I haven't posted for a while - mostly due to a very hectic travel schedule, including two weeks in Asia on business. It was a great trip both from a business perspective and because it was my first time to that part of the world, but it was a long time to be away from my family. I haven't been away from them for that long, ever, and I was struck by just how much they have changed - not that they grew so much in two weeks, but that the two-week separation from them showed me how quickly they are growing up. When I see them every day, getting dressed, getting ready for school, playing and participating in various activities, it becomes a seamless stream of events, so I rarely notice their aging. It is only upon a noteworthy event, such as a graduation or birthday that I stop to think how quickly it is going by. Being away for two weeks qualifies as such a noteworthy event because when you're a half a world away, two weeks seems like two months.
I bought the girls China dolls in, well, China, and the dolls are based on an actual queen, empress, and princess from ancient China. The girls were very excited to get them and we were talking about how they were queens and princesses, etc. and I said, "just like the Disney princesses". To which my oldest said, "I don't really like Disney processes anymore." And she said it not in a mean way, but in a matter of fact, 'that's kids' stuff' kind of way - and she may as well have hit me in the face with a baseball bat. My princess grew out of princesses? How can that be?? It was only two years ago that we were in Disney World and she was so awestruck by Cinderella that she would barely go near her for a picture! And now, two years later, no princesses? I was crushed. Who replaced my baby with an adolescent while I wasn't looking? And right after she said it I had to catch myself from screaming, "You do too still like princesses! You have to!" But, she doesn't have to, and Disney has been replaced by American Girl dolls, and computer games, and Hannah Montana concerts. And I can only look at those pictures from our trip to Disney World and wonder how two years can feel like a lifetime.
Speaking of computer games (and Hannah Montana), several of her friends now have the Wii video games system, which for the uninitiated (for example, me, until about two months ago), Wii is an interactive video game system where you actually perform the action that happens on the screen. If, for example, you are playing Wii Tennis, you swing an electronic stick as if you were swinging a real racket. And I have to tell you, this is the coolest thing I have seen in a long time. I played tennis, golf, bowling, and baseball, but there are also things like Hannah Montana Dance - where you have to keep up with on-screen dancers, and Guitar Hero where you have to play the notes of songs on a fake guitar as the notes on the screen come down faster and faster. The technology is amazing - I think we're going to have to get it for the girls, but I'm holding out for Wii natural childbirth and Wii colonoscopy - anyone can play tennis.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Valentine's Day Massacre
Well, its been about two weeks since Valentine's Day and my ribs are just now recovering from the beating I took in the card store. There were two or three women who were also shopping for cards and between them they worked me over like Wilt Chaimberlain boxing out for a rebound. Every time I went for a card on the rack I would be nudged over, stepped in front of, and outright elbowed out of the way! When you throw in the annoyed sidelong glances and frustrated sighs, I was about as welcome as Brian McNamee and a Clemens family reunion. I don't mean to generalize (ok, maybe I do), but women are like surgeons when standing at a card rack - every move is calculated, precise, and purposeful. They move around one another like they can read each other's mind, and apparently, I was completely screwing up their routine. But women have a distinct advantage at a card rack that men don't have - cards writers write all of their cards for women. That is true of most holidays and occasions, but it is especially true on Valentine's Day.
I could have been at that card rack for four days and read every single card in there, but as a man, I am left with two choices by the Card-Writers of America: a four page Shakespearean love sonnet that no man from the last 300 years would actually say out loud, or a variation on the following theme: "I am a no-good, lousy-dressing, out-of-shape, lay-about, do-nothing, loser that doesn't deserve you, but since I acknowledge that fact in a corny card once a year on a made up holiday, everything is ok." That's it, those are my two choices. I am either an effeminate, emasculated sap, or an oafish loser who depends completely on his wife for every basic need. Thanks greeting card industry for that Hobson's Choice, really appreciate your efforts here. Feeling really manly in a card store to begin with, so thanks for that final knee to the groin. Next time throw in an ax murderer theme too, and maybe a thumb-sucking imbecile, so I can branch out in my greeting card persona. Are there any normal human beings who write greeting cards? Do they really believe that guys fall into one of these two categories? I know that greeting card people pander to the type of people who find Ziggy amusingly relevant, but come on! Throw me a small bone here.
And what about the recipient of these cards? I would be completely insulted if I were a woman and received one of these cards. I want to meet (actually, maybe I don't) the woman who actually enjoys receiving the four page sappy sonnet card. First of all, the prose is throw-up inducing awful, and whoever sits around and writes it should be taken out back and beaten. And second, do the women who receive them honestly believe that the guy put any thought whatsoever into reading all of them and then picking out the throw-up inducing one that best summarizes how he feels about her? Do women actually read the card and think to themselves, "wow, he must really care about me and our relationship." Are some women really that dumb? No guy has ever read more than two lines of one of these cards. Most of it is written in tiny, flowy cursive anyway and who's eyes don't glaze over after one or two sentences of tiny, flowy cursive? No, he just picked the one that looked nice with the lace doily border and red envelope, went over to the next aisle and picked out a box of year-old heart-shaped chocolates and was out the door in 45 seconds. I guarantee you that he put more thought into his lunch order that day than he did picking out that card.
And what if a woman received a card from door number two (the "I'm and idiot" card)? If I were a woman reading this a light bulb would go off - woman thinking to herself as she's reading the card: "You know, you really are a loser. I can't believe I actually married you. I'm calling a lawyer first thing tomorrow- after I get my nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. And thanks for the chocolate, I've only been trying to lose this last ten pounds of baby weight for a year and a half, this should help."
