2007 was a tough year.
It began with a job change, and ended with a another potential job change thwarted. In between saw two trips to the hospital for myself, two trips for my grandmother, and the passing of my grandfather.
But it was still a good year. I can't complain. I ran races and won cases. I came this close to fulfilling my dream of becoming an FBI agent, however, I still enjoy the job I have. I more or less kept my resolution of purging fast food from my diet (less than one trip a month to the drive-thru), and I ran my fastest marathon time yet. My 28th year is concluding in a generally healthier and happier way than the prior 27 have.
What I'm saying is this...despite the setbacks, the frustrations and the occasionally heartache, I still have my friends, my family and my striking good looks ;-/
I sincerely hope you and yours have a joyous new year. Here's to 2008 being the best one yet...
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Back Again
Well folks, it's been few since I've thrown some info your way, but for good reason. I was chillin' with the Mayans in sunny Mexico. The wife and I made our way south of the border to catch some zzzzzs and some rays. It was a much needed and much appreciated break. Pictures will follow...
I promise none of them will involve me with my shirt off.
I promise none of them will involve me with my shirt off.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Marathon Man
This is a little belated, but given how I didn't start this blog until December, I need to go back a bit, but this is funny enough to insert here. Peep this photo of me finishing the Indianapolis 500 festival mini-marathon:
That's me in black with the wristband. I was pretty excited about my finish time. I even bragged to friends. But all that was tempered when I got this photo back. Why?
A: The ridiculously unathletic-looking woman in the visor leisurely strolling through the finish.
B: The ancient dying Chinese man in the lower left hand corner being carried off by EMTs.
They both finished ahead of me? Mr. Myagi and Aunt Phyllis were faster than me, who had been training since January and had his best time ever?
The photo doesn't lie. I'm no hare, but Aesop himself couldn't have made this humbling point any clearer.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Why I Don't Have Children - A Memo To My Generation
I hate soccer.
It's boring when adults play it; it's infuriating when children play it. Yet it's a mandate that every man who bears fruit from his loins don elastic waist Champion sweatshorts and a t-shirt with a 'Sponsored by Winkler's Restaurant' iron-on drag his butt out of bed every Saturday morning to stroll the sidelines screaming at nine uncoordinated toddlers trying to kick a ball that they'd just as soon poop on.
After not keeping score because 'everyone-is- a-winner', they must chaperone the future Beckhams at the local Pizza Hut where inevitably Taylor starts crying because Bailey just tied her braided pigtails in a knot. Noah, Schyler and Peyton clap with glee.
Jaden is in the women's restroom trying to flush Caitlyn down the toilet, but you can't intervene because some red-faced mother is trying to attach a 'bad-touch' stigma to your discipline.
I hate birthday parties.
Ethan's turning three. He should be happy because you've dropped seven hundred dollars between food, gifts and a cake. Yet he's screaming because Dylan just kicked him in his balls and is playing with the Transformers action figure you got him last Christmas, but hasn't even played with since New Year's. All this and you're trying to discreetly and quietly explain to a frightened but inquisitively loud Caleb why J'enea's parents are a different color than you.
Creepy Uncle Don just told an racist joke and everyone is uncomfortably squirming. Great-Grandma is complaining about her back and Jerry the fat neighbor is just looking for mustard for his bratwurst.
No one invited him, but he saw the cars in the driveway.
Finally, and most importantly, I hate Disney cruises.
You toil hard year-round for a work-week's worth of vacation time. You only have five days left because the rest has been spent staying at home with the kids because of a phantom sore throat, a cry-wolf tummy ache and a particularly nasty bout of chicken pox. So you spend your annual bonus on four round-trip coach tickets to Orlando and a two-queen, windowless cruiseliner room that barely fits the suitcases, let alone the family.
You can't drop the kids off in the Hannah Montana Kidz Zone© because Olivia won't let go of your ankle and Connor's been banned because he peed in the wading pool. So instead of sipping Pina Colada's and trying to convince the wife to let you explore the topless deck, you're in your room playing Go Fish and munching cold, room-service tater tots.
