quick to find a children's clothing store and pick out pricey garments for the baby that we might possibly someday maybe have. As it turned out the store was part of a European chain called Natalys. Clothes are available for purchase on the internet, but we've yet to place an order. I talked her into foregoing the expense and instead use the money to take in a late lunch.

Our waiter, who commuted from France everyday in order to report to work, spoke with us about the benefits of living in one country and working in the other. His English was far superior to most Frenchmen of his ilk and he was most friendly. He would constantly confuse the English verbs earn and win though, so listening to his story was at times like listening to someone read a Mad Lib. My wife hung on his every word, but I think it was his shoulder length greasy hair and Gallic nose that she liked most. So impressed was she with our server that he brought her out of her English-only cocoon. When he asked us if we wanted anything else, she said confidently, "de l'eau s'il vous plait."

I don't know if she really wanted water so much as she wanted a youthful swarthy guy to do her bidding.

Grace Jones: one sexy sexagenarian

For some strange reason I have always had a bit of a celebrity crush on Grace Jones. Well, maybe not a crush exactly. I think I'd be too frightened to spend the night alone with her, but even from the time I was young and saw her in Conan the Destroyer and Vamp back in the mid-80s, I just thought she exuded sexuality. From her striking beauty to her bewitching vocals to her on-screen vivaciousness, there's just something about her.

She was also quite the trend setter in her time because it was she along with David Bowie and Annie Lennox if you ask me that introduced that androgynous mystique that helped define the 80s. Later performers like Boy George and Sinead O'Connor would try to cash in on it but somehow fail. Grace Jones though could sport an athletic cut man's suit and make it work.

Saint Wikipedia teaches us that Grace Jones was banned from all Disney theme parks worldwide after baring her breasts at a concert in Disneyland. Her official website however does not confirm this, so this may be one of the few things found on the innerwebs that isn't actually true. I don't remember seeing Grace Jones bare-breasted in anything, but MrSkin.com (not a saint, mind you) says I must have gotten up to get more Smurfberry Crunch at the wrong time during Vamp because she was naked at some point from the waist up during a scene. I'd guess the real reason she's been banned from Disney is because she has a better rack than Snow White and Cinderella put together. I'll add Vamp to the Netflix queue to confirm.

Sadly, Saint Wikipedia also teaches us that Grace Jones is going to be 60 this year, and for this reason I think she should fall off my celebrity crush list. Jodie Foster remains on even after her coming out and Juliette Lewis, because she was born a year after me, will probably always be on it. But right now, eligibility to collect social security is a deal breaker in my book.

Grace, if you're reading this, it's not you. It's me. For years, I was a slave not just to your rhythm but also to your stunning physique and slight Caribbean accent, but it's time to part ways. So here I go.

Walking.

Walking.

In the rain.

An open letter to my daughter

Dear Meryl,

Now, just a few weeks short of your second birthday I find myself looking back fondly on the times that you have shared with your mother and me and the growth that you have shown since May 5, 2006 when we first brought you home from the hospital. You have definitely made me a proud father. I could go on and on about the things I adore about you, but here are just a few things that come to my mind right now:

Your vocabulary has grown leaps and bounds just in the past few months. I love that you can recognize certain letters like O and M and E and even moreso that you understand that they represent sounds. I don't care that you say buh buh buh regardless of what letter I ask you to sound out, you know that there's a sound attached to the symbol. At your age, that's pretty incredible.

True, you did identify and say liquor store today and when the cashier asked you what Dad was buying you correctly identified the 12 bottles on the counter as wine, but we'll just chalk that up to time spent in front of the boob tube. Damn dirty SuperWhy.

While you used to only eat the pablum found in the various stages of Gerber jars, you now have learned to like such relatively eccentric foods as black olives, shredded Parmesan cheese, and Skyline chili. Even when something's kinda spicy, you're not afraid to keep eating. Speaking of which, I like how when you bite into something a tad piquant, you stick out your tongue to rub it with your hand and exclaim Sypee!!! Sypee!! Those S-P blends aren't easy, but you'll get the hang of it sooner or later. And by the time you can actually pronounce spicy, I'll bet you'll be downing jalapeños as a bedtime snack.