So, if those are my two choices next year I'm going to save my ribs - and my psyche - another beating and do what any normal guy does under the circumstances: buy her a piece of jewelry and have my kids make a card.
I could have been at that card rack for four days and read every single card in there, but as a man, I am left with two choices by the Card-Writers of America: a four page Shakespearean love sonnet that no man from the last 300 years would actually say out loud, or a variation on the following theme: "I am a no-good, lousy-dressing, out-of-shape, lay-about, do-nothing, loser that doesn't deserve you, but since I acknowledge that fact in a corny card once a year on a made up holiday, everything is ok." That's it, those are my two choices. I am either an effeminate, emasculated sap, or an oafish loser who depends completely on his wife for every basic need. Thanks greeting card industry for that Hobson's Choice, really appreciate your efforts here. Feeling really manly in a card store to begin with, so thanks for that final knee to the groin. Next time throw in an ax murderer theme too, and maybe a thumb-sucking imbecile, so I can branch out in my greeting card persona. Are there any normal human beings who write greeting cards? Do they really believe that guys fall into one of these two categories? I know that greeting card people pander to the type of people who find Ziggy amusingly relevant, but come on! Throw me a small bone here.
And what about the recipient of these cards? I would be completely insulted if I were a woman and received one of these cards. I want to meet (actually, maybe I don't) the woman who actually enjoys receiving the four page sappy sonnet card. First of all, the prose is throw-up inducing awful, and whoever sits around and writes it should be taken out back and beaten. And second, do the women who receive them honestly believe that the guy put any thought whatsoever into reading all of them and then picking out the throw-up inducing one that best summarizes how he feels about her? Do women actually read the card and think to themselves, "wow, he must really care about me and our relationship." Are some women really that dumb? No guy has ever read more than two lines of one of these cards. Most of it is written in tiny, flowy cursive anyway and who's eyes don't glaze over after one or two sentences of tiny, flowy cursive? No, he just picked the one that looked nice with the lace doily border and red envelope, went over to the next aisle and picked out a box of year-old heart-shaped chocolates and was out the door in 45 seconds. I guarantee you that he put more thought into his lunch order that day than he did picking out that card.
And what if a woman received a card from door number two (the "I'm and idiot" card)? If I were a woman reading this a light bulb would go off - woman thinking to herself as she's reading the card: "You know, you really are a loser. I can't believe I actually married you. I'm calling a lawyer first thing tomorrow- after I get my nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. And thanks for the chocolate, I've only been trying to lose this last ten pounds of baby weight for a year and a half, this should help."
So, if those are my two choices next year I'm going to save my ribs - and my psyche - another beating and do what any normal guy does under the circumstances: buy her a piece of jewelry and have my kids make a card.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Heath Ledger
We here at Curtin's Corner pride ourselves at never (ok, rarely) taking a cheap shot, especially at someone who's not around to defend himself, so rest assured, this post pokes no fun at Heath Ledger. I didn't know him, I can't say for sure if I ever saw him in a movie, and I don't know much about him other than he was a good-looking Australian actor who seemed to prefer avoiding the Hollywood "scene" (actually, for this last reason alone, he was ok in my book, even though I didn't know this about him until I read the stories following his death. Call it a posthumous thumbs up). So, I will not mock the dead. I just hope he didn't commit suicide, because he seemed to have a lot going for him with an A-list movie career and a baby daughter going for him, at a minimum. (Incidentally, how is one a suicide "victim" exactly? Victim to me implies that some outside act or actor had something to do with causing your harm. If you off yourself, it occurs to me that you are not a victim at all. Yet, I digress).
But how about the reaction of the maid and the masseuse? Now there is a pair I can make fun of. I completely understand the maid not disturbing Heath (he's dead now, so I can go first name right?) when she first got there. His bedroom door is closed, he's a Hollywood actor type who may like to entertain (ahem) female guests (or male for that matter, I'm not judging - maybe "Brokeback Mountain" awoke previously slumbering tendencies), or party into the wee hours and sleep in - no problem. But, when the masseuse arrives and they finally decide to disturb him, the reaction is nothing short of comedic genius:
Maid, "Heath is not waking up!"
Masseuse, "And he's a pale blue color!"
Maid, "He doesn't appear to be breathing!!"
Masseuse, "My God, we have to call....Mary Kate Olsen!!!
Now, I am trained in CPR and First Aid (true story), but I must have been absent the day the Red Cross taught us to call Mary Kate Freaking Olsen if I encounter an unresponsive, unconscious person! Seriously, Mary Kate Olsen?? Putting aside any issues I may or may not have with the vapid, talentless, anorexic, useless Olsen twins, but if you are the maid and/or masseuse and you are in your employer's apartment, and you have found said employer unconscious, unresponsive, not breathing and blue, and your first thought is to call Mary Kate Olsen? Is this a Hollywood thing? Is she known in the industry as the "go to" person in case of emergency? Or did they scroll through his cell phone contact list and debate the merits of the people they found and decided that Mary Kate was the best of the lot? And if, so, how many names did they hit before they reached the M's (or O's for that matter)?
Maid, "What about Armando Assante? No? Brian Benson? No?, Josh Brolin?... C, D, E, F, G - how about Mel Gibson? I mean, he's Australian and likes Heath - should we call Mel?" Masseuse, Wait!! I've got it - I'm calling Mary Kate Olsen, she'll know what to do!!"
