The Weed

Does Wal-mart make you grumpy?

2012-05-24T23:43:00.002-07:00

In the car, on the way home from Wal-mart, the following conversation seriously happened.

Anna: What was wrong with that lady?

Wife: What lady?

Anna: The one that was getting into the car next to us. She didn't even smile at me. Usually people smile at a little girl like me...

Wife: I don't know, honey. Maybe she was just having a bad day.

Anna: Well, what happened to her?

Wife: I really don't know. Maybe she's just grumpy.

Anna: I have an idea of what happened.

Wife: Oh really? What do you think?

Anna: Maybe her husband got killed in that store.

Wife: Well, that certainly would make someone grumpy.

Anna: Or maybe a box fell on her. Or maybe her baby ate her grocery list.

Wife: Those are distinct possibilities.

Anna: Or maybe she just read Daddy's last post.

Yes, apparently Anna is a blog critic now. And apparently she thinks reading my last post is about on par with having your husband killed in Wal-mart.

I formally apologize to you all if reading this post reminds you of the time when a box fell on you. Or makes you so grumpy you can't even spare a smile for a cute six-year-old in the Wal-mart parking lot.

(Wife just leaned over and said that she thinks I should declare tomorrow the official "Smile at a Child at Wal-mart Day." I replied that I think she just, in that instant, made it "Create Ridiculous Holidays That Make no Sense" day. We deliberated for a while, and in the end we agreed on calling tomorrow "Eat
Whatever You Want Friday." That's what I call compromise.)

Birthday Recap UPDATED

2012-05-14T21:50:00.002-07:00

On Saturday I turned 32.

It's kind of an unremarkable year, but I guess the main thing it means is that I'm now two full years away from my twenties. So probably I'm an adult now. Maybe.

It also means I spent the morning looking up abdominal pain online because I'm old enough to have that now. The pain is not really sharp, and it doesn't seem to be appendicitis because it's higher up in my abdomen and not constant. Based on my internet research, I have it narrowed down either being kidney stones or an ovarian cyst. I'll keep you updated.

Anyway, I guess I'll break down what I got on my birthday.

Gift number one was a gift to myself. After a long run in the Seattle sun (for some reason it's been really bright and sunny and warm up here and it is awesome) and the dropping of a hefty deuce, I got this for my birthday:

I haven't seen the 180's on the scale for YEARS.

It was good to see that my body can still metabolize sufficiently to get to this point. Because I was beginning to have doubts.

Gift number two was related. Wife bought me new clothes that fit me. Here is the stuff I wore that day and then fell asleep in on the couch after eating ice-cream (because I don't want to have teeth when I am 74) and then woke up the next morning still wearing just in time to decide on an impromptu mirror photo-shoot with bed head before taking a shower before church so I would have pictures for this post (RUN-ON SENTENCES ARE MY FAVORITE):

Note to self: cleaning the mirror for a mirror shot enhances visibility and makes it so you don't look like you're covered in chalk. Also, bed head is awesome.

Then of course, because this is me we're talking about, things got awkward...

Seductive...

This was meant to be a come-hither smile, but instead became a creepy grimace that makes me look like a Chester inviting children to help me look for a lost puppy near an elementary school...

Aaaaand scene.

Gift number three was incredibly epic. Here. Let's just start with a photo:

What you're seeing here is an actual pair of friendship bracelets, a la junior high, from my friend Konrad (whom you should follow on Pinterest). Look closely. They say "Gym Friends" which is an inside joke about us working out at the gym together and being friends. Maybe by "inside joke" what I actually mean is "totally apparent to anybody" joke.

But look even closer. Notice another similarity? We happen to have the exact same wedding ring.

Coincidence?

Yes. Yes it is.

But it's still awesome.

PLUS:

We also noticed that our wives have almost the same exact wedding ring as well.

Some Gym Friendships were just written in the stars...

The fourth thing I wanted to mention was a Facebook greeting I got that I thought was particularly awesome/hilarious.

My former professor Luis Carriere left the following uplifting birthday image for me with a message that said Happy Birthday, Weed Whacker:

Thanks so much for the birthday greeting, Death!

Other birthday highlights included: Thai food at one of my favorite places, a trip to XXX root beer for root beer floats WHICH WAS CLOSED because they are allowed to close whenever they want (seriously, their sign says that) and cupcakes and ice cream instead and a dulce de leche pie and a lot of great conversation.

It was a really good day.

UPDATE

I forgot one of the best things that I got on Saturday. Do you remember Chris from last year's amazing contest where people submitted mastheads to me as possibilities to use on this blog and then there was a voting even though people didn't realize it was a contest, and Chris submitted one that was incredibly powerful and evocative? Here, take a look at some awesome art. Well, in our family we have a tradition of making really horrible word paint cards for each other, and each one must include poop in some way. Because we are the most mature family in existence. So, Chris has been at it again, and for my birthday he sent me the following masterpiece about us when we were kids:

Some families are just blessed with incredible artistic talent. And I happened to be born into one of them. Notice the subtle shading and texture of the phrase "oh, the memories."

Yeah, take a deep breath and just soak it all in.

Pretty much the best birthday card known to man.

Like Father Like Daughter

2012-05-11T08:23:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, I liked to know things.

I liked to know secret things. Anything that felt secretive. Or anything about people being sad. Or anything that people were doing. Basically anything about anybody my parents were talking about.

I remember asking my parents what they were talking about all the time. And if they didn't tell me, it was probably one of the most frustrating feelings of my existence. The future therapist in me had a compulsion to know.

And now I have a daughter who is exactly the same way.

It's uncanny, really.

She'll listen to our conversations without us realizing, and next thing you know, she's asking things like "what do mean (says names) have lost their house?" and we're like "whatever do you mean, sweet girl? You're not supposed to know that..." and she's like "I know it. I heard you talking about it. Where will they live now that they've lost their house?" and we're like "We're not talking about this with you! Nobody's supposed to know." and she's like "when I get home I'm going to tell all my friends that (says names) lost their house..."

We've gotta be more careful what we talk about in front of our children.

Anyway, a little while ago, during quiet time (which is basically nap time for kids who are too old for naps), Anna pulled Wife aside and asked if they could have a talk.

Then Anna began an onslaught of questions about Wife's childhood traumas that would make any adult blush. Wife happened to have a camera nearby so she snagged it and recorded part of the conversation.

Here's a snippet. (Wife wants me to emphasize that this was completely spontaneous and wasn't staged.)

Looks like we have another therapist in the family! Or a possible candidate for initiating the next Spanish Inquisition.

I couldn't be more proud.

(Also, I posted a day late, but that's because of technical difficulties of uploading a Youtube clip when I really wanted to just be sleeping so I went to bed so I could get up before the sun and go teach seminary without wanting to die. Don't hate.)

Vomit--A Story of Romance

2012-05-07T22:34:00.000-07:00

This is a vomit story in two scenes, and it's tied to romance. Are you ready?

Scene 1:

I was nervous because it was my first date with pre-Wife.

We had known each other for many years--had grown up on the same street in Utah--and now both of our families lived in the exact same suburb of Portland, OR called Aloha (pronounced, Ah-loah. Obviously.) I needed a friend. It was time to re-connect.

We went to a movie. The movie was Volcano which I remember being worse than Dante's Peak. We were planning to go to dinner afterwards. But suddenly, near the end of the movie, pre-Wife leaned over to me and said "I think I'm going to throw up."

She had recently been in a car accident, and so being so close to the huge screen was making her sick. She quickly got up and left for the bathroom.

When she got back, I asked if she was all right. She said she felt much better. After the credits were rolling, I said "So, did you end up throwing up?"

pre-Wife: Yeah. I had trouble at first. But then I noticed a pubic hair on the toilet and... well, that did the trick.

Me: Oh man, that sucks.

pre-Wife: Not really. I feel better now.

Me: Well, I guess that means we're gonna skip dinner...

pre-Wife: Skip dinner? Um, I don't think so. I just threw up. Now, there's more room for dinner.

Me: You just threw up, and now you're ready to go get something to eat? You are awesome.

It was at that moment I was pretty sure I wanted to marry this girl.

And then we went to Olive Garden, but decided we wanted Pizza Hut, which we could see across the parking lot, instead. So we spontaneously left our sodas and walked across the parking lot and had one of the best conversations I've ever had, which has absolutely impacted my life in every positive way you could imagine, over Hawaiian and Supreme and Root Beer.

Scene 2:

Our Wedding day six years later.

It was a busy day, as wedding days tend to be. Wife had TMJ still from that same car accident, and when she gets overly stressed, sometimes... well, she gets sick.

So, after we had been married in the Salt Lake Temple, we were feeling pretty awesome. It was an idyllic day--everything was amazing. Here. Here's a picture I scanned in a long time ago.

You can't fake this kind of happy.

Anyway, that evening we had our reception in a church building. The one thing I had ever imagined having at my wedding was a reception line. It's pretty much the only thing I knew about weddings, and so it felt all proper to have one.

