Mamahawk: I figured out how to use my webcam!
JakeH: Wait... you have a webcam?
Mamahawk: My new digital camera is "Web enabled."
JakeH: I don't think you have a webcam.
Mamahawk: Do I need bluetooth?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Re: Wedding Bells
One thing that has never lacked in the Hawken home is support.
As heretofore mentioned, I recently got engaged. I couldn't possibly ask for a more encouraging response from my family. The following are transcripts of my conversations:
On the Phone With Hal
Jake: Hey Dad, I'm getting married.
Hal: Excellent! Well, I have to go coach football.
J: But isn't it 10 o'clock at night in Washington?
H: And...?
On the Phone With The Beast
Jake: I'm getting married!
The Beast: Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you just said. Can you call back later? I'm watching "Dancing with the Stars."
J: Aren't you excited?
TB: Ok, ok, ok, GEEZ! Happy Birthday! [click]
On the Phone With Ben
Jake: Hey Ben, I'm getting married!
Ben: Call me back later, this costs too much.
J: We're on the same provider...and it's past 9pm.
B: MONIES! [click]
J: Huh?
As heretofore mentioned, I recently got engaged. I couldn't possibly ask for a more encouraging response from my family. The following are transcripts of my conversations:
On the Phone With Hal
Jake: Hey Dad, I'm getting married.
Hal: Excellent! Well, I have to go coach football.
J: But isn't it 10 o'clock at night in Washington?
H: And...?
On the Phone With The Beast
Jake: I'm getting married!
The Beast: Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you just said. Can you call back later? I'm watching "Dancing with the Stars."
J: Aren't you excited?
TB: Ok, ok, ok, GEEZ! Happy Birthday! [click]
On the Phone With Ben
Jake: Hey Ben, I'm getting married!
Ben: Call me back later, this costs too much.
J: We're on the same provider...and it's past 9pm.
B: MONIES! [click]
J: Huh?
As Real as You Want it to Be...
bhawken: I think you'll enjoy this piece of news.
Mamahawk: I was just in northern California last week--why didn't anyone tell me about this???
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wedding Bells!
Regular readers have probably noticed that Jake is posting even less than usual (which, technically, should take him into negative numbers), but this week he claims to have a good excuse: He says he got engaged.
I don't know anything about this, and even his most energetic promises are suspect, but I tend to believe him this time since I could hear sections of a conversation in the background.
Jake: What do you mean? I'm gonna be rich!
Girl: Nope, sorry.
Jake: I mean really rich! I'll buy you Norway!
Girl: Fine, but no touching.
After hearing this I couldn't help but recall the cheery stories Hal and The Beast used to tell about their courtship. I never really paid attention, but the punchline was always the eloquent way Hal asked his future spouse out on their first date.
It went something like this:
Hal: Hey.
The Beast: Is that you Hal?
H: Yes.
TB: Why are you hiding under my car?
H: Do you want to go out with me or what?
TB: I don't think I understand...
H: Do you wanna go to the Super Sonics game on Friday?
TB: I'm busy that night watching four channels of black-and-white TV and not checking e-mails because those don't exist yet.
H: Then I'm staying put.
TB: Fine, pick me up at 6:30.
I don't know anything about this, and even his most energetic promises are suspect, but I tend to believe him this time since I could hear sections of a conversation in the background.
Jake: What do you mean? I'm gonna be rich!
Girl: Nope, sorry.
Jake: I mean really rich! I'll buy you Norway!
Girl: Fine, but no touching.
After hearing this I couldn't help but recall the cheery stories Hal and The Beast used to tell about their courtship. I never really paid attention, but the punchline was always the eloquent way Hal asked his future spouse out on their first date.
It went something like this:
Hal: Hey.
The Beast: Is that you Hal?
H: Yes.
TB: Why are you hiding under my car?
H: Do you want to go out with me or what?
TB: I don't think I understand...
H: Do you wanna go to the Super Sonics game on Friday?
TB: I'm busy that night watching four channels of black-and-white TV and not checking e-mails because those don't exist yet.
H: Then I'm staying put.
TB: Fine, pick me up at 6:30.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Hal and Al's Excellent Adventure
Over the years, Hal hasn't had many kind things to say about Al Gore (or any other elected official), but I believe that the former VP would probably appreciate my old man's efforts to save the planet.
When I was seven, and with no prior warning, Hal suddenly decided to start recycling aluminum cans. This eco-friendly decision did not necessarily make Hal unique, but the way in which he went about doing it certainly did.
Hal recognized that recycling was going on, that anyone could do it, and that, potentially, you could make a couple bucks doing it.
Hal began making contacts throughout the South King County area and securing agreements with said contacts to collect their empty aluminum cans on a regular basis. To augment this bottomless supply of cans, he would constantly (and to our great annoyance) pull off to the side of the road whenever he saw even a solitary can laying along the shoulder.
Not a joke.
Gathering the cans was just the first step, however.
Once the cans were finally brought home the biggest part of the process finally got underway.
Hal specified that each aluminum needed to be crushed via a hand-operated crank or a sledgehammer, and then bagged in monstrous garbage liners.
This was obviously the most labor intensive part of the process and, as luck would have it, included only Jake and me.
We were instructed that all of this can crushing was to be done promptly after our arrival home from school (or during all daylight hours in the summer) before we could start frittering away our time by being happy.
I can still remember Hal saying to us, "You act like this is a prison sentence--I don't think you'll ever do this for much more than three hours a day. On the weekdays. Why are you guys so mad?"
While Hal was conveniently tucked away at work and far removed from all the can crushing, The Beast would sequester herself in the living room and patiently wait for reruns of Quantum Leap (which, at that point, were still five years away).
For the half dozen years it lasted, Hal never provided very convincing reasons for why Jake and I had to do it.
He would, with regularity, rattle off a very shaky story about this being a chance to learn about hard work and how this would be a money-making opportunity that any two kids on the planet would die for.
That fact that justice does in fact exist in the universe was manifested when the scrap yard Hal would use to redeem these cans suddenly burnt to the ground. I say "suddenly" because it was leveled by flames in between two of our visits on the same day.
When I was seven, and with no prior warning, Hal suddenly decided to start recycling aluminum cans. This eco-friendly decision did not necessarily make Hal unique, but the way in which he went about doing it certainly did.
Hal recognized that recycling was going on, that anyone could do it, and that, potentially, you could make a couple bucks doing it.
