More on this later.
Friday, 12 October 2007
Monday, 1 October 2007
Toddler speak: repeatedly saying the same thing twice again over and over
Posted on 11:13 by Unknown
Parenting a toddler is no easy chore, and now that words have started to come out of little Meryl's mouth, I find myself somehow devolving into a monosyllabic caveman whose vocabulary bank has been robbed. Yesterday I dropped my wife off at the airport and the conversation in the car on the ride home with Meryl went something like this:
Mama?
Mama's going out of town?
Mama?
Mom's getting on her plane, Sweetie.
Dada?
Dad's driving.
Mama?
Mama's going to Washington D.C.
Shoes?
Yep, you've got your shoes on.
Mama?
Going out of town.
Dada?
Driving.
Pizza?
No pizza today.
Mama?
Plane.
Dada?
Dad's in the car.
Car?
Car.
Mama?
Plane.
We went on like this for roughly twenty miles. We made a brief detour into Little Five Points to eat lunch and walk around, partially so Meryl could stretch her legs after being in a car seat for so long but mainly because I needed to break the monotony before being driven insane.
We parked in a meter that thankfully still had time left from the previous parker who was obviously either more paranoid of being towed than I usually am or at least less cheap. I almost never put money in parking meters. For one thing, I don't carry change and secondly I'm a scofflaw.
I learned the trick years ago from my driving instructor who came from the Taggart Driving School. He said that in the event I got a parking ticket I shouldn't pay it because it would only be $1o and if the city of Atlanta had to ever track me down to get their money it would only increase to $25 and they weren't likely to go that route. The only parking ticket I ever got was in Belgium so I don't know if the instructor's theory was correct or not. Incidentally I didn't pay the ticket I got in Belgium either.
As I open the back car door, Meryl says to me, "Car?" And thus the conversation continued:
Yes, Dad's getting you out of the car.
Shoes? Yep, you've still got both shoes on.
Mama?
Mom's out of town now. We're going to eat lunch.
[Meryl makes a smacking sound to show me she understands lunch] Pizza?
No, we had pizza yesterday.
Pizza. No.
That's right. No pizza.
Mama?
No, mom is not here. It's just you and Dad.
Little Five Points, one of Atlanta's more esoteric and nouveau hippy neighborhoods, was just opening up about the time we pulled in. Meryl and I tooled around and found ourselves hanging out among some heavily inked longhairs, one of whom had apparently just been to Starbucks. The coffee drinker just looked so hypocritically dichotomous to me. Who comes to a neighborhood as avant garde as Little Five Points so they can order something so suburbanly vanilla as Starbucks? Oh well. Who am I to judge?
Cup?
Yes, he's got a cup.
Hot?
[At this point the local chimed in.] Yeh, it's hot.
Shoes?
Yep, he's got shoes on.
[Again the guy humors Meryl with a response.] Yeh, they're flip-flops.
Someone with a key showed up and unlocked the door to a tattoo parlor slash tchotchke boutique and all the longhairs went in. Even with all the tattoos they had between them, it hadn't occurred to me that they were artists themselves. Come to think of it, it hadn't occurred to me any of them even had jobs. I'm judgmental that way. Sue me.
Meryl and I walked around some more, ate lunch at a corner tavern where she subjected fellow diners to volume ten screams and happy squeals before moving to a secluded corner table in a back room. There she littered the floor with hummus, roasted asparagas, and goat cheese pita wrap.
Yes, I'm one of those parents who isn't afraid to take his kid into a place that doesn't generally cater to children, but I try and always leave extra generous gratuity to make up for the extra work a good server is willing to do. Besides, if the restaurant has highchairs (and this one did), I take it to mean a baby's welcome.
On the drive from Little Five Points home Meryl's mood started to dwindle. Her talking turned into whining and eventually that tearless cry that denotes extreme discontent. As loud as it was, it was somewhat of a relief not to have to carry on a conversation about Mom being out of town, me driving and Meryl having both shoes on.
Just when I was about to carry her into her room and lay her in her crib she said, "Pot." We are toilet training and this means she has to go to the potty.
You wanna go sit on the potty?
Pot?
OK, Dad'll put you on the potty.
Mama?
Mom's at work. Out of town. In Washington. Dad can put you on the potty.
Pot?
Yep, here we go.
She successfully uses the potty and then looks at me with her arms up in the air.
Up?
You want up?
Up.
OK, Dad'll get you up.
Another successful bathroom visit. As we flush she looks into the swirling water and waves.
Bye bye. Bye bye. Bye bye.
Mama?
Mama's going out of town?
Mama?
Mom's getting on her plane, Sweetie.
Dada?
Dad's driving.
Mama?
Mama's going to Washington D.C.
Shoes?
Yep, you've got your shoes on.
Mama?
Going out of town.
Dada?
Driving.
Pizza?