Well, because Wife and I grew up on the same street in Utah, and had basically known each other our whole lives, we had a LOT of people come to the reception. Like, many hundreds. All filtering through the line. And Wife was getting very tired.

And near the end of the night, as she was sitting in the line greeting people, suddenly she felt ill. She stood up. The line was standing there watching, and she started to make a run for the bathroom. But she didn't make it.

She vomited right in front of the gift table. On her wedding day. With a line of people watching.

As she was being ushered away, a sweet old lady turned to her and asked, "oh, sweetie, are you nervous about... tonight?"

And it wasn't until that moment that Wife wanted to die, because if there was one thing she NEVER WAS, it was prudish about her desires to have sex on her wedding night. Indeed, she hadn't even planned our wedding at all--she left all the decisions up to her 12-year-old sister because she honestly didn't care about things like colors and where the place-settings came from or any crap like that. The only thing she was really excited and cared about at all was the honeymoon and the wedding night, which she had been talking about non-stop for years. Because she is awesome.

And now an entire line of people thought she was so nervous about losing her virginity that it made her vomit everywhere on her own wedding day.

I'm happy to report, however, that she felt much better after her little pukey puke near the gift table. And much like that first date, after a preliminary throwing up, she was then feeling well again and ready to eat the Tupperwares full of cake we absconded with, and to have certifiably the best wedding night ever in the history of Earth.

Because I'm a Casanova.

And also because we were totally in love, and so excited to be starting our lives together.

And that is the story of how vomit was the connection that brought our courtship, dating, and the consummation of our marriage into full circle.

It seems I owe a debt to vomit. And to Pizza Hut. As well as to the movie Volcano. Which is a shame, because it was a really pretty terrible movie.

Handyman Part II--Garbage Disposal

2012-05-03T09:56:00.001-07:00

I was planning on this being a series, and this is the second part of my flat tire post, but I ended up calling it "Stranded" because I forgot I was planning on making a series about me being a handyman.

But it is a series. And this is Part II. And it's about a garbage disposal.

I knew I was in trouble when Wife turned to me one afternoon and said "Sweetheart, the garbage disposal is broken."

I was baffled and perplexed. "What do you mean broken. Like, as in it's not working?"

"Yes," she replied. "That's what broken means. It is not working. And you are the man, so you need to fix it. Or in other words try to find someone to fix it for us, please."

Many days passed. I couldn't for the life of me ~~remember for any period of time that we had a broken garbage disposal~~ find anyone to help us. And then our garbage disposal began to stink.

Guests would visit, and the first thing Wife would say was "Sorry about the smell. It's our garbage disposal. It's broken." And then she'd give me a look like that machine is not going to fix itself, dummy. And then I would panic with responsibility and short circuit and start reciting Spanish scripture or change the subject by practicing Ninja moves across the living room. And she would roll her eyes.

My tactics were effective though, because last week I got a call from a friend of mine, Peter. "Hey Josh," he said. "I'm coming over to fix your garbage disposal."

"No!" I protested. "You don't have to do that!" But inside I was sucking my thumb saying "Please save us. Please."

Peter arrived a little later and I marched him into the kitchen.

Me: So, this is our sink. I'm pretty sure the garbage disposal is in there somewhere. Like, down in the sink somewhere. Down the drain. *points helpfully*

Yeah, I'm pretty sure t's riiiight down there...

(Photo attribution here)

Peter: Yeah. The disposal is attached to the piping of the sink... wait, do you think it's inside the sink? How do you think garbage disposals work, exactly?

Me: Well, I don't know about yours, but ours seems to be inside the sink. It's down there somewhere. *points again* Somewhere deep in the belly of the sink. And then the food goes down this hole, and you flip the switch, and the garbage disposal grinds everything up and makes it disappear.

Peter: Josh, sinks are all about pipes. Piping water out of your house. Here, look... *tries to open the cupboard under the sink* How do you guys open this child lock?

Me: Um, actually I'm not sure. I've never looked under there before. Wife says we gotta keep the kids safe. And make sure I never accidentally drink Drain-O.

Peter: Okay...? Well, I'll just try to... *jiggles the lock until it comes off* *opens the cupboard* There.

Me: Oh geez! What's all that stuff down there?

Peter: That? That's the pipes I was talking about. And this big metal thing here? This is your garbage disposal. It's a machine. It has a motor. It's the thing that has been disposing your food all these years.

Me: Oh, okay! I think get it now. So there's like a car engine in my sink...

Peter: ...No. It's actually nothing like a car engine in a sink. It's just a motor. That grinds. It does not propel anything forward or backward like a car eng... are we seriously having this conversation right now? *removes the disposal*

Me: Would you like some juice?

Peter: Nope. I'm good. I'm just gonna look at this to see if I can fix it...

Me: Holy crap, that big metal thing you're holding is all grimy and disgusting! Sorry about that. Would you like me to take it out to the trash so you're not distracted by it as you fix my disposal?

Peter: This? *holds up the disposal* This is your garbage disposal, Josh. This is the machine we are looking at and trying to fix. It is the object in question. This is the actual mechanism used...

Me: *comes to with a jerk* Oh, I'm so sorry, what was that you were saying? I just fell asleep as you were trying to describe that thing in your hands...

Peter: Never mind. Give me just a minute to take a look at this thing, and I'll tell you whether or not I can fix your garbage disposal.

Me: Awesome.

Then he looked at the thing in his hands for a while and came to some conclusions.

Peter: Well, I don't think we can fix this. It looks to me like you're gonna need a new one.

Me (baffled): Wait, a new what? An new sink? A new house? The market's pretty rough these days but I guess I can make a few calls...

Peter: You need a new garbage disposal.

Me: You can buy those?

Peter: Yes. It is a machine. That you can buy. And replace. And you need to.

Me: Oh! Kind of like a when you get heart disease and you need a heart transplant!

Peter: ...okay, yeah sure. It's just like that.

Me: Peter, where do you get garbage disposals?

Peter: Don't worry about it. Give me your credit card and I'll grab one for you.

So, I gave him my card, and then he went to some store somewhere that has machines or something, and he called and said it would be about $100 and I was like "wow, that's a lot less than a heart transplant, so go for it" and so he bought it and brought it back. Then he got under the sink and did a lot of tinkering and stuff that I don't really understand, and there were some tools, and at one point he had to go home and get another tool thingie and I'm not sure what it's called. And then? It was all done, and he flipped the switch, and my garbage disposal in my sink was working again!

I was so relieved.

Peter had some final advice.

Peter: Well, I think that'll do it! Looks like it's working. Now if you ever have trouble with the blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah and then you can blah blah with a screwdriver blah blah blah and blah blah blah but don't ever blah blah blah really injure blah blah blah blah. All right?

Josh: Got it!

Peter: Cool.

And then as Peter left, I said "really, are you sure we don't owe you anything?" His eyes said "you owe me $300.00 and the last three hours of my life back." But his mouth said "Just have your wife make us some cookies sometime."

Pro-tip: If you hire a plumber to fix some crap under your sink, he might just ask to be paid in cookies. So make sure to have some on hand.

(Photo attribution here)

And that's the story of the day I changed the garbage disposal all by myself with the help of somebody else who did it for me.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Speaking of posts that make me look really competent, remember that post that Wife didn't want me to even post here? Well, I found a home for it! And they've put it up! You can read it here.

Remember folks, it's satire. So don't be mad at me.

I think one thing is pretty obvious today: I'm the best husband on the planet. Except for all those other people who are husbands.

Music

2012-04-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

Okay, so you know how lately I find myself doing that thing where I sing and play the violin in the same song?

It happened again yesterday, and when I say "it happened" what I mean is that I ordered some vocal sheet music online expecting to do a vocal performance because someone asked me to, and as I practiced, there was a solo instrument part thrown in there randomly, like a big betrayal. But I'm pretty chill, and not easily offended by sheet music, so I thought, "cool, not a problem. I'll just do both."

But what I didn't count on was the fact that my brain has decided to become terrified of the violin. Like, seriously 100% I-might-die terrified.

Have you ever seen anything so terrifying in your life? Me neither.

I don't really understand what's happening to me.

Let me break down the irony of this for you.

I started playing the violin when I was 10 which, admittedly, is a little late, but now that I'm nearly 32 it means I've played for 22 years. (This is also evidence to the fact that I was the biggest nerd possible in my teenage years.) I spent hundreds if not thousands of hours practicing the violin during my youth. My parents, who weren't rich, let me take lessons for years. I was in symphonies, and went in tours. I was often a section leader in the groups I was in. I bought albums of the best players playing the best songs. I wanted to be really good. I cared. Violin was a big deal to me. I got a music scholarship, a talent award for violin, as I entered college, but then decided to major in English instead. But I was still in all the groups, and took lessons, and it was a huge deal to me, and I minored in music.