Hal began making contacts throughout the South King County area and securing agreements with said contacts to collect their empty aluminum cans on a regular basis. To augment this bottomless supply of cans, he would constantly (and to our great annoyance) pull off to the side of the road whenever he saw even a solitary can laying along the shoulder.
Not a joke.
Gathering the cans was just the first step, however.
Once the cans were finally brought home the biggest part of the process finally got underway.
Hal specified that each aluminum needed to be crushed via a hand-operated crank or a sledgehammer, and then bagged in monstrous garbage liners.
This was obviously the most labor intensive part of the process and, as luck would have it, included only Jake and me.
We were instructed that all of this can crushing was to be done promptly after our arrival home from school (or during all daylight hours in the summer) before we could start frittering away our time by being happy.
I can still remember Hal saying to us, "You act like this is a prison sentence--I don't think you'll ever do this for much more than three hours a day. On the weekdays. Why are you guys so mad?"
While Hal was conveniently tucked away at work and far removed from all the can crushing, The Beast would sequester herself in the living room and patiently wait for reruns of Quantum Leap (which, at that point, were still five years away).
For the half dozen years it lasted, Hal never provided very convincing reasons for why Jake and I had to do it.
He would, with regularity, rattle off a very shaky story about this being a chance to learn about hard work and how this would be a money-making opportunity that any two kids on the planet would die for.
That fact that justice does in fact exist in the universe was manifested when the scrap yard Hal would use to redeem these cans suddenly burnt to the ground. I say "suddenly" because it was leveled by flames in between two of our visits on the same day.
How can an industrial complex filled with acres of metal and constructed solely of concrete be reduced to rubble via fire? After some reflection, Jake and I concluded it could only be an act of God.
In Hal's mind, this whole can operation was something which we were actually quite enthusiastic about, but we kept our excitement from showing because we were trying to look cool.
To maintain our excitement, Hal did what he could to provide positive motivation.
On numerous occasions--and with no intended sarcasm--Hal would call home from work and tell Jake and me that he had "a big, big surprise" for us. Each time we heard this, we would spend the rest of the afternoon bouncing off the walls and trying to guess what it was bringing. A dog? New bikes? A Toys 'R' Us shopping spree? Our imaginations, as per usual, knew no bounds. We even crushed extra cans in hope of tipping a little extra karma our way.
After hours of breathless anticipation, Hal would arrive home and lead us outside to see the surprise: An unusually large bag of cans. He couldn't fathom why we would suddenly become so upset.
Our heartbreak was partially our own fault. We had forgotten that this had been the "big surprise" each of the last 14 times such a treasure was promised. Each time, as we stood there looking at a bag of cans the size of an obese yak, we would feel a sudden surge of rage unknown to children outside of Third World countries.
The only pile of wrenches in the simple gears of this plan (aside from the incineration of his primary scrap yard) was the remarkably low prices scrap aluminum could fetch in the late 80s and early 90s.
When the cost of the gas necessary to collect all these cans was taken into account, Hal must have been losing money on this venture.
As a mathematician, Hal had to have known this. In the back of his head, I think, he felt that it was money well spent--a chance to teach a fatherly lesson about hard work to his slothful, eccentric sons.
The result?
Jake and I both left home after high school and pursued college degrees and professions that do not involve an iota of physical labor.
And, to this day, neither of us can look at a carbonated beverage with getting angry.
In Hal's mind, this whole can operation was something which we were actually quite enthusiastic about, but we kept our excitement from showing because we were trying to look cool.
To maintain our excitement, Hal did what he could to provide positive motivation.
On numerous occasions--and with no intended sarcasm--Hal would call home from work and tell Jake and me that he had "a big, big surprise" for us. Each time we heard this, we would spend the rest of the afternoon bouncing off the walls and trying to guess what it was bringing. A dog? New bikes? A Toys 'R' Us shopping spree? Our imaginations, as per usual, knew no bounds. We even crushed extra cans in hope of tipping a little extra karma our way.
After hours of breathless anticipation, Hal would arrive home and lead us outside to see the surprise: An unusually large bag of cans. He couldn't fathom why we would suddenly become so upset.
Our heartbreak was partially our own fault. We had forgotten that this had been the "big surprise" each of the last 14 times such a treasure was promised. Each time, as we stood there looking at a bag of cans the size of an obese yak, we would feel a sudden surge of rage unknown to children outside of Third World countries.
The only pile of wrenches in the simple gears of this plan (aside from the incineration of his primary scrap yard) was the remarkably low prices scrap aluminum could fetch in the late 80s and early 90s.
When the cost of the gas necessary to collect all these cans was taken into account, Hal must have been losing money on this venture.
As a mathematician, Hal had to have known this. In the back of his head, I think, he felt that it was money well spent--a chance to teach a fatherly lesson about hard work to his slothful, eccentric sons.
The result?
Jake and I both left home after high school and pursued college degrees and professions that do not involve an iota of physical labor.
And, to this day, neither of us can look at a carbonated beverage with getting angry.
Monday, October 22, 2007
1 vs. 100: Hal
1 vs. 100
Who is your current employer and occupation? If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred (get it?) times: I do something that has to do with spreadsheets. All day. But that is just what I do. The soul-sucking effect of it is what I really try to focus on.
What levels of education have you completed? I earned approximately 7 majors and 4 minors, and it was excruciating. It made me so miserable that I still haven't forgotten how much I loved it.
Please list your last three jobs: Director of Hating What I do for a Living, Engineer of General Occupational Dissatisfaction, Vocation Discontent Manager.
Marital Status: My two options are "alive" and "dead," right?
How long have you been in your current relationship? The real question is how often I sleep on the couch.
What would your friends say are your best qualities? I regularly overlook their lack of gratitude to have a person like me in their life. I do remind them how lucky they are, however.
What would your friends say are your worst qualities? I make them feel inadequate.
How are you competitive in your every day life? Well, they don't call me "Rock-Man Hawkman" for nothing!
[Editors note: We have never heard anyone refer to Hal this way.]
What is your unique and personal motivation for wanting to be on the show? My oldest son once made a remark about me being less funny than Bob Saget. I plan to personally avenge this insult on Bob. Then we'll see who's laughing.
What is the next milestone in your life if you do not make the show? Being denied by this show does not warrant seeking out a new milestone. I will have forgotten about this application within 30 minutes of submitting it to whatever channel I'm sending it to.