No pizza today.
Mama?
Plane.
Dada?
Dad's in the car.
Car?
Car.
Mama?
Plane.
We went on like this for roughly twenty miles. We made a brief detour into Little Five Points to eat lunch and walk around, partially so Meryl could stretch her legs after being in a car seat for so long but mainly because I needed to break the monotony before being driven insane.
We parked in a meter that thankfully still had time left from the previous parker who was obviously either more paranoid of being towed than I usually am or at least less cheap. I almost never put money in parking meters. For one thing, I don't carry change and secondly I'm a scofflaw.
I learned the trick years ago from my driving instructor who came from the Taggart Driving School. He said that in the event I got a parking ticket I shouldn't pay it because it would only be $1o and if the city of Atlanta had to ever track me down to get their money it would only increase to $25 and they weren't likely to go that route. The only parking ticket I ever got was in Belgium so I don't know if the instructor's theory was correct or not. Incidentally I didn't pay the ticket I got in Belgium either.
As I open the back car door, Meryl says to me, "Car?" And thus the conversation continued:
Yes, Dad's getting you out of the car.
Shoes? Yep, you've still got both shoes on.
Mama?
Mom's out of town now. We're going to eat lunch.
[Meryl makes a smacking sound to show me she understands lunch] Pizza?
No, we had pizza yesterday.
Pizza. No.
That's right. No pizza.
Mama?
No, mom is not here. It's just you and Dad.
Little Five Points, one of Atlanta's more esoteric and nouveau hippy neighborhoods, was just opening up about the time we pulled in. Meryl and I tooled around and found ourselves hanging out among some heavily inked longhairs, one of whom had apparently just been to Starbucks. The coffee drinker just looked so hypocritically dichotomous to me. Who comes to a neighborhood as avant garde as Little Five Points so they can order something so suburbanly vanilla as Starbucks? Oh well. Who am I to judge?
Cup?
Yes, he's got a cup.
Hot?
[At this point the local chimed in.] Yeh, it's hot.
Shoes?
Yep, he's got shoes on.
[Again the guy humors Meryl with a response.] Yeh, they're flip-flops.
Someone with a key showed up and unlocked the door to a tattoo parlor slash tchotchke boutique and all the longhairs went in. Even with all the tattoos they had between them, it hadn't occurred to me that they were artists themselves. Come to think of it, it hadn't occurred to me any of them even had jobs. I'm judgmental that way. Sue me.
Meryl and I walked around some more, ate lunch at a corner tavern where she subjected fellow diners to volume ten screams and happy squeals before moving to a secluded corner table in a back room. There she littered the floor with hummus, roasted asparagas, and goat cheese pita wrap.
Yes, I'm one of those parents who isn't afraid to take his kid into a place that doesn't generally cater to children, but I try and always leave extra generous gratuity to make up for the extra work a good server is willing to do. Besides, if the restaurant has highchairs (and this one did), I take it to mean a baby's welcome.
On the drive from Little Five Points home Meryl's mood started to dwindle. Her talking turned into whining and eventually that tearless cry that denotes extreme discontent. As loud as it was, it was somewhat of a relief not to have to carry on a conversation about Mom being out of town, me driving and Meryl having both shoes on.
Just when I was about to carry her into her room and lay her in her crib she said, "Pot." We are toilet training and this means she has to go to the potty.
You wanna go sit on the potty?
Pot?
OK, Dad'll put you on the potty.
Mama?
Mom's at work. Out of town. In Washington. Dad can put you on the potty.
Pot?
Yep, here we go.
She successfully uses the potty and then looks at me with her arms up in the air.
Up?
You want up?
Up.
OK, Dad'll get you up.
Another successful bathroom visit. As we flush she looks into the swirling water and waves.
Bye bye. Bye bye. Bye bye.
Monday, 24 September 2007
Project961.com
Posted on 11:30 by Unknown
I suppose since I watch a minimal amount of television and listen mainly to AM radio that it should be acceptable for an FM station to try and target their advertising to me via a mailed postcard, but come on -- at least make it appealing to the reader. A local station is apparently running a promotion where they're giving away fully restored muscle cars to their listeners. Huzzah!
On the front of the postcard are three cars deemed "muscle cars" by the ad folks at Atlanta's WKLS 96.1. Recognizable to me is the 60-something-model Mustang, mainly because in college I dated a girl who drove one. She always complained about having to change the spark plugs. Lucky for me she wasn't one of those chicks who expected her beau to be car-savvy. This may surprise some of you who know me, but my knowledge about automobiles extends only to cranking them and filling them up with gas. I don't know a sparkplug from a mucus plug.
What gets me is the youngspeak language used on the card. Get this:
Nothing says "guy card" like owning a fully restored American Muscle Car!