Not only that, but there's this really huge family legacy with the violin, too. My great grandpa played. My grandpa played. In fact, he learned how to make violins as well. Whenever I went to his house, I'd find him in his shop trying to perfect replicas of Strad and Guarneri (for the uninitiated, those are two old dudes who made really amazing instruments hundreds of years ago that now sell for millions of dollars and if I ever get to play one, I better not get all stage frighty and nervous because I'll be pissed, and also if I dropped it it would cost a LOT.)

What I'm saying here is that I have spent a lot of time practicing, obsessing, poring over violins and learning how to be a violinist. Probably my culminating moment was when I was asked to play a solo for my graduation at BYU. Me, the Marriott Center, and rows and rows of people. It went perfectly. As one might hope with how much I've put into it. Also I took drugs*.

Conversely, singing is something I decided to do as an afterthought. I have spent no time whatsoever cultivating my voice or learning any technique at all. As a senior in high school I offhandedly decided to join choir groups because I was bored and could read music and where I moved they didn't have an orchestra, and then I ended up winning the big choir award at the end of the year much to my surprise. I learned to do vibrato as a big joke, just goofing off. It was not something I took seriously at all.

And now it's the main thing I do. Most people who know me from church would probably say something like "oh yeah, Josh Weed sings. Oh, and doesn't he play some instrument too? Like the banjo?"

I kinda don't know what to think about this stuff.

Anyway the irony was never more pronounced than yesterday, where during this vocal performance I had to play literally two lines of very, very easy melody. We're talking this is no big deal. It's less than no big deal. I can breathe, therefore I should be able to do this. I haven't lost a finger to a hack-saw or had my neck excised in a freak accident, therefore I should not have a problem.

Yet, there was a problem.

It kind of sounded like I had learned how to scratch out a tune on a fiddle that I picked up for the first time last week and that I had decided to try it out for the first time in front of an entire church congregation. Or like a hive of buzzing bees had been disturbed and was now all vibraty, hovering above the audience, waiting to sting them. Except that makes it sound more compelling than it was. It was actually just... well, it sounded like poorly played violin, which if you know anything about violins and poor violin playing (any parent to a violin student should relate) you know that it is really really not beautiful. In fact, it's pretty much the opposite of beautiful.

So there I was singing a song like a vocal bad-a, not a care in the world, only to lift my violin, the treasured instrument I've spent years and years honing my skills on, and start FREAKING OUT because I suddenly had stage fright so bad my leg was shaking like it had a life of its own, and my vibrato was all weird and bouncy-sounding, and it was just really... awkward. For everyone. Mostly for my violin (which my grandpa made with his bare hands), who felt violated and cheapened by the experience.

Thankfully it was only two lines, and then I was back to singing, which, for whatever reason I'm totally comfortable with.

Why? Why is it that the thing that should come as naturally to me as breathing makes my brain all haywire and freaked out and makes my hands sweat and my legs tremble in fear, and the thing which is new and I have literally never had a lesson for or really practiced at all comes as naturally to me as if I were standing in front of a congregation taking a leak?

(Go ahead and visualize that one. It's an amazing image.)

"Wait, Lorna, is that man urinating on stage?"

I don't know the answer. All I know is that next time you see me playing the violin, make sure to check my seat to see if there's any frightened urine-spatter you need to clean for me. Because I probably peed myself, is what I'm saying. Not because I decided to take a leak in front of an entire church congregation.

Because that would just be uncomfortable for everyone, except for me.

Don't you hate it when you write a blog post about music that you can't get to be funny enough and you feel like it's kind of sub-par, but then you have to post it because it's Monday and that's the day you post a blog post no matter what?

Yeah, I hate that too.

Oh well, it wouldn't be the first thing related to the violin that has been sub-par for me this week.

(Ba-dum CHING)

Passing the torch. She'll be a vocal star in no time!

*Not REAL drugs. Just blood pressure medication. Given to me by my surgeon uncle. To calm my nerves. Wait, maybe there is a hint here somewhere?

Photo attribution here and here

Male Pattern Baldness

2012-04-26T23:01:00.000-07:00

Can somebody please explain this to me?

I have a full head of hair. Not a single ounce of baldness. Yet, somehow, this has happened.

No, I am not wearing socks or ankle weights.

Here it is closer up:

News alert: it's physically impossible to take a picture of your own legs head on. I know because I tried. Then called Wife over to do it for me.

Yes, my leg-hair doesn't start until about half-way up my lower leg.

And yes, my flesh is blinding.

I have no idea what this means, but it pretty much looks like I had a pair of white socks tattooed to my ankles. Especially when I'm not tan. Like right now.

Theories:

I wore socks that were too abrasive as at some point in my youth.

A leprechaun shaved my ankles in my sleep using a magic razor.

I am simply going bald starting from the bottom up instead of the top down.

I have cancer.*

I am a leper.

I am Benjamin Button.

Which do you think it is? Or perhaps you have another idea as to what might be happening here?

Also: Rogaine? Thoughts?

*I'm sure there must be a cancer that involves ankle baldness. But even if there isn't one, I think it's pretty clear that my "perma-socks" are most likely insidious and life-threatening.

Stranded

2012-04-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

Recently I hit a pothole on the way to the gym.

Not a big deal, right?

I could hear that it had messed something up, but my tire felt kind of functional in that I wasn't driving on a rim shooting sparks into the night sky, and since I was almost there, I just finished driving to the gym and parked.

I hopped out of the car hoping to see that everything was fine. But it was not fine. My tire was nearly flat and looked kind of like a squished black pancake.

This is the opposite of what my tire looked like.

(Can you tell I'm struggling to find pictures tonight?)

There are two things you should know about me:

1. I have no idea whatsoever how to change a tire.

2. When anything that requires car maintenance happens to my car, I freeze up like a deer in headlights that is afraid said headlights might make it have to do something masculine that the deer doesn't know how to do, like change a tire, causing utter panic to course through its body.

Like any normal person, I started hyperventilating and wondered why life was worth living anyway. I sat in the driver's seat, trying to assess the situation, in a state of shock. My internal dialogue went something like this:

"Is it really flat? (Gets out and checks for the third time) Oh gosh, it really is. But maybe I'm just seeing things. (Kicks the flat pancake tire) Oh yeah, it's so flat. What do you do when you have a flat tire again? Do you take it off or something? Should I say a prayer? Yes. (Prays) (Waits) Well, that didn't work at all. It's still all flat. And I still don't know how to get home. Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. I can't believe this is happening. (Buries face in hands) This is the most horrible thing that's ever happened to me. Oh gosh, this is really happening. (Starts to hyperventilate) Should I call 911? Would that be okay? Wait no, they probably have more important things to do, like arresting robbers and chasing shoplifters down alleys. Who should I call then? Who can save me???"

Obviously, my next step was to call Wife. Because she's really good with cars.

Me: Something really, really bad has happened...

Wife (roused from sleep): What?! What's going on? Are you okay?

Me: I was getting to the gym and I hit a pothole. And now... now my tire's almost flat.

Wife: Wait... what?

Me: My tire! It's almost flat and I'm stranded at the gym.

Wife: What do you mean it's "almost" flat?

Me: Well, I mean that, like, it still has a little air in it, but most of the air is gone and it looks like a pancake.

Wife: Oh sweetie. That's just called a flat tire. I'd head-pat you if you weren't stranded at the gym because of a flat tire.

Me: What do I do??

Wife: Well, if a tire is flat it either needs to filled back up or changed, so that it's not flat anymore...

Me: So... how long until you get here?

Wife: Um, sweetie, we have three children peacefully sleeping in their beds. And also, you are a 31 year old man. And you have a brain. And you're at the gym so allegedly you have muscles. I think you can handle this...

Me: I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over my hyperventilating...

Wife: Fill up the tire. With air. Drive home. If it goes flat again, fill it up again. If it shreds, call me. Maybe we can find someone to change it for you.

Me: Thank you mommy. I mean Wife. Hopefully I'll see you soon. Unless I die.

Wife: You won't die. Unless you mess up.

So, I did what any reasonable person would do and worked out in the gym, the entire time trying to gear myself up for my grand return home. "You can do this, Weed. You've got this. See how you just benched 80? That means you can get home with a partially flat tire that you have to fill up. This is not a big deal. Happens to people all the time. I'm gonna die!!!"

However, it kind of worked because by the time I left the gym I was feeling pretty pumped up, like maybe I could make it home without somehow embarrassing myself horribly.

I was wrong.

First thing I did was get out my portable air pump. I attached it to the tire like a regular tire-expert, and filled that sucker up with air. And it worked, because after a while, the tire looked all full and plump and ready to go. Except, when I pulled the air pump off, I could hear this really horrible hissing sound. Ominous, yes. Prohibitive? No sir.

Off I went, onto the freeway with my emergency lights blazing, alerting all the other cars around me that hey, I'm a big deal. I have something going on. I imagined those lights as saying something really important, like "Listen, we have a crisis here. We have a driver with a punctured tire that he doesn't know how to change by himself because he is ridiculous. Clearly this is an emergency situation so, BACK UP OFF HIM."

It was going great, and I was getting close to home. Then, right before my exit, I heard it. thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap.

