Disclaimer: The contents of this post are in no way intended to indicate that my commitment to my curmudgeony manner has decreased.
Two small episodes made me smile in the last 12 hours. The first occurred as Granny and I were going to bed. Through our closed bedroom door, we could hear our frickin' adorable granddaughter talking happily to herself. This went on for several minutes nonstop. Granny went into The Daughter's room to grab a midnight snack of that baby goodness. She came back chuckling to herself.
"Did you hear what your daughter said?"
"No," I answered.
"Your daughter said, 'Mom, the baby is not going to sleep. Her bedtime is 9:30.'" Isn't that great? The Daughter has given her 3-month-old child a bedtime! Hilarious.
Then, this morning, I was driving to work and stopped at a light. A woman pushing a stroller walked across the crosswalk. Her snot-nosed three-year-old (No, I do not know he was three. What are you, the Accuracy in Blogging Police?) held her hand and as he passed me, looked up at me.
I did something that is completely out of character for me. I smiled. He smiled back and waved. It changed the whole tone of my day. Something as little as a smile made a difference. That was nice. (And if you ever tell a soul about this, I'll cut you into little pieces and feed you to Dick Cheney.)
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
On Being the Creepy Grandpa
I am too young to be old. My back has betrayed me. My daughter has made me a grandparent. When I was playing basketball and we split up into the old guys vs. the young guys, no one had even a fleeting thought that I should be with the young guys.
But I'm only 40, and every once in a while there is a moment that fools me into believing I'm not yet over the hill. You may recall my story about buying beer to celebrate my granddaughter's birth. The cashier asked to see my ID.
The fact that I am a young grandfather, however, has a creepier side to it.
On Monday, I went with The Daughter to re-enroll her in the high school. She had taken the Fall semester off in order to have the baby. (I am happy to say that due to some hard work on her part, she managed to make up the lost units and is ready to graduate on time.) She needed a parent to go along to sign the paperwork and, as it turned out, to carry the six tons of baby gear.
My 17-year-old daughter and I don't share any genes, so there is absolutely no family resemblance. There she is, merrily strolling down the hallway carrying her baby, and I am trudging behind carrying all the baby paraphernalia. To set the scene further, let me say that I was wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt. Since it was my day off and I had been sick, I just rolled out of bed without even bothering to comb my hair. I was looking very much like a first-class slacker. Though I am a 40-year-old slacker, I still sometimes have to show my ID to buy alcohol, mind you.
It may have been my imagination, but the looks I got--particularly from the adults--seemed designed to shame me into taking my own life. Particularly, they seemed to be communicating, "How dare you! How dare you corrupt such a young girl, you worthless SOB. You should be castrated on the spot."
Then we went into the dean's office. One of the deans came bustling by, and he saw my daughter. He had known about her pregnancy.
"Well hello," he said. "I was wondering how you were doing. Is this your baby?" I saw him casting glances my way, where I was sitting with the baby stuff.
And then he said, quietly, "Is this the baby daddy?"
My daughter responded even more quietly, and I couldn't make it out. I was hoping she was saying, "No, that's my dad, you imbecile."
Soon after, we got up to go into another office and the dean left. As he passed by me, he said, "You have a beautiful baby there."
I should have said, "Thank you. You do know I'm that girl's father, you imbecile." Instead, my powerful wit only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and so I just managed a weak smile. I had no idea what to say.
Later, I checked in with my daughter. She thought the dean was asking about the baby's father, and so she just said, "He's not involved."
I admitted that was the one part about her pregnancy that always made me uncomfortable. Whenever she and I went somewhere together, I had this feeling that people were looking at me as if I were some sort of monster for doing such a terrible thing to this young girl. She said I should get a shirt that says "I'm the grandpa."
It got me to wondering about whether I should start making an effort to look older. So today, I didn't shave. There are only a few gray hairs on my head, and it takes an effort to see them. My whiskers, though, are generously sprinkled with gray. Maybe that will work. Or, maybe I should just get over it. Why should I care whether or not people think I'm a lecherous monster?
I'm getting the damn tee-shirt.
