I recently took the GRE. I took many practice GRE exams and each one came back basically telling me I'm not as smart as I think I am. That's a pretty hurtful realization. It was confirmed when I took the ACTUAL GRE exam. I didn't do terribly bad, but I did bad enough to where I got up, walked out, and immediately bought a "regular" coke -not diet- and a bag of tear and share M&Ms. (I did not share)
Here's a little food for thought: A recent study showed that 80% of people believe they are smarter than most of the people around them. 80%.... This brings about two thoughts.
1.) 20% of people thought to themselves "ya know, I'm probably stupider than most of the people around me." That's kind of sad right? Who would say that? Even if you thought you weren't the brightest crayon in the box, you would certainly look around and say "well I gotta be smarter than THOSE guys..." Bad self esteem, party of one, your table is ready.
2.) Clearly 80% of people CAN'T be smarter than most of the people around them. It's a mathmatical impossibility. If you don't realize that, it's because you are in the 20%... don't get your feelings hurt.
Anyway, I took this test thinking I could wing it and do pretty well. I would like to blame my scores on having graduated college seven years ago and just being "a little rusty", but that wass obviously not the problem. The problem is that I have no vocabulary. I was going to say I have no vernacular, but that would be pretentious. Some of the questions on this test looked like this:
Find the antonym to the following word
Blagotivational
A. Herpatomival
B. Zappatoe
C. Pip
D. Dogmitavion
Not only do I not know what the word means, I don't know the meaning of the answer choices either.
Another question looks like this:
Analogies...
Mouth is to Tree as:
A. Bird is to Knot
B. Chair is to Tissue
C. Hip is to Hop
D. Herpatomival is to Dogmitavion (see previous question for meaning)
What?!?!? Keep in mind, you only have 15 seconds to answer each question. So then I start justifying my answers. Well, I wouldn't put my mouth on a tree... or so I wouldn't put a bird on a knot. Oh dear lord, I'll just come back to this one...
If I wanted to have someone tell me I'm stupid, I would just go to more family reunions. But it adds a little to have someone quantitate your stupidity though. "Hello, Mr. Paul, you are _____ % dumb."
I almost expected the computer to have a follow up question after the test: Please type the name of your school again, we need to have that school audited.
The test kindly reminds me that I can take the test again in a month. Hey guys, there's NO WAY I will increase my skilz enough to make a difference. And my ego can't take the hit again in a single calendar year. I need it to be built up again by my wife telling me "I love you no matter how stupid you are...." Gee thanks, babe. I feel better already. Pass me the M&Ms.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
We made it six months!
It's been six months since my son was born. Some days have flown by, others (espescially those where he was screaming) seemed to last forever. I've learned a lot though. I will sum up my more important thoughts in my typical numerical format:
1.) Baby vomit tastes terrible. When you can finally find that thing that makes him giggle, you do it over and over again. Then tell your spouse to go get the video camera so we can get this on tape. Thank God we missed that window. I was playing that game where you "slightly" throw your child in the air, never REALLY letting go of him, saying "WEEE" while you do it. He was laughing hysterically. It was so much fun... Until he vomited. It was literally a scene out of the Exorcist. Where in the world did ALL THAT come from??? He hadn't eaten that much food to create THAT MUCH vomit. It came out like a stream of evil. I thought the next thing was for his head to spin on its axis. Being that I was in the middle of saying "WEEE," my mouth was wide open in a stupid looking smile (you can picture it). So when that happens what does a loving wife do? LAUGHS... LAUGHS until she cries while I'm screaming "Take him! NO take him NOW!" The only thing that made it tolerable was that he was still laughing. No but seriously, you can't get that smell off you. It's like herpes, once you get it on you, you can never get rid of it. (so I've heard).
2.) Baby poo defies physics. There are some diapers that are so easy you almost feel bad that THIS one was my turn to change. Then there are others where you think "how did that happen???" And you can easily tell the difference in the sound. If it sounds like a tire just blew out on the interstate on a rainy day...then you know you're in for a treat. Then when it's time to change him you peek with only one eye, hoping that what you see is not as bad as the sound. It usually is. You can generally tell this when you peel back the diaper to see what's there and immediately get "IT" on your fingers. I've also learned the phrase "Heather... I need help." Is the only phrase my wife CAN NOT understand. She literally can't hear it. I can scream it and she never even acknowledges I've spoken. I'm starting to question...