What does it mean to be a "guy card" holder? Isn't guy too broad of a term to merit cardship? It just sounds too much like saying "human card" or "omnivore card" to me. Or am I wrong to assume by guy they mean male?
Here's another one:
Plus, we're hookin a brotha up for the Fall race weekend at Atlanta Motor Speedway.
On the front of the postcard are three cars deemed "muscle cars" by the ad folks at Atlanta's WKLS 96.1. Recognizable to me is the 60-something-model Mustang, mainly because in college I dated a girl who drove one. She always complained about having to change the spark plugs. Lucky for me she wasn't one of those chicks who expected her beau to be car-savvy. This may surprise some of you who know me, but my knowledge about automobiles extends only to cranking them and filling them up with gas. I don't know a sparkplug from a mucus plug.
What gets me is the youngspeak language used on the card. Get this:
Nothing says "guy card" like owning a fully restored American Muscle Car!
What does it mean to be a "guy card" holder? Isn't guy too broad of a term to merit cardship? It just sounds too much like saying "human card" or "omnivore card" to me. Or am I wrong to assume by guy they mean male?
Here's another one:
Plus, we're hookin a brotha up for the Fall race weekend at Atlanta Motor Speedway.
Call it narrow minded on my part, but I think the term brotha should be reserved for men who have at least some degree of sub-Saharan African ancestry. You know what else? I've never been to the Atlanta Motor Speedway, but something tells me the aforementioned brothas aren't in high number at a venue known primarily for offering beer-swilling White guys a place to watch souped up racecars crash into each other. The postcard may as well say Plus, we're hookin a brotha up with full hockey gear and two backstage passes to Barry Manilow.
Those folks at WKLS 96.1 sure know how to help a brotha out, don't they?
Oh well. Guess I have to cash in my guy card.
Monday, 17 September 2007
County Seat presents The Philadelphia Story at the Aurora Theater
Posted on 20:42 by Unknown
My feet are of clay. Do you know it?
Or shall I say Do you know what having feet of clay means? I didn't, so I axed the Google.
Having feet of clay means to have some weakness that your admirers weren't aware of before but have only recently come to discover. One innerweb reference sites James Joyce, that dead Irishman, as the source but I think somehow the expression dates back to the Bible. I don't know for sure that it came from the Bible. I'm just guessing. Hell, I went to public school.
I don't get to say the line; the lead actress does. Lead actresses get all the best lines but the question is: Who gets the girl in the end? I know already.
So there!
Another favorite line of mine is You! All of you! And your damned sophisticated ideas! I know this sounds a bit antiquated, but the play takes place in the post-depression thirties. Why don't people talk like this anymore? Hell, I don't know. I went to public school.
Come to think of it, I'm 35 and my 20s were a nightmare. Am I in my post-depression thirties?
Anyway, back at the ranch . . .
Community theater is like a drug for me. I know when I sign up to be in a show that I really shouldn't take the time and energy away from my family, but somehow the altered state of consciousness known as the stage beckons to me in an impelling voice that somehow can't be ignored. So I take that first hit, enjoy that momentary euphoria felt while on stage, and then I crash and burn when it's time to take down the set at the end of a run.
I can't very well knock community theater though. I met my wife that way. And as far as lead actresses go, she's the tops. The absolute tops, my dear.
More theatrical banter from me -- sorry.
For those unfamiliar with community theater, let me briefly summarize. A bunch of people come together to prance around on stage pretending to be people they're not. They do this for no reward other than the intrinsic value of escaping reality even if only for a few stolen hours of a few Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Almost always, there's some egotistic jamoke of mediocre talent who shows up and gets a part.
In our production, that someone is me. I will continue to belt out my lines and hog the spotlight for as long as they'll have me. My view on acting is summed up thusly:
blah blah blah MY LINE blah blah blah MY LINE blah blah blah MY LINE
That's what real life's really about, isn't it? What is it Shakespeare said?
Okay, now I'm just projecting, but you get the idea.
Or shall I say Do you know what having feet of clay means? I didn't, so I axed the Google.
Having feet of clay means to have some weakness that your admirers weren't aware of before but have only recently come to discover. One innerweb reference sites James Joyce, that dead Irishman, as the source but I think somehow the expression dates back to the Bible. I don't know for sure that it came from the Bible. I'm just guessing. Hell, I went to public school.
I don't get to say the line; the lead actress does. Lead actresses get all the best lines but the question is: Who gets the girl in the end? I know already.
So there!
Another favorite line of mine is You! All of you! And your damned sophisticated ideas! I know this sounds a bit antiquated, but the play takes place in the post-depression thirties. Why don't people talk like this anymore? Hell, I don't know. I went to public school.
Come to think of it, I'm 35 and my 20s were a nightmare. Am I in my post-depression thirties?
Anyway, back at the ranch . . .