I just can't get past the fact that Mary Kate Olsen somehow ended up as their choice. And she was in Santa Monica freaking California when they called!! (Just to recap, unconscious guy, not breathing, in New York City - let's get someone in California on the horn asap!) But, I'm being petty I know, because Mary Kate Olsen completely validated their faith in her by advising them that she'd be sending...her team of four bodyguards. I can just hear an unconscious Heath now: "Mary Kate's four bodyguards are on their way? Thank God, for a second I was in real trouble here."
I mean, this was quickly becoming an idiot contest and Mary Kate somehow lost! Any normal person would have said (well, you know what any normal person would have said so I won't insult your intelligence...but just so I can complete the thought), "Hang up and call 911! Hang up and call EMS!! Hang up and call the fire department, police!!" But, no, not that emergency crisis management guru Mary Kate Olsen - she is going to send her crack team of four bodyguards over. Poor Heath didn't stand a chance if this mensa meeting was deciding his fate.
One last thought, the ultimate lesson here is - actually, the ultimate lesson is not to surround yourself with idiots - but the penultimate lesson here is that if you are famous you should always be nice to your neighbors - because if you die a tragic death and the newspaper reporters show up, your neighbors will have a lot to do with how you are remembered. Think of the power Heath's neighbors wielded in the hours after his death - they could have crushed the guy! He's not around to defend himself and a reporter sticks a microphone into the face of a disgruntled neighbor? "Well, Heath used to get his mail in a pink babydoll negligee and white thigh high stockings, but otherwise he was pretty quiet. Well, except for all of the satanic chanting, but that was only every other day."
Rest in Peace, Heath. Your fatal flaw appears to be the intelligence of the people with whom you surrounded yourself.
But how about the reaction of the maid and the masseuse? Now there is a pair I can make fun of. I completely understand the maid not disturbing Heath (he's dead now, so I can go first name right?) when she first got there. His bedroom door is closed, he's a Hollywood actor type who may like to entertain (ahem) female guests (or male for that matter, I'm not judging - maybe "Brokeback Mountain" awoke previously slumbering tendencies), or party into the wee hours and sleep in - no problem. But, when the masseuse arrives and they finally decide to disturb him, the reaction is nothing short of comedic genius:
Maid, "Heath is not waking up!"
Masseuse, "And he's a pale blue color!"
Maid, "He doesn't appear to be breathing!!"
Masseuse, "My God, we have to call....Mary Kate Olsen!!!
Now, I am trained in CPR and First Aid (true story), but I must have been absent the day the Red Cross taught us to call Mary Kate Freaking Olsen if I encounter an unresponsive, unconscious person! Seriously, Mary Kate Olsen?? Putting aside any issues I may or may not have with the vapid, talentless, anorexic, useless Olsen twins, but if you are the maid and/or masseuse and you are in your employer's apartment, and you have found said employer unconscious, unresponsive, not breathing and blue, and your first thought is to call Mary Kate Olsen? Is this a Hollywood thing? Is she known in the industry as the "go to" person in case of emergency? Or did they scroll through his cell phone contact list and debate the merits of the people they found and decided that Mary Kate was the best of the lot? And if, so, how many names did they hit before they reached the M's (or O's for that matter)?
Maid, "What about Armando Assante? No? Brian Benson? No?, Josh Brolin?... C, D, E, F, G - how about Mel Gibson? I mean, he's Australian and likes Heath - should we call Mel?" Masseuse, Wait!! I've got it - I'm calling Mary Kate Olsen, she'll know what to do!!"
I just can't get past the fact that Mary Kate Olsen somehow ended up as their choice. And she was in Santa Monica freaking California when they called!! (Just to recap, unconscious guy, not breathing, in New York City - let's get someone in California on the horn asap!) But, I'm being petty I know, because Mary Kate Olsen completely validated their faith in her by advising them that she'd be sending...her team of four bodyguards. I can just hear an unconscious Heath now: "Mary Kate's four bodyguards are on their way? Thank God, for a second I was in real trouble here."
I mean, this was quickly becoming an idiot contest and Mary Kate somehow lost! Any normal person would have said (well, you know what any normal person would have said so I won't insult your intelligence...but just so I can complete the thought), "Hang up and call 911! Hang up and call EMS!! Hang up and call the fire department, police!!" But, no, not that emergency crisis management guru Mary Kate Olsen - she is going to send her crack team of four bodyguards over. Poor Heath didn't stand a chance if this mensa meeting was deciding his fate.
One last thought, the ultimate lesson here is - actually, the ultimate lesson is not to surround yourself with idiots - but the penultimate lesson here is that if you are famous you should always be nice to your neighbors - because if you die a tragic death and the newspaper reporters show up, your neighbors will have a lot to do with how you are remembered. Think of the power Heath's neighbors wielded in the hours after his death - they could have crushed the guy! He's not around to defend himself and a reporter sticks a microphone into the face of a disgruntled neighbor? "Well, Heath used to get his mail in a pink babydoll negligee and white thigh high stockings, but otherwise he was pretty quiet. Well, except for all of the satanic chanting, but that was only every other day."
Rest in Peace, Heath. Your fatal flaw appears to be the intelligence of the people with whom you surrounded yourself.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Its Australian For Beer
One of the dangers of letting my children watch tv is their exposure to commercials. We don't let them watch anything other than Disney Channel or Nickelodian, but even on those channels they will run into a commercial or two for something other than the latest gooey art gel or Barbie Princess palace (or Barbie Laundromat, Barbie Off-Track Betting Parlor, or Barbie Oil Change Shop - I'm pretty sure that with thre girls, I have every Barbie "location" they produce). Just before Christmas, the girls saw an infomercial-type add for a Betty Crocker cake decorating kit, and they decided that it would be the perfect thing for my wife for Christmas. So they wrote it in their amended Christmas letter to Santa...a day before Christmas Eve. Now, Santa is pretty good, but he's not that good. So, in his letter back to the kids, Santa explained that this was a pretty popular gift this year, and he ran out and would have to mail the kit to Mommy. Problem solved, and I'm just glad that the local Porche dealership and jewelry store don't advertise on Disney or Nick.