I pulled off the side of the road and started filling up the tire again. It was dark. I could barely see. I was pretty sure I was going to get hit by a drunk driver and become an amputee in a wheelchair. And then I'd have to worry about flat tires on that thing too.

I was almost done when suddenly, another car pulled to the other side of the road. Out hopped a burly looking guy, assessing the situation, surely expecting to help a damsel in distress, or some dude who is daintily filling his tire up with air because he doesn't know how to change his own tire. You know, either one of those two things.

Guy: What's the problem?

Me: Well, I'm just filling up my tire. Because I don't know how to change it. Because I'm an idiot.

Guy: Do you have a spare?

Me: A spare tire?

Guy (perplexed): Yes. A spare tire. To, you know, put onto your car. So that you can drive it.

I wasn't sure. I rifled around in my trunk until I found a magical compartment that, when I opened it, contained a tire! "Yeah I do," I yelled.

At this point, the guy looked at his watch, seemed to consider his options and then said. "All right, I think I've got time to change it for you." But then he explained that he had to be fast because he's got to get home. Because he is on house arrest.

Let me tell you something you probably don't know. When you are on the side of a freeway at night and you are trying to fill up your tire so you can drive the rest of the three minutes home and get into bed with your lovely wife after a hard workout at the gym, and then some burly dude in a pick up pulls over, offers to change your tire for you, and then explains that he has to be fast in doing so because he's on house arrest, the correct thing to say to him in response to "Do you want me to change your tire" is exactly what I said:

Me: Sure. Thanks.

No, "that's all right, I've got this." No "really sir, you probably should go home, being a criminal and all." Just a quick assent to let him change your tire. Because he's probably really good at that. Possibly because he frequently hijacks cars.

The truth is, the guy was incredibly cool and also really nice, and even though he tried to get that big screw thingie off the tire really hard but couldn't, and didn't end up being able to change my tire after all, I still drove away on my refilled punctured tire very grateful. Indeed, my faith in the goodness of humanity was confirmed. That guy was a good guy, willing to help someone else. Never mind that had I been a woman he might have tried to sexually assault me, or had I pissed him off he might have tried to murder me with that big complicated car-lifter-upper thing he was using from the trunk of my car.

He was a good Samaritan.

A good Samaritan wearing an ankle bracelet.

Don't judge a book by its cover. Or a man by his ankle bracelet. (Pretend that this is a picture of an ankle bracelet and not shackles, okay?)

And I? Well, I did make it the rest of the three minutes home. And then I crawled into bed exhausted at which point Wife rolled over and asked if I had changed the tire. And I said "no, but a murderer tried to do it for me and couldn't because our tire is real, real broken."

"That's neat," she said. And then she patted my head and rolled over to go back to sleep.

Just another day in the life of The Weed.

Image attribution here and here.

And that's when I told her about my creative vagina NOW WITH A VERY IMPORTANT UPDATE

2012-04-19T01:28:00.001-07:00

Conversation between my sister and me:

Jenni: So, how's the book coming?

Me: Oh, it's finally kind of coming together. I think it will be done--like all the way done--by the end of the summer. I can't describe to you how difficult this process is though.

Jenni: Um, I can imagine. With ADD, getting a novel into perfect form is probably like trying to climb a mountain with chopped off feet. And no rope. And two blind eyes.

Me: Exactly. It's breathtakingly difficult. It's funny though, because most authors talk about the editing phase like it's no big deal. Like in passing they're like "and then I rewrite my novels four or five times to work out the kinks, and the voila! I'm done!"

Jenni: Really?

Me: Yes. It's infuriating. For me this first re-write has absolutely been the most difficult part of the process, and maybe the hardest thing I've ever done in my life which is why it's taken years. Writing the meat of the book was easy. This? Is HARD. It's like writing the book was allowing a baby to gestate inside me for nine months and editing it and getting it perfect is like trying to push it through my creative vagina.

Jenni: Wait, you have a creative vagina?

Me: Yes. And currently I am pushing a novel through it. And I'm feeling the Ring of Fire. And there is tearing. And I've been in labor for a really long time. And I can't wait to get this baby out of me.

Jenni: Got it. So, just what does coitus look like for a creative vagina?

Me: A lot like conversation. Intellectual intercourse, if you will.

Jenni: I see.

Me: Actually, in the case of my book, I would have to say the moment of conception was while I was sitting in a grad school course on child therapy with a guest lecturer who was a lady in her 70's. Suddenly, the idea for my book hit me, and thus a creative zygote was brought into existence.

Jenni: So what you're saying is that you got knocked up by a gray-haired lady in grad school.

Me: Exactly. And now I'm pushing our book-baby through my creative vagina. And it hurts.

"Welcome to class, young man. It will be my pleasure to impregnate you. With a book-baby."

Jenni: Oddly, this is actually a really good metaphor. I totally get what you are saying.

Me: Wait, so you aren't mad at me that I compared finishing a book to being in labor and pushing a baby through a tearing vagina?

Jenni: No way. I would be horrified if you thought that. I frequently hate on my own sex for that kind of thing.

Me: Oh? What do you mean?

Jenni: Like all those girls who are like "Oh no you di-iiiin't just compare something to giving birth." I hate that. I think it's petty and short-sighted and not empathetic.

Me: But, isn't it like one of the hardest things ever?

Jenni: Absolutely. I've done it twice. Once without meds. But it's not like I think it's the only hard thing that can happen to a person. I think that comparing finishing a novel with ADD to pushing a baby through a vagina is an apt metaphor, not on affront on women.

Me: I always knew I loved you.

Jenni: Listen, I love being a woman. But sometimes we are ridiculous and very territorial over our labor pains. That's all I'm saying.

Me: I'm pretty sure I'm going to put this conversation on my blog.

Jenni: That's fine. Just so long as you emphasize that I am not offended by what you were saying about your creative vagina. Because if people got the impression I was that type of woman, that would offend me.

Me: Deal.

And thus, I successfully compared finishing my book to pushing a baby out of my tearing creative vagina, which then transformed into a conversation in which my sister hated on her sex and I didn't even get in trouble.

Aaaall in a day's work.

VERY IMPORTANT UPDATE (4-27)

Naturally I'm reading Jenny Lawson's new book "Let's Pretend This Never Happened" and naturally I love it because it is incredibly hilarious. However *spoiler alert* I just got to the part where she talks about telling her boss that she had a book inside her and that she needed to get it out, maybe through her vagina. I want to clarify that I HADN'T READ THAT PART WHEN I HAD THIS CONVERSATION WITH MY SISTER. NOR WHEN I WROTE THIS POST.

Of course, nobody needs to believe me.

But I know, deep within my creative vagina, that I speak the truth. And the truth will set me free.

Also, you should probably buy her book immediately.

The Happiest Place To Throw Up in the Bushes On Earth (A History of Vomit in our Marital Relationship, segment 1)

2012-04-16T12:19:00.000-07:00

Yes, you read that right. This is the beginning of a series about vomit in our relationship. (There might end up being only two.) Oh boy are you in for something special!

The day after I got to California over Christmas break, Wife and I decided it was high time to do what all families with small children do when near Anaheim, California: take a lot of naps inside the house even though it's really sunny out because you're on vacation and you're lazy.

But instead of doing that, we ended up waking up really early, packing a bunch of stuff, and getting ourselves ready to go to Disneyland. (Wow. That nap bit was hilarious. Good hook, Weed!)

I like Disneyland. And I like watching the girls at Disneyland. I was glad we were going.

As we and the girls' cousins and grandparents and aunt and uncle were walking out the door, Wife said "hold on a minute" and ran into the bathroom and threw up a nice big throw up.

When she came out, she had a look on her face that said "I really shouldn't be going to Disneyland today" but the words coming out of her mouth were "all right, let's go! Get the girls loaded into the car!" *grimaces* *tries to pretend it's a smile*

I tried to protest. "Sweetie, no," I said. "You just threw up. That means you should be quarantined and should only be able to be in contact with people if you're wearing a Hazmant suit and they are wearing doctor masks. Oh, and also, you need to rest so you can feel better. Moreover, naps...." But she wouldn't hear it.

"I just ate some bad food. We're going," she insisted.

So, we all loaded into the car, and the girls were squealing with excitement. We caravanned (seriously spell check, is that not a verb? Did I spell it wrong?) with her parents, and all was going really well on the way to the Most Magical Place on Earth Besides a Wicca Convention until Wife needed us to pull over so that she could run into a gas station and vomit everywhere again. She was in there for a looong time.

Not sure if you know this about me, but I have a bit of a vomit phobia (called emetophobia) so, at this point, I was kinda freaking out and I was ready to call an ambulance to take all of us home and sedate us so that we could sleep calmly through the horrific effects of any bug that had infiltrated my careful system of not being in contact with any vomit ever for any reason and also washing my hands obsessively whenever I remembered to do so on occasion.