Do you have any military experience? Not just "yes," but "@#$%&# yes."
What is the most daring and dangerous thing you have ever done? Describe the circumstances. It's like Jack Nicholson said that one time, "Have you ever rubbed another man's rhubarb?" I have never understood what he was talking about. But it sounds intimidating. And kind of gross.
If you were going to be in People magazine, what inside info about you would be put up next to your picture? The size of my muscles, something about how clever I am, an apology from my sons about that stupid blog. Besides, People magazine is for wimps, girls and guys who get manicures. Why wouldn't I be in something awesome like Readers Digest?
Describe your most embarrassing moment. Are you kidding? Most people would sell their reproductive organs to be me on my worst day.
What is the weirdest thing about you? I assume that by "weird" you mean "most impressive" or "most attractive to the ladies."
Where would you take your dream vacation? All I need is a series of tourist traps, a discount grocery store so my wife and I can make all our own meals inside our condo, and somewhere to ride my bike until I go into a dangerous spiral of arrhythmia and dehydration. You know, the usual.
In the box on the side, please draw a self portrait.
That aint no joke, suckers!
In the lines below, write a short poem or rap.
I can bust rhymes and cook with thyme;
I can stop crimes and make wind chimes.
The best of the best, there's no need to test;
Even in sweats, I'm still the best dressed.
I don't even like rap and don't trust kids;
But in a man auction I'll get the most bids.
True.
What makes you a great contestant for 1 vs. 100? Apparently you haven't seen my art or my raps...
Besides 1 vs. 100, what game show would you be the best contestant for and why? America's Next Top Ultimate Male.
What’s your favorite board game and game strategy? Stratego Uno.
Have you ever been charged with any crimes, including a misdemeanor or a felony? Most cops are intimidated by me. That's why I get so many speeding tickets.
Have you ever done or been involved in anything that would reflect negatively on you or on the Program. I should be asking you this question.
Have you ever created a website or posted any materials on any website? If yes, describe the website(s) you created and/or the materials you posted. Don't believe anything that stupid blog tells you.
Have you appeared in any magazines, publicly disseminated photographs, advertisements or the Internet? As long as women own cameras, there'll probably be dozens of such photos, but I can't tell you where to find them.
Is there anyone among your family, friends, or work colleagues that would object to your appearing on 1 vs. 100? Is this what people mean when they say "don't player hate?" Because if that's what you're doing, I'm gonna take it out on Bob.
Who is your current employer and occupation? If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred (get it?) times: I do something that has to do with spreadsheets. All day. But that is just what I do. The soul-sucking effect of it is what I really try to focus on.
What levels of education have you completed? I earned approximately 7 majors and 4 minors, and it was excruciating. It made me so miserable that I still haven't forgotten how much I loved it.
Please list your last three jobs: Director of Hating What I do for a Living, Engineer of General Occupational Dissatisfaction, Vocation Discontent Manager.
Marital Status: My two options are "alive" and "dead," right?
How long have you been in your current relationship? The real question is how often I sleep on the couch.
What would your friends say are your best qualities? I regularly overlook their lack of gratitude to have a person like me in their life. I do remind them how lucky they are, however.
What would your friends say are your worst qualities? I make them feel inadequate.
How are you competitive in your every day life? Well, they don't call me "Rock-Man Hawkman" for nothing!
[Editors note: We have never heard anyone refer to Hal this way.]
What is your unique and personal motivation for wanting to be on the show? My oldest son once made a remark about me being less funny than Bob Saget. I plan to personally avenge this insult on Bob. Then we'll see who's laughing.
What is the next milestone in your life if you do not make the show? Being denied by this show does not warrant seeking out a new milestone. I will have forgotten about this application within 30 minutes of submitting it to whatever channel I'm sending it to.
Do you have any military experience? Not just "yes," but "@#$%&# yes."
What is the most daring and dangerous thing you have ever done? Describe the circumstances. It's like Jack Nicholson said that one time, "Have you ever rubbed another man's rhubarb?" I have never understood what he was talking about. But it sounds intimidating. And kind of gross.
If you were going to be in People magazine, what inside info about you would be put up next to your picture? The size of my muscles, something about how clever I am, an apology from my sons about that stupid blog. Besides, People magazine is for wimps, girls and guys who get manicures. Why wouldn't I be in something awesome like Readers Digest?
Describe your most embarrassing moment. Are you kidding? Most people would sell their reproductive organs to be me on my worst day.
What is the weirdest thing about you? I assume that by "weird" you mean "most impressive" or "most attractive to the ladies."
Where would you take your dream vacation? All I need is a series of tourist traps, a discount grocery store so my wife and I can make all our own meals inside our condo, and somewhere to ride my bike until I go into a dangerous spiral of arrhythmia and dehydration. You know, the usual.
In the box on the side, please draw a self portrait.
That aint no joke, suckers!In the lines below, write a short poem or rap.
I can bust rhymes and cook with thyme;
I can stop crimes and make wind chimes.
The best of the best, there's no need to test;
Even in sweats, I'm still the best dressed.
I don't even like rap and don't trust kids;
But in a man auction I'll get the most bids.
True.
What makes you a great contestant for 1 vs. 100? Apparently you haven't seen my art or my raps...
Besides 1 vs. 100, what game show would you be the best contestant for and why? America's Next Top Ultimate Male.
What’s your favorite board game and game strategy? Stratego Uno.
Have you ever been charged with any crimes, including a misdemeanor or a felony? Most cops are intimidated by me. That's why I get so many speeding tickets.
Have you ever done or been involved in anything that would reflect negatively on you or on the Program. I should be asking you this question.
Have you ever created a website or posted any materials on any website? If yes, describe the website(s) you created and/or the materials you posted. Don't believe anything that stupid blog tells you.
Have you appeared in any magazines, publicly disseminated photographs, advertisements or the Internet? As long as women own cameras, there'll probably be dozens of such photos, but I can't tell you where to find them.
Is there anyone among your family, friends, or work colleagues that would object to your appearing on 1 vs. 100? Is this what people mean when they say "don't player hate?" Because if that's what you're doing, I'm gonna take it out on Bob.
Friday, October 19, 2007
It's Almost Halloween! Are You Ready For Christmas?
With Halloween nearly two weeks away, the official beginning of the Holiday season is well underway for The Beast.
