This thing here...

So about 5:30 this morning, I sat straight up in my bed, startled, thinking that I had heard some loud beeping sounds. I sat up for several seconds, and when I didn't hear the noise again, I figured maybe it was my imagination or part of a dream or something, and laid back down to try to see if I could steal a little more sleep before it was time to get up for work.

Well, no sooner had I gotten comfortable again when the beeping came back. This time it didn't go away, but repeated itself in bursts of three beeps at a time. It didn't sound quite like the smoke alarms in the house, but it was a very piercing sound nonetheless. Wait, there's a Carbon Monoxide detector in the baby's room!

I jumped out of bed, raced down the hall to the back room where my two year old grandson was. And then I discovered that when his mother rearranged his room recently, she put the crib in a position where it was now close enough to where the CO detector was plugged in that the boy could reach through the railing and out to the detector, and push the test button - repeatedly...

Really? Boy, you didn't have anything better to do at 5:30 in the morning?

Things I Think About...

At the height of the feminist revolution in the 1970s and '80s, many women shunned the traditional practice of taking their husband's names when getting married, or as an alternative, hyphenating their own surnames with their husband's. Today, their seems to be a little bit of a return to the tradition of brides taking their husbands' names, but not completely so, particularly among more prominent and/or highly educated women.

And I suppose that's understandable. I mean, today's women are successful, driven, and independent; why would they want to give up a big part of their identities to make a change to indicate that they "belong" to someone else? Women should no longer be seen as the "property" of their husbands, or as the extension of them, but as their own people capable of achieving all sorts of things. Therefore, it's time for women to free themselves from the paternalistic, sexist, archaic tradition of taking their husbands' names. Right?

Except...

How many of those women who reject the practice of taking their husband's names on the basis of it being archaic and paternalistic would also reject that other archaic, paternalistic practice of receiving an engagement ring? I mean doesn't that ring carry the same stigma? You're being marked as "belonging" to someone else - someone else who, by the way, isn't wearing a similar piece of jewelry signifying HIS being "off the market". Seems like to me if  you're a woman who wants to get married but doesn't want to take her future husband's name, then you also wouldn't want to parade around with a ring signifying his ownership of you (or least signifying he's made a "down payment" towards ownership of you).

But I guess archaic, sexist, paternalistic practices are cool when they come with something shiny and pretty to display...



Baltimorons, 3rd Edition

"The Baltimoron Store"

Almost two years ago, there was the grand opening of a Food Depot supermarket in my East Baltimore neighborhood. From a vantage point outside of the store, it looked like any other big store's grand opening. Aaah, but all you had to do was go inside to know that this was a Baltimoron store through and through!


Inside the entrance, customers were greeted by the Baltimore Orioles mascot. Instead of there being a lot a fun and good cheer, the poor bird spent much of the day being heckled, cursed at, and generally being on the wrong end of a dismissive, hostile crowd angry and derisive of the Orioles' longstanding ineptitude, as if owner Peter Angelos himself was inside of the oversized black and orange costume.

While the store was (and is) clean and (sort of) organized, there were random dudes dressed in the store's bright red t-shirts just buzzing about with shopping carts, weaving in and out of the customer traffics for reasons that didn't make much, since I rarely actually saw them doing anything with the merchandise they had inside the carts. But hey, they were getting to do this, apparently, so whatever.

And then there were the female employees. One thing I noticed almost right away at the grand (and confirmed in subsequent visits) was that damned near all these women working there - greeters and cashiers - had missing teeth. And I'm not just talking a tooth or two here and there, but whole sections of mouth with nothing but gums (The only cashier with a full set of teeth was the flamboyant gay guy, who smiled and cheesed at me so hard the first time he rang up  my food that I avoided his line for months afterwards). What was going on here, did the Food Depot do its hiring from some kind of program? Between the toothless women and the men zipping around with their carts, I was starting to wonder. I really couldn't complain though, because these ladies were universally very courteous and friendly when they waited on customers. And really, most of them didn't look too bad - with their mouths closed; when there was a bunch of them talking and smiling and laughing, though, it was like a Jack-o-Lantern festival up in there...

Over the two years since they opened up, the Food Depot has changed a little; the place seems a little more organized and less haphazard than at its opening. You don't see too many random guys pushing around carts aimlessly; when you do see one, they actually are doing some real stocking and not just milling about. There has been some turnover amongst the female staff; many of the toothless wonders are no longer there, replaced by prettier, curvier ladies with more teeth and more attitude (leading to my theory that -at least at this store- that quality and friendliness of customer service is inversely proportional to the number of teeth in the employee's mouth. The less teeth, the friendlier, the more teeth, the meaner. It's a theory that has held true to this point). The store has also let in all manner of booths, from guys selling everything from incense and perfumes to hats and tube socks to mix CDs There's also a check cashing service, although when I applied for a card, they told me I could pick it up in about two weeks, and I think I finally got it about three months later (whenever I asked what the hold up was, the answer was always some version of "oh I guess she-whoever she was- will get to processing it when she gets a chance). There are also now always at least one and usually two gargantuan security guard stationed right at the exit, in case of any funny business. And as is usually the case around Baltimoron establishments, there are a line of hacks waiting to give you and your groceries a ride home for a nominal fee. During the warmer seasons, you  might see a grill or a hot dog cart pop up in front of the store. And of course there is the ever-present staple of Baltimoron life, the seller of loose cigarettes.


Ahh, the Food Depot, gotta love it!

You Know You're Getting Older When...

Episode 3: "Icy Hot"

I try to remain very physically active at my age, number one to stay healthy, and number two, because my vanity prevents me from gaining too much weight.  But at my advancing age, working out and involving myself in sporting activities inevitably leads to sore and creaky body parts afterwards. As a result, Icy Hot is my best friend. 