Community theater is like a drug for me. I know when I sign up to be in a show that I really shouldn't take the time and energy away from my family, but somehow the altered state of consciousness known as the stage beckons to me in an impelling voice that somehow can't be ignored. So I take that first hit, enjoy that momentary euphoria felt while on stage, and then I crash and burn when it's time to take down the set at the end of a run.
I can't very well knock community theater though. I met my wife that way. And as far as lead actresses go, she's the tops. The absolute tops, my dear.
More theatrical banter from me -- sorry.
For those unfamiliar with community theater, let me briefly summarize. A bunch of people come together to prance around on stage pretending to be people they're not. They do this for no reward other than the intrinsic value of escaping reality even if only for a few stolen hours of a few Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Almost always, there's some egotistic jamoke of mediocre talent who shows up and gets a part.
In our production, that someone is me. I will continue to belt out my lines and hog the spotlight for as long as they'll have me. My view on acting is summed up thusly:
blah blah blah MY LINE blah blah blah MY LINE blah blah blah MY LINE
That's what real life's really about, isn't it? What is it Shakespeare said?
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players
who can't remember their lines.
And all the men and women merely players
who can't remember their lines.
Okay, now I'm just projecting, but you get the idea.
In case you were wondering, our little gem of a show runs Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings at 8:00 PM from Sept 20th through the 29th and at 2:30 PM on Sundays Sept 23rd and 30th. Tickets can be purchased by clicking hither. Yes, you'll have to register if you don't already have an online presence with the Aurora Theater in Lawrenceville, GA but that's just one of those cyber hoops we have to occasionally jump through. Ya dig? Alternatively you can give them a ring at 770-476-7926 .
Furthermore, I realize that the Aurora (like many other theatrical groups out there) likes to refer to themselves as a "theatre" with an R-E as opposed to an E-R, but guess what?
I don't roll that way.
So booyah!
My feet are of clay. Do you know it?
Furthermore, I realize that the Aurora (like many other theatrical groups out there) likes to refer to themselves as a "theatre" with an R-E as opposed to an E-R, but guess what?
I don't roll that way.
So booyah!
My feet are of clay. Do you know it?
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Zoo Atlanta panda turns one; Human baby not amused.
Posted on 11:37 by Unknown
Meryl and I went to her first marsupial birthday party today. Oh, sure, she's been to a human birthday party, but today was the day that Atlanta-born panda, Mei Lan, celebrated her first trip around the sun at our zoo. There was much ado.
The guest list included such dignitaries as Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin, Georgia's lieutenant governor, and various muckety mucks from Delta Airlines, the city of Chengdu in China and Zoo Atlanta.
To make a long story short, Meryl, who recently turned sixteen months old herself, started to break down shortly after we got to the event. To her defense, I must say the party's opening ceremonies were anything but kid friendly. I basically spent thirty minutes trying to hold a struggling baby while listening to some suits from far and wide drone on about Chinese-American relations, direct flights from Atlanta to China and whatnot.
To paraphrase it went something like this:
Mei Lan's parents came to us from China applause applause applause It is important that Atlanta maintain good relations with the Chinese applause applause applause The panda is a symbol of peace applause applause applause.
When the vice mayor of Chengdu finished speaking in his native Mandarin I thought it only polite to applaud for him as well. I was one of the few. Then his interpreter went up to the mic and translated into English what he had said. I forget her exact words but it was something about the research center and artificial insemination. I felt kinda dumb having applauded but hey, who doesn't like panda husbandry?
The line of vacant strollers outside the tent had led me to believe that taking one inside would be frowned upon. Again, I was in the minority with my assumption. For every stroller left outside there were three or four inside. Only, the strollers inside were occupied by sippy-cup wielding panda seekers, some of whom had already started to cry.
When I tired of trying to hold a baby that obviously didn't want to be held, I made a brief retreat outside in order to reclaim our stroller. Meryl refused to be strapped in, so I held one handle while she pushed the thing around in circles. This game entertained her for a few short minutes until she ran into an important looking Chinese guy in a designer suit and man purse. He quickly braced her so as not to let her fall backwards and then smiled at me. Meryl did not feel the love however and shrieked at him, I imagine, simply for being in her way. I said thank you in Chinese, one of the few expressions I know and whisked her and the stroller away.
Some kids and parents had made their way to a second tent where birthday cake was to be served. Meryl and I headed there but found the crowd to be too close-knit and not conducive to a now overly-tired baby with a bad case of stroller rage. So instead I let her push the stroller around the zoo.
I tried to point out a small-clawed otter but she paid it no mind. A kimodo dragon also proved to be no competition for pushing a stroller along the pavement. Not even an elephant phased her.
Then she fell. This is when all baby hell broke loose.