It's during these fleeting days that she begins writing the Christmas newsletter and planning the menu for Christmas dinner and assorted family gatherings. Although I've never asked, I assume she plans Thanksgiving dinner in early April.
Every December, on the weekend prior to the big day, The Beast's side of the family has a lively get together which, ultimately, results in a lot of drunken staggering. It is not uncommon, in fact, for the party to appear in a sentence like this: "I'm excited to go stagger around at the Riley Christmas party this weekend..."
Now that I have moved far away from western Washington, I see these family members exactly once per year. A full day spent with inebriated strangers can fall one of two ways: Really terrible or fairly entertaining. It has been, with few exceptions, the latter.
There is one Riley Christmas party that stands out above the others, however.
I refer to this specific occasion as "The Condom Piñata Incident."
During my sophomore year of college, The Beast's siblings (and assorted offspring) decided to give that year's gathering a Mexican theme, complete with Mexican food, post-meal festivities and a crippled civil service infrastructure.
This theme was emphasized in three primary ways: handmade salsa, acres of Corona and a piñata.
We spent the entire afternoon singing along to "Feliz Navidad" (well, we sang along to the chorus, at least) and putting guacamole on everything.
To conclude the day, we set our sites on the ornately decorated piñata.
While the menu for this party had been superbly planned, the filling of the piñata had been neglected until the last minute.
The day before the party, in a last-ditch effort to load this paper mache donkey with prizes, my aunt had gone into the backroom of the doctor's office where she worked and filled the convivial burro with whatever she could find.
Fast forward to the night of our party.
The piñata was finally broken by its seventh attacker (Hal) and its contents showered the surrounding area.
As we each rushed in to collect our share of the loot, some specific items became quickly identifiable.
I first came across a pack of antacid, a lone stick of gum, then some dental floss. Next I found a packet of Advil, some laxatives, a toothbrush, a super ball, Bengay, Band-Aids, and a friendship bracelet.
And, finally, a large pile of condoms.
None of the assorted cousins rummaging through these goods were naive, but we were, nonetheless, a bit surprised. In retrospect, perhaps my aunt felt the need to emphasize the positive aspects of contraception since over half of us now lived away from home. Or maybe she just needed something to fill the top third of a paper mache donkey.
Despite the strange prizes we all collected, I will admit that I'm glad it was her that went around the office commandeering office supplies and not my dad.
If he had been given the same task, we would have been gleefully diving for staplers, promotional frisbees, obsolete printer cartridges and "If it's not Boeing, I'm not going!" bumper stickers.
As The Beast's nagging questions about contributions to Christmas newsletters and travel plans begin pouring in, my memories of two-pound burritos and free prophylactics stir anew.
As luck would have it, I'll be making a return appearance at the Riley gathering this year. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, the Mexican theme will be revived and my uncle the jeweler will be the one in charge of filling this year's donkey.
I hope he procrastinates.
It's during these fleeting days that she begins writing the Christmas newsletter and planning the menu for Christmas dinner and assorted family gatherings. Although I've never asked, I assume she plans Thanksgiving dinner in early April.
Every December, on the weekend prior to the big day, The Beast's side of the family has a lively get together which, ultimately, results in a lot of drunken staggering. It is not uncommon, in fact, for the party to appear in a sentence like this: "I'm excited to go stagger around at the Riley Christmas party this weekend..."
Now that I have moved far away from western Washington, I see these family members exactly once per year. A full day spent with inebriated strangers can fall one of two ways: Really terrible or fairly entertaining. It has been, with few exceptions, the latter.
There is one Riley Christmas party that stands out above the others, however.
I refer to this specific occasion as "The Condom Piñata Incident."
During my sophomore year of college, The Beast's siblings (and assorted offspring) decided to give that year's gathering a Mexican theme, complete with Mexican food, post-meal festivities and a crippled civil service infrastructure.
This theme was emphasized in three primary ways: handmade salsa, acres of Corona and a piñata.
We spent the entire afternoon singing along to "Feliz Navidad" (well, we sang along to the chorus, at least) and putting guacamole on everything.
To conclude the day, we set our sites on the ornately decorated piñata.
While the menu for this party had been superbly planned, the filling of the piñata had been neglected until the last minute.
The day before the party, in a last-ditch effort to load this paper mache donkey with prizes, my aunt had gone into the backroom of the doctor's office where she worked and filled the convivial burro with whatever she could find.
Fast forward to the night of our party.
The piñata was finally broken by its seventh attacker (Hal) and its contents showered the surrounding area.
As we each rushed in to collect our share of the loot, some specific items became quickly identifiable.
I first came across a pack of antacid, a lone stick of gum, then some dental floss. Next I found a packet of Advil, some laxatives, a toothbrush, a super ball, Bengay, Band-Aids, and a friendship bracelet.
And, finally, a large pile of condoms.
None of the assorted cousins rummaging through these goods were naive, but we were, nonetheless, a bit surprised. In retrospect, perhaps my aunt felt the need to emphasize the positive aspects of contraception since over half of us now lived away from home. Or maybe she just needed something to fill the top third of a paper mache donkey.
Despite the strange prizes we all collected, I will admit that I'm glad it was her that went around the office commandeering office supplies and not my dad.
If he had been given the same task, we would have been gleefully diving for staplers, promotional frisbees, obsolete printer cartridges and "If it's not Boeing, I'm not going!" bumper stickers.
As The Beast's nagging questions about contributions to Christmas newsletters and travel plans begin pouring in, my memories of two-pound burritos and free prophylactics stir anew.
As luck would have it, I'll be making a return appearance at the Riley gathering this year. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, the Mexican theme will be revived and my uncle the jeweler will be the one in charge of filling this year's donkey.
I hope he procrastinates.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Hunter vs. Hunted: How The Beast Used to Greet Me After School
Whenever I returned home from school as a child, The Beast had a unique way of greeting me.
Its exact mechanics are difficult to explain, but it has been accurately captured by artist Bill Waterson.
My walk home from the bus stop was a simple 3.5 blocks, but it was the final 15 feet that caused all my problems.
Whereas many children happily return home to escape the pressures of a hostile world on a nascent psyche, my final steps across the front deck were fraught with terror.
Remarkably often (though irregularly enough for my guard to go down between events) The Beast would see me coming, or hear my approach along the long wooden planks beneath the awning, and she would quickly position herself behind the front door.
No sooner had I heedlessly and obliviously passed the threshold, when she would issue forth a roar and leap from her hiding place, often knocking me to the ground.