In the past few months, you have evolved into quite the pretender. This seemed to have started a few months back when you would ask for a pot and a spoon and when you're mother or I would ask you what you were making, without looking up you would say simply soup or rice or sometimes just hot. Ah yes, that secret family recipe for Hot. Mmm mmm good.

Now you enjoy opening and closing doors after announcing that you're going bye bye. When we ask you where you're going, you tell us you're headed to work or to Grandmommy's or to Boompa's. Sometimes you're on your way to the store to buy cookies. Other times you're going to the doctor, who I might add, you describe as being nice. You like to make me ask you three times for a goodbye kiss only to refuse me while readily granting our dog one each time you open the door and let the pricey cool air out of the house. Eventually I'll say things like I don't want to pay to air condition the whole neighborhood and fatherly stuff like that, but right now I'm enjoying this game as much as you are.

Speaking of our dog, William T., I think it's cool that you call him T whereas Ambrose you just refer to as Cat. Your mom thinks this is because Ambrose is harder to pronounce. I think it's just a keen observation on your part where you simply abbreviate what your mom calls him which is You Asshole Cat. Just remember that Mommy, using asshole as a term of endearment, doesn't mean any harm by it, but you are not allowed to say it until you're at least three.

You also play relatively well with others. Once on the playground at our local park you pretended to drive a car. When a little boy only a month younger than you came over to sit down beside you, you looked at him briefly before getting up and coming over to me. So as not to be heard by him, you leaned close to me and whispered with an upward intonation boy? like you were asking me a question. When I assured you that he could play beside you you went back to the driver's seat for a few minutes. Then you came back to me and whispered again. Boy? It was cute, but just remember that outside of the playground, you're not to ride in cars with boys until you're at least thirty-three.

More recently you frolicked in the snow with your two-year-old cousin in Cincinnati. At times you weren't crazy about the cold, but you learned to adjust. When your older cousin held onto something you desperately wanted, you would grunt her name while clenching your fists and tensing up every muscle in your body. Sharing is a learned skill, I'm sure, but you'll get the hang of that too.

Not since infancy have you been a cuddly sleeper. Even when your mother or I beg you to come lay down in the bed with us because you sometimes awake before the sun comes up, you refuse and instead insist on starting your day. I guess it's good that you live by the old adage "Early to bed; early to rise . . ." but it sure would be nice if when you wake up at 5:30 in the morning, you either come lay down with us or at least use that pre-dawn solitude for some quiet meditation.

As for the nighttime rituals, I like that you can pick out what stories you want to hear and even go so far as to say certain words aloud as I read them. I would guess this is basically rote memorization on your part, but it's vital to acquiring the beginning stages of reading. When you picked up my book this evening and flipped through it you asked quizzitively Pictures? I like that you like books.

Like I said, this list could span pages upon pages. While going from being a family of two to being a family of three was quite the adjustment for your mom and me, it seems like everyday now you do something that makes us happy. Sure, there are times when you are quite the pill, but I think this is to be expected from a kid of your age. You already impress me as a girl who's sharp witted and has a developing sense of humor. Those two things will get you far. One thing worth working on though is your unwillingness to clean up a mess you've made. Turning a blind eye to all the toys you've strewn across the living room floor only to lose interest in them moments later is only appropriate for younger babies.

And daddies in their mid-thirties.

Love,
Your dad

Cincinnati, a city of sliders and slide-offs

On a few occasions, the most recent of which was this past weekend, I have had the opportunity to visit Cincinnati, a city so metropolitan that it merits its own football team, its own baseball team and even its own style of chili. When I go there I am surrounded by constant reminders of my status as an outsider. Not only do these people pronounce pin and pen differently (whereas for me they both rhyme with grin), this weekend the city was taken aback by almost a foot of snow.

