Tag: Atlanta

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Free at Last, Free at Last

cow patternDo you ever wonder, as you sit there thinking to yourself, “Man, people are cows,” if other people are looking at you and thinking, “Man, people are cows”?

Right? I mean, we all like to think that we’re free-thinkers and that we’re above the herd mentality, but when it comes down to it, when we’re all sitting in a large room staring at each other for eight hours, don’t we all just sort of meld together?

I thought about this yesterday several times while languishing in civil-service purgatory (we started attending a new Baptist church and they are big on Purgatory allegories) and then again as I sipped a nice, oakey glass of chardonnay after putting the kids to bed last night (Brand: Pine and Post) What I came up with is that, lacking direction ourselves, but knowing we must follow someone else’s direction, even the most intelligent among us becomes an unthinking automaton slave to the will of the person with the most powerful cattle prod.

Take yesterday for example, literally hundreds of normal, intelligent people from around Atlanta converged downtown on the courthouse steps for Jury Duty. There were no signs telling people what to do; there was just a roped off path and a guy with an x-ray machine. Having done this once already, I knew to get in line, but most others just loitered around as if they had no clue that they would have to pass through the screening area before going to the jury pool holding pen. It took a fairly serious looking security guard just about yelling at the masses to poke them along. This continued even as people got off the elevator and checked in with the clerk and even as names were called to report to various courtrooms.

What happens to free-thinkers and movers and shakers in these situations that causes them (us?) to dumb down to the lowest common denominator; in this case, your classic trailer park hurricane victim wearing a scary hoody like the one Billy Mahoney wore in Flatliners, and dragging a beat up, dirty cooler full of Lord only knows what! (I kid you not, when they finally dismissed us, she woke up and promptly announced in a toothless, loud voice, “That wuz the most boring day evar!”)

So, I make an extra effort to be different. I try to find another way down the seven floors when everyone else is standing there all doe-eyed waiting to cram on the elevator. I’ll walk a little further if it means that maybe I’ll catch a faster bus back to the parking lot. I’ll even go sit away from the crowds over there in the nice chairs in the off chance that people will assume I belong there and not make me move.

I can’t tell you how many times I have been told to move from my nice chair, or how many times my shortcut turned into a dead end, or even how often I’ve howled when everyone else was mooing and gotten in trouble for it, but you know what? I tried. It may not ever always work out the way I want, but maybe when I die, lacking anything else poignant to put on my tombstone, they can instead inscribe:

He didn’t Moo!

Only about six of you will get it, but I’m OK with that. It just means that you at least understood my point.

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Dad Blogs

"I, state your name…"

jury dutyTomorrow, my dear friends, is the day I have to drive back downtown and make up my day o’ standby Jury Duty. You’ll recall how I dragged a leg down there last time after having pulled my back out and threw myself on the mercy of the passionless woman behind the bulletproof glass at the clerk’s office. She was moved only as much as it took to postpone my sentencing service to my county.

An interesting commentary on Atlanta: I lived in Cobb County for nearly 10 years without ever being tagged for Jury Duty. Cobb County is a WASP area just NW of Atlanta where crime is very low. I’ve lived in Fulton County, where the city of Atlanta resides, and in just over a year and a half, I got tagged. Sure, the crime is higher in Atlanta, but the population pool is also much higher. My getting called so quickly should tell you something about the underbelly of the south!

Anyway, I am packed and prepared for nine hours of doing nothing. My goodie bag includes:

  1. two books
  2. 1 can of V8
  3. 1 fiber bar thingy to keep me “regular” since I’ll not be getting any exercise to keep things flowing smoothly
  4. my cell phone to call and complain to all my friends and family about how bored I am
  5. 1 beverage of choice, and don’t think I’m kidding when I say that I am seriously considering spiking it with a little of the “colorless” and “odorless” spirit of choice.

Course…it’ll be my luck that just when I’m feeling good, I’ll get called back and they’ll ask me, “How do you feel about capital (capitol?) punishment?” And I’ll reply with, “I love it!” and then they’ll say, “Dismissed!” and then I’ll have to sit on the curb outside the courthouse like some downtown whino while I sober up enough to drive.

It’s a toss up really.

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Dad Blogs Family Fatherhood Life in these United States Marriage

It’s that craaazy time of year again!

birthdayEach year around this time, I go into scramble mode for gifts. With Mother’s day falling usually on or around my birthday, it’s easy to forget that there’s other stuff going on–like CareerMom’s birthday! (she’s older than me by three days) And when you have kids, it doubles your responsibility.

For example, instead of just getting her a birthday card and present, I instead need:

  1. A card for her birthday (from me)
  2. A present for her birthday (from me)
  3. A card for Mother’s day (from me)
  4. A present for Mother’s day (from me)
  5. A card for her birthday from the boys
  6. A card for Mother’s day from the boys
  7. Some kinda somethin’ from the boys for her

It’s a wee bit crazy all the things I have to get done by early May. I’m still not sure what to get her from the boys for Mother’s day. I know the idea is to get the kids to do something, but I don’t have that kind of time without her here to do it and anyway, the last time I tried, I ended up doing it myself thanks to that zero attention span thing kids have.