She found this behavior incredibly amusing. While I struggled back to my feet, under the weight of a now-tangled backpack bulging with politically correct text books and a generic brand Trapper Keeper, she would laugh long and hard.
Over time I began to suspect these ambushes and would cautiously approach The Beasts's hiding place. On one particular day when I anticipated an attack, I did something I considered quite clever--I carefully approached her typical hiding spot with the intention of beating The Beast at her own ridiculous game.
But the area behind the door was entirely vacant.
I did not have any time to wonder at any great length where she might be.
As I began to talk toward the hallway, confused at my unusual good luck, The Beast sprung her trap.
She could not have been more pleased with herself. Not only had she scared me worse than any time previous, she had predicted my behavior and capitalized on it.
The vitality of her favorite afternoon pastime remained intact. She had successfully altered her hiding spot (something she would do on numerous future occasions) and remained the single most frightening thing in my life.
One other note: Once, in sixth grade, I refused to enter the house because I knew, somewhere within its apparently innocent confines, The Beast lied in wait.
I had had an awful day, and wanted no part of her shenanigans.
Instead, I sat down on the bench built into the deck, and decided to sit and wait for her to give up her cruel plan and instead come to the door and sweetly greet her child like a typical mother.
After several minutes The Beast realized what I was doing and stealthily left the house via the backdoor, quietly walked around the house, and then snuck up behind my seat and proceeded to make a noise that evacuated my bowels and stalled my heart for over nine seconds.
I worry that someday I will have friends that will throw me a surprise birthday party and I will respond by flying into a sudden rage which will, incidentally, re-break my Trapper Keeper.
Its exact mechanics are difficult to explain, but it has been accurately captured by artist Bill Waterson.
My walk home from the bus stop was a simple 3.5 blocks, but it was the final 15 feet that caused all my problems.
Whereas many children happily return home to escape the pressures of a hostile world on a nascent psyche, my final steps across the front deck were fraught with terror.
Remarkably often (though irregularly enough for my guard to go down between events) The Beast would see me coming, or hear my approach along the long wooden planks beneath the awning, and she would quickly position herself behind the front door.
No sooner had I heedlessly and obliviously passed the threshold, when she would issue forth a roar and leap from her hiding place, often knocking me to the ground.
She found this behavior incredibly amusing. While I struggled back to my feet, under the weight of a now-tangled backpack bulging with politically correct text books and a generic brand Trapper Keeper, she would laugh long and hard.
Over time I began to suspect these ambushes and would cautiously approach The Beasts's hiding place. On one particular day when I anticipated an attack, I did something I considered quite clever--I carefully approached her typical hiding spot with the intention of beating The Beast at her own ridiculous game.
But the area behind the door was entirely vacant.
I did not have any time to wonder at any great length where she might be.
As I began to talk toward the hallway, confused at my unusual good luck, The Beast sprung her trap.
She could not have been more pleased with herself. Not only had she scared me worse than any time previous, she had predicted my behavior and capitalized on it.
The vitality of her favorite afternoon pastime remained intact. She had successfully altered her hiding spot (something she would do on numerous future occasions) and remained the single most frightening thing in my life.
One other note: Once, in sixth grade, I refused to enter the house because I knew, somewhere within its apparently innocent confines, The Beast lied in wait.
I had had an awful day, and wanted no part of her shenanigans.
Instead, I sat down on the bench built into the deck, and decided to sit and wait for her to give up her cruel plan and instead come to the door and sweetly greet her child like a typical mother.
After several minutes The Beast realized what I was doing and stealthily left the house via the backdoor, quietly walked around the house, and then snuck up behind my seat and proceeded to make a noise that evacuated my bowels and stalled my heart for over nine seconds.
I worry that someday I will have friends that will throw me a surprise birthday party and I will respond by flying into a sudden rage which will, incidentally, re-break my Trapper Keeper.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Punk Rock and Hand Chickens
I attribute the love of punk rock I developed in 5th grade to my mother. Allow me to elaborate: I believe that the my love of punk rock, starting around 1993, was the end result of a subconscious incubation that began on August 22nd, 1987.
The occasion was my 4th birthday party. At the time, I was a toehead. As I was running into the house to see what was taking my mom so long with the Kool-Aid, The Beast was stepping out with said Kool-Aid. The next moment was incredibly just like something from a slapstick comedy.
As many punk-rockers of my generation have learned, Kool-Aid is excellent at dying hair. As many hair-stylists will tell you, light colored hair is exceptionally easy to dye. My hair up to this point was so blond, that it was transparent. Let's just say that immediately, I looked like my aspiration was to be an extra in "SLC Punk!" when it was to be filmed 11 years later.
At the time, I cried like a 4-year-old, mostly because I was one, and also because it looked like (and very well MAY have been) a mean joke played by The Beast, but 10 years later I began doing stuff like this to my hair of my own volition.
A couple hours later, after the laughing, crying, opening of gifts, crying, eating of cake, crying and futile attempts to get Red Dye #5 out of my all-too-permeable hair, Hal and The Beast dismissed my little 4-year-old friends and crammed my gifts, the half-eaten cake, Ben and Myself into our stuffy car and drove us the 3-hour distance to see our relatives in Bellingham, WA.
At that time of year, Bellingham is probably the most hustle-and-bustle-y it ever gets. This isn't saying much, seeing as the town was founded by hippies, but any hustle is a lot for a 4-year-old; don't even get me started on bustle. The source of the H&B? A county fair in the next town over.
So, it's my birthday, I've been given bright pink hair, and I've just been in a car for 3 hours thinking about it and probably getting carsick from playing Car Bingo. The obvious next step? Take me to a hot, dusty, over-sized parking lot, filled with the stench of fried food, farm animals and people who were conceived in El Caminos.
While passing a cage of turkeys, I heard their concerned gobbling and my 4-year-old frustrations came to a head. So that I could hear more of the amusing sound, I placed each hand on a bar of the cage, and began shaking the bars as hard as my body weight would allow and screaming at the turkeys. The result was a cacophony of gobbles that escalated to unspeakable volumes, representing clearly the combined frustrations of a hot, grumpy birthday boy and four or five hot, grumpy turkeys.
It is a birthday memory that has been dear to my heart my entire life. To this day, I can't hear the sound of turkeys gobbling without simultaneously laughing and bursting into tears.