BUT, the fun thing to do is make a game of the explosions. My wife and I play a couple of games. One game we call "How did it get THERE?!" It's a game where you figure out what had to have happened for poo to get behind his ears, or under his arm pits. Best story wins. We also do a rorschac test on the splatter patterns. "Well Heather, what does THAT look like to YOU? Is it a butterfly or is it the face of Satan? Hmmm... tough choice."
3.) My wife has a buzzer in her head that goes off when I sit down. I can walk around for six hours, go outside and plow the field, give a filibuster before congress, wander aimlessly around the house for an hour looking for something, ANYTHING to do. But it's not until I FINALLY sit down and sigh in relief that Heather asks "Hey can you go get the (___) from the kitchen table?" Woman, I literally JUST sat down. You could have asked me ANY-TIME in the past few hours, but your buzzer went off when I sat down and NOW you need it?
Then she gives me that guilty "I have a baby in my lap" look and of course, I then have to get up. I see her innate "mother guilt trip" genes have kicked in. First it's go get me a bottle from the kitchen, then it's telling our son how he doesn't come home from college enough (with a slight, red-nose cry which causes him to say "Aww, don't cry mom, I'll come home next weekend...") I may have some residual anger towards the "mother guilt trip" genes...
4.) My mood is directly related to the amount of sleep I get. If I get a full night’s sleep, I'll pick up cookies for people at work. If I don't get enough sleep... EVERYTHING EVERYONE says is STUPID. I willingly admit I am irrationally judgmental towards people. "Hey Paul, a couple of us are going to grab a coke from the cafeteria, you want to come?" NO I don't want to go! I don't want to be around people who have a STUPID FACE! (again, I know it's beyond rational) But at the time, I feel like they are purposefully testing my patience. "Do I want a coke?" I SAY GOOD DAY!
I hope the next six months are as fun as the past six....
1.) Baby vomit tastes terrible. When you can finally find that thing that makes him giggle, you do it over and over again. Then tell your spouse to go get the video camera so we can get this on tape. Thank God we missed that window. I was playing that game where you "slightly" throw your child in the air, never REALLY letting go of him, saying "WEEE" while you do it. He was laughing hysterically. It was so much fun... Until he vomited. It was literally a scene out of the Exorcist. Where in the world did ALL THAT come from??? He hadn't eaten that much food to create THAT MUCH vomit. It came out like a stream of evil. I thought the next thing was for his head to spin on its axis. Being that I was in the middle of saying "WEEE," my mouth was wide open in a stupid looking smile (you can picture it). So when that happens what does a loving wife do? LAUGHS... LAUGHS until she cries while I'm screaming "Take him! NO take him NOW!" The only thing that made it tolerable was that he was still laughing. No but seriously, you can't get that smell off you. It's like herpes, once you get it on you, you can never get rid of it. (so I've heard).
2.) Baby poo defies physics. There are some diapers that are so easy you almost feel bad that THIS one was my turn to change. Then there are others where you think "how did that happen???" And you can easily tell the difference in the sound. If it sounds like a tire just blew out on the interstate on a rainy day...then you know you're in for a treat. Then when it's time to change him you peek with only one eye, hoping that what you see is not as bad as the sound. It usually is. You can generally tell this when you peel back the diaper to see what's there and immediately get "IT" on your fingers. I've also learned the phrase "Heather... I need help." Is the only phrase my wife CAN NOT understand. She literally can't hear it. I can scream it and she never even acknowledges I've spoken. I'm starting to question...
BUT, the fun thing to do is make a game of the explosions. My wife and I play a couple of games. One game we call "How did it get THERE?!" It's a game where you figure out what had to have happened for poo to get behind his ears, or under his arm pits. Best story wins. We also do a rorschac test on the splatter patterns. "Well Heather, what does THAT look like to YOU? Is it a butterfly or is it the face of Satan? Hmmm... tough choice."