Meryl starts to get clumsy when she gets tired. When she falls this only aggravates the crankiness. After righting her and trying again to put her in the stroller I ended up just standing under the awning of the tiger exhibit and watched as she screamed. It wasn't her hurt scream either. It was just the scream she uses when she tries to get the attention of anyone around. We are still trying to decipher her toddler babble but I think in her blood curdling voice she was shouting something like everyone please look at my inept father!
Oh, the joys of parenthood.
I finally hog tied my kid into the stroller and quickly tried to find the exit. Never in my life have I wanted to leave a zoo faster than I did today. To add to my frustration, I could not find the way out for anything, so I just pushed a screaming baby through the serpentine maze we call the zoo while captive animal after captive animal retreated to their respective hidey holes to get away from the piercing noise. It was bad. I briefly pictured my daughter being raised by a nice leopard family.
The only thing that calmed Meryl down was the rhythm of street musicians outside the zoo in Grant Park. I briefly pictured my daughter being raised by a nice couple of bongo-playing Rastafareans.
I'm only joking.
They could have been Episcopalian for all I know.
When we encountered a man playing blues on the guitar Meryl stopped crying for a moment and looked up at him as though to say I feel your pain. When he finished one song I thanked him and explained that she too had been singing the blues ever since we left the zoo.
"I'll play a little somethin' nice for her," he said before strumming a few chords.
Meryl started crying again so I thanked the musician again and pushed Meryl quickly to the car. As I was strapping her into the seat I could still here him singing Summertime and the livin' is easy.
We never did see any panda, much less birthday cake.
Oh well.
Happy birthday, Mei Lan.
The guest list included such dignitaries as Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin, Georgia's lieutenant governor, and various muckety mucks from Delta Airlines, the city of Chengdu in China and Zoo Atlanta.
To make a long story short, Meryl, who recently turned sixteen months old herself, started to break down shortly after we got to the event. To her defense, I must say the party's opening ceremonies were anything but kid friendly. I basically spent thirty minutes trying to hold a struggling baby while listening to some suits from far and wide drone on about Chinese-American relations, direct flights from Atlanta to China and whatnot.
To paraphrase it went something like this:
Mei Lan's parents came to us from China applause applause applause It is important that Atlanta maintain good relations with the Chinese applause applause applause The panda is a symbol of peace applause applause applause.
When the vice mayor of Chengdu finished speaking in his native Mandarin I thought it only polite to applaud for him as well. I was one of the few. Then his interpreter went up to the mic and translated into English what he had said. I forget her exact words but it was something about the research center and artificial insemination. I felt kinda dumb having applauded but hey, who doesn't like panda husbandry?
The line of vacant strollers outside the tent had led me to believe that taking one inside would be frowned upon. Again, I was in the minority with my assumption. For every stroller left outside there were three or four inside. Only, the strollers inside were occupied by sippy-cup wielding panda seekers, some of whom had already started to cry.
When I tired of trying to hold a baby that obviously didn't want to be held, I made a brief retreat outside in order to reclaim our stroller. Meryl refused to be strapped in, so I held one handle while she pushed the thing around in circles. This game entertained her for a few short minutes until she ran into an important looking Chinese guy in a designer suit and man purse. He quickly braced her so as not to let her fall backwards and then smiled at me. Meryl did not feel the love however and shrieked at him, I imagine, simply for being in her way. I said thank you in Chinese, one of the few expressions I know and whisked her and the stroller away.
Some kids and parents had made their way to a second tent where birthday cake was to be served. Meryl and I headed there but found the crowd to be too close-knit and not conducive to a now overly-tired baby with a bad case of stroller rage. So instead I let her push the stroller around the zoo.
I tried to point out a small-clawed otter but she paid it no mind. A kimodo dragon also proved to be no competition for pushing a stroller along the pavement. Not even an elephant phased her.
Then she fell. This is when all baby hell broke loose.
Meryl starts to get clumsy when she gets tired. When she falls this only aggravates the crankiness. After righting her and trying again to put her in the stroller I ended up just standing under the awning of the tiger exhibit and watched as she screamed. It wasn't her hurt scream either. It was just the scream she uses when she tries to get the attention of anyone around. We are still trying to decipher her toddler babble but I think in her blood curdling voice she was shouting something like everyone please look at my inept father!
Oh, the joys of parenthood.
I finally hog tied my kid into the stroller and quickly tried to find the exit. Never in my life have I wanted to leave a zoo faster than I did today. To add to my frustration, I could not find the way out for anything, so I just pushed a screaming baby through the serpentine maze we call the zoo while captive animal after captive animal retreated to their respective hidey holes to get away from the piercing noise. It was bad. I briefly pictured my daughter being raised by a nice leopard family.
The only thing that calmed Meryl down was the rhythm of street musicians outside the zoo in Grant Park. I briefly pictured my daughter being raised by a nice couple of bongo-playing Rastafareans.
I'm only joking.
They could have been Episcopalian for all I know.
