The kids ate dinner alright and then they wanted their post-dinner snacks. Smella wanted strawberries. No surprise because she will eat ANY fruit and/or vegetable you put in front of her. However, it was surprising when Big D said he’d like some strawberries too. Okay, he actually said he wanted ONE strawberry, but still when Big D says he wants a fruit or vegetable, you should jump at the opportunity because it only happens once or twice a year. Unfortunately, the package of strawberries in the fridge had been in there a few days too long so they were bruised and ugly and somewhat disgusting overall. And since it’s Thursday evening and Friday is grocery shopping night, there’s not much to eat around here unless I can interest you in a nice mustard and cream of celery sandwich. Oh, that’s right we’re out of bread too. Nevermind. Suffice it to say, the kids were not amused.
But being the big hero daddy (and ice cream fanatic) that I am, after the wife went to work I announced to the kids that we were going to get some cheap sundaes at McDonald’s. So after getting all three of them halfway presentable in public, repeatedly helping them into their shoes (Boobers likes to play with the velcro), gathering blankies, locking up the house, and herding them out to the truck, it was a wee bit irritating to open the door and see that Boobers had no car seat. I forgot we put it in the other car when we had the truck worked on. Dammit. Here’s the problem with kids: they don’t let you off that easy. So in order to calm them down, I had to agree to play outside with them for a while. What the hell, they were already dressed and everything.
When I say “playing outside with them,” I mean to say “chasing the one-year-old
around the yard while the other two
scream and fight over who gets to play with which car first.”
After that, we came in and listened to Modest Mouse’s The Moon & Antarctica. All three of the kids enjoy music quite a bit. Smella begged, “Dance me Daddy,” which translates into “pick me up and spin me around until I barf Daddy.” I complied. Then they all got baths, Big D lost an incisor while I was brushing his teeth (that’s a bloody mess), and now they’re all in bed. And besides folding and hanging a couple baskets of laundry, my work is done. Now, if only we had some ice cream up in here…
So the wife thinks I’m a little hard on the Indiana people. Of course, she’s absolutely right. In my defense, I’m totally just joshing and HELLO I’m from Arkansas. And not even from Little Rock or Hot Springs or somewhere halfway cool. Nope, just a teeny tiny podunk town in the Ozark foothills. I guess that’s why I mess with the Indiana people so much–because really, honestly, deep down I’m as much of a hick as anyone else. (Seriously, my favorite band my senior year in high school? Lynyrd Skynyrd. And I’m 32. So the big plane crash that killed half the band happened when I was about one year old. Yeah I was a trendsetter.) But if I were some California crunchy granola person, then I really would be a (bigger) prick for talking smack about Indianians. Also, being from Arkansas, I’ve probably heard it all when it comes to regional insults because, let’s be honest, if it wasn’t for Mississippi, Arkansas would be last in pretty much any category you can imagine. (You know it’s bad when slack-jawed Alabamans are looking down on you.) Oh shit, I think I just pissed off another state or two. I’m gonna stop while I’m ahead.
Real Indianians love them some basketball. From Larry Bird to Bob Knight to Reggie Miller, basketball is a way of life in Indiana. It’s in the blood of all Real Indianians. No, it’s not literally in their blood but don’t tell them that. They’re sure that it is because they’ve been brainwashed by the movie “Hoosiers” which, by the way, is every Real Indianian’s favorite. movie. ever.
Ask a group of Real Indianians “Who invented basketball?” James Naismith. Easy one. Duh. Mention that Naismith was a Canadian(no way) who invented the sport in Massachusetts(hell no!) before settling down in Kansas(BLASPHEMY!!!). Now run. Because when they catch you, they’re gonna fuck you up, you dirty heathen.
As much as they love basketball, most Real Indianians agree that the Indiana Pacers can go straight to hell because lately they have devolved into a bunch of crazy-ass thugs. It wasn’t always like this. The Pacers used to be a proud organization back in the ABA days and even throughout the 80’s and 90’s. Once Reggie retired, it was all downhill from there.
Unlike the situation with the Pacers, it is imperative for any Real Indianian to love, support, and cherish their Indiana University Hoosiers. This means you must have some item emblazoned with the IU logo on your person at all times. AT ALL TIMES. In the shower, during sex, at a funeral, it doesn’t matter. Trust me, the easiest way to fulfil this requirement is to just give up and have the logo tattooed right on your ass.
And, of course, all Real Indianians still worship Bob Knight no matter what college he might have gotten shipped off to. Real Indianians know that the world would be a much better place if only there were more adult men who were willing to throw chairs at referees. And maybe an occasional teenager if they get out of line.
The best place to find a white person is a bookstore. If you are ever in need of an emergency proofreading or opinion on the state of corporate radio, you should immediately make your way to the nearest bookstore. There you will find many helpful, loitering white people.
White people love visiting bookstores because it gives them a chance to indulge in several white activities simultaneously. They can purchase a cup of their favorite coffee, pick up the latest David Sedaris book, and do the New York Times crossword all in one convenient location.
Bookstores are well-known in white culture for being a prime spot for single white people to meet members of the opposite sex. By gathering in bookstores, single white people can prove to their potential mates that they are not run-of-the-mill unemployed art majors, but well-read unemployed art majors.
Of course, as with everything else white people enjoy, indie is always preferred over corporate. White people want to be seen at small, independent booksellers, so giant megabookstores should generally be avoided. Therefore, if you really want to impress a white person, make up a story about the time you found a first edition of Catcher in the Rye at a hole-in-the-wall bookshop in the Castro. This has been known to literally make white people salivate.
Almost everyday, I have a list of things to do that I don’t get done. The worst part is that I know I won’t do them but I still torture myself about them. They are the items on my Perpetual To Do List. I’ve got one at work but it’s the one at home that really gnaws at me. Here are a few of those items(that won’t get done):
- Practice the guitar.
- Read more books.
- Try to write a song.
- Call my old friends back in Arkansas.
Along with the Perpetual To Do List, I have the special requests the wife gave me before she went to work(that will get done):
- Clean the litterbox.
- Load the dishwasher.
And the other things I should do today(that might get done):
- Straighten up the living room and kitchen.
- Water the plants.
- Call my mom and see how she’s doing.
- Update this blog.
How about that! I’ve almost got that last item completed. So at this point I have about 15 minutes to clean the litterbox and load the dishwasher. Wheeeeeeeeeeee!
Filed under Lists, Random