3.) My wife has a buzzer in her head that goes off when I sit down. I can walk around for six hours, go outside and plow the field, give a filibuster before congress, wander aimlessly around the house for an hour looking for something, ANYTHING to do. But it's not until I FINALLY sit down and sigh in relief that Heather asks "Hey can you go get the (___) from the kitchen table?" Woman, I literally JUST sat down. You could have asked me ANY-TIME in the past few hours, but your buzzer went off when I sat down and NOW you need it?
Then she gives me that guilty "I have a baby in my lap" look and of course, I then have to get up. I see her innate "mother guilt trip" genes have kicked in. First it's go get me a bottle from the kitchen, then it's telling our son how he doesn't come home from college enough (with a slight, red-nose cry which causes him to say "Aww, don't cry mom, I'll come home next weekend...") I may have some residual anger towards the "mother guilt trip" genes...
4.) My mood is directly related to the amount of sleep I get. If I get a full night’s sleep, I'll pick up cookies for people at work. If I don't get enough sleep... EVERYTHING EVERYONE says is STUPID. I willingly admit I am irrationally judgmental towards people. "Hey Paul, a couple of us are going to grab a coke from the cafeteria, you want to come?" NO I don't want to go! I don't want to be around people who have a STUPID FACE! (again, I know it's beyond rational) But at the time, I feel like they are purposefully testing my patience. "Do I want a coke?" I SAY GOOD DAY!
I hope the next six months are as fun as the past six....
Monday, January 3, 2011
Just can't wait to get on the road again
So the trip started when I reserved a 17 foot Uhaul truck for the move to Austin, only to show up and have them tell me they had already given out all the 17 foot trucks but they "upgraded" me to a 72 foot truck (it wasn't that large, but it might as well have been- this thing was GIGANTIC. It needed an old school tree house rope ladder to get into it) It literally was like piloting the Hindenburg oh wheels. It has TWO steps to get into the cab of the truck... not one... two. I was 18 feet off the ground.
--- On a side note, I now know why rednecks like trucks jacked up off the ground, it gives you a sense of power. I looked down in pity at the small Honda hatchbacks scurrying around like dung beetles around my giant truck.
Couple things I learned about this particular UHAUL truck on my 9 hour drive:
1.) It had no CD player, no tape deck, and apparently a malfunctioning radio antenna. It wasn't COMPLETELY broken however, as it clearly picked up four hispanic radio stations along the way. For the first few hours I just sat in silence, but after I broke down mentally, I dialed in to 91.1 "radio caliente y picante de música." Which I assume has something to do with trumpets and banjos. My spanish isn't too good, but I'm pretty sure that I heard the same song 42 times. I could even start singing along. What I was saying... I don't know. Somewhere around Houston I actually caught the end of a Madonna song. Never before in my life have I EVER been happy to sing loudly along with Pappa Don't Preach..
2.) Top speed = 65mph. And it sounded like the engine was going to explode just getting it up to 65mph. I can assume that people were passing me by giving me "verbal and symbolic signs of disapproval" but again, I was 18 feet off the ground so all I saw was the tops of cars. I felt it though.
3.) It leaked gas. I couldn't find out where exactly it was leaking, but I pulled over TWICE to check for leaking gas because the gas gauge was going down so fast that there MUST be a leak somewhere and that could be dangerous. I never found the spot, but I'm sure it was there because there's NO WAY I averaged 7 miles per gallon. I was only going 65mph (see above)
But the BEST part of the trip was not the time, or the radio stations, or paying 300 dollars in gas. The BEST part was somewhere outside Katy Texas, Piper (the dog I took with me) started crying a little. I stupidly thought she just missed her mommy. I was like "ahh,it's ok buddy, she'll be here in a couple days."
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that I ran out of her dog food the day before and PetSmart didn't have anymore of it. Sooooo, I just grabbed the next best dog food. Anyone who has done this or heard about this elementary mistake, mixed with the volatility of my dogs digestive track knows how BAD of a mistake that was. (Now, I know... some are saying "Poop was in your last blog," but NOT like this.) Last time wasn't in a confined space. Last time didn't sound like a tire blew out on the interstate. Last time didn't look like a Jackson Pollock painting. I was trapped in slow moving traffic. The only thing I could do is roll the window down and drive like Ace Ventura until I could get to the next gas station.