First of all, that much snow is something that native Georgians typically only see in the movies, and when we do see it on screen, while we're jealous of the kids on the sleds, we're glad we don't have to expose ourselves to such elements or worse yet shovel it. Driving in it is also something I'm glad I don't have to do on a regular basis because, as Cincinnatians proved during the past few days, bringing a car to an abrupt halt on an icy expressway is not an easy feat. A news reporter referred to traffic due to slide-offs. Who ever heard of a slide-off? To me, it was as unfamiliar as a snozzberry.

Because I needed gas and mainly because I secretly just wanted to get out and experience frozen tundra driving first-hand, I made a brief trip to Kroger which is only fitting since the company is headquartered in Cincinnati along with Procter and Gamble and the makers of Sunny-D. For fear of being ridiculed by a Kroger clerk for not saying pop, I suppressed the urge to ask where to find cokes. They were easy enough to spot anyway.

Seeing so-called diluted vodka and diluted gin in the beer-and-wine aisle struck me as odd for a couple of reasons. Number one, here in the bible belt we reserve the sale of spirits to more sinful establishments and number two, where's the fun in diluted liquor? When I asked the guy if they sold 80 proof alcohol, he informed me that I would have to go to a state store. State store sounds like an ambiguous term to me, but I guess it's no less descriptive than package store, which is how many liquor stores refer to themselves here.

On the way out, I walked gingerly across the parking lot to my car, making sure my feet only stepped in areas that were at least relatively free of slick ice. On the few occasions that I did slide, even if only a little bit, I'd get that unsettling feeling of blood rushing to my head in anticipation of a fall and subsequent blow to the skull. If walking like an inept toddler didn't draw enough attention my way and make me stand out, I also had on a shirt, two sweaters and a jacket to protect me from the cold.

Half way through my arctic sojourn from the self checkout to the car, a dad and daughter came barreling out of the store and passed me. His only protective wear was a Cincinnati Reds windbreaker, and the girl, who looked to be about nine or ten years old, was wearing trendy plastic footwear. I looked down at her shoes and couldn't imagine how she managed to stay upright in them on the snow and ice. To add insult to injury, while I was being extra careful not to put my foot on any patches of frozen slush for fear of crashing to the ground, this girl was making a point to jump in them the same way a similarly inclined kid here might jump into puddles.

Obviously I survived another trip to the frosty land of Ohio if I'm now sitting back at home with my trusty laptop. I'm glad I managed to make it to Skyline for a five-way bowl of chili and regret that I've yet to taste a White Castle slider. But having already ventured south on I-75 and just recently going almost as far north on the same road, you can imagine that I've gotten kind of tired of packing and unpacking. Town to town, up and down the dial. Maybe you and me were never meant to be.

But Cincinnati, think of me once in a while.

Phone frenzy

To whom it may concern,

Please be advised that the following times, listed in chronological order, are acceptable intervals during which to call my house:

7:30 AM - Noon Yes, I am almost always up that early, and if you call before noon, you're guaranteed to catch me before my daughter goes down for a nap. On weekends, the answer you get will be much more jovial if you hold your call until after 10:00 AM.

4:00 PM - 7:00 PM Again, I'm awake. Baby is awake. All is well. We might be eating dinner, but we still welcome warm wishes and hearty hellos.

And . . . well . . . that's basically it.

Thank you for your support.

Sincerely,

The Management

From Naples to Atlanta: fame and infamy along I-75

Sunday I was saddled with the responsibility of driving my father-in-law's car back to Georgia from southern Florida, all in all a ten-hour drive. The bulk of my day was spent on I-75 watching fellow motorists scoff at speed limits, recklessly change lanes, cut me off unnecessarily, pick their noses, yammer on their cell phones and pull off to buy fudge, pecan logs, coconut spread, citrus products, adult novelties, Cracker Barrel biscuits with sawmill gravy and discounted tickets to Disney World and Orlando time-share presentations. A happening drive, let me tell you.