But I'm only 40, and every once in a while there is a moment that fools me into believing I'm not yet over the hill. You may recall my story about buying beer to celebrate my granddaughter's birth. The cashier asked to see my ID.
The fact that I am a young grandfather, however, has a creepier side to it.
On Monday, I went with The Daughter to re-enroll her in the high school. She had taken the Fall semester off in order to have the baby. (I am happy to say that due to some hard work on her part, she managed to make up the lost units and is ready to graduate on time.) She needed a parent to go along to sign the paperwork and, as it turned out, to carry the six tons of baby gear.
My 17-year-old daughter and I don't share any genes, so there is absolutely no family resemblance. There she is, merrily strolling down the hallway carrying her baby, and I am trudging behind carrying all the baby paraphernalia. To set the scene further, let me say that I was wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt. Since it was my day off and I had been sick, I just rolled out of bed without even bothering to comb my hair. I was looking very much like a first-class slacker. Though I am a 40-year-old slacker, I still sometimes have to show my ID to buy alcohol, mind you.
It may have been my imagination, but the looks I got--particularly from the adults--seemed designed to shame me into taking my own life. Particularly, they seemed to be communicating, "How dare you! How dare you corrupt such a young girl, you worthless SOB. You should be castrated on the spot."
Then we went into the dean's office. One of the deans came bustling by, and he saw my daughter. He had known about her pregnancy.
"Well hello," he said. "I was wondering how you were doing. Is this your baby?" I saw him casting glances my way, where I was sitting with the baby stuff.
And then he said, quietly, "Is this the baby daddy?"
My daughter responded even more quietly, and I couldn't make it out. I was hoping she was saying, "No, that's my dad, you imbecile."
Soon after, we got up to go into another office and the dean left. As he passed by me, he said, "You have a beautiful baby there."
I should have said, "Thank you. You do know I'm that girl's father, you imbecile." Instead, my powerful wit only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and so I just managed a weak smile. I had no idea what to say.
Later, I checked in with my daughter. She thought the dean was asking about the baby's father, and so she just said, "He's not involved."
I admitted that was the one part about her pregnancy that always made me uncomfortable. Whenever she and I went somewhere together, I had this feeling that people were looking at me as if I were some sort of monster for doing such a terrible thing to this young girl. She said I should get a shirt that says "I'm the grandpa."
It got me to wondering about whether I should start making an effort to look older. So today, I didn't shave. There are only a few gray hairs on my head, and it takes an effort to see them. My whiskers, though, are generously sprinkled with gray. Maybe that will work. Or, maybe I should just get over it. Why should I care whether or not people think I'm a lecherous monster?
I'm getting the damn tee-shirt.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A Saturday Morning Cartoon Waiting to Happen
Last week I was walking to a meeting. It has been rainy out here, so everything was wet. I was walking up a hill and saw a banana peel right in the middle of the sidewalk. I thought to myself, "Well, there's a cliche if I ever saw one. I can just see someone stepping on that and, zip, right down the hill they go."
While walking back from a very frustrating meeting, I stepped on something slippery. ZIP! I almost went down the hill. I had stepped right on that banana peel, and somehow I avoided disaster. (I think my incredible good looks saved me. Or was it my massive intellect? Maybe my humility.)
If my back is bad now, can you imagine how bad it would have been if I had hit the deck?
While walking back from a very frustrating meeting, I stepped on something slippery. ZIP! I almost went down the hill. I had stepped right on that banana peel, and somehow I avoided disaster. (I think my incredible good looks saved me. Or was it my massive intellect? Maybe my humility.)
If my back is bad now, can you imagine how bad it would have been if I had hit the deck?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
A Wedgie Is Coming Your Way, Pal
You would think that in a county of 10 million people, there would be one or two that are competent. Apparently not.
Granny and I live in Los Angeles County. More than one-quarter of the residents of the State of California live here with us. Most of those 10 million spend a considerable amount of time thinking up ways to annoy me, but the ones I am particularly upset with at the moment are the ones who are County employees. I am not a conservative “reduce the size of the government” disciple, but I am at the point where I would like to give wedgies to every single County executive as well as the idiots who helped them develop their employment policies.