They even make Icy Hot now in a "stick" form. I like that because I don't have to worry dealing with any messy creams; I can just take the cap of the stick and rub it on my aching muscles, no muss, no fuss. I highly recommend to anyone who needs a quick easy relief to some soreness...

However, a word of advice for you fellow middle agers and above: in the mornings, when you're still trying to lift the fog from your brain while you get ready for work, put your glasses on so you can see what the heck you're doing, so that you don't reach for the deodorant and grab the Icy Hot instead...

Workplace Drama - "Stop the Nastiness!"

Okay, I'm going to offer up some free advice on how not to have your co-workers avoid your nasty ass:

1. Keep a toothbrush and toothpaste, or mouthwash or a supply of gum in your desk. Seriously, nobody wants you all up their face trying to hold a conversation after you've had a cold cub sub with onions, or leftover spaghetti and garlic bread, or kimchee, or chitlin' sandwich for lunch, if you haven't fixed the resulting yuck mouth first. That goes for coffee breath too...
2. Speaking of coffee: All right, I get that the bathroom is about halfway between the lunch room and your, and that with your many trips back and forth to refill, you are going to have to make a few pit stops through the course of the day, but seriously: why on earth would you bring your cup of coffee into the shithouse with you? I mean, rare is the time that I go into the men's room at work and somebody's not detonating a nuclear warhead up in that piece. Ain't no way in hell I'm going to bring something amidst all that funk that I plan on putting to my lips immediately after (or even during) my visit there. But I guess that's just me...
3. Speaking of shitting: You just finished blowing up the bathroom to Kingdom Come and back again, and you gonna stroll out of the stall with your magazine rolled up under your arm and head straight for the door??? Did you not just wipe your funky ass (I sure hope you did)? Well, wash your hands before you grab that door handle that other people have to use, you nasty SOB...
4. Lunchroom nastiness: I'm pretty sure that at some point during your childhood, your mama taught you not to talk with your mouth full. Well guess what, the statute of limitations ain't run out on your ass. Eat first, then talk. Nobody wants to see the chewed-on version of your lunch come flying at them while you tell them about some shit they didn't want to hear in the first damn place. Chew, swallow, then talk. It ain't that difficult a sequence of events to follow...
5. And while I'm at it: I swear, if you keep blowing and/or picking your nose at the lunch table, and sooner or later, somebody's going to overturn that table on you and whoop dat ass...I mean, really, do you have some kind of condition that makes your nasal passages generate mucus in the presence of other people's food? Come on, now, blowing and picking does not go well with dining amongst others...take the time to clear all that snot-boogie stuff out of your system BEFORE you come to the lunchroom. And if the need arises to do that crap while you're there, at least get up, or turn away everybody, or something...

Okay, I'm off my soapbox for now...I hope some of y'all nasty asses learned something...

The Dating Game, episode 5 - "Watch What You Say to the Angry Nerd"

So I met a woman on the internet, and after a few days of conversation, we decided to meet and go out to dinner. She was younger than me, very nice, very attractive, and we hit it off right away. There was a great chemistry, both physically and intellectually. The dinner and the company were both as enjoyable as I could possibly hope for.

   As I was driving her home form the restaurant, the good vibes continued.  We kept up our wide-ranging conversation on a variety of topics, and enjoyed how much of a connection that helped to develop between us, even though we certainly didn't see eye to eye on every topic. It seemed like after going through some rather "interesting" (in not so good ways) dates, I had finally found myself a potential keeper: attractive, smart, feisty, and funny; it seemed that she felt the same about me. On the way, she asked if I would like to keep the evening going by joining her in her apartment, an invitation which took me about 1.2 seconds to accept. It just keeps getting better! An air of anticipation filled the car, and we both seemed to be floating on air.

"I really am enjoying myself, for the first time in a long while."
"I'm having a great time too. You really have been a welcome change from some of my other dates."
"I know what you mean," she said, laughing. "I really like you."
"Thank you, I like you too."
She smiled and gave me a look that said you're about to find out how much I like you...

But then she  said it: "You're different from most men."

Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

The Angry Nerd can be a pretty easy going fellow for the most part, but he does have a few pet peeves. First and foremost among them is people cavalierly throwing around numbers and/or mathematical terminology when they have no way to support of back up the claims they are associating with said numbers or terms. And as a lover of all things mathematical, I can't prevent myself from becoming annoyed as hell whenever someone - even someone as attractive in every other way as my date - casually says something like "You're different from most men", no matter how hard I try. See, she thought she was paying a compliment to someone she really liked. The only thing I could take from those well-intended words, however, was that she was disrespecting the use of the word "most". I mean really, what "most" is she referring to? Most men in the world? In the United States? In Maryland? In Baltimore?

I paused and took a deep breath.
Just say thanks, let it go. Just say thanks, let it go. Just say thanks, let it go...
I tried...I really did...

"How would you know what 'most men' are like?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you said I'm not like 'most men'; how would you know what most men are like? There's an awful lot of men in this world."
"Obviously, I'm not talking about all the men in the world. What is wrong with you? Why are you jumping on me about this? You really want to take a compliment and try to pick it apart? I mean, DAMN."

Let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, the little voice in my head kept saying. But, alas, I could not...

It probably wouldn't surprise you to find out that by the time I had finished lecturing her on the mathematical meaning of the word "most" - and my feelings about mis-use of mathematical terminology in general - that my invitation to come up to her apartment had been rescinded. You probably also won't be surprised to learn I never saw her again after that night.

I guess I told her...