When Wife got back to the car, she looked like a mixture of death, beauty pageant excitement, and really bad gas. Her face was contorted into a foul grimace, but then as she approached the car she put on a very fake smile and tried to look excited. She hopped in and the first thing I said was "All right, back home we go..." and she grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the good eye, and said "My daughters are going to go to Disneyland today, and I am going to be with them. Stop trying to ruin this for everybody and MAN UP." Except not in those exact words. But whatever she said, it was clear: we were going to Disneyland that day, come hell or high water filled with chunky vomit.

So on we went. We got to the theme park, gathered the girls, and got in line to buy tickets. There was some confusion at this point as different people and different families got in different lines for different tickets, but eventually we were all on the other side of the gates. All of us, that is, except Wife.

"Where's Lolly(<----Wife's family nickname)?" asked everyone.

And then, she appeared. Sheepish, sick, and filled with the knowledge that she was treading on children's dreams. "Where were you sweetie?" I asked.

"Oh, nowhere..."

"No, really. Where were you?"

"I was... throwing up in the bushes."

Yes, that is correct. In some young child's memory of their first trip to Disneyland, my wife is the dark character that sullied that pristine moment entering the gates. She was the one bent over in the mouse-eared-shaped bushes vomiting violently, in front of everyone. Welcome to Disneyland, the most magical place to throw up in the bushes on Earth!

I really wanted Wife to go home and rest because she looked like she might pass out, and I was sure she was infecting every person at Disneyland with a horrible disease, but she just kept right on going, trying to take pictures of the girls, and trying not to let her face look as miserable as she felt.

It didn't work very well:

"I LOVE Disneyland!!!!"

Yes, that fake smile certainly softens the blow.

This is when Viva broke Dumbo

Aaaand, she's wheelchair bound.

That video was while we were in line for Pirates of the Caribbean. I was nervous for her to go on that ride--all the sensory stimulation, the loud music, the drop, but somehow, like a true miracle, when we got out of that ride, Wife looked at me and said "I think I'm better now."

And she was. Apparently she had just eaten something bad, and apparently she had spewed it all out of her esophagus successfully. And apparently all she needed was a nice soothing ride on a boat simulating the Caribbean with pirates dancing around to really feel better.

But she was still compromised for the rest of the day, and a little tired and out of it.

Which is why when she took Viva on Dumbo, she let Viva sit on her right even though she knew kids were supposed to sit on the left because Viva was getting upset and Wife just didn't have the energy to fight her. And then they started the ride. And then they noticed Viva was in the wrong place, and they stopped the ride very quickly. And that's when all the kids had to return their magic feathers and not fly again ever because Dumbo stopped working. For hours and hours.

Good work Viva and Wife!

I think there are a couple of morals to this story.

1. If you wish upon a star that the bad food that is making you throw up everywhere at Disneyland will stop making you sick so you can watch your girls ride rides, your dream will come true!

2. Disneyland is still fun even when someone is vomiting in the bushes.

3. Dumbo's feather is a crock of crap.

PS, Viva also broke the Carousel when she decided to switch from sitting with Daddy to sitting with Mommy right before it started, but instead started wandering around defiantly and they had to stop the whole thing. Thankfully, though, they fixed that one in only a few minutes. (NO FEATHERS REQUIRED.)
___________________________________________________________________________________

Not sure if you noticed, but today isn't Wednesday, and it's also not Saturday. It's Monday. And that is because I'm changing my posting days. (At some point, this will stick. Trust me. I know myself.)

So, the new schedule, for the seven of you who are waiting with bated breath, is that I will post on Mondays and Thursdays. YAY!!!

Next up: a post about me being a handyman. Because, boy am I. (Or the wedding picture post.) (Or another vomit post.) (All right I'm not sure what's next, but it will probably be one of those things.) (Unless something terrifically hilarious happens before then that trumps them all.) (Goodbye and have a good Monday.)

Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes

2012-04-09T14:46:00.000-07:00

I think one could say that this post is a rebirth.

I was gone for weeks. My brain was elsewhere. My sense of humor took a brief hiatus while I contemplated very deep and important mysteries like "why do I enjoy my daughter's lactose free milk so much?" and "just what is the symbolic implication of the term 'avox'" and "why am I so charmed and fascinated by Kristen Bell's reaction to a sloth?" and "how is it possible that Whitney was face down???" *deep contemplative look*

Yet, here I am, once again.

You'll have to pardon me as I wax philosophical and pretentious and Freshman English Majory, but I think this post can best be encapsulated by Sylvia Plath's poem, Lady Lazarus, the final stanza of which reads:

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

the only differences being that I don't have red hair, I haven't attempted suicide lately, I am not a lady or anything like Lazarus, and I certainly don't eat men like air, or even know what that's supposed to mean. But I'm sure you get my point.

I'm back.

And like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, this blog too will open its eyes, then spread its deformed, awkward wings, and try very hard to launch into flight in a spectacle of spasm and seizure. And when, after getting about six inches of lift, it slaps back brutally to earth crushing its face into a nearby rock, it will then stand up on its gnarly, gangly legs and continue walking forward with a gangsta limp. And then, when it trips embarrassingly after three or four steps, this blog will roll, much like a potato bug retracted into its shell except without a protective exoskeleton, and will continue its forward momentum towards its final destination and goal, which if you figure out what that is please email me at joshua (dot) weed (at) gmail (dot) com and tell me, or tell me in the comments, because I'm still not sure what this thing is about. But whatever it is, it will never ever stop because somehow it's the most fun thing I've ever done in my life.

This blog is a fighter, ya'll.

Thanks for sticking around. All three of you.

Things to look forward to in the coming week or two:

1. A post instructing you on how to take the best wedding pictures in town. I will be using pictures from my own wedding in 2002, the colors for which were chosen by my sister-in-law who was 12 at the time because the only thing Wife cared about was the Honeymoon. You will be astounded and not just a little bit jealous. And who knows? Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about snapping a good photo!

2. A link, finally, to the post that I promised at the end of that week of posts mid-march. It has found a home! It's satire, people. Satire. I promise. Stay tuned.

3. A schedule!!! I will post every Wednesday and every Saturday. Let's just try that on for size, shall we? (Today's post doesn't count because it's fake. Unless I don't post until Saturday, in which case, this counted as Wednesday. I think you can see how committed to this I am! Cool!)

In closing, I have found a few images that represent what this post is trying to communicate. Now, I realize this might be kind of abstract for some of you, but if you are deep and contemplative enough, you might "get it." I'm not sure if I've mentioned how lonely it is being a visionary like myself, but it's actually really isolated being deep and profound like me, and seeing the world in such variegated colors and prisms and depth. So, let me know in the comments if you see what I'm saying so you can join me on my island, where we will eat really putrid authentic cheeses and listen to Radiohead and Zeuhl all day long and then, at night, write free verse poems about Karma and irony and how hard it is to be an isolated intellectual. And if you're wrong, I won't judge you ~~yes I will but I'll pretend to be nice.~~

Okay, first this:

Then this:

Mixed with this:

Get it???

Photo attributions: here, here and here

I did not die

2012-03-17T17:27:00.000-07:00

And I actually did have a post ready for my seventh day. I did not fizzle out like some poor attention deficit riddled firework that gets ready to explode and then just... dies.

But, for probably one of the first times, Wife put a veto on the post that I was going to put up.

(It's about child rearing. And division of labor. And neglect. And it's satirical.)

Anyway, I'm going to see if I can get it posted elsewhere (which she doesn't seem to mind as much), and then give the link to you all, because I'm completely positive you have been waiting with bated breath to see the conclusion to my efforts.

In the meantime, enjoy probably the creepiest video ever created: a parody of actress Chloe Sevigny discussing toast.

Eat. Dance. Eat.

Peace out.

Tessa wishes you a Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Status update = post

2012-03-14T23:45:00.000-07:00

As wife was cooking dinner Anna said: "Mommy, what's that disgusting smell. It smells like poo. And oranges." Then during dinner she insisted on wearing a blanket over head so as to not smell the dinner.

Aaaaand I'm spent. Getting up at 5:30 every day this week was getting up at 4:30. I'm dead now. Thank you daylight savings!

Therefore: status update = post.

Good night! (Real post tomorrow!)

Help! Can you identify these objects?

2012-03-13T23:00:00.000-07:00

Um, Wife and I need your help with something.

While I would stop short of calling Wife a hoarder, we do have an issue where she insists on collecting stuff that is... garbage.

Like the other day. I was digging around in a drawer, and I pulled this out.

Me: Sweety, what's this?

Wife: I dunno.

Me: Oh, okay. Well is it okay if I throw it away then?

Wife: No.

Me: Uh... why not?

Wife: Because we might need it some day.

Me: Need it for what?

Wife: For whatever it was made for.

Me: And what was that?

Wife: I already told you. I don't know.

Me: Rrrrrrright... *looks baffled*

Yes. That's correct. We're keeping a random piece of garbage in the off chance that one of us will wake up one day and think "hey, I could really use a random half-orb piece of technology bereft of context and purpose that appears to be either part of a children's toy or a UFO. Wait, I know! We happen to have one in our bathroom drawer!" *pulls it out triumphantly*

So... if anybody knows what that is, feel free to let me know in the comments. So that I can throw it out. Because then we will know it's garbage.