Nearly a year ago, Granny was switching jobs from one airline to another. She would have been working in the same airport with roughly the same duties, but with better pay. She even had a two-week break between quitting the first job and beginning the second. But then, of course, the world decided to get crazy.
Just after Granny quit her first airline job, fuel prices were peaking and the economy was down on one knee. Most airlines, including the one that offered Granny her new job, established hiring freezes. Suddenly, she had no old job and no new job. But having no job means that you can stop paying bills, right? Wrong.
Granny started up a job search. She looked into every possibility. She sent out resumes by the truckload. She sat through more interviews than Barbara Walters. No luck.
Along the way, she discovered that Los Angeles County had a number of job openings. The County, however, because it enjoys messing with you, has a long, convoluted process to go through before they will even consider you. It included a series of skills tests. Granny dutifully took these tests and did very well. She was in the top rank. The entire process took at least a month, but the County said they would now forward their list of qualified applicants to departments who were hiring.
Another month or so passed. Eventually, Granny got a great job at a private company with excellent benefits and a wonderful working environment. Even more time passed. Finally, someone from the County left a message on our answering machine. “Granny, we’d like you to interview for a position.” That first call came at least three months after Granny began her job search. And that was just the beginning.
In the six months since that first call, Granny has received about four to eight calls and letters every single week from one County agency or another asking her to interview. I do not exaggerate. She has received more than 100 interview requests from Los Angeles County after she found a new job somewhere else.
The County’s long process guarantees they will get the bottom-of-the-barrel employees because the best candidates will find jobs well before the 2-month-long testing process is complete. The only people still available for a County job will be the ones who couldn’t already find work. Arrrgh!
Every evening when I come home and listen to the answering machine or sort the mail, I curse the idiots who run the Los Angeles County bureaucracy. I curse their children. I curse their pets. And someday, when they least expect it, they are all going to get really big wedgies.
Granny and I live in Los Angeles County. More than one-quarter of the residents of the State of California live here with us. Most of those 10 million spend a considerable amount of time thinking up ways to annoy me, but the ones I am particularly upset with at the moment are the ones who are County employees. I am not a conservative “reduce the size of the government” disciple, but I am at the point where I would like to give wedgies to every single County executive as well as the idiots who helped them develop their employment policies.
Nearly a year ago, Granny was switching jobs from one airline to another. She would have been working in the same airport with roughly the same duties, but with better pay. She even had a two-week break between quitting the first job and beginning the second. But then, of course, the world decided to get crazy.
Just after Granny quit her first airline job, fuel prices were peaking and the economy was down on one knee. Most airlines, including the one that offered Granny her new job, established hiring freezes. Suddenly, she had no old job and no new job. But having no job means that you can stop paying bills, right? Wrong.
Granny started up a job search. She looked into every possibility. She sent out resumes by the truckload. She sat through more interviews than Barbara Walters. No luck.
Along the way, she discovered that Los Angeles County had a number of job openings. The County, however, because it enjoys messing with you, has a long, convoluted process to go through before they will even consider you. It included a series of skills tests. Granny dutifully took these tests and did very well. She was in the top rank. The entire process took at least a month, but the County said they would now forward their list of qualified applicants to departments who were hiring.
Another month or so passed. Eventually, Granny got a great job at a private company with excellent benefits and a wonderful working environment. Even more time passed. Finally, someone from the County left a message on our answering machine. “Granny, we’d like you to interview for a position.” That first call came at least three months after Granny began her job search. And that was just the beginning.
In the six months since that first call, Granny has received about four to eight calls and letters every single week from one County agency or another asking her to interview. I do not exaggerate. She has received more than 100 interview requests from Los Angeles County after she found a new job somewhere else.
The County’s long process guarantees they will get the bottom-of-the-barrel employees because the best candidates will find jobs well before the 2-month-long testing process is complete. The only people still available for a County job will be the ones who couldn’t already find work. Arrrgh!