The automobile I was driving was quite the sporty roadster with race car-tight steering and a generous amount of road feel. I didn't tinker with the gadgetry very much because when it comes to figuring out how to work the luxury features in automobiles I am not what you'd call a quick learner. Because my brain is loaded with so many ingenious theories and the solution to much of the world's problems, I just don't have room for such fiddle faddle as how to turn on the rear window defrost or cruise control. Gas equals go and brake equals stop. That's all I know. I was asked to keep an eye on two gages along the way, but I forgot which two twenty minutes into the trip. As best as I could tell though, bass and treble were doing just fine.

The trunk was equipped with a CD changer, but I was not provided with instructions on how to load it. I had brought CD audio books along for the ride, but when I tried to open the changer to put in disc one of Les Miserables, I got nothing but a blinking green light. No tray came out. No door popped open. Nothing.

When I got in the car and pressed the CD button on the console the dash informed me that no CD changer was detected. I got out, tried to open the changer again, checked to make sure there were no loose wires and got back in the car. Again the readout on the dash claimed the car wasn't equipped with a CD changer. I pushed the button again when I was on the road. No CD changer. I waited until I was further in the trip thinking perhaps the car had to be doing at least 70 in order for the changer to work. No luck.

My only choices in listening entertainment were the radio, road noise or cassettes from my father-in-law's personal collection which included such gems as Shagger's Delight, Boogie Woogie Classics or a mixed tape he had hand labeled The Original Little Richard: Not the Fake Little Richard. I found one tape that offered Cole Porter jazz tunes and opted for that.

A brief stop in Bushnell, Florida afforded me a bite to eat at a Waffle House where I had barely escaped being kidnapped by scamsters two years earlier. This particular meal was enjoyed without incident. The place was filled with a colorful mix of Bushnell locals and cross-country travelers. Quite the dichotomous bunch.

I got back on the road where most license plates I saw revealed I was surrounded almost exclusively by Buckeyes, Hoosiers and Michiganders. Occasionally I'd see a New Yorker, and about every fifth car was from Ontario. I know it's silly of me but whenever I come up on a Canadian license plate, I can't help but peek in at the people in the car thinking maybe they'll be dressed in seal-skin parkas and at least one passenger will wield a harpoon. Alas, I have never spotted a single Inuit on the road in traditional garb. I did see a Quebecker chomping down on a McGriddle though, and I think that's wrong on so many levels that I can't even begin to address them here.

For every billboard that said WE BARE ALL there must have been at least that many that tried to sell me a $390 vasectomy. The guys pictured on the vasectomy ads looked like the kinds of men we don't want reproducing in the first place and the women in the Cafe Risque ads looked like their headshots dated back to the Carter administration. Kinda surreal.

Near the end of the trip when I was blazing through Macon, GA, the birthplace of Little Richard, I decided to listen to the bootlegged tape of the original. Cranking up the volume during a traffic lull I entertained myself and others with Long Tall Sally and Tutti Frutti. I thoroughly enjoyed You Keep a-Knockin' and near the Forsyth Street exit I swear I think I passed a girl named Daisy who almost drove me crazy. Wop-bop-a-loo-mop-alop-bam-boom.

I finally pulled into my driveway around 5:00 and I couldn't have been happier. I was greeted by a beautiful wife and a wonderful daughter who was one tooth short from when I had last laid eyes on her. Over dinner I shared stories of my journey. After all, my butt seldom left the driver's seat but through the windshield I saw much of our nation's wonders, including the state peanut monument in Turner County, Georgia and the relocated hurricane survivors in Broward County, Florida. I passed horse farms in Ocala and cotton farms in Vienna.