But it got me thinking, why do infomercials always use Australians (or American actors with absolutely horrific Australian accent impressions)? Do people trust Australians more than a U.S. English speaker? Does it make the product sound exotic or special? Do consumers believe the products are made in Australia (because everyone knows, one could never hope to get the combo vegetable slicer/insulin pump with the "never dull" knives/hide-a-key from anywhere in the continental United States). Do the marketing companies do focus groups on how consumers react to different accents. I would love to see the "buy-ability scale" they came up with. In other words, I am dying to know from whom U.S. consumers would be most likely to buy a product, from whom they would be least likely to buy, and I want to see every rank in between. If you were a budding infomercial actor, wouldn't this be helpful knowledge? Australian? You're in - you'll likely never be out of work and you'll be a sure-fire, first ballot Infomercial Hall of Fame inductee five years after you retire. If I had to guess the bottom, I'd have to go with Middle Eastern. No offense to them (well, no offence to the ones who aren't currently trying to blow us up), but I think in this post-9/11 world, you are not going to win over the hearts and minds of Mr. and Mrs. Middle America with Achmed selling your juicer/wart remover. Next up from the bottom - given that middle America isn't too bright (the average American, not geographically) - I'd have to go with "any accent that sounds remotely Middle Eastern". So unless the product is a fallafal maker, sorry, any wanna-be infomercial actor from Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan (any of your 'stans, really), Turkey, you'll have to find your acting success as extras/bad guys on "24" or as the villains in any Steven Segal movies. Next up from the bottom, French. 'Nuff said. And, of course German, because no one wants anyone screaming at them in German. Back to the top, I'd have to go with any Australian-like accents to be in a virtual second place dead heat, so "good on ya" New Zealand, Tasmania, South Africa, and Zimbabwe - any company that can't find an Aussie will be on the horn to you in no time! I'd probably go with England next, but only if they speak the Queen's English and not cockney - too soccer hooligan for John Q. Public.
I have never been to Australia, but I wonder who does their infomercials? Do they value a U.S. accent, and if, so, which one? Texas drawl? Hillbilly? Minnesota? California surfer dude? (I think we can safely rule out New York and Boston, don't you?) I could all be missing my true calling - selling waffle-maker/dvd players to millions of Australians. If you'll excuse me, I have to go find an infomercial agent.
But it got me thinking, why do infomercials always use Australians (or American actors with absolutely horrific Australian accent impressions)? Do people trust Australians more than a U.S. English speaker? Does it make the product sound exotic or special? Do consumers believe the products are made in Australia (because everyone knows, one could never hope to get the combo vegetable slicer/insulin pump with the "never dull" knives/hide-a-key from anywhere in the continental United States). Do the marketing companies do focus groups on how consumers react to different accents. I would love to see the "buy-ability scale" they came up with. In other words, I am dying to know from whom U.S. consumers would be most likely to buy a product, from whom they would be least likely to buy, and I want to see every rank in between. If you were a budding infomercial actor, wouldn't this be helpful knowledge? Australian? You're in - you'll likely never be out of work and you'll be a sure-fire, first ballot Infomercial Hall of Fame inductee five years after you retire. If I had to guess the bottom, I'd have to go with Middle Eastern. No offense to them (well, no offence to the ones who aren't currently trying to blow us up), but I think in this post-9/11 world, you are not going to win over the hearts and minds of Mr. and Mrs. Middle America with Achmed selling your juicer/wart remover. Next up from the bottom - given that middle America isn't too bright (the average American, not geographically) - I'd have to go with "any accent that sounds remotely Middle Eastern". So unless the product is a fallafal maker, sorry, any wanna-be infomercial actor from Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan (any of your 'stans, really), Turkey, you'll have to find your acting success as extras/bad guys on "24" or as the villains in any Steven Segal movies. Next up from the bottom, French. 'Nuff said. And, of course German, because no one wants anyone screaming at them in German. Back to the top, I'd have to go with any Australian-like accents to be in a virtual second place dead heat, so "good on ya" New Zealand, Tasmania, South Africa, and Zimbabwe - any company that can't find an Aussie will be on the horn to you in no time! I'd probably go with England next, but only if they speak the Queen's English and not cockney - too soccer hooligan for John Q. Public.
I have never been to Australia, but I wonder who does their infomercials? Do they value a U.S. accent, and if, so, which one? Texas drawl? Hillbilly? Minnesota? California surfer dude? (I think we can safely rule out New York and Boston, don't you?) I could all be missing my true calling - selling waffle-maker/dvd players to millions of Australians. If you'll excuse me, I have to go find an infomercial agent.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Christmas Letter 2007 - Erratum
My sister noticed a reference to a wonderful 2006 and best wishes for 2007 in my Christmas Letter, and I apologize - I had no idea it was 2007, I must have blacked out for a while. No, seriously, unintentional mistakes in my Christmas Letters are like a "Where's Waldo" - there's always at least one, you just have to look for it.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Christmas Letter 2007
So I was doing a bit of online Christmas shopping the other day and I had to fill out my billing/shipping information, and after ‘name’ there was a space for ‘Alias’ (true story). And sure, I probably shouldn’t have been shopping for that sawed-off shotgun on-line, but hey, I’m a busy guy! Seriously, Alias? I think we have finally reached the point at which on-line retailers are asking for a bit too much information. But, who am I to question the retail industry? So, greetings from Paul, a.k.a. Pauly, Paul Sean, Daddy, Rod, Boon, Spider, Curtin, Curty, Benny the Nose, Nicky the Scar, Sweetie, Lovey, Tennessee Slim, Ace, Drapes, The Boston Strangler, the Fonz, and Mordicai “Three Fingers” Brown. Welcome to the Curtin Compound – Official Home of the Curtin Christmas Letter 2007!