Every evening when I come home and listen to the answering machine or sort the mail, I curse the idiots who run the Los Angeles County bureaucracy. I curse their children. I curse their pets. And someday, when they least expect it, they are all going to get really big wedgies.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Interview with the Granddaughter
As a special service to our readers, Old Before Our Time is pleased to present the Granddaughter’s first ever interview. The Granddaughter sat down in her favorite swing with a warm bottle and spoke with one of our senior editors, Gramps. She shared her perspective on life at 13 weeks, the inconveniences that come with being frickin’ adorable, and diapers.
OLDBOT: Thank you for taking the time to visit with me. I know you have a very busy schedule.
GD: You’re welcome. The pleasure is all mine.
OLDBOT: I’m sure you won’t be surprised at the number one question on everybody’s’ minds. How in the world did you get to be so frickin’ adorable?
GD: That’s an easy one. I just tell everybody that I take after my grandpa. [Gramps and the Granddaughter laugh.] Seriously, though, I think it’s in my genes. I haven’t really done anything to earn this level of cuteness.
OLDBOT: I’m sure that everyone wants to be cute, but is it really everything it’s cracked up to be?
GD: I’ve seen more than my share of ugly babies, and given the choice, I’d rather be cute. But you always have to watch out for the fans. People always want to pinch my cheeks or hold me or talk baby talk to me. Frankly, that’s the worst. If one more person says “cootchie, cootchie, coo” to me, I’m going to puke.
OLDBOT: How do you deal with it when it is just too much?
GD: Ironically, I’ve found that spitting up a little bit of curdled milk usually does the trick. If that fails, I’ll wail my head off. Sometimes the stench of a really messy diaper can drive people away. There are times, though, when I just have to take it. I don’t have the strength yet to fight anybody off.
OLDBOT: Is it true that your cheeks are delicious and they grow back at night after I eat them off?
GD: Yes, that is true. I have the most delicious cheeks, and I live for Gramps to nibble them off before bedtime.
OLDBOT: What’s the biggest surprise about life outside the womb?
GD: While I was inside, I really thought it would be the colors. I imagined that the world would have a striking array of visual stimuli…and it does…but the biggest surprise has been the food. We don’t really get to eat on the inside—you know, the umbilical cord and all—but out here, the food is great. It’s all warm and tasty in my mouth. That totally blew my mind.
OLDBOT: What do you enjoy when you have a little free time, when you’re not schmoozing with your fans?
GD: On any given day, I like to sleep. I sleep as much as I can. I’m trying to save all my energy for when I get a job and can pay back Granny and Gramps for all the great things they’ve done for me. I also like to eat, as I said.
Then there’s crying. Sometimes a good cry will satisfy me for hours. Don’t tell my mom, but sometimes I just cry to mess with her. I’m not hungry or tired or anything. I just want to see what she’ll do to get me to stop crying.
Oh yes, there’s also the pooping. God how I enjoy that. Just got to keep the bowels moving, eh?
OLDBOT: Speaking of pooping, how are you adjusting to diapers?
GD: As you know, Gramps, I didn’t have any on the inside. Didn’t need ‘em. I find they chafe a little at the end of a long day. I’d rather not have them at all, but I can’t seem to get Mom to agree to that. I just can’t wait for the day when I can take them off all by myself and leave long trails of poop down the hall.
OLDBOT: You may want to wait until you and your mom move out, don’t you think?
GD: Of course not. [Laughs.] Don’t want you to miss out on all the fun.
OLDBOT: Tell us, what else are you looking forward to as you grow up?
GD: It’s definitely the beer. If you’ve taught me anything, it’s that it is all about the beer.
OLDBOT: I’m impressed. You’re learning fast! Again, thank you for spending this time with me. It’s been one of the highlights of my career as a journalist.
GD: You’re not a journalist, Gramps.
OLDBOT: Oh, yes. Well, thank you anyway.
OLDBOT: Thank you for taking the time to visit with me. I know you have a very busy schedule.
GD: You’re welcome. The pleasure is all mine.
OLDBOT: I’m sure you won’t be surprised at the number one question on everybody’s’ minds. How in the world did you get to be so frickin’ adorable?