Even though I stopped at that Waffle House for a patty melt plate, I managed to do without the fresh citrus, pecan logs or coconut spread. As much as I wanted to, I didn't stop in Sarasota to visit the Ringling Brothers museum. I did however stop at exit 374 where a Cafe Risque billboard had invited me to turn right. Instead I turned left so as to get gas. There was a large woman sitting in a folding chair outside the station. I was glad she didn't bare all.

My toddler lost a tooth

My child lost a tooth over the weekend, and I'm sure that had she been five or six I would have relished her right of passage into budding childhood but since she is not yet two, I was not overly ecstatic to hear about the incident. As soon as I got word, my mind went wild thinking about the various horrific possibilities. What about infection? Tooth fragments and such?

Besides, I'm a language teacher and I know we rely on our two front teeth for our interdental and labio-dental fricatives like in the words thimble and this or fairy and very. What would become of her speech development? Would she develop a lisp?

Anyway apparently she was sitting in a grown-up chair chugging happily on her sippy cup when she tried to scoot her chair back by pushing on the table with her feet. This trick works in her house but not at the home of the family where she was staying at the time. Instead of scooting back in her chair and getting down from the dining room table, the chair just toppled backward. She lifted her arms possibly to try and catch herself before hitting the floor, and because her tooth was wedged into the slit in the spout on the cup lid, the leverage of her arm along with the cup popped the tooth out clean as a whistle.

Yuck. Parental fears aside, just thinking about how it must have felt gives this dentist phobe the creeps.

Meryl is perhaps lucky that although she wasn't with her parents at the time, she was with my brother and his wife who have successfully raised two kids of their own and were quick to react. They mended her and comforted her the best they could and located the tooth to make sure it was indeed all out. Panicky phone calls were made, tears were shed, blood was mopped up. They even made Meryl scrambled eggs afterward and then gave her a bath.

And when a kid loses a baby tooth, that's all that can be done. I know because I confirmed this on the google. It was the F tooth for those keeping score at home. A maxillary central incisor, but now it's gone.

Well, it's not gone exactly. I have it in a Tupperware container which right now is still on the back seat of the car because I took her along with it to the pediatric dentist this morning. But the tooth is not going back in her mouth.

Taking a toddler to the dentist by the way is not an easy endeavor. While my daughter was quick to sit in the dentist chair, she was not particularly happy to be confined in it. When it came time for the hygienist to take x-rays, I had to sit in the chair with Meryl in between my legs. Then I had to fold my arms across my chest, grab her little hands and hold her legs down with mine. I felt like I was administering a wrestling hold, and let me tell you, my kid can squirm.

Nothing that anyone did to herat the dentist's office today was painful but for someone who's not yet two, I think it's probably scary to have Dad hold you down while two strangers force your jaw down on a bite wing. She also mistook the x-ray machine for a vacuum cleaner, something for which she already harbors an abnormal fear, so after it was all over she was tearfully crying vacuum . . . no . . . vacuum . . . no. Wouldn't you know the first x-rays didn't take which meant we had to go through the whole damn thing again?

She wasn't much more accommodating for the dentist, who himself couldn't have been nicer. Again his exam consisted mostly of wrangling and hog-tying and, at least in theory, looking at her remaining teeth. If I were this guy, I swear I think I would have just pretended to inspect them to appease the accompanying parent. I can't imagine how many times this poor dentist has been bitten.

Eventually Meryl will go back to be fitted with a retainer-like contraption that gets wired and cemented to her two-year molars. When she has two-year molars, that is. The dentist does color matching and bite molding, so school pictures will still feature a full set of nicely aligned pearly whites. All this to the hefty tune of $695. But right now she's without a tooth.

I am slowly warming up to her new smile, but damn, I miss the one she had. I have bad teeth and I wanted my kid to have good teeth, which I guess she does. She just doesn't have all of her good teeth.

Oddly enough though, she doesn't seem to care one way or the other. The next day when I asked her what she did at her aunt and uncle's house she said nonchalantly Bath . . . puppy. So instead I asked her what had happened at the dining room table to which she replied very simply:

Eggs . . .