I bet that's the first time the gas station attendant has seen someone walk OUT of the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper. A little group of ladies with their kids saw me take Piper out the truck and were like "awww, look how cute she is!! Can we pet her??" --I let them-- I needed someone to hold her while I put on my Hazmat suit. I snuck children's Benadryl into a portion of a gas station hot dog and gave it to her. She passed out, but then I thought "did that nasty hot dog just kill her?"
She eventually woke up.
We made it.
--- On a side note, I now know why rednecks like trucks jacked up off the ground, it gives you a sense of power. I looked down in pity at the small Honda hatchbacks scurrying around like dung beetles around my giant truck.
Couple things I learned about this particular UHAUL truck on my 9 hour drive:
1.) It had no CD player, no tape deck, and apparently a malfunctioning radio antenna. It wasn't COMPLETELY broken however, as it clearly picked up four hispanic radio stations along the way. For the first few hours I just sat in silence, but after I broke down mentally, I dialed in to 91.1 "radio caliente y picante de música." Which I assume has something to do with trumpets and banjos. My spanish isn't too good, but I'm pretty sure that I heard the same song 42 times. I could even start singing along. What I was saying... I don't know. Somewhere around Houston I actually caught the end of a Madonna song. Never before in my life have I EVER been happy to sing loudly along with Pappa Don't Preach..
2.) Top speed = 65mph. And it sounded like the engine was going to explode just getting it up to 65mph. I can assume that people were passing me by giving me "verbal and symbolic signs of disapproval" but again, I was 18 feet off the ground so all I saw was the tops of cars. I felt it though.
3.) It leaked gas. I couldn't find out where exactly it was leaking, but I pulled over TWICE to check for leaking gas because the gas gauge was going down so fast that there MUST be a leak somewhere and that could be dangerous. I never found the spot, but I'm sure it was there because there's NO WAY I averaged 7 miles per gallon. I was only going 65mph (see above)
But the BEST part of the trip was not the time, or the radio stations, or paying 300 dollars in gas. The BEST part was somewhere outside Katy Texas, Piper (the dog I took with me) started crying a little. I stupidly thought she just missed her mommy. I was like "ahh,it's ok buddy, she'll be here in a couple days."
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that I ran out of her dog food the day before and PetSmart didn't have anymore of it. Sooooo, I just grabbed the next best dog food. Anyone who has done this or heard about this elementary mistake, mixed with the volatility of my dogs digestive track knows how BAD of a mistake that was. (Now, I know... some are saying "Poop was in your last blog," but NOT like this.) Last time wasn't in a confined space. Last time didn't sound like a tire blew out on the interstate. Last time didn't look like a Jackson Pollock painting. I was trapped in slow moving traffic. The only thing I could do is roll the window down and drive like Ace Ventura until I could get to the next gas station.
I bet that's the first time the gas station attendant has seen someone walk OUT of the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper. A little group of ladies with their kids saw me take Piper out the truck and were like "awww, look how cute she is!! Can we pet her??" --I let them-- I needed someone to hold her while I put on my Hazmat suit. I snuck children's Benadryl into a portion of a gas station hot dog and gave it to her. She passed out, but then I thought "did that nasty hot dog just kill her?"
She eventually woke up.
We made it.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Musings of a fat kid
The holidays are a time of joy and happiness. Where you hang out with your family and eat turkey and dressing, sweet potatoes and marshmellows, pecan and pumpkin pie. It's the most wonderful time.. of the year. That is, unless you're a post-pubescent fat kid like me.
Post-pubescent fat kid: One who was basically born fat, and lived his or her childhood wearing "Husky" jeans only to find out later that "Husky" jeans were the basically the Big and Tall of the children's section. He or she capitalized on the fact that you could buy an entire pack of little debbie cakes for 99 cents in stores and would promptly destroy the whole box. In it's worse case, the post-pubescent fat kid buys a container of cake icing and eats it out the can with a spoon. He or she was told that he would "grow out of that baby-fat phase when he hits puberty," only to never see that day materialize. (Merriam Webster 2010)
The problem with being a PPFK, is that unless you are one, you don't know what it's like to BE one. Sure, everyone likes to have that piece of pie. But do you constantly contemplate "If I don't move now, then someone will eat my share. Therefore, I will eat one piece now, and one piece when it's appropriate to eat dessert."