The occasion was my 4th birthday party. At the time, I was a toehead. As I was running into the house to see what was taking my mom so long with the Kool-Aid, The Beast was stepping out with said Kool-Aid. The next moment was incredibly just like something from a slapstick comedy.
As many punk-rockers of my generation have learned, Kool-Aid is excellent at dying hair. As many hair-stylists will tell you, light colored hair is exceptionally easy to dye. My hair up to this point was so blond, that it was transparent. Let's just say that immediately, I looked like my aspiration was to be an extra in "SLC Punk!" when it was to be filmed 11 years later.
At the time, I cried like a 4-year-old, mostly because I was one, and also because it looked like (and very well MAY have been) a mean joke played by The Beast, but 10 years later I began doing stuff like this to my hair of my own volition.
A couple hours later, after the laughing, crying, opening of gifts, crying, eating of cake, crying and futile attempts to get Red Dye #5 out of my all-too-permeable hair, Hal and The Beast dismissed my little 4-year-old friends and crammed my gifts, the half-eaten cake, Ben and Myself into our stuffy car and drove us the 3-hour distance to see our relatives in Bellingham, WA.
At that time of year, Bellingham is probably the most hustle-and-bustle-y it ever gets. This isn't saying much, seeing as the town was founded by hippies, but any hustle is a lot for a 4-year-old; don't even get me started on bustle. The source of the H&B? A county fair in the next town over.
So, it's my birthday, I've been given bright pink hair, and I've just been in a car for 3 hours thinking about it and probably getting carsick from playing Car Bingo. The obvious next step? Take me to a hot, dusty, over-sized parking lot, filled with the stench of fried food, farm animals and people who were conceived in El Caminos.
While passing a cage of turkeys, I heard their concerned gobbling and my 4-year-old frustrations came to a head. So that I could hear more of the amusing sound, I placed each hand on a bar of the cage, and began shaking the bars as hard as my body weight would allow and screaming at the turkeys. The result was a cacophony of gobbles that escalated to unspeakable volumes, representing clearly the combined frustrations of a hot, grumpy birthday boy and four or five hot, grumpy turkeys.
It is a birthday memory that has been dear to my heart my entire life. To this day, I can't hear the sound of turkeys gobbling without simultaneously laughing and bursting into tears.
In A Different Chain of Events...
Every once in a while you see something in somebody else's life and realize that this could have been you, had you been faced with a different chain of events in your life than you have.
When reflecting back on one of the murderers in his book, In Cold Blood, Truman Capote commented, "It was as if we were born in the same house, but I went out the front and he went out the back."
In scouring the internet for something to amuse me, I came across a reputable news article and my immediate, gut reaction was, "This is Hal, in an alternate future where he never met The Beast."
When reflecting back on one of the murderers in his book, In Cold Blood, Truman Capote commented, "It was as if we were born in the same house, but I went out the front and he went out the back."
In scouring the internet for something to amuse me, I came across a reputable news article and my immediate, gut reaction was, "This is Hal, in an alternate future where he never met The Beast."
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Time Zones?
Mamahawk: I just saw a really good show on A&E -- in a couple hours you should watch it.
bhawken: I'm three hours ahead of you.
Mamahawk: Is that how that works? Are you sure?
bhawken: It has to do with the spin of the earth...
Mamahawk: The what?
bhawken: I'm three hours ahead of you.
Mamahawk: Is that how that works? Are you sure?
bhawken: It has to do with the spin of the earth...
Mamahawk: The what?
Re: Uncle Herb: The Sum of All Fears
If I ever had to describe Uncle Herb to anyone, I would describe him as stomach-twisting terror, covered in pure darkness, made into the shape of a man. Never before has anyone injected so much unimaginable fear into the heart of a child.
What made him the most horrifying is his otherworldly silence, and his ability to suddenly materialize at the corner of your peripheral vision. We would be playing on the swingset, or trying to wrestling in the back yard, and suddenly the birds would stop chirping, the wind would go still (and somehow there would suddenly be no cars on the road below).
We knew what this sickening stillness was.
We would turn our heads, and there he would be, standing at the corner of the house, shoulders slack and head dangling. No words can describe the icy terror that would pulverize our tiny minds at times like these.
Though I don't remember having seen him walk or move, he would suddenly be standing mere feet from us, and would mumble something in a voice that sounded 1/3 human, 1/3 rottweiler and 1/3 the smoke from the fires of hell.
Usually his questions at this point would concern whether or not our Dad was around. At the time, we thought this was because if Hal wasn't around, he would eat us. In retrospect, I realize that this is because he was utterly terrified of his siblings, for no particular reason.
Did we mention that he had a dog? He had a little wiener dog named "Missy" who was the most hateful creature ever to walk the earth. With its tiny brain warped by being locked, 90% of the time in Herb's room, being subject to condensed, unventilated cigarette smoke and a steady stream of Nick At Nite, the dog went crazy.
Apparently though, Missy's company wasn't enough. She lacked certain things Herb needed in a companion. Things such as a car, a child, alcoholism or food stamps. So, as I grew older, I remember sporadically seeing a different "girlfriend" every few months or so which, upon our arrival at my grandma's house, would be standing silently with Herb by her Toyota Tercel, with a baby on her hip that looked like neither or them. They would stare at us silently as we walked by and it always made me feel like I'd just seen a ghost. A really pathetic ghost.
Ben hit the nail on the head. Never has there been a more bone-chilling, hateful caricature of Boo Radley ever realized in the real world. Except Herb never saved our lives from a murderous white supremacist. Instead, he just hotboxed his bedroom with cigarette smoke and watched syndicated reruns with his evil Dachshund. And he was content to go down in the annals of history just like that.
What made him the most horrifying is his otherworldly silence, and his ability to suddenly materialize at the corner of your peripheral vision. We would be playing on the swingset, or trying to wrestling in the back yard, and suddenly the birds would stop chirping, the wind would go still (and somehow there would suddenly be no cars on the road below).
We knew what this sickening stillness was.
We would turn our heads, and there he would be, standing at the corner of the house, shoulders slack and head dangling. No words can describe the icy terror that would pulverize our tiny minds at times like these.
Though I don't remember having seen him walk or move, he would suddenly be standing mere feet from us, and would mumble something in a voice that sounded 1/3 human, 1/3 rottweiler and 1/3 the smoke from the fires of hell.