GD: That’s an easy one. I just tell everybody that I take after my grandpa. [Gramps and the Granddaughter laugh.] Seriously, though, I think it’s in my genes. I haven’t really done anything to earn this level of cuteness.
OLDBOT: I’m sure that everyone wants to be cute, but is it really everything it’s cracked up to be?
GD: I’ve seen more than my share of ugly babies, and given the choice, I’d rather be cute. But you always have to watch out for the fans. People always want to pinch my cheeks or hold me or talk baby talk to me. Frankly, that’s the worst. If one more person says “cootchie, cootchie, coo” to me, I’m going to puke.
OLDBOT: How do you deal with it when it is just too much?
GD: Ironically, I’ve found that spitting up a little bit of curdled milk usually does the trick. If that fails, I’ll wail my head off. Sometimes the stench of a really messy diaper can drive people away. There are times, though, when I just have to take it. I don’t have the strength yet to fight anybody off.
OLDBOT: Is it true that your cheeks are delicious and they grow back at night after I eat them off?
GD: Yes, that is true. I have the most delicious cheeks, and I live for Gramps to nibble them off before bedtime.
OLDBOT: What’s the biggest surprise about life outside the womb?
GD: While I was inside, I really thought it would be the colors. I imagined that the world would have a striking array of visual stimuli…and it does…but the biggest surprise has been the food. We don’t really get to eat on the inside—you know, the umbilical cord and all—but out here, the food is great. It’s all warm and tasty in my mouth. That totally blew my mind.
OLDBOT: What do you enjoy when you have a little free time, when you’re not schmoozing with your fans?
GD: On any given day, I like to sleep. I sleep as much as I can. I’m trying to save all my energy for when I get a job and can pay back Granny and Gramps for all the great things they’ve done for me. I also like to eat, as I said.
Then there’s crying. Sometimes a good cry will satisfy me for hours. Don’t tell my mom, but sometimes I just cry to mess with her. I’m not hungry or tired or anything. I just want to see what she’ll do to get me to stop crying.
Oh yes, there’s also the pooping. God how I enjoy that. Just got to keep the bowels moving, eh?
OLDBOT: Speaking of pooping, how are you adjusting to diapers?
GD: As you know, Gramps, I didn’t have any on the inside. Didn’t need ‘em. I find they chafe a little at the end of a long day. I’d rather not have them at all, but I can’t seem to get Mom to agree to that. I just can’t wait for the day when I can take them off all by myself and leave long trails of poop down the hall.
OLDBOT: You may want to wait until you and your mom move out, don’t you think?
GD: Of course not. [Laughs.] Don’t want you to miss out on all the fun.
OLDBOT: Tell us, what else are you looking forward to as you grow up?
GD: It’s definitely the beer. If you’ve taught me anything, it’s that it is all about the beer.
OLDBOT: I’m impressed. You’re learning fast! Again, thank you for spending this time with me. It’s been one of the highlights of my career as a journalist.
GD: You’re not a journalist, Gramps.
OLDBOT: Oh, yes. Well, thank you anyway.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year ...
No, there is no snow on the ground. No, school is not out. No, there are no sugar plumbs dancing in my head or reindeer pawing on the rooftops. However, there is an adorable - loving and cooing baby in the house.
Friday, December 5, 2008
An Ode to a Neighbor
Dear Neighbor:
As I drove to work today, I saw a man walking his dog. This reminded me of you. Specifically, it reminded me of the day earlier this week when you were walking your dog or dogs past my house. You let your dog or dogs take a dump on my front lawn, and then you didn’t clean it up.
I didn’t know this, of course, when I took the trash out to the curb that evening in the dark. In fact, I still didn’t know this as I walked back into my house, through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen and into my laundry room. You might find this amusing, but I still didn’t know that you let your dog take a crap on my lawn and then left that steaming pile of canine doo on the grass as I began stomping on aluminum cans in my laundry room.
“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “That smells a lot like a dirty diaper.” This didn’t immediately surprise me, because there is a six-week old baby living in my house. But then, I realized that my granddaughter does not yet emit solid poop, and so the smell could not be coming from her.