Actually, now that our Julia (now 6) is taking an art class, welcome to the four square feet of our house not currently occupied by her art projects. Wow. And we thought she churned out a lot of art projects on her own (for further discussion of said topic, please see Christmas Letter 2006 on my blog at http://pscurtin.blogspot.com/ and, for the uninitiated, for every Curtin Christmas Letter since they began ‘lo these many years ago - as well as other inane musings from a frustrated writer). Kat swears to me that this art class is only once per week, but a six year old girl cannot possibly churn out this much shi…stuff while working for an hour, one day per week. I think she is secretly running a sweatshop of four and five year old art students, and she slaps a “Julia” label on their work and brings it home (hey, it works for Nike). And she doesn’t bring these projects home piecemeal (or, ‘one-at-a-time’ for the idiots reading this Letter), instead, once every month, she comes home with a garbage bag (Irony Alert!) full of that month’s work. And we have to sit in the den while she “reveals” her projects. Meanwhile, I am knee-deep in glitter, paper, wood, Styrofoam, and tissue paper. You wanna do something about global warming, go after the art teachers – there can’t be a tree left on this planet because they have all been turned into paper and wood projects that now reside in my house. I’m thinking of starting a rainforest in my basement. OK, that being said, she is sooo proud of herself during these art shows that we can’t even stand it. She is a sweet, happy, sensitive, precocious (again, ‘bright’ or ‘inventive’ for the idiots) little girl, and a joy to be around. She still loves her Irish Step Dancing, skiing, soccer, and yes, art class, and has proven to be a wonderful first grade student.
Her sister Emma meanwhile, is now 8 and streaking toward double digits and (GASP!) pre-teenage years at light speed. Over my strenuous objections (which gives you a little window into how effective my objections are in my house, strenuous or otherwise) Kat took Emma to her first concert this year – the American Idol Tour. She had such a good time that she quit school, moved out, bought a VW bus, painted it rainbow, and follows the Idol Tour, supporting herself by selling organic grilled cheeses to the other “Idolheads”. OK, actually, that didn’t really happen, but it was one of the irrational thoughts that went through my head when I found out my baby girl was going to her first concert. Emma continues to amaze us with her maturity, intelligence, and grace. She is an honor student in third grade and she loves her Irish Step Dancing, skiing, soccer, lacrosse, and Theatre group (the Fall performance found her as a woodland mobster – youse got a problem wit that? - in a modern adaptation of The Tortoise and the Hare called, “Put Your Money on the Bunny”. Meanwhile, I lost a cool five grand because I thought the freaking rabbit was winning this time).
As for our youngest daughter, well, let’s just say that Tropical Storm Annie has increased in strength over the Atlantic Ocean, and is now Hurricane Annie – and she’s bearing down on the coast of Connecticut. Shutter the windows and hide the valuables for the love of God! Annie is three and a half and, quite frankly, I can’t do her justice in print. But, since that is the only medium currently available to me, here goes: Trouble. Also, dangerous. And while we’re here: strong-willed, stubborn, train wreck, cute as they come, dress-wearing (always), necklace wearing (always), glitter shoes wearing (always), tiara-wearing (as often as we let her get away with), smart as a whip, hug-loving, cuddle-loving, piercing blue eyes, behind which only the bravest dare tread. If you think of the most frustrating thing you can think of, she is there. If you think of the most wonderful thing you can imagine, she is there too. I need her to grow up tomorrow, and I need her to stay three forever. She’s incredible. She’s Annie – and God help the guys that will one day (faaaaaar off in the distance) try to court her. Oh, and she started Irish Step dancing this year – and the third kid is free!! (With four you get an egg roll, but we’re all done).
Kat turned 40 this year. I have no additional story, I just like writing that.
OK, actually, in honor of her 40th, I bankrupted our family…I mean I threw her an amazing party under a big tent in the yard of our dear friends the Elys. It was an incredible night and she looked gorgeous (Redundant Alert!). In fact, it went so well that we will be holding each of the girls wedding receptions under tents in the Ely front yard – thanks Gina and Alex! Kat continues to be the best thing that ever happened to me and she shows no signs of regretting our 11 years of marriage (but the nightly sobbing into her pillow arouses a bit of suspicion). We had another wonderful year watching the girls grow, and going on great vacations thanks to the generosity of our relatives and friends. Two(!) family reunions (McMahon and Curtin – no drinking going on there!); skiing in Vermont with our Hayes cousins (lousy snow, great company!); Sea Island in the spring (thanks John and Kate!); Marthas Vineyard in the summer (thanks Matt and Kathy! and Pat and Bob!); our annual pilgrimage to the Saratoga racetrack (thanks Vineyards! – Andy tried to run into a police horse, but they made up over a couple of $300 bottles of wine – long story, but funny!). And I had to save a spot once again in the Letter to thank our dear friends the Fords for another amazing vacation, this time to Costa Rica (and a special Curtin Letter shout out to our new amigos the Graves, Cox’, Bowlins, Rocchios, Kleins, Lacys – what an amazing trip!) Costa Rica is unlike anywhere we have ever been – pretty much all rain forest with little villages carved out. It is lush and beautiful, and we spent a lot of time hiking and taking zip line canopy tours, and taking an incredible ATV tour of the rain forest. One word of caution, we went during rainy season and Costa Rica takes its rainy season quite seriously apparently – picture seven straight days of wading through chest-deep water while someone constantly sprays you with a fire hose, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how we spent our time outdoors in Costa Rica. But the company, the food, the drinks, and the location were spectacular so we had the time of our lives – and we dried off eventually.