Also, if you could identify the other pieces of junk from the drawer that Wife is keeping "just in case" that would be, likewise, helpful.

Wife just said she thinks they all look very important. But are they? Are they important? Really?

Please, somebody help us out here.

I hate Crime Shows except Law & Order

2012-03-12T23:35:00.001-07:00

Wife likes to watch crime shows.

She doesn't like me around when she watches her programs because she says I get too snooty about them. She's probably right.

I don't mean to get snooty. It's just that for some of those shows (NCIS!) the characters are really unbelievable to me, and the plot-turns seem very contrived, and the dialogue feels like it was lifted from scraps thrown out of a community college screenwriting class. The scraps written by the students that got F's. Stuff that's really contrived and over-explanatory. Like some young cheerleader is being interviewed, and she's all "I don't want to answer your questions, officer. I am a slutty, rebellious teenager with attitude, and I think I'm above the law!" *pouts* Except she actually says that, just to make sure the lowest common denominator understands what's happening. That kind of thing.

Clearly I'm really refined, and I crave entertainment that helps to break down barriers and battle the stereotypes that *accidentally farts loudly* Ahh nevermind. My anus just ruined my point.

Anyway, because of this, I end up laughing or mocking in inappropriate places where what I should really be feeling is really tense and anxious and sitting on the edge of my seat wondering just who the killer is! Is it the creepy pedophile looking guy next door, or the rich aunt that wears lots of makeup? *bites knuckle in suspense*

Sometimes I even make unintentional sarcastic comments.

Shockingly, Wife doesn't enjoy this.

However, we have found a compromise, and that compromise is Law & Order from the 90's. Law & Order from the 90's is a show that, for whatever reason, I love. Maybe the writing was better then. Maybe I'm really into 90's clothes. Maybe it's the weird gavel sound at the beginning of each new scene. Not sure.

But for whatever reason, I am usually thoroughly entertained by an episode, and I rarely find myself laughing in mockery. However, tonight's show had me laughing for another reason. And thankfully Wife was laughing with me.

Scene: young Hispanic policeman and old crotchety policeman are now partners. They're trying to catch a killer.

Young Hispanic: Well, we're tracing him through an Electronic Mail message he sent.

Old Crotchety: Electronic mail? What kind of newfangled gadget is that? *drinks coffee*

YH: Oh, Electronic Mail? It's just something people use to communicate on college campuses. You can send a message instantaneously.

OC: Oh, you mean with one of those computer thingamabobbers? *brushes the idea away dismissively with his hand* Those things are for the birds. I tried one once. Lost about 14 games straight of Solitaire."

Yes. He was talking about a computer as if it was this optional thing. Kind of like a cover for your iPhone. Or washing your hands after going to the bathroom.

Then later, they had started tracking the killer on this thing called a Message Board. And what they did, GET THIS, is they triangulated the guy who was using the signal of a cellular phone as a modem.

Old Crotchety: Now, what are we doing right now? Does this involve more technology?

Young Hispanic: Yes. This involves technology again. We're going to catch the killer using it.

OC: I hate technology. And all you young people who use it are crazy.

YH: But see, we're not crazy, because we're going to use it right now to do our job.

Computer specialist: Okay, we're about ready to track this guy down. *pulls out a gigantic metal antenna almost as big as himself connected to a mobile computer device that's almost too heavy to carry* Let's go!

Yes. Nothing more inconspicuous than that contraption whilst narrowing in on a killer. He won't know what hit him. "Help! I'm being attacked by a skinless terminator! Oh, wait, it's just a guy carrying an antenna that's bigger than his body. And I'm under arrest. Blast technology! You ruined me!"

Perfect for catching a killer. Or contacting Extra Terrestrials.

When it was all over, I looked at Wife and was like "Wow, it's so incredible that technology has advanced so much in so little time!" And she replied simply: "It was almost 20 years ago." And I was like "Wow. The 90's were a freaking long time ago" and she was like "you're so good at math."

Take home lesson: technology doesn't move as fast as we think it does.

Also, are there any crime shows we should be putting on our queue?

A Visit to the Eye Doctor

2012-03-11T23:49:00.001-07:00

I went to the eye-doctor recently.

I've always kind of hated going to the optometrist/ophthalmologist/oculist/occultist (did you catch that joke there? It's a doozie!) because I always felt like a spectacle (oh, another one! I'm on a roll!)

(Those jokes were so cheesy that by invocation of the laws of humor blogging I am now required to kill myself like a failed Ninja which I believe involves disembowelment and a lot of bowing. I'm not going to do it though. Mostly because it might make me throw up, and I'm phobic.)

Anyway, going to the eye doctor is always a funny experience for a guy with a blind eye. There's always some drama. When I was younger, it was annoying. In elementary school, the following conversation took place pretty much any time I interacted with an Eyeball Professional.

Female Eyeball Professional: All right, go ahead cover your left eye and look at the letters on the wall. What can you see?

Me: (reads a bunch of letters)

FEP: Perfect. Now cover your right eye and do the same.

Me: My eye is blind.

FEP (skeptically): That's okay, sweetie. Go ahead and just give it a try. Tell me what letters you see.

Me: Okay... (covers eye and looks at the screen) I can't see any letters.

FEP: (Switches screens so the letters are larger) What about now?

Me: ...I really can't see any.

FEP: (Switches to the really huge "E") All right, try this one.

Me: I can't see it. I can't see anything. I can't even tell where I'm supposed to look.

FEP (as if this is a revelation): Young man, you are blind in that eye!

Every. Single. Year.

I always wanted to say something snarky like "And clearly you are deaf, because I told you I was blind before we started" but I was too nice as a child.

All right young man, now I'd like you to close both eyes and read this chart to ascertain whether or not you can see through your eyelids.

(Photo attribution: here)

Anyway, after years of being lazy and baked by the sun, now my eye is so deformed looking it makes me look vaguely like a serial killer and there's no way anybody on earth would be surprised to hear it is blind. In fact, most people are surprised to discover that I'm not a raging homicidal maniac intent on personally massaging the tender, blood-filled walls of their heart as it beats its last beats if they notice my eye before anything else.

These days when I see an Eyeball Professional, the mood is different. They are riveted by me. Not only do they not need to be "tipped off" that the weird orb in my face looking the wrong direction is blind, but they are more than eager to sit down and take a gander at the sucker.

I've finally begun to realize that they are just fascinated by the thing. I mean, it really is a novelty. It's like a relic from the 80's--they like to look at just what the surgeons did to me. Where they hacked it open, and what they took out. They find it fascinating.

But that's okay. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel like a celebrity kind of. A really poor, anonymous, deformed celebrity. Except for then they always want to dilate my eyes even when I don't need it, and that gets annoying.

Anyway, my latest visit was weird. I went to a new clinic because I had new insurance. So, I was prepping myself for the same routine. "Hi, how are you, nice to meet you... WHOA what the FREAK is that nasty grape doing in your left eye socket and can I study it for the next 30 minutes please?"

I sat waiting in the waiting room, filling out the paperwork, and when the time came, the doctor came out and brought me into the office. He sat me down, looked me straight in the eye and had no reaction.

None.

At first I was kind of relieved. Like, okay, finally I'm treated just like everybody else.

But then I started to feel... miffed. He didn't care. He didn't even seem interested. Had he not noticed what he had in his office? Was he too obtuse to realize what he had access to? This eye, sir, has been cited in medical texts of the 1980's. I was a special case! I was cutting edge! And you just look at me like I'm some random guy off the street with two normal eyes.

I mean seriously, the audacity.

Then he looked over my paperwork and said, "so, are you still teaching middle school?" I hadn't written anything about teaching middle school on my paperwork. I hadn't taught middle school for years.

"No..." I replied, looking baffled.

When he saw my confusion, we talked and discovered that I had seen him half a decade before when I taught at the local school district. I had no recollection of this. I was kind of thinking, but didn't dare to hope, that even though I couldn't remember him at all, I might be so memorable to him because of you-know-what. That maybe it wasn't ME he was remembering, but a special eye-condition that he couldn't get out of his mind...

And then he said it, the thing that let me know that I still had it--that this eye still had swagger.

"So, how's that eye of yours doing?"

I was flooded with relief. I was special again! I was different. My uniqueness hadn't been stripped away by some highfaluting "everyone is the same" robot. I sighed deeply.

I didn't even cringe when he asked the inevitable: "Do you mind if I dilate you so I can get a look inside that left eye again...?"

This guy? He had remembered my situation for years. He had earned access to the inner regions of my cornea. "Have at it," I said.

And then he had his way with my face for the next 30 minutes, and I just basked in the glory of my atrocious looking congenital defect and the awesomeness it afforded me.

So listen. It may be true that my eye looks a little bit like somebody took a flame-thrower to a marshmallow and then attached it to my face with a hot glue gun, but by golly if it doesn't have its fringe benefits as well.