Now don't get me wrong - ideally, I'd love to have kids. I think I'd enjoy summer nights playing catch with the boy or tea party with the girl. I'd teach them how to shoot a basketball and take (helmetless) bike rides into the sunset. They'd kiss my cheek when I tuck them in after I'd rid the closet of any and all scary monsters. I'd wipe their tears when they skin their knee. In the winter we'd blow on our hot chocolate to cool it after shedding our snow-crusted coats. They'd throw their little arms around my neck in genuine appreciation of their modest presents on Christmas morning. I'd be proud with them of their accomplishments and sad with them of their disappointments.
But in today's environment, kids can't just be kids. They have to have shoes with roller skates that light up and wear knee pads as they jump on their inflatable lawn bouncer while avoiding peanuts. Parents today have created a culture that stifles creativity and projects crushing peer-pressure to have the latest, greatest piece of crap. It's as if some conspiratorial Spanish-speaking Explorer has infiltrated the minds of twenty-and-thirty-somethings and brainwashed them into buying into all this madness for the sake of their children. It's overpowering and overwhelming. How are you going to tell your daughter that they can't have a Bratz doll when she's crying because all her friends at school have them? How are you going to tell your son that he can't trade his Yu-gi-oh cards with the neighbor kids because he'll be left out if he doesn't have them? Sure, you can put your foot down and tell them no, but they'll use it as an excuse later when they turn thirteen and get preggers/do drugs/shoot you in your sleep.
For the moment, I'd rather stand on the sideline. And not on the sideline as the soccer coaching, whistleblowing, nut-hugger wearing, trying-too-hard blowhard dad. Maybe someday I'll change my mind, but in the meantime I have a message for all you Gen XY parents out there:
Coddle these.
It's boring when adults play it; it's infuriating when children play it. Yet it's a mandate that every man who bears fruit from his loins don elastic waist Champion sweatshorts and a t-shirt with a 'Sponsored by Winkler's Restaurant' iron-on drag his butt out of bed every Saturday morning to stroll the sidelines screaming at nine uncoordinated toddlers trying to kick a ball that they'd just as soon poop on.
After not keeping score because 'everyone-is- a-winner', they must chaperone the future Beckhams at the local Pizza Hut where inevitably Taylor starts crying because Bailey just tied her braided pigtails in a knot. Noah, Schyler and Peyton clap with glee.
Jaden is in the women's restroom trying to flush Caitlyn down the toilet, but you can't intervene because some red-faced mother is trying to attach a 'bad-touch' stigma to your discipline.
I hate birthday parties.
Ethan's turning three. He should be happy because you've dropped seven hundred dollars between food, gifts and a cake. Yet he's screaming because Dylan just kicked him in his balls and is playing with the Transformers action figure you got him last Christmas, but hasn't even played with since New Year's. All this and you're trying to discreetly and quietly explain to a frightened but inquisitively loud Caleb why J'enea's parents are a different color than you.
Creepy Uncle Don just told an racist joke and everyone is uncomfortably squirming. Great-Grandma is complaining about her back and Jerry the fat neighbor is just looking for mustard for his bratwurst.
No one invited him, but he saw the cars in the driveway.
Finally, and most importantly, I hate Disney cruises.
You toil hard year-round for a work-week's worth of vacation time. You only have five days left because the rest has been spent staying at home with the kids because of a phantom sore throat, a cry-wolf tummy ache and a particularly nasty bout of chicken pox. So you spend your annual bonus on four round-trip coach tickets to Orlando and a two-queen, windowless cruiseliner room that barely fits the suitcases, let alone the family.
You can't drop the kids off in the Hannah Montana Kidz Zone© because Olivia won't let go of your ankle and Connor's been banned because he peed in the wading pool. So instead of sipping Pina Colada's and trying to convince the wife to let you explore the topless deck, you're in your room playing Go Fish and munching cold, room-service tater tots.
Now don't get me wrong - ideally, I'd love to have kids. I think I'd enjoy summer nights playing catch with the boy or tea party with the girl. I'd teach them how to shoot a basketball and take (helmetless) bike rides into the sunset. They'd kiss my cheek when I tuck them in after I'd rid the closet of any and all scary monsters. I'd wipe their tears when they skin their knee. In the winter we'd blow on our hot chocolate to cool it after shedding our snow-crusted coats. They'd throw their little arms around my neck in genuine appreciation of their modest presents on Christmas morning. I'd be proud with them of their accomplishments and sad with them of their disappointments.