As for me, well, what do I have to complain about? I have my health, the best family (all of you), world-class friends (all of you), a nice house in the world’s best town, the game-winning goal that won my men’s-league hockey team the league Championship (go Lobsters!), and a birdie on my first hole on Pinehurst #2 in September – I continue to have it all.
We hope that 2007 was great for you and that 2008 will be even better. We hope that Santa finds your house. We hope you made it all the way through this letter.
Actually, now that our Julia (now 6) is taking an art class, welcome to the four square feet of our house not currently occupied by her art projects. Wow. And we thought she churned out a lot of art projects on her own (for further discussion of said topic, please see Christmas Letter 2006 on my blog at http://pscurtin.blogspot.com/ and, for the uninitiated, for every Curtin Christmas Letter since they began ‘lo these many years ago - as well as other inane musings from a frustrated writer). Kat swears to me that this art class is only once per week, but a six year old girl cannot possibly churn out this much shi…stuff while working for an hour, one day per week. I think she is secretly running a sweatshop of four and five year old art students, and she slaps a “Julia” label on their work and brings it home (hey, it works for Nike). And she doesn’t bring these projects home piecemeal (or, ‘one-at-a-time’ for the idiots reading this Letter), instead, once every month, she comes home with a garbage bag (Irony Alert!) full of that month’s work. And we have to sit in the den while she “reveals” her projects. Meanwhile, I am knee-deep in glitter, paper, wood, Styrofoam, and tissue paper. You wanna do something about global warming, go after the art teachers – there can’t be a tree left on this planet because they have all been turned into paper and wood projects that now reside in my house. I’m thinking of starting a rainforest in my basement. OK, that being said, she is sooo proud of herself during these art shows that we can’t even stand it. She is a sweet, happy, sensitive, precocious (again, ‘bright’ or ‘inventive’ for the idiots) little girl, and a joy to be around. She still loves her Irish Step Dancing, skiing, soccer, and yes, art class, and has proven to be a wonderful first grade student.
Her sister Emma meanwhile, is now 8 and streaking toward double digits and (GASP!) pre-teenage years at light speed. Over my strenuous objections (which gives you a little window into how effective my objections are in my house, strenuous or otherwise) Kat took Emma to her first concert this year – the American Idol Tour. She had such a good time that she quit school, moved out, bought a VW bus, painted it rainbow, and follows the Idol Tour, supporting herself by selling organic grilled cheeses to the other “Idolheads”. OK, actually, that didn’t really happen, but it was one of the irrational thoughts that went through my head when I found out my baby girl was going to her first concert. Emma continues to amaze us with her maturity, intelligence, and grace. She is an honor student in third grade and she loves her Irish Step Dancing, skiing, soccer, lacrosse, and Theatre group (the Fall performance found her as a woodland mobster – youse got a problem wit that? - in a modern adaptation of The Tortoise and the Hare called, “Put Your Money on the Bunny”. Meanwhile, I lost a cool five grand because I thought the freaking rabbit was winning this time).
As for our youngest daughter, well, let’s just say that Tropical Storm Annie has increased in strength over the Atlantic Ocean, and is now Hurricane Annie – and she’s bearing down on the coast of Connecticut. Shutter the windows and hide the valuables for the love of God! Annie is three and a half and, quite frankly, I can’t do her justice in print. But, since that is the only medium currently available to me, here goes: Trouble. Also, dangerous. And while we’re here: strong-willed, stubborn, train wreck, cute as they come, dress-wearing (always), necklace wearing (always), glitter shoes wearing (always), tiara-wearing (as often as we let her get away with), smart as a whip, hug-loving, cuddle-loving, piercing blue eyes, behind which only the bravest dare tread. If you think of the most frustrating thing you can think of, she is there. If you think of the most wonderful thing you can imagine, she is there too. I need her to grow up tomorrow, and I need her to stay three forever. She’s incredible. She’s Annie – and God help the guys that will one day (faaaaaar off in the distance) try to court her. Oh, and she started Irish Step dancing this year – and the third kid is free!! (With four you get an egg roll, but we’re all done).
Kat turned 40 this year. I have no additional story, I just like writing that.