Don't you wish you were deformed and really special and unique like me?

Left eye wants to visit you in your dreams tonight!

(Drawing attribution: here)

Health Tip and a Banner

2012-03-10T22:01:00.000-08:00

Two things for today:

First, a brief word of caution: I've read several studies now that indicate that the hour shift for daylight savings increases risk of heart attack in humans. (That sentence is only accurate if you change "read several studies" to "saw a headline on the Yahoo homepage that may or may not have said this, I don't really remember because I wasn't paying attention.") This definitive fact being the case, I think it's important that we all take some precautionary steps.

1. Go to bed one hour early (unless you're watching a really good movie).

2. Sleep in one extra hour.

3. Figure out if this change happens tonight or tomorrow night. Because I can never remember.

4. Take a Bayer because it's a blood-thinner. I think. Either that or it eats holes in your stomach. Sometimes I get the random headlines I see on the Yahoo homepage a little mixed up...

Whew. We're all a little safer now, methinks. I think my civil duty for the day is done.

Second thing:

Wanna see a new banner that someone gave me?

It's pretty spectacular. I think you're going to like it.

I must say, as a former drug and alcohol addiction evaluator, I couldn't agree with this banner any more than I do. Especially the part encouraging people to read Weed. I think it's pretty clear that that's a better thing to do. Which pretty much means that I'm fighting a war against drugs. And all I did was have a last name that's synonymous with ganja.

Also, I love how it so clearly communicates the rarely-spoken message that if you smoke weed you will age 400 years in two days and your eyes will be made of blood. If I had quarter for every time I saw THAT happen...

(Does anybody else notice the special surprise I noticed as I studied it closely?)

McViva Sandwich and a lofty goal.

2012-03-09T10:03:00.000-08:00

Goal for The Weed: post in this blog every single day for one week starting today.

Every day.

Goal for you: don't judge me if what I produce is below the standard of quality that you are accustomed to here at The Weed. I know I've probably coddled you, and that you might be really used to high brow things around here, like deep discussions of cameras being put up my rectum and the like, so this might be very hard for you to do.

I'll do my best not to disappoint you. But if what I come up with is crap, I'm posting it. I might even post photos of literal crap if it comes to that.

BUT I WILL NOT BE CONQUERED BY MY BLOG. Or my ADD.

In conclusion:

This is the sandwich that Viva, my 3-year-old, asked me to make for her yesterday. English muffin, not toasted. Cheddar cheese. Broccoli. No condiments.

Am I weird to think this is insane???

Post #1? DONE.

Take that, blog. WHAT NOW?

(PS, anybody care for a McViva Sandwich? I might start selling them from my mini-van. Down by the local elementary school. Wearing a wife-beater.)

Why I Support Sugared Cereal

2012-02-20T16:00:00.000-08:00

My girls have always been inordinately obsessed with Michael Jackson. I have no idea why. I think it started when I showed Anna Thriller at the tender age of three and then she asked to watch it pretty much daily for like a month. (Don't you love when people say they have no idea why something happened and then proceed to give a perfectly plausible reason why the thing happened? Yeah, I hate that too. I have no idea why. I think it's because it's STUPID. Yet, I do it all the time for some reason. I have no idea why. Seriously.)

Anyway, the following was a short exchange between my girls:

Viva: Mommy, can I have more cereal?

Wife: Sure, sweety, what kind do you want?

Viva: I want Michael Jacks.

Wife: You want what....?

Anna (interjecting): They're not called Michael Jacks, Viva. They're called Fruity Jacksons.

Wife: ...Do you mean Apple Jacks?

And the girls nodded in agreement. And then they enjoyed the fruity flavor of corn-based sugarfied cereal. Mmmm.

Mmmm.. delicious Michal Jacks. Or is it Fruity Jacksons? I always get so confused.

(Photo attribution: Here)

Side-story: did you know that when I was a kid my parents were so poor (click here for a post about food and gangs from when I lived on the West Side) we weren't allowed to have sugared cereal, and the only time we ever got it was as a present on Christmas morning. There they would be, the boxes of sugared cereal, all lined up in a row beside our stockings. Imagine if you had the hankering for Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Apple Jacks in the same year (say, 1989, for example.)

Disastrous. (No Mom, I have NO IDEA where the rest of Chris's Apple Jacks went...)

In closing, sugared cereal is good for kids because it reduces their need to steal from each other and teaches them about musical icons. So go give your kid a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. Stat.

In defense of Molly

2012-02-08T21:33:00.000-08:00

We live in quite a media-frenzied world.

Because of this, sometimes really hilarious and also semi-traumatizing, but also really hilarious, things happen to people who are your Facebook friends.

Let's talk about one of those things, shall we?

So, I'm not sure if you're aware, but there was something important that happened last Sunday other than church. There was a football game that a lot of people pay attention to. And in said game, there was a quarterback for the Patriots who threw a pass that was dropped in the last quarter. And the guy that dropped that pass was named Wes Welker. And then the Patriots lost. And there's been a lot of buzz.

There are those in this world who do not know these facts, which is totally understandable. It is, after all, a game. My friend, Molly, is one of those people. Or I should say, was one of those people.

Now, she knows.

This is Molly:

Look at all of those Butterfingers.

Molly walked out of her hotel in Boston on her way to Freedom Trail and noticed a pile of literally thousands of Butterfingers. Along-side the butterfingers was a sign. Thinking it was pretty funny, and with no idea who Wes Welker even is, she picked up the sign, had somebody snap a shot for her, and then went on with her day completely unaware of why there was a pile of butterfingers thanking some dude named Wes Welker. Seriously, if you saw a spectacle like that bereft of context, wouldn't you be tempted to take a picture of the sheer magnitude of it?

Turns out, whoever took the picture on her cell-phone for her wasn't the only person that got a shot of Molly standing by the butterfingers with that sign.

Later that day, she saw her picture appear in every sports news media outlet in the universe including NBCSports, USA TODAY, Yahoo! Sports and many, many others.

And the thing that sucks is that Patriots fans WERE NOT NICE TO MOLLY.

Well, I am here to defend Molly. I am here to say, leave Molly alone. She did what any self-respecting citizen with a cell phone who came across 8,000 Butterfingers would do. She snapped a photo. Nothing more than that. She picked up a sign, laughed to herself, and tried to freeze a memory of a strange circumstance. No Patsfan2008, she should not be curb-stomped for that. No EddieRamirez13, nobody should punch her smiling face for that.

Molly is a great person, everybody. We used to eat lunch together when I worked at a middle school teaching English and she worked with special ed. We were really close. Facebook friend close, even. Close enough that a couple of years later when we randomly ran into each other graduating from different Master's programs at the same University on the same day, we didn't even have to think too hard to remember each others' names. We're that close. So, I think it's pretty safe to say that I'm an expert in how awesome Molly is, and why people should leave her the freak alone.

So, spread the word. Molly is not affiliated with the Pawn Shop that sent the tactless jibe. She was the unwitting and totally innocent messenger. Go hate on someone else who is deserving of your ire. Like Hugo Chavez. Or Snooki.

What a moment for the internet and social media! To on one day have bajillions of people see a picture that makes an innocent tourist look like a person flipping the bird to every Patriot fan in existence, and the very next day have approximately 7 to 15 people read the actual story of what happened posted by a blogger who knew the innocent tourist five years ago and gleaned the story from her facebook statuses.

I think today was a red-letter day for technology, people.

I put the "pathetic" in empathetic

2012-01-26T08:50:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or does sometimes the world get you down, too?

I'm an empathetic person. I mean, look at me. Counselor. Father of daughters. Owner of a Hyundai. The guy who can't let go of friends' problems ever ever ever.

Let's say someone I know well has a problem--like, they are getting divorced. Or they've had a death in the family. Or they really sprained their ankle bad. Because I'm an empathetic person, I have a strong reaction to this kind of news.

It sucks.

Most guys hear about a problem around them and they're like "Wow, that blows. Well, I'll see you later. I'm gonna go play some football so I can go tackle any pathetic fool who crosses my path. Don't wait up. After that I'll be at a monster truck rally. Followed by shooting guns. Followed by having a conversation with some buddies about who will win the Superbowl. Followed by eating some nachos. Followed by not giving a crap. Followed by farting. Followed by sleep."

I, on the other hand, am like "perhaps it would be a good idea to think about this situation I can do nothing about endlessly, all day, every day. While I'm at it, maybe it can be inspiration for a sonnet..." *pens a ridiculous poem* "There. Wow, I feel... so much worse. And also my sonnet sucks. I think I'll go drown out my sorrow by playing sad songs on my violin for a minute or two... *three hours later* Yeah. That didn't help anything. Everything is exactly the way it was before I started playing the violin. I can't believe doing that didn't impact the lives of the people that aren't me that I can't get out of my brain. Oh, wait, I know! I'll write 18 emails I'll never send! That might help. *writes 30 drafts of a belabored, overwrought email so sappy, maudlin and ridiculous even the computer screen looks embarrassed* "Yeah. I still feel like crap. Welp, time to turn to my one true friend and the only coping mechanism that has ever really helped me feel better: food." *eats four gallons of ice cream in one sitting while trying to cheer up by watching Modern Family*

And what I just described? That's my reaction to hearing that someone I know got a D on a final they studied hard for. You can imagine how this looks when it's something serious. Like a hangnail. Or suicidal ideation.