When we encountered a man playing blues on the guitar Meryl stopped crying for a moment and looked up at him as though to say I feel your pain. When he finished one song I thanked him and explained that she too had been singing the blues ever since we left the zoo.
"I'll play a little somethin' nice for her," he said before strumming a few chords.
Meryl started crying again so I thanked the musician again and pushed Meryl quickly to the car. As I was strapping her into the seat I could still here him singing Summertime and the livin' is easy.
We never did see any panda, much less birthday cake.
Oh well.
Happy birthday, Mei Lan.
Friday, 24 August 2007
My destiny just isn't meant to be
Posted on 19:42 by Unknown
One of my earliest first grade memories was at the beginning of the school year when the teacher was telling us what we could and couldn't do in her class. Along with the regular classroom management rules was a non sequitur she threw in about not using the phrase "goody goody gumdrops."
This threw me for a loop because at six years of age, I had never heard the phrase before, and come to think of it, I can't recall anytime I've ever used it other than when relaying this same story. As a kid I thought it was odd that someone would ban you from using a phrase that wasn't profane, but as an adult I have a greater appreciation for this criterion. There are some phrases that just grate on my nerves any time I hear them.
Everything happens for a reason.
A friend of mine said this on the phone the other day. I usually don't write about friends, but she isn't going to read my blog anytime soon, so I'll just talk some smack. Whenever I hear someone say that everything happens for a reason, it's usually after they've done something stupid and therefore had to reap the results.
Yes, it is true that everything happens for a reason. That reason is because you or someone else made it happen. No magic here; usually just haphazard decision making.
If such 'n' such doesn't happen, then it just wasn't meant to be.
Again, when did we move the locus of control away from the individual and chalk up the future to some uncontrollable destiny simply to befall us?
When I was working as a real estate agent, I occasionally would hear this from buyers and sellers. Buyers would offer a lowball offer on a house and sellers would jack up their asking price ridiculously high. Each one would say something like, "Well, we're going to counter with this, and if they don't accept, then it just wasn't meant to be."
I'm not going to launch into a debate on pre-determinism versus free will here. I'm just going to tell you how it is according to me, which is really all you need concern yourself with. There is no "meant to be." You make it be.
It's a sign.
STOP is a sign. CAUTION WET FLOOR is a sign. Suddenly noticing the Baskin Robbins out your passenger-side window when you're hungry for an excuse to go back on your diet is not a sign. Identifying something as a sign is usually done by those who want to do something bad but feel as though they need permission to do it. When they can't get that from an individual, they look for the closest coincidence and deem it a sign.
I don't wanna jinx it.
This one bothers me largely because I find myself occasionally saying it. Not counting one's chickens before they hatch is understandable, but simply saying that the eggs are going to hatch does not decrease the likelihood that they will.
I'm just gonna put it in God's hands.
I am convinced that putting something in God's hands is a religiously acceptable way of saying give up. It's as though the person saying it is not only throwing in the towel but also attempting to take a preemptive strike against your calling them on it. After all, if they've handed their problem to a being who's all powerful, how can you argue with them? Why do some people blame God for their own misdeeds?
God has a plan for us;
It's all part of God's plan; and
God works in mysterious ways.
Employ one of these tautologies after a kid gets hit by a car and see what sort of reaction you get.
Consequently:
The Devil made me do it; and
He must have the Devil in him.
If ever there were a reason to do away with our justice system it would be because of the Devil, wouldn't it?
Git 'er done.
I know it's a little off the mark, but I actually heard a kid say this recently in the parking lot as he was about to put groceries in the trunk of his mom's car and I cringed. We should not still be saying this. Really, we never should have said this. Just because it's funny when Larry the Cable Guy says it doesn't mean it's funny when you say it -- much less for the umpteenth time.
I'm starting to sound like that first grade teacher. Out of curiosity I googled her name as well as looked in wikipedia to see if any entries came up about her. Nothing that I can find.
She was a mean bizzie if there ever was one. I distinctly remember her once making fun of a classmate's drawing and yelling at one girl because she couldn't yet count to one hundred.
Oh well.
I guess everything happens for a reason.
This threw me for a loop because at six years of age, I had never heard the phrase before, and come to think of it, I can't recall anytime I've ever used it other than when relaying this same story. As a kid I thought it was odd that someone would ban you from using a phrase that wasn't profane, but as an adult I have a greater appreciation for this criterion. There are some phrases that just grate on my nerves any time I hear them.
Everything happens for a reason.
A friend of mine said this on the phone the other day. I usually don't write about friends, but she isn't going to read my blog anytime soon, so I'll just talk some smack. Whenever I hear someone say that everything happens for a reason, it's usually after they've done something stupid and therefore had to reap the results.
Yes, it is true that everything happens for a reason. That reason is because you or someone else made it happen. No magic here; usually just haphazard decision making.
If such 'n' such doesn't happen, then it just wasn't meant to be.