OK, actually, in honor of her 40th, I bankrupted our family…I mean I threw her an amazing party under a big tent in the yard of our dear friends the Elys. It was an incredible night and she looked gorgeous (Redundant Alert!). In fact, it went so well that we will be holding each of the girls wedding receptions under tents in the Ely front yard – thanks Gina and Alex! Kat continues to be the best thing that ever happened to me and she shows no signs of regretting our 11 years of marriage (but the nightly sobbing into her pillow arouses a bit of suspicion). We had another wonderful year watching the girls grow, and going on great vacations thanks to the generosity of our relatives and friends. Two(!) family reunions (McMahon and Curtin – no drinking going on there!); skiing in Vermont with our Hayes cousins (lousy snow, great company!); Sea Island in the spring (thanks John and Kate!); Marthas Vineyard in the summer (thanks Matt and Kathy! and Pat and Bob!); our annual pilgrimage to the Saratoga racetrack (thanks Vineyards! – Andy tried to run into a police horse, but they made up over a couple of $300 bottles of wine – long story, but funny!). And I had to save a spot once again in the Letter to thank our dear friends the Fords for another amazing vacation, this time to Costa Rica (and a special Curtin Letter shout out to our new amigos the Graves, Cox’, Bowlins, Rocchios, Kleins, Lacys – what an amazing trip!) Costa Rica is unlike anywhere we have ever been – pretty much all rain forest with little villages carved out. It is lush and beautiful, and we spent a lot of time hiking and taking zip line canopy tours, and taking an incredible ATV tour of the rain forest. One word of caution, we went during rainy season and Costa Rica takes its rainy season quite seriously apparently – picture seven straight days of wading through chest-deep water while someone constantly sprays you with a fire hose, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how we spent our time outdoors in Costa Rica. But the company, the food, the drinks, and the location were spectacular so we had the time of our lives – and we dried off eventually.
As for me, well, what do I have to complain about? I have my health, the best family (all of you), world-class friends (all of you), a nice house in the world’s best town, the game-winning goal that won my men’s-league hockey team the league Championship (go Lobsters!), and a birdie on my first hole on Pinehurst #2 in September – I continue to have it all.
We hope that 2007 was great for you and that 2008 will be even better. We hope that Santa finds your house. We hope you made it all the way through this letter.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Was Grampa Joe a druggie?
As I have mentioned previously in this space, I am a movie lover (actually, I just mentioned it in the column below, penned only yesterday, but I kind of like how this sentence starts; I'm intrigued to find out what I write next). I happened to run across Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory the other day - not the most recent one starring Johnny Depp (who is a tremendous actor, loved him in The Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, but he seems like he's trying a bit too hard as his version of Willy), but the classic version starring the immortal Gene Wilder (quick true story - I was hitting golf balls at a local public course this Fall and who should walk over and set up right next to me...yes, Gene Wilder! Apparently he lives close by, but, I mean, come on! Blazing Saddles!!!!, Young Frankenstein!!!!, Stir Crazy!!!!, The Producers!!!!!, Willy Wonka!!! standing right next to me hitting golf balls! I was speechless. He must be pushing 70 by now, and he was a little thin, but he hit the ball pretty straight, and he was nice enough to offer me the rest of his basket of balls when he was done hitting. Which, of course I accepted if only to have the chance to speak to him for a few minutes and thank him for all of the laughter he brought me for my entire life. Very nice guy.)
Anyhoo, I have few rules in life, but one of them is that if Gene Wilder is in a movie I have just run across - especially if that movie appears on the short list above - I am watching it. So, a few nights ago when Willy Wonka came on, I was in. And maybe it was because I was overtired, or maybe I just finally saw things as they really are, but I'm pretty sure Grandpa Joe was a drug addict who manipulated Charlie into taking him to the Chocolate factory to satisfy his drug jones. Think about it, the man exhibits all of the classic signs of a drug abuser - let's take them in order:
1. He was rail thin and pasty white - the fashion industry doesn't call this look "heroin-chic" for nothing.
2. He had no job, no money, and he was a freeloader who lied in bed all day, every day. How selfish is that? When the movie starts Charlie comes home from school, and his Mother comes home from her 14-hour day doing other peoples' laundry, while these four deadbeats are lying in the only bed in the house which sits right in the middle of the biggest room. Tell me that's not exactly what a crack den looks like. Grandpa Joe freely admits that he hasn't been out of bed in twenty years, so that means that Mom is emptying bedpans as well, which must be a great job when all they eat every day is cabbage soup. And how ripe does that crew smell? I hope Mom hits them with a hose every few weeks or the smell would be unbearable!
3. he has a willing enabler in his daughter (Charlie's Mom). I used to feel sorry for Charlie's Mom because she busts her ass all day, everyday, and when whiny Charlie hits the freaking candy lotto, he goes right for Grandpa Joe to share the prize! I'd have gone bullsh_t on him if he tried that! (And while we're on the subject, people talk about Veruka Salt's sense of entitlement, but what about Charlie's? The entire first half of the movie he's whining at whoever will listen that he deserves one of the five golden tickets because it would mean more to him. Well, la-di-freaking-da, don't we have a high opinion of our self!? Four billion people in the world, but he thinks he is top 5 most deserving! Jees, Veruka got a bad wrap, in my opinion). But back to Mom, I used to feel bad for her, but she's just an enabler at this point - another clear sign of Grandpa Joe's drug abuse. I mean, what person working 14-hour days, doing all of the cooking and housework, and eating nothing but cabbage soup while trying to raise a teenager wouldn't lose it on the four grandparents after a couple of weeks, never mind twenty years! Get off your asses and go get jobs as WalMart greeters you deadbeats!
4. Grandpa exhibited clear signs of hoarding. When everyone else was asleep (and went to sleep starving, by the way), Grandpa Joe pulls another Wonka Bar out from behind his pillow for he and Charlie. Way to plot with the kid while the rest of the family starves Grandpa Joe. Classic drug-seeking behavior.
5. Grandpa Joe always had a little money stashed for "tobacco" (he tells Charlie that he used his tobacco money to get Charlie the first chocolate bar). Yeah, pull this one Joe, it plays jingle bells. A little "medicinal marijuana" is more like it.