But in today's environment, kids can't just be kids. They have to have shoes with roller skates that light up and wear knee pads as they jump on their inflatable lawn bouncer while avoiding peanuts. Parents today have created a culture that stifles creativity and projects crushing peer-pressure to have the latest, greatest piece of crap. It's as if some conspiratorial Spanish-speaking Explorer has infiltrated the minds of twenty-and-thirty-somethings and brainwashed them into buying into all this madness for the sake of their children. It's overpowering and overwhelming. How are you going to tell your daughter that they can't have a Bratz doll when she's crying because all her friends at school have them? How are you going to tell your son that he can't trade his Yu-gi-oh cards with the neighbor kids because he'll be left out if he doesn't have them? Sure, you can put your foot down and tell them no, but they'll use it as an excuse later when they turn thirteen and get preggers/do drugs/shoot you in your sleep.
For the moment, I'd rather stand on the sideline. And not on the sideline as the soccer coaching, whistleblowing, nut-hugger wearing, trying-too-hard blowhard dad. Maybe someday I'll change my mind, but in the meantime I have a message for all you Gen XY parents out there:
Coddle these.
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Commute
I have a relatively easy commute to work. It's a 25 minute strait shot to downtown Indy from the south side. We don't have parking at the building off the circle, so we have to ride a shuttle from the parking lot.
It's a disaster.
Buried beneath the coats, purses, scarves, and lunch coolers; smashed against the window; and squashed between two large-bottomed gossiping women, I find myself each morning just one of the many employees foregoing the six-block walk from the parking lot to commute in the warm convenience of the shuttle buses.
This morning, there were appromately 73 passengers crammed into a 20-seat people mover.
With an elbow sticking into my ribs and the kneecap into my neck, I decided to walk from now on.
Before I disappeared in the seat cushions, my cries for help were drowned out by the Christian worship music blaring on the bus’s stereo and the morning banter of the chatty busybodies who are much too wide awake for 7:32 a.m. on a Wednesday.
It's a disaster.
Buried beneath the coats, purses, scarves, and lunch coolers; smashed against the window; and squashed between two large-bottomed gossiping women, I find myself each morning just one of the many employees foregoing the six-block walk from the parking lot to commute in the warm convenience of the shuttle buses.
This morning, there were appromately 73 passengers crammed into a 20-seat people mover.
With an elbow sticking into my ribs and the kneecap into my neck, I decided to walk from now on.
Before I disappeared in the seat cushions, my cries for help were drowned out by the Christian worship music blaring on the bus’s stereo and the morning banter of the chatty busybodies who are much too wide awake for 7:32 a.m. on a Wednesday.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
A Note About the Name
Tortfeasor n: One who commits a tort; a wrongdoer.
Tortfeezor n: More phonetical way to spell tortfeasor.
It's probably way too presumptuous to preface a blog with the announcement that I make my living as an attorney. But since only those of us who were dumb enough to sign up for law school know what a tort is, I suppose the title needs some explanation.
I'm not a wrongdoer necessarily. I keep my nose clean and my head down. But I wanted some kind of cool sounding term to title my blog. This isn't going to be a legal blog, because my idea of leisure isn't a daily dissertation on lost property statutes or the merits of an S-Corp.
Rather, this blog will be about my perfectly average life - a twenty-something, married midwesterner who will likely be the only one reading these posts. But it's a creative outlet. I need that. Like I said...I'm an attorney. The most creative decision I've made all year is the decision to switch the font on my pleadings from New Times Roman to Arial (which is going swimmingly, btw).
So here it is. Post numero uno.
Thanks for reading, faithful audience.
Tortfeezor n: More phonetical way to spell tortfeasor.
It's probably way too presumptuous to preface a blog with the announcement that I make my living as an attorney. But since only those of us who were dumb enough to sign up for law school know what a tort is, I suppose the title needs some explanation.
I'm not a wrongdoer necessarily. I keep my nose clean and my head down. But I wanted some kind of cool sounding term to title my blog. This isn't going to be a legal blog, because my idea of leisure isn't a daily dissertation on lost property statutes or the merits of an S-Corp.
Rather, this blog will be about my perfectly average life - a twenty-something, married midwesterner who will likely be the only one reading these posts. But it's a creative outlet. I need that. Like I said...I'm an attorney. The most creative decision I've made all year is the decision to switch the font on my pleadings from New Times Roman to Arial (which is going swimmingly, btw).
So here it is. Post numero uno.
Thanks for reading, faithful audience.
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