Thursday
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12/02/05
Maybe Howard Was Right.
Not unlike Midwestern ladies of a certain age who wear pantsuits, sensible shoes and embroidered sweaters, and keep the Franklin Mint in business by filling their tidy homes with ceramic figurines of creepy doe-eyed tots, I find that I too have been building a collection; only mine is comprised of many and varied personal foibles. Indeed, my emotional curio cabinet seems to be home to an ever-growing collection of dusty eccentricities, each seemingly more, well, eccentric than the last.
I have, for instance, noticed that I have begun to yell at the radio while I'm driving despite the fact that it seems unlikey that Limbaugh et al can hear me. Likewise, I've found lately that my personal space has become non-negotiable, which in practical terms means that when crowded by my fellow shoppers in a store, I have, on more than one occasion, dropped out of line and abandoned my would-be purchases. Needless to say my Lovely Bride, ever a bastion of patience and perspective, just assumes I'm a lunatic.
In any case, as anyone who has a hobby of collecting things will tell you, half the fun of having a collection is adding to it, and I'm no exception. To wit: I've recently added an intolerance of all things sticky, icky, and generally germy to my collection of eccentricities. Yes, it seems an odd choice of foibles for an at home dad whose two young charges are perhaps the pinnacle of all things sticky, icky and generally germy, but there you have it.
So why would this particular aversion come to mind today, you didn't ask? Well, this little bit of fluff appeared recently in our local Gannett rag, The Journal News. Great Nebuchadnezzar's ghost! A View-Master kiddie menu? For kiddies? Eeeewwww. What's that faint whirring sound you ask? Why, poor Howard spinning in his grave, of course!
Now, I'm not a complete weenie. I have, after all, been witness to my fair share of unspeakable hygienic abominations. Yes, that would be every drooling toddler I've watched in every McDonald's ball pit in the New York metropolitan area. And that would be you, old guy who was having a gastro-intestinal event and missed the toilet while I was managing the restaurant that night. And yeah, that would be you too, toddler kid who whipped off your pull-up so you could whiz in the splashy fountain when we trying to have a nice time at Sesame Street Place in Pennsylvania. Yes, that's right, I've bourn my share of indignities, but I've spent enough years in the trenches of food service to know that a restaurant View-Master full of toddler will never, ever, as Heaven is my witness, go on my kid's face.
Or is my Lovely Bride right and I'm just being a loon? Yeah probably. Oh well, I guess I'll just carry some Purell around and be quiet now. Don't mind me.
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|
12/02/05
Maybe Howard Was Right.
Not unlike Midwestern ladies of a certain age who wear pantsuits, sensible shoes and embroidered sweaters, and keep the Franklin Mint in business by filling their tidy homes with ceramic figurines of creepy doe-eyed tots, I find that I too have been building a collection; only mine is comprised of many and varied personal foibles. Indeed, my emotional curio cabinet seems to be home to an ever-growing collection of dusty eccentricities, each seemingly more, well, eccentric than the last.
I have, for instance, noticed that I have begun to yell at the radio while I'm driving despite the fact that it seems unlikey that Limbaugh et al can hear me. Likewise, I've found lately that my personal space has become non-negotiable, which in practical terms means that when crowded by my fellow shoppers in a store, I have, on more than one occasion, dropped out of line and abandoned my would-be purchases. Needless to say my Lovely Bride, ever a bastion of patience and perspective, just assumes I'm a lunatic.
In any case, as anyone who has a hobby of collecting things will tell you, half the fun of having a collection is adding to it, and I'm no exception. To wit: I've recently added an intolerance of all things sticky, icky, and generally germy to my collection of eccentricities. Yes, it seems an odd choice of foibles for an at home dad whose two young charges are perhaps the pinnacle of all things sticky, icky and generally germy, but there you have it.
So why would this particular aversion come to mind today, you didn't ask? Well, this little bit of fluff appeared recently in our local Gannett rag, The Journal News. Great Nebuchadnezzar's ghost! A View-Master kiddie menu? For kiddies? Eeeewwww. What's that faint whirring sound you ask? Why, poor Howard spinning in his grave, of course!
Now, I'm not a complete weenie. I have, after all, been witness to my fair share of unspeakable hygienic abominations. Yes, that would be every drooling toddler I've watched in every McDonald's ball pit in the New York metropolitan area. And that would be you, old guy who was having a gastro-intestinal event and missed the toilet while I was managing the restaurant that night. And yeah, that would be you too, toddler kid who whipped off your pull-up so you could whiz in the splashy fountain when we trying to have a nice time at Sesame Street Place in Pennsylvania. Yes, that's right, I've bourn my share of indignities, but I've spent enough years in the trenches of food service to know that a restaurant View-Master full of toddler will never, ever, as Heaven is my witness, go on my kid's face.
Or is my Lovely Bride right and I'm just being a loon? Yeah probably. Oh well, I guess I'll just carry some Purell around and be quiet now. Don't mind me.
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