As I pondered your situation for 79 hours straight, I decided to quilt you a quick something to say "I'm so sorry about your recent life event."

(Photo attribution: here)

You might say I put the "pathetic" in empathetic.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm the only one.

Am I the only one who, when he encounters a mass murder in the news, feels that it is important to go through the story of each individual victim and visualize how they must have felt in the moment of their demise? You know, just so they didn't die in vain. Because me imagining myself being shot in the face validates their brutal murder. Obviously.

Am I the only one who searches out stories of severe child abuse online, and then obsesses over what he reads to the point where the stories actually enter his dreams, and then finds himself hovering over his daughters like some sort of insane humming bird intent on being awkward and protective?

Am I the only one who feels sad for really lonely things--like the last milk carton left in the store freezer? Or a lone fly buzzing around my house in the late summer, surely the last of the year, all alone, never again to find a huge pile of feces to feast upon? Or certain musical instruments that are rarely played such as the autoharp? Or jello molds? Or Myspace?

These are the questions that keep me up at night, feeling all blue.

But then occasionally, penetrating through the cloud of worry and sadness and empathy that surrounds me, I have a reader who comes into my life and makes me laugh really, really hard.

Today that reader was a guy I've never met named Chris who randomly decided to email me with a very special surprise. Remember this post in which Wife has a conversation with me and we talk about getting a new logo and she basically insinuates I'm ugly and then I take the most heinous picture of myself possible and propose it for my new logo?

Well, check this sucker out:

I don't think I can tell you how much I needed to see a masthead with the ugliest photo ever taken of me made by someone I've never met, that happens to perfectly encapsulate everything this blog is. Completely made my night.

Thanks Chris Perry. You are my new favorite person. And if you have a blog, I want to link to it in this post. But one thing you have in spades? A sense of humor, and some mad photoshop skillz.

I'm seriously considering making this my logo. It might happen if I can figure out how to do it. (Shouldn't I know how to do this type of thing by now, you ask? No. I have empathy. Not technological prowess. So leave me the H alone.)

Sometimes when you're five...

2012-01-21T01:34:00.000-08:00

...you get a hankering to make a video about Martin Luther King, Jr.

During some of the time off that we had this week because Seattle has become Alaska, Anna wanted to make a video about Martin Luther King, Jr. So, Wife helped her and they made a video that actually kind of touched me. It's really short, and it has good information. Like that Martin Luther King did not, in fact, free the slaves like about 35% the Facebook statuses I saw on Monday claimed. Nope... what he did was different than that.

Here, watch. Make my 5-year-old's dream of people seeing this video come true.

There. I'm pretty sure we just made America better.

In other news, after the fact, I came up with the best idea ever for my picture from last post:

This picture would be perfect for an ad for Viagra. Or for a doctor who specializes in E.D. So, if you peddle either of those things, call me! *does air phone*

And finally, I wanted to mention that The Ultimate Foreplaylist is still under construction, but soon it will be up and we will change the world with THAT too.

So, so far in this post we have made America better, helped those with ED, and aided with intimacy. (Which is kinda the same thing. But different.)

Not bad for a quick post at 1:30 in the morning. Go us.

'Night.

The Christmas spirit is still alive. In this thong.

2012-01-18T20:13:00.000-08:00

If you'll recall, last year I got the most awkward white elephant gift known to man at a Christmas party.

This vibrator filled me with the Yuletide spirit

Well, guess what?

I got another incredibly awkward gift this year at the SAME party (from the SAME person, even though it's a numbered gift exchange and the chances of that happening were extremely minute. See? Miracles do happen).

Are you ready for this?

Feast your eyes on:

Santa Banana Hammock!!!!!

(Actually it was awesomely awkward because it ended up being wife who stole it, so it really just looked like her Christmas wish was to see me in it.)

I know, I know. You're extremely disappointed that I didn't model it for you, because that would be hilarious and arousing--a potent combination. Unfortunately, I am nothing if not a modest man, so I opted to save you from ~~feeling your retinas burn out of your eye sockets~~ having to make sure you were in the privacy of your own home to read this post. But to make up for it, I took pictures of it in a couple of Christmas arrangments so that the Christmas spirit can be rekindled in your heart.

Because I'm a giver.

...and popcorn chains, and ornaments, and a male thong with bells on it...

I don't think a more important message could be holding that G-string up on that shelf...

Merry Christmas! <-----You probably don't remember, but last year the vibrator wished you a Merry Christmas in 2011 since it was already past Christmas. So now you can tell people that a male thong wished you a Merry Christmas for 2012! Lucky you.

(PS, those of you who were around last year might remember that shortly after showing off my vibrator white elephant gift, I did a giveaway because of hitting 100 followers, and actually gave it away to someone (along with other prizes). If you'll look to your right, you'll note I reached another follower milestone. Not going to make any promises, but I bet you can guess what I'm contemplating.... get excited!!!)

Conversation snippet #2: Songs that get you "in the mood"

2012-01-07T13:06:00.000-08:00

The following conversation happened as Wife got home from hanging out with some friends. Kiiinda makes you wonder what they were talking about during "girl time."

Wife: I have an idea for a post on your blog...

Me: Oh really?

Wife: Yeah. I think you should do a post on what songs get people "in the mood."

Me: Uh... you realize I write a humor blog, right? Not a sex blog.

Wife: Sure. Whatever. You should do it anyway.

Me: Okay... but how can I make that funny?

Wife: It doesn't have to be funny. I just want to know. *dramatic sexual look*

Me: That "come hither" look is fake, isn't it?

Wife: Listen. Let's just say hypothetically speaking that I would want to make you a mix tape of songs that get us "in the mood." I just want to know what songs to put on such a tape.

Me: Okay, first of all, we're no longer in the 80's. Nobody makes mix tapes. They make playlists. Second, you don't want to make me a mix tape. You want to make you a mix tape so you can think lascivious thoughts while thinking about black men named Lionel Richie. Let's just be real here.

Wife: For your information the song I have been singing in my head all day that made me think of this is not by Lionel Richie. It's by Janet Jackson.

Me: Oh, is it that song that we sang at the lunch table in junior high together that made all of our friends uncomfortable... *starts singing and Wife chimes in* "making love to you, oh it felt so good and ooooooh so riiiight..."

(Aside: we seriously did that. I was in 8th grade and Wife was in 9th grade and she was the illustrious Student Body President of Thomas Jefferson Junior High. So I was basically singing a song with royalty.)

Wife: No. It's... not that one.

Me: Wait, what other Janet Jackson song gets you "in the mood"?

Wife: *hesitates*

Me: Oh, you've gotta tell me now. I have to know this for emergencies.

Wife: *pulls it up on Youtube and presses play*

Me: Okay, so the Janet Jackson song that you would put on your playlist to get you in the mood is called "Let's Wait Awhile?"

Wife: Yes...

Me: Are you listening to these lyrics? She just said "Let's wait a while before we go too far." This song is a total junk-block.

Wife: But she also says "I promise I'll be worth the wait"...

Me: This is probably the only song Janet Jackson ever sang about abstinence. She sings some of the most graphic sexual lyrics out there, and you choose her abstinence anthem for your foreplaylist? I am so confused right now...

Wife: Mmmmm. Just listen to that sultry beat... that sexy synthesizer...*nods head*

Me: Oh, oooooh. I see. Are you sure this has nothing to do with that black guy wearing a turtleneck in the video that looks vaguely like Lionel Richie from the 80's?

Wife: JUST ASK THE QUESTION ON YOUR BLOG! And mention some of my other playlist songs so that people don't think I'm stupid.

Me: Yes, I'm sure mentioning your other songs will change people's perceptions entirely. What kinds of other songs are you talking about?

Wife: Like.... Radiohead's Reckoner. Or... oh man, what was that one song that that one dude sang???

Me: ...I'm beginning to see why you need others' input.

Wife: Please, Toniferous Weedles? Please just ask!

Me: Okay. I'll do it.

(I have the feeling this will be good for me in the long run.)

So, you heard the woman. What song would go on your "in the mood" playlist (aka foreplaylist)? Don't be shy. You know you have one or two. (Even you Sister Warner.)

(Now if you'll excuse me... *lights a fire, turns down lights, applies chapstick and deodorant, then blasts "Let's Wait Awhile"*)

For all the skeptics and haterzz

2012-01-05T01:21:00.000-08:00

that I make up in my head, because nobody has actually been skeptical or haterish.

BUT, here is proof that the Bambi Nuggets conversation actually happened. The other night as I was putting A to bed, she started talking about it again, and this time I had the wherewithal to bust out my phone and record it.

Enjoy the creepiness!