All I do is wonder in that guilty moment of sneaking in to eat pie, all alone, while I knew everyone was away, who else does this?
But it's the aftermath that frustrates me. Again, back to the jeans. Why do the not make size 35 jeans? They make 32, 33, 34, and 36 jeans. Why not 35? I'm not a 34 or a 36. If I wear 36's I look like I'm thuggin it and lovin' it. If I wear 34's I muffin top like a can of newly opened biscuts. Now I either have to work out heavy or tighten my belt to where the back of my jeans do that socially awkward fold over thingy where the pants are lower then the belt.
Everyone says "just eat in moderation..." There's a better chance of my 9 week old son standing up and reciting the Gettysburg address then me "eating in moderation..." That's not true. I DO eat in moderation. But I eat in moderation TEN TIMES A DAY.
I can't wait until Christmas. I'll get all new work out equipment and clothing (most likely from my wife. Sort of her gentle *push* to get me back to my dating weight) Which is fair, because really, if you looked at a picture of us when we were dating and look at us now, you would think "that was false advertisement."
Course, usually the cliche' fits, and the PPFKs are those that have the "Best personalities," and as such are invited to numerous Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Causing the vicious cycle to continue........
Post-pubescent fat kid: One who was basically born fat, and lived his or her childhood wearing "Husky" jeans only to find out later that "Husky" jeans were the basically the Big and Tall of the children's section. He or she capitalized on the fact that you could buy an entire pack of little debbie cakes for 99 cents in stores and would promptly destroy the whole box. In it's worse case, the post-pubescent fat kid buys a container of cake icing and eats it out the can with a spoon. He or she was told that he would "grow out of that baby-fat phase when he hits puberty," only to never see that day materialize. (Merriam Webster 2010)
The problem with being a PPFK, is that unless you are one, you don't know what it's like to BE one. Sure, everyone likes to have that piece of pie. But do you constantly contemplate "If I don't move now, then someone will eat my share. Therefore, I will eat one piece now, and one piece when it's appropriate to eat dessert."
All I do is wonder in that guilty moment of sneaking in to eat pie, all alone, while I knew everyone was away, who else does this?
But it's the aftermath that frustrates me. Again, back to the jeans. Why do the not make size 35 jeans? They make 32, 33, 34, and 36 jeans. Why not 35? I'm not a 34 or a 36. If I wear 36's I look like I'm thuggin it and lovin' it. If I wear 34's I muffin top like a can of newly opened biscuts. Now I either have to work out heavy or tighten my belt to where the back of my jeans do that socially awkward fold over thingy where the pants are lower then the belt.
Everyone says "just eat in moderation..." There's a better chance of my 9 week old son standing up and reciting the Gettysburg address then me "eating in moderation..." That's not true. I DO eat in moderation. But I eat in moderation TEN TIMES A DAY.
I can't wait until Christmas. I'll get all new work out equipment and clothing (most likely from my wife. Sort of her gentle *push* to get me back to my dating weight) Which is fair, because really, if you looked at a picture of us when we were dating and look at us now, you would think "that was false advertisement."
Course, usually the cliche' fits, and the PPFKs are those that have the "Best personalities," and as such are invited to numerous Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Causing the vicious cycle to continue........
Monday, November 1, 2010
I carried a watermelon...
I didn't carry a watermelon, but I figured it was better then my original title.
This last weekend I was at my brother's house. It was super early in the morning and my son clearly had a diaper in need of changing. After Heather's gentle nudge telling me it was MY turn to change the diaper, I sluggishly got out of bed to fulfil my fatherly duty.
So I placed him on the ground because we obviously didn't bring our changing table. What I SHOULD have done is put down one of those portable plastic changing stations. I didn't. So after the first wet-wipe, my morning took a HUGE turn for the worse.
While I was wiping his little booty, he pooted. I'm OK with that, kinda was just like "aww man, you pooted right at me." But then I could tell... he had that stressed "oh I'm SO about to poop" look. PLEASE, SON, PLEASE NOOOO!
It was too late. It was coming. He was about to drop a bomb on the carpet of my brother's guest bedroom. What was I to do??? I reacted. And CAUGHT IT before it hit the carpet. That's right. in my hand. Then in the still darkness, crap...in...my...hand. Heather only leaned up to say "Paul, watch your language."