Musty dishrags? No. The scent was far too powerful for that. What could it be? I leaned down toward the floor because that is where the smell seemed to be the strongest. And there it was—lovely dog crap all over the bottom of one shoe and, because I had been stomping cans, on the sides of my shoes and around the bottoms of my pant legs.
Then I looked back into the kitchen where I saw gooey poo marks on the floor everywhere my right foot had come down. The same was true of the dining room and on my living room carpet. Needless to say, I didn’t finish smashing those cans because I spent the next 45 minutes down on my hands and knees with a can of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. Then, I cleaned the front steps and driveway.
Do you know why I had the fun of cleaning up dog shit that night? It was due exclusively to the fact that you let your dog defecate on my lawn, and then you made a conscious choice not to clean it up. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your wise decision making abilities. Your momma taught you well.
I don’t know if you habitually act like an industrial-strength douche bag* or if this was a rare incident where you acted in a way that makes me want to smash you in the side of your fat head with my shovel. Either way, you are an industrial-strength douche bag. You are definitely off my Christmas card list this year.
Instead, I may keep a close eye on those who pass by my house with their dogs. I may choose to notice exactly which person or persons allow their dog or dogs to take a dump on my lawn and then leave the evidence. Then, I may decide to carefully follow that individual or individuals to their home. At that point, I may choose to line the underside of the car door handles with copious amounts of dog crap, or perhaps I’ll leave lots of the stuff in a place where it can be smelled it for several days, but not easily discovered.
No matter what I decide to do, you deserve everything you get, you industrial-strength douche bag.
Affectionately,
Gramps
*Many thanks to John Oliver for this new addition to my verbal repertoire.
As I drove to work today, I saw a man walking his dog. This reminded me of you. Specifically, it reminded me of the day earlier this week when you were walking your dog or dogs past my house. You let your dog or dogs take a dump on my front lawn, and then you didn’t clean it up.
I didn’t know this, of course, when I took the trash out to the curb that evening in the dark. In fact, I still didn’t know this as I walked back into my house, through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen and into my laundry room. You might find this amusing, but I still didn’t know that you let your dog take a crap on my lawn and then left that steaming pile of canine doo on the grass as I began stomping on aluminum cans in my laundry room.
“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “That smells a lot like a dirty diaper.” This didn’t immediately surprise me, because there is a six-week old baby living in my house. But then, I realized that my granddaughter does not yet emit solid poop, and so the smell could not be coming from her.
Musty dishrags? No. The scent was far too powerful for that. What could it be? I leaned down toward the floor because that is where the smell seemed to be the strongest. And there it was—lovely dog crap all over the bottom of one shoe and, because I had been stomping cans, on the sides of my shoes and around the bottoms of my pant legs.
Then I looked back into the kitchen where I saw gooey poo marks on the floor everywhere my right foot had come down. The same was true of the dining room and on my living room carpet. Needless to say, I didn’t finish smashing those cans because I spent the next 45 minutes down on my hands and knees with a can of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. Then, I cleaned the front steps and driveway.
Do you know why I had the fun of cleaning up dog shit that night? It was due exclusively to the fact that you let your dog defecate on my lawn, and then you made a conscious choice not to clean it up. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your wise decision making abilities. Your momma taught you well.
I don’t know if you habitually act like an industrial-strength douche bag* or if this was a rare incident where you acted in a way that makes me want to smash you in the side of your fat head with my shovel. Either way, you are an industrial-strength douche bag. You are definitely off my Christmas card list this year.
Instead, I may keep a close eye on those who pass by my house with their dogs. I may choose to notice exactly which person or persons allow their dog or dogs to take a dump on my lawn and then leave the evidence. Then, I may decide to carefully follow that individual or individuals to their home. At that point, I may choose to line the underside of the car door handles with copious amounts of dog crap, or perhaps I’ll leave lots of the stuff in a place where it can be smelled it for several days, but not easily discovered.
No matter what I decide to do, you deserve everything you get, you industrial-strength douche bag.
Affectionately,
Gramps
*Many thanks to John Oliver for this new addition to my verbal repertoire.
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