Again, when did we move the locus of control away from the individual and chalk up the future to some uncontrollable destiny simply to befall us?
When I was working as a real estate agent, I occasionally would hear this from buyers and sellers. Buyers would offer a lowball offer on a house and sellers would jack up their asking price ridiculously high. Each one would say something like, "Well, we're going to counter with this, and if they don't accept, then it just wasn't meant to be."
I'm not going to launch into a debate on pre-determinism versus free will here. I'm just going to tell you how it is according to me, which is really all you need concern yourself with. There is no "meant to be." You make it be.
It's a sign.
STOP is a sign. CAUTION WET FLOOR is a sign. Suddenly noticing the Baskin Robbins out your passenger-side window when you're hungry for an excuse to go back on your diet is not a sign. Identifying something as a sign is usually done by those who want to do something bad but feel as though they need permission to do it. When they can't get that from an individual, they look for the closest coincidence and deem it a sign.
I don't wanna jinx it.
This one bothers me largely because I find myself occasionally saying it. Not counting one's chickens before they hatch is understandable, but simply saying that the eggs are going to hatch does not decrease the likelihood that they will.
I'm just gonna put it in God's hands.
I am convinced that putting something in God's hands is a religiously acceptable way of saying give up. It's as though the person saying it is not only throwing in the towel but also attempting to take a preemptive strike against your calling them on it. After all, if they've handed their problem to a being who's all powerful, how can you argue with them? Why do some people blame God for their own misdeeds?
God has a plan for us;
It's all part of God's plan; and
God works in mysterious ways.
Employ one of these tautologies after a kid gets hit by a car and see what sort of reaction you get.
Consequently:
The Devil made me do it; and
He must have the Devil in him.
If ever there were a reason to do away with our justice system it would be because of the Devil, wouldn't it?
Git 'er done.
I know it's a little off the mark, but I actually heard a kid say this recently in the parking lot as he was about to put groceries in the trunk of his mom's car and I cringed. We should not still be saying this. Really, we never should have said this. Just because it's funny when Larry the Cable Guy says it doesn't mean it's funny when you say it -- much less for the umpteenth time.
I'm starting to sound like that first grade teacher. Out of curiosity I googled her name as well as looked in wikipedia to see if any entries came up about her. Nothing that I can find.
She was a mean bizzie if there ever was one. I distinctly remember her once making fun of a classmate's drawing and yelling at one girl because she couldn't yet count to one hundred.
Oh well.
I guess everything happens for a reason.
All Nations Restaurant and Caribbean
Posted on 05:21 by Unknown
I often have a penchant for being the odd man out. Whether it's visiting a foreign country or exploring a part of town my mother would call "lock-your-doors," I just enjoy experiencing new things. I don't like using the word diversity because it's one of those loaded words that gets thrown around so much that it's lost its meaning, values and progressive being other examples, but sometimes I've found that breaking out of the mold someone else has designed for you makes for the best stories to tell at the end of the day. Yesterday I took Meryl to a Haitian restaurant.
Lawrenceville is not Petticoat Junction but nor is it a New York or Miami. Within five minutes driving time, I can find Bosnian food, Romanian food, Dominican food or Haitian food, but these restaurants generally do not cater to the urban Anglo who wants to be able to say he ate Szechuan one day and Cantonese the next. Aside from the usual Mexican, Chinese and Thai places, all of which seem to sprout up around here like kudzu, ethnic restaurants cater largely to their own. Sadly, many don't last, but they usually serve up some delicious dishes while they're here. All Nations Restaurant and Caribbean was no exception.
Don't you just love that name? All nations. And Caribbean! This is kinda like saying European nations . . . and Sweden, but I digress.
The restaurant was recommended to me by a Haitian guy I ran into at Wal-Mart. All nations love the big boxes. This guy used to be a student of mine, and when I expressed sadness over Bistro Creole closing its doors, he smiled and said that his friend had opened a new Haitian restaurant around the corner. Enter the suburban Anglo and his Anglokin.
The moment I walked into this place it was like a sauna. I don't know if the air wasn't working or if they just like to keep the restaurant hotter than a Port au Prince sidewalk, but if I was sweating I can't imagine how the people in the kitchen must have felt. We were the only customers in there and Meryl immediately wanted to be put down where she could explore the tables and chairs and fire extinguisher. Somewhat hesitantly I acquiesced.
A woman emerged from the kitchen and said hello.
"Komon ou ye?" I asked, "How are you" being the one phrase I know in Haitian Creole. She smiled and wanted to know where I had learned it. I name dropped a few Haitians I know, thinking maybe this will get me a discount or at least a larger helping. She knew the guy from the Wal-Mart, but I think that's it.