THEN, since his diaper was being changed in that cool room where the air could get to his man parts, he began to pee. AS IF this couldn't be worse. So What do I do? React. And catch it in the hand which now holds poo. NOW I have this hand full of newly liquified poop. It was bad enough to where I could POUR into the diaper on the ground next to him. He, being empty, is now asleep again leaving me with this to contemplate alone.
The only thing I could think is "This is now my life. For-ev-er."
So as you see, "I carried a watermelon" is a better then the title "I had poop...in my hands."
This last weekend I was at my brother's house. It was super early in the morning and my son clearly had a diaper in need of changing. After Heather's gentle nudge telling me it was MY turn to change the diaper, I sluggishly got out of bed to fulfil my fatherly duty.
So I placed him on the ground because we obviously didn't bring our changing table. What I SHOULD have done is put down one of those portable plastic changing stations. I didn't. So after the first wet-wipe, my morning took a HUGE turn for the worse.
While I was wiping his little booty, he pooted. I'm OK with that, kinda was just like "aww man, you pooted right at me." But then I could tell... he had that stressed "oh I'm SO about to poop" look. PLEASE, SON, PLEASE NOOOO!
It was too late. It was coming. He was about to drop a bomb on the carpet of my brother's guest bedroom. What was I to do??? I reacted. And CAUGHT IT before it hit the carpet. That's right. in my hand. Then in the still darkness, crap...in...my...hand. Heather only leaned up to say "Paul, watch your language."
THEN, since his diaper was being changed in that cool room where the air could get to his man parts, he began to pee. AS IF this couldn't be worse. So What do I do? React. And catch it in the hand which now holds poo. NOW I have this hand full of newly liquified poop. It was bad enough to where I could POUR into the diaper on the ground next to him. He, being empty, is now asleep again leaving me with this to contemplate alone.
The only thing I could think is "This is now my life. For-ev-er."
So as you see, "I carried a watermelon" is a better then the title "I had poop...in my hands."
Thursday, October 21, 2010
5 Things I never thought I would say
1.) I need BUTT PASTE....STAT
This junk is awesome. Booty goes from blood red to skin color after just a couple diaper changes. Worked so well on Rowen, figured I'd try it myself. Not as easy to apply when you can't see what you're doing.
2.) If you pee in my mouth ONE more time...
I had heard from people who have little boys that when you change their diapers the #1 rule is to make sure they are done with #1. Cliche' saying, but worth it's weight in gold. I have been peed on so often that I've just gotten used to it. I try to cover it up... pee pee tee pee's and what not, but nothing seems to work. The thing that I'm so surprised about is how much PRESSURE this little guy has when he goes. I was under the impression that it would be comprable to the pressure of adult urine. This is not so. If it were, it would be like me standing in my driveway and peeing over my house.
3.) If you would just FART we could both get some sleep.
There is nothing more frustrating then waiting patiently hoping the little guy will burp or poot. Then when he does, there's a sigh of relief/joy because now I can get finally get some sleep. I wish people were this excited when I farted. I would have tons more friends. And my co-workers would stop fearing the crop dusting bandit.
4.) If those stupid leprechauns don't get out of my yard I'm gonna lose it!
To be fair, when someone is in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation, that junk starts messing with your mind. You start seeing things that don't make sense. I'm pretty sure my neighbors rooster is always getting in mortal combat type fights with the garden gnomes. I'm am SUPER glad I don't have anything I don't want Heather to know, cause apparently I have numerous conversations at night that I have no recollection of the next day.
5,) Oh dear God, is it ALREADY 8:30...
And because it is.... goodnight.
This junk is awesome. Booty goes from blood red to skin color after just a couple diaper changes. Worked so well on Rowen, figured I'd try it myself. Not as easy to apply when you can't see what you're doing.
2.) If you pee in my mouth ONE more time...
I had heard from people who have little boys that when you change their diapers the #1 rule is to make sure they are done with #1. Cliche' saying, but worth it's weight in gold. I have been peed on so often that I've just gotten used to it. I try to cover it up... pee pee tee pee's and what not, but nothing seems to work. The thing that I'm so surprised about is how much PRESSURE this little guy has when he goes. I was under the impression that it would be comprable to the pressure of adult urine. This is not so. If it were, it would be like me standing in my driveway and peeing over my house.