6. When Grandpa does finally get to his feet, it is to score some quick and easy cash and prizes. Yeah, you're too sick to get out of bed for twenty years, but as soon as the kid is throwing freebies in your face, you miraculously get better?! (another example of Mom's enabling by the way).
7. As soon as he stands up, Grandpa is staggering around like he is drunk.
8. When they get into Wonka's factory, he encourages Charlie to sign his life away, just so he (Grandpa) can get into the factory: "sign away Charlie, we've got nothing to lose." Yeah, maybe you don't Grandpa, you drug addled old coot, but Charlie has his whole life in front of him.
9. As soon as the coast is clear, he convinces Charlie to steal some Fizzy Lifting Drink so Grandpa Joe could get "high". Two signs of drug seeking here: encouraging others to commit crimes on your behalf, and using the stolen substance for your own pleasure. Man, they can write drug abuser textbooks on this guy.
10. Encourages Charlie to take the everlasting gobstopper to Slugworth - or, in drug parlance - switching dealers and double-crossing your first dealer when you think he has screwed you.
And you know what? Grandpa Joe played everyone perfectly because he scored the biggest prize in the end - the factory and all its contents. I wonder how long it took for him to sell the Oompa Loompas into slavery and bankrupt the company to support his drug habit? If they did a Willy Wonka 2, Grandpa Joe would have have looked like Al Pacino at the end of Scarface.
Anyhoo, I have few rules in life, but one of them is that if Gene Wilder is in a movie I have just run across - especially if that movie appears on the short list above - I am watching it. So, a few nights ago when Willy Wonka came on, I was in. And maybe it was because I was overtired, or maybe I just finally saw things as they really are, but I'm pretty sure Grandpa Joe was a drug addict who manipulated Charlie into taking him to the Chocolate factory to satisfy his drug jones. Think about it, the man exhibits all of the classic signs of a drug abuser - let's take them in order:
1. He was rail thin and pasty white - the fashion industry doesn't call this look "heroin-chic" for nothing.
2. He had no job, no money, and he was a freeloader who lied in bed all day, every day. How selfish is that? When the movie starts Charlie comes home from school, and his Mother comes home from her 14-hour day doing other peoples' laundry, while these four deadbeats are lying in the only bed in the house which sits right in the middle of the biggest room. Tell me that's not exactly what a crack den looks like. Grandpa Joe freely admits that he hasn't been out of bed in twenty years, so that means that Mom is emptying bedpans as well, which must be a great job when all they eat every day is cabbage soup. And how ripe does that crew smell? I hope Mom hits them with a hose every few weeks or the smell would be unbearable!
3. he has a willing enabler in his daughter (Charlie's Mom). I used to feel sorry for Charlie's Mom because she busts her ass all day, everyday, and when whiny Charlie hits the freaking candy lotto, he goes right for Grandpa Joe to share the prize! I'd have gone bullsh_t on him if he tried that! (And while we're on the subject, people talk about Veruka Salt's sense of entitlement, but what about Charlie's? The entire first half of the movie he's whining at whoever will listen that he deserves one of the five golden tickets because it would mean more to him. Well, la-di-freaking-da, don't we have a high opinion of our self!? Four billion people in the world, but he thinks he is top 5 most deserving! Jees, Veruka got a bad wrap, in my opinion). But back to Mom, I used to feel bad for her, but she's just an enabler at this point - another clear sign of Grandpa Joe's drug abuse. I mean, what person working 14-hour days, doing all of the cooking and housework, and eating nothing but cabbage soup while trying to raise a teenager wouldn't lose it on the four grandparents after a couple of weeks, never mind twenty years! Get off your asses and go get jobs as WalMart greeters you deadbeats!
4. Grandpa exhibited clear signs of hoarding. When everyone else was asleep (and went to sleep starving, by the way), Grandpa Joe pulls another Wonka Bar out from behind his pillow for he and Charlie. Way to plot with the kid while the rest of the family starves Grandpa Joe. Classic drug-seeking behavior.
5. Grandpa Joe always had a little money stashed for "tobacco" (he tells Charlie that he used his tobacco money to get Charlie the first chocolate bar). Yeah, pull this one Joe, it plays jingle bells. A little "medicinal marijuana" is more like it.
6. When Grandpa does finally get to his feet, it is to score some quick and easy cash and prizes. Yeah, you're too sick to get out of bed for twenty years, but as soon as the kid is throwing freebies in your face, you miraculously get better?! (another example of Mom's enabling by the way).
7. As soon as he stands up, Grandpa is staggering around like he is drunk.
8. When they get into Wonka's factory, he encourages Charlie to sign his life away, just so he (Grandpa) can get into the factory: "sign away Charlie, we've got nothing to lose." Yeah, maybe you don't Grandpa, you drug addled old coot, but Charlie has his whole life in front of him.
9. As soon as the coast is clear, he convinces Charlie to steal some Fizzy Lifting Drink so Grandpa Joe could get "high". Two signs of drug seeking here: encouraging others to commit crimes on your behalf, and using the stolen substance for your own pleasure. Man, they can write drug abuser textbooks on this guy.
10. Encourages Charlie to take the everlasting gobstopper to Slugworth - or, in drug parlance - switching dealers and double-crossing your first dealer when you think he has screwed you.
And you know what? Grandpa Joe played everyone perfectly because he scored the biggest prize in the end - the factory and all its contents. I wonder how long it took for him to sell the Oompa Loompas into slavery and bankrupt the company to support his drug habit? If they did a Willy Wonka 2, Grandpa Joe would have have looked like Al Pacino at the end of Scarface.
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