I asked if they have fried plantains. They do. I tried to order on the cheap with a steak and cheese sandwich and plantains. After discussing my selection with the manager it's decided they don't have the fixings for steak and cheese. She suggested Curry Chicken. Hesitantly I acquiesced.
She retreated to the kitchen to prepare our food. The manager, before leaving, turned on the Disney channel, I suppose for Meryl to enjoy. She did, but only peripherally. The plastic tablecloths and bubblegum machines were her main focus, and I spent much of my time chasing after a baby that refused to be held and instead wanted to pull tablecloths off of tables.
Because it was hot as blazes in there, I reached into the cooler and helped myself to a watermelon flavored soda. It was yummy. I don't know that it tastes so much like watermelon as it did cotton candy, but either way, I gulped it down like there was no tomorrow. I found a straw behind the counter and let Meryl have a sip. She didn't like it. Fine, more for me.
The woman, who all this time had been bantering back and forth in Creole with another employee, came back out with our food all wrapped up in a to-go bag. "You should come back many times. We have lots of good Haitian food for you to try," she said to me. I asked if its okay to feed curry chicken to a baby. "Oh yes," she says, "but not with bones of course."
I don't care how hot they keep the restaurant. That food was delicious! The chicken I think was stewed and it just fell off the bone. The flavor was like nothing I had ever tried before. My plantains came with a dipping sauce that I think was a blend of . . . well, I don't know what it was but it was good too. It was yellow, if that means anything to you. Meryl ate the plantains without the sauce, but I liked it.
Speaking of whom, my solitude has now ended because she has woken up. Smells like she needs a diaper.
Probably the curry chicken.
Lawrenceville is not Petticoat Junction but nor is it a New York or Miami. Within five minutes driving time, I can find Bosnian food, Romanian food, Dominican food or Haitian food, but these restaurants generally do not cater to the urban Anglo who wants to be able to say he ate Szechuan one day and Cantonese the next. Aside from the usual Mexican, Chinese and Thai places, all of which seem to sprout up around here like kudzu, ethnic restaurants cater largely to their own. Sadly, many don't last, but they usually serve up some delicious dishes while they're here. All Nations Restaurant and Caribbean was no exception.
Don't you just love that name? All nations. And Caribbean! This is kinda like saying European nations . . . and Sweden, but I digress.
The restaurant was recommended to me by a Haitian guy I ran into at Wal-Mart. All nations love the big boxes. This guy used to be a student of mine, and when I expressed sadness over Bistro Creole closing its doors, he smiled and said that his friend had opened a new Haitian restaurant around the corner. Enter the suburban Anglo and his Anglokin.
The moment I walked into this place it was like a sauna. I don't know if the air wasn't working or if they just like to keep the restaurant hotter than a Port au Prince sidewalk, but if I was sweating I can't imagine how the people in the kitchen must have felt. We were the only customers in there and Meryl immediately wanted to be put down where she could explore the tables and chairs and fire extinguisher. Somewhat hesitantly I acquiesced.
A woman emerged from the kitchen and said hello.
"Komon ou ye?" I asked, "How are you" being the one phrase I know in Haitian Creole. She smiled and wanted to know where I had learned it. I name dropped a few Haitians I know, thinking maybe this will get me a discount or at least a larger helping. She knew the guy from the Wal-Mart, but I think that's it.
I asked if they have fried plantains. They do. I tried to order on the cheap with a steak and cheese sandwich and plantains. After discussing my selection with the manager it's decided they don't have the fixings for steak and cheese. She suggested Curry Chicken. Hesitantly I acquiesced.
She retreated to the kitchen to prepare our food. The manager, before leaving, turned on the Disney channel, I suppose for Meryl to enjoy. She did, but only peripherally. The plastic tablecloths and bubblegum machines were her main focus, and I spent much of my time chasing after a baby that refused to be held and instead wanted to pull tablecloths off of tables.
Because it was hot as blazes in there, I reached into the cooler and helped myself to a watermelon flavored soda. It was yummy. I don't know that it tastes so much like watermelon as it did cotton candy, but either way, I gulped it down like there was no tomorrow. I found a straw behind the counter and let Meryl have a sip. She didn't like it. Fine, more for me.
The woman, who all this time had been bantering back and forth in Creole with another employee, came back out with our food all wrapped up in a to-go bag. "You should come back many times. We have lots of good Haitian food for you to try," she said to me. I asked if its okay to feed curry chicken to a baby. "Oh yes," she says, "but not with bones of course."
I don't care how hot they keep the restaurant. That food was delicious! The chicken I think was stewed and it just fell off the bone. The flavor was like nothing I had ever tried before. My plantains came with a dipping sauce that I think was a blend of . . . well, I don't know what it was but it was good too. It was yellow, if that means anything to you. Meryl ate the plantains without the sauce, but I liked it.
Speaking of whom, my solitude has now ended because she has woken up. Smells like she needs a diaper.
Probably the curry chicken.
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