3.) If you would just FART we could both get some sleep.
There is nothing more frustrating then waiting patiently hoping the little guy will burp or poot. Then when he does, there's a sigh of relief/joy because now I can get finally get some sleep. I wish people were this excited when I farted. I would have tons more friends. And my co-workers would stop fearing the crop dusting bandit.
4.) If those stupid leprechauns don't get out of my yard I'm gonna lose it!
To be fair, when someone is in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation, that junk starts messing with your mind. You start seeing things that don't make sense. I'm pretty sure my neighbors rooster is always getting in mortal combat type fights with the garden gnomes. I'm am SUPER glad I don't have anything I don't want Heather to know, cause apparently I have numerous conversations at night that I have no recollection of the next day.
5,) Oh dear God, is it ALREADY 8:30...
And because it is.... goodnight.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Get a visual
My neighbor has a rooster. Now to clear things up a bit, I do not live on a farm. I am not a country boy. I live on a MAJOR BOULEVARD in Baton Rouge. And roosters are not allowed in the city limits.
That sets the stage for one of my worst moments since the birth of my new child.
Many new parents can agree, when you have a new child, sleep is a comodity that you would pay any price for an ample supply. So when you have a rooster next door, this creates a problem. I would first like to clear up any misunderstandings about roosters. 1.) If you're like me, you thought roosters only crow when the sun comes up.... This is not true. They crow ALL DAY LONG. At least the one next door to me does. Maybe he's blind... 2.) They don't say "cock-a-doodle-doo," it's more like "RRK-A-RRRRRK-A-RRRR!"
Now let's talk about baby monitors. They are so sensitive that if two ants outside the window of the baby room were having an arguement, it would sound like you left the TV on Jerry Springer. So when you combine the rooster that walked into our yard up next to the baby room window, and the baby monitor.... It sounded like that friggin rooster is standing on my chest screaming in my face. I think my ears were bleeding.
Being that I have been in a constant state of sleep deprivation, I wasn't clearly thinking when I jumped out of bed wearing only my boxer briefs and a wife-beater undershirt to go kill the rooster. I picked up a piece of base board laying around and headed out to ensure that we were having chicken for dinner.
So at 6:00 in the morning I was in my front yard, on a busy boulevard, cars all around, chasing a rooster around my front yard screaming "DIE BIRD, DIE!!!" BTW, roosters don't run in a straight line, they zig-zag... I can't imagine what the people going to work were thinking while watching that. I didn't care.
When I finally got back in bed, slightly sweaty, dignity lost, I realized it was 15 minutes until my son needed to be fed.
That sets the stage for one of my worst moments since the birth of my new child.
Many new parents can agree, when you have a new child, sleep is a comodity that you would pay any price for an ample supply. So when you have a rooster next door, this creates a problem. I would first like to clear up any misunderstandings about roosters. 1.) If you're like me, you thought roosters only crow when the sun comes up.... This is not true. They crow ALL DAY LONG. At least the one next door to me does. Maybe he's blind... 2.) They don't say "cock-a-doodle-doo," it's more like "RRK-A-RRRRRK-A-RRRR!"
Now let's talk about baby monitors. They are so sensitive that if two ants outside the window of the baby room were having an arguement, it would sound like you left the TV on Jerry Springer. So when you combine the rooster that walked into our yard up next to the baby room window, and the baby monitor.... It sounded like that friggin rooster is standing on my chest screaming in my face. I think my ears were bleeding.
Being that I have been in a constant state of sleep deprivation, I wasn't clearly thinking when I jumped out of bed wearing only my boxer briefs and a wife-beater undershirt to go kill the rooster. I picked up a piece of base board laying around and headed out to ensure that we were having chicken for dinner.
So at 6:00 in the morning I was in my front yard, on a busy boulevard, cars all around, chasing a rooster around my front yard screaming "DIE BIRD, DIE!!!" BTW, roosters don't run in a straight line, they zig-zag... I can't imagine what the people going to work were thinking while watching that. I didn't care.
When I finally got back in bed, slightly sweaty, dignity lost, I realized it was 15 minutes until my son needed to be fed.
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