But what I really don’t like about this time of year, is the inevitable contemptive vibe I get from women whenever I venture into a greeting card store. You can almost feel it oozing out of the other customers and the ladies hovering around. It never fails that someone asks if they can help me and it’s all I can do not to say, “Um, I’m looking for a card! DUH!” (Here’s your sign!)

But this year took the cake.
Let me set the stage:

I walked into the Hallmark store, because last year I did Target and ended up spending like $4 for some generic card anyway and I figured I might as well get a name-brand one for the same money. Anyway, I was one of the only people in the store and after waving off the ever-so-helpful worker-bee, I finally found several cards that weren’t too sappy, but had enough truth and love to them to be keepers.

As I walked over to the counter, one lady was off to the side straightening things up while another lady, presumably the manager, stood behind the counter talking to her:

Manager: Has it been busy?

Worker-bee: Eh, it’s come in waves.

Manager: It always does.

I walk up and say, “Here comes a small wave,” which elicited chuckles from both.

Now, as I went to put my cards up on the counter, there was a bottle of Windex sitting there and the worker-bee rushed over to move it like it was a copy of “Playgirl” magazine that, if I saw it, might scar me for life. Attempting to put her at ease I said, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen that kind of thing before.”

And she says…

“Have you just seen it, or have you actually used it?”

When I was in the 10th grade, I had this vile woman for an English teacher. Her name was “Mrs. Davis.” The things that came out of this woman’s mouth were astonishing. Once, after she said something snide about my parents in front of the class, I actually called this woman out on the front porch and gave her a tongue lashing such as most 10th graders can only dream about giving a teacher. Since she knew she was in the wrong, and in front of 30 witnesses, I knew I could get away with it.

Suffice it to say, I have a hard time holding my tongue. And it took everything I had not to let this woman have it. Instead, I just said, “No, I’ve used it quite a few times. In fact, more than my wife.”

And I took my stuff and walked out of the store.

Looking back, I wished I HAD said something a little more barbed, but then I probably would have just earned myself some bad juju and I don’t need anymore of that right now.

But couple this woman’s attitude with the fact that I didn’t even get any gold stars for my envelopes and I just may have found enough reason to never visit Hallmark again!

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Dad Blogs Family Fatherhood

What’s a few calories among friends?

tee ballDespite being the runt of the litter, when I was a child, I played all kinds of sports. Back in L.A. (Lower Alabama) our mainstays were baseball and football, with a smattering of other sports. But back then, soccer wasn’t respectable and you can forget about any other European-inspired sport such as lacrosse.

My mom was bit of a health-food hippie nut and in an effort at bulking me up for football, she was forever making me drink concoctions made up of milk, brewer’s yeast, lecithin and Lord knows what else (no sugar of course). I don’t care what you put in it, it always came out tasting like the backside of a piece of bubble gum that someone peeled off their car’s undercarriage. It was nasty! And she didn’t even have the common decency to blend up a banana in there or anything. Despite her efforts, I remained a short, skinny thing that lost more teeth than I can remember during football scrimmage, and who inevitably was lying on the field picking grass outta my helmet while the other team was doing the victory dance in the endzone.

So before practice and games I was drinking disgusting things, and during the game, we were lucky if we got cold water to drink. I remember playing an “away” game one time and they served us Gatorade during the game. We thought we were in heaven–we had reached the pinnacle of sports greatness! The next week it was back to lukewarm water, but oh for that one day we were football GODS!

Now, it’s my son’s turn to start playing sports. This weekend MLI starts T-ball at the local YMCA. The team consists of six boys (I guess an injury won’t really be a season-ender for the team) and they practice AND play for a whole hour each Sunday. The coach sent out an e-mail announcement on Monday introducing himself and as an “Oh yeah, before I forget…” he tossed out there that we parents needed to talk amongst ourselves and figure out the snack schedule.

Come again?

The snack schedule? What, they can’t play for an hour without needing sugary snacks and beverages?

OK, OK, I admit, I wasn’t completely caught off-guard about this, but it wasn’t until CareerMom admitted that she didn’t know what the etiquette was for bringing snacks, that I got online and found out that this whole snack bringing thing is nothing short of a disaster waiting to happen. I mean, it appears that a parent’s whole future standing in the community could be based on their first snackage provision.

So, I prostrate myself before you, oh parents of the community. Give me your wisdom. Do I worry about peanut allergies? Do I try and do something healthy or do I give the kids what they really want? Do I care what others think? Do I bring enough snackage for the players AND any brothers and/or sisters who might tag along?
Help me PLEASE!