Usually his questions at this point would concern whether or not our Dad was around. At the time, we thought this was because if Hal wasn't around, he would eat us. In retrospect, I realize that this is because he was utterly terrified of his siblings, for no particular reason.
Did we mention that he had a dog? He had a little wiener dog named "Missy" who was the most hateful creature ever to walk the earth. With its tiny brain warped by being locked, 90% of the time in Herb's room, being subject to condensed, unventilated cigarette smoke and a steady stream of Nick At Nite, the dog went crazy.
Apparently though, Missy's company wasn't enough. She lacked certain things Herb needed in a companion. Things such as a car, a child, alcoholism or food stamps. So, as I grew older, I remember sporadically seeing a different "girlfriend" every few months or so which, upon our arrival at my grandma's house, would be standing silently with Herb by her Toyota Tercel, with a baby on her hip that looked like neither or them. They would stare at us silently as we walked by and it always made me feel like I'd just seen a ghost. A really pathetic ghost.
Ben hit the nail on the head. Never has there been a more bone-chilling, hateful caricature of Boo Radley ever realized in the real world. Except Herb never saved our lives from a murderous white supremacist. Instead, he just hotboxed his bedroom with cigarette smoke and watched syndicated reruns with his evil Dachshund. And he was content to go down in the annals of history just like that.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Uncle Herb: The Sum of All Fears
When I was a child, I had little reason to want for anything or ever endure the fearsome, icy pangs of terror.
Unless I was in my grandmother Hawken's basement.
In the bottom floor of her home lived my dad's older brother, The Terrifying Uncle Herb.
By the time I met him, The Terrifying Uncle Herb was already in his late 30s, and, although he had never moved out or gotten a job, he had not been entirely complacent--he had, quite apparently, dedicated his every waking moment to becoming a tangible embodiment of every fear a young, hyper-imaginative child could possibly conjure.
My grandmother's home and large backyard was an oasis of fond childhood memories, but the long, narrow hallway leading off of the TV room in her basement was a stark exception to that rule. At the end of this dimly lit passageway, was The Terrifying Uncle Herb's room.
During holidays and mundane family get togethers, my cousins and I would often gather in the TV room to avoid the meandering conversations of our parents, but, invariably, this escape would be ill-fated. Without warning, and with a miasmic presence that would chase all light from the room, The Terrifying Uncle Herb would sweep out of the eerie hallway and into the room.
He would stare and glare and, had he been appropriately articulate, he probably would have snarled.
He would mutter questions about why we were downstairs, what we were watching and why our rapt silence in front of a television set was causing so much noise.
The Terrifying Uncle Herb was a bone-chilling combination of a slovenly appearance, directionless anger, seething frustration and a permeating odor of stale nicotine and room-temperature malt liquor.
None of us could understand at the time how utterly harmless he was or that he was, at best, a pitiful caricature of Harper Lee's famed shadowy neighbor.
We simply could not understand this strange character shuffling back and forth across the cold tile floors and occasionally appearing upstairs to pile dark meat and stuffing onto his plate before disappearing back down the well-worn stairway.
When I was much older I realized that one of the emotions I felt was pity, but, while still young, I simply misunderstood everything about him. And that misunderstanding, naturally, struck fear in all of us.
To this day, despite conquering dozens of other trepidations, the anxiety I feel at the mere mention of The Terrifying Uncle Herb remains unabated.
Amongst my Hawken cousins, with whom I have absolutely nothing else in common, we can still talk in hushed, troubled tones about the frightful influence of The Terrifying Uncle Herb in our earliest memories.
I am not wary of walking through my otherwise shady neighborhood late at night, and I don't hesitate to mingle with the assortd riff raff of the NYC subway system, but, to this day, no force on earth could send me down that dark hallway alone.
Unless I was in my grandmother Hawken's basement.
In the bottom floor of her home lived my dad's older brother, The Terrifying Uncle Herb.
By the time I met him, The Terrifying Uncle Herb was already in his late 30s, and, although he had never moved out or gotten a job, he had not been entirely complacent--he had, quite apparently, dedicated his every waking moment to becoming a tangible embodiment of every fear a young, hyper-imaginative child could possibly conjure.
My grandmother's home and large backyard was an oasis of fond childhood memories, but the long, narrow hallway leading off of the TV room in her basement was a stark exception to that rule. At the end of this dimly lit passageway, was The Terrifying Uncle Herb's room.
During holidays and mundane family get togethers, my cousins and I would often gather in the TV room to avoid the meandering conversations of our parents, but, invariably, this escape would be ill-fated. Without warning, and with a miasmic presence that would chase all light from the room, The Terrifying Uncle Herb would sweep out of the eerie hallway and into the room.
He would stare and glare and, had he been appropriately articulate, he probably would have snarled.
He would mutter questions about why we were downstairs, what we were watching and why our rapt silence in front of a television set was causing so much noise.
The Terrifying Uncle Herb was a bone-chilling combination of a slovenly appearance, directionless anger, seething frustration and a permeating odor of stale nicotine and room-temperature malt liquor.
None of us could understand at the time how utterly harmless he was or that he was, at best, a pitiful caricature of Harper Lee's famed shadowy neighbor.
We simply could not understand this strange character shuffling back and forth across the cold tile floors and occasionally appearing upstairs to pile dark meat and stuffing onto his plate before disappearing back down the well-worn stairway.
When I was much older I realized that one of the emotions I felt was pity, but, while still young, I simply misunderstood everything about him. And that misunderstanding, naturally, struck fear in all of us.
To this day, despite conquering dozens of other trepidations, the anxiety I feel at the mere mention of The Terrifying Uncle Herb remains unabated.
Amongst my Hawken cousins, with whom I have absolutely nothing else in common, we can still talk in hushed, troubled tones about the frightful influence of The Terrifying Uncle Herb in our earliest memories.
I am not wary of walking through my otherwise shady neighborhood late at night, and I don't hesitate to mingle with the assortd riff raff of the NYC subway system, but, to this day, no force on earth could send me down that dark hallway alone.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Happy Birthday Mom!
On this day, a mere 54 years ago, The Beast was born.
Although many readers feel this blog is dedicated entirely to excoriating her various wonderful traits, it, in fact, has always been focused on celebrating them. And on this day, moreso than any other, Jake and I could not be more happy to celebrate her.
Although I do not wish to think too deeply on the particulars of my birthing process, I would be remiss to not pause and express how grateful I am that she brought me (and to a lesser degree, Jake) into the world.
Although old people typically dislike their birthday, I find it a reason to think positively about the future: If medical science holds up its end of the bargain, The Beast may only be middle-aged.
Not only is it comforting to know that she'll be around for another five and a half decades, but it's amusing to note that she will likely spend the final four years of her life in the exact manner which she spent the first four: Laying on the ground with a full diaper while screaming for someone to bring her more oatmeal.
I wish I could be there to spend the day with her, but, alas, three time zones and several thousand miles preclude me. The task falls to Hal to make this day special.
If I were there I would make sure that someone sang her the Spirit Journey Formation Anniversary song (hear it here), but, in my absence, I doubt this important birthday tradition will be carried out.
I can only hope her birthday is as great as all the ones she put on for me.
Readers: Notice how she must actively restrain me from reaching in and grabbing the fire.
Mom, you're the best!
Sorry for making this video an all-too-familar representation of what it was like to raise me.
Although many readers feel this blog is dedicated entirely to excoriating her various wonderful traits, it, in fact, has always been focused on celebrating them. And on this day, moreso than any other, Jake and I could not be more happy to celebrate her.
Although I do not wish to think too deeply on the particulars of my birthing process, I would be remiss to not pause and express how grateful I am that she brought me (and to a lesser degree, Jake) into the world.
Although old people typically dislike their birthday, I find it a reason to think positively about the future: If medical science holds up its end of the bargain, The Beast may only be middle-aged.
Not only is it comforting to know that she'll be around for another five and a half decades, but it's amusing to note that she will likely spend the final four years of her life in the exact manner which she spent the first four: Laying on the ground with a full diaper while screaming for someone to bring her more oatmeal.
I wish I could be there to spend the day with her, but, alas, three time zones and several thousand miles preclude me. The task falls to Hal to make this day special.
If I were there I would make sure that someone sang her the Spirit Journey Formation Anniversary song (hear it here), but, in my absence, I doubt this important birthday tradition will be carried out.
I can only hope her birthday is as great as all the ones she put on for me.
Readers: Notice how she must actively restrain me from reaching in and grabbing the fire.
Mom, you're the best!
Sorry for making this video an all-too-familar representation of what it was like to raise me.
Monday, October 1, 2007
The Beast's Management Philosophies
Years ago, when I finally assumed my long-anticipated position in company management, I noticed that there were several inherent bad habits I had to resist whenever it came time to managing my staff.
(Note: "Years ago" is a more important sounding way of saying "two years.")
I say inherent, because I had not gained these behaviors from years of managing people using flawed methods, there just seemed to be instinctual things which kept springing to mind--things I had to be sure not to do.
It did not take too much self-reflection to realize that I was subconsciously drawing from the infamous management style of The Beast.
In my youth, whenever we were expecting company or preparing to leave on vacation, The Beast would decide that the house had to be rendered immaculately clean. Perhaps this desire is common to many mothers, but The Beast was unique. She had a conception of clean that was much akin to the unattainable concept of beauty created by cosmetic companies.
As a result, on countless Saturday mornings, Jake and I scoured the house with disinfectants and toothbrushes, vacuums and mops.
The Beast's primary duty amidst this massive outpouring of manual labor was to roam from room to room wearing curlers, a sneer and no makeup--all while complaining about how the linoleum in the guest bathroom needed more toothbrushing, or how the insides of the light fixtures needed to be re-polished.
Since we did not have any coca leaves to chew, we resorted to listening to cassettes on devices resembling microwave ovens with belt clips.
The Beast felt that these new-fangled inventions distracted us from our work, however. "How on earth," she reasoned, "can you expect to get all the dust out of that carpet with those tweezers when you're listening to some crappy band?"
Around the halfway point of the protracted cleaning process she would begin offering us incentives. "It looks like you're almost done cleaning those baseboards with a cotton ball," she would keenly observe. "Well, as soon as you're done here, you can dust off, go outside, and start trimming the grass to a height of exactly 3.45 inches. Don't give me that look, you should feel lucky--your brother's downstairs polishing the floor with his face."
Typically, when all of the tasks were completed, she would change out of the pajamas she woke up in, and put on a fresh pair before heading downstairs to watch a handful of Law & Order reruns before falling asleep on the couch.
Still, to this day, whenever the office is faced with a particularly stressful project, my employees are left to wonder why I start talking about the need to mop the conference room while I storm around the office with my wife's CHI Turbo and a pair of slippers.
(Note: "Years ago" is a more important sounding way of saying "two years.")
I say inherent, because I had not gained these behaviors from years of managing people using flawed methods, there just seemed to be instinctual things which kept springing to mind--things I had to be sure not to do.
It did not take too much self-reflection to realize that I was subconsciously drawing from the infamous management style of The Beast.
In my youth, whenever we were expecting company or preparing to leave on vacation, The Beast would decide that the house had to be rendered immaculately clean. Perhaps this desire is common to many mothers, but The Beast was unique. She had a conception of clean that was much akin to the unattainable concept of beauty created by cosmetic companies.
As a result, on countless Saturday mornings, Jake and I scoured the house with disinfectants and toothbrushes, vacuums and mops.
The Beast's primary duty amidst this massive outpouring of manual labor was to roam from room to room wearing curlers, a sneer and no makeup--all while complaining about how the linoleum in the guest bathroom needed more toothbrushing, or how the insides of the light fixtures needed to be re-polished.
Since we did not have any coca leaves to chew, we resorted to listening to cassettes on devices resembling microwave ovens with belt clips.
The Beast felt that these new-fangled inventions distracted us from our work, however. "How on earth," she reasoned, "can you expect to get all the dust out of that carpet with those tweezers when you're listening to some crappy band?"
Around the halfway point of the protracted cleaning process she would begin offering us incentives. "It looks like you're almost done cleaning those baseboards with a cotton ball," she would keenly observe. "Well, as soon as you're done here, you can dust off, go outside, and start trimming the grass to a height of exactly 3.45 inches. Don't give me that look, you should feel lucky--your brother's downstairs polishing the floor with his face."
Typically, when all of the tasks were completed, she would change out of the pajamas she woke up in, and put on a fresh pair before heading downstairs to watch a handful of Law & Order reruns before falling asleep on the couch.
Still, to this day, whenever the office is faced with a particularly stressful project, my employees are left to wonder why I start talking about the need to mop the conference room while I storm around the office with my wife's CHI Turbo and a pair of slippers.
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