Beefing Up The Language With a New Sniglet

If the women in my wife's book group are truly serious about this whole organic thing, then they need to do some cowpooling (which is like carpooling, except that instead of piling in a car to save gas and allay traffic, you buy an entire grass fed cow and then cut it into parts and everybody takes a piece home . . . and unlike tupperawareness, I did not coin this word: I learned it in this month's issue of Wired).

My Wife, The Queen of Sheba?

My wife crossed the line last night, that invisible line between civility and despotism . . . the invisible line that runs down the middle of our bed; I got up to get a drink of water, and when I came back to bed she was stretched out like the Queen of Sheba (I have no idea if this allusion makes any sense in this context) and I had to wedge myself into the oblong space she left for me-- but I took solace in the fact that it was bigger than the bed Jan made Michael Scott sleep in because of her "space issues."

Thus Endeth the (Middle School Soccer) Streak

Thus endeth the streak: after coaching thirty-plus eighth grade soccer games without a loss, we suffered a 1-0 defeat at the hands of our arch-nemesis (Hillsboro) -- a big strong team that made some of our players look malnourished, but we ran hard and controlled much of the play so I can't complain too much, and I think I will only cane the players once or twice for ruining my unblemished record.

Jack Donaghy Demonstrates A Useful Technique

I never remember my dreams, but last night I had a vivid one wherein I hooked a giant marlin and . . . sorry, I almost broke my own rule-- everyone knows there is nothing more boring than hearing a grown man recount an incoherent dream; when Liz Lemon starts to talk about her dream on 30 Rock, Jack Donaghy picks up an imaginary phone and says to her, "Sorry Lemon, I have to take this."

An Orange in Iowa Was Once a Miracle

This will be my last post on this blog (and in fact, my last interaction with the Internet) because I have been reading Little Heathens: Hard Times and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Great Depression, a memoir by Mildred Armstrong Kalish; I'm so enthralled with the camaraderie, self-reliance, and rugged civility of these farmers that I have decided to go to Iowa by covered wagon during the Great Depression and start a farm so that my spoiled suburban children learn to treat their own maladies with spider webs and vinegar, slaughter a chicken by age six, and enjoy the hell out of an orange.

Middle School Boys: They Don't Listen

I probably didn't look like the most compassionate coach in youth athletics when I strode over to my player (who was lying fon the sidewalk crying and clutching his ankle) and I started yelling "I told you! Didn't I tell you!" but you really had to see what happened moments earlier . . . I passed by the same player on my way into the building and told him "Stop juggling the ball in your cleats on the pavement-- YOU ARE GOING TO GET HURT, if you have to burn off some energy and jump around, do it on the grass-- DO NOT GET INJURED BEFORE THE GAME" and then I walked inside, happy that I had given an eighth grader some clear and concise coaching advice, so when I came out of the building and the girl's coach-- young, concerned and earnest-- rushed up to me and told me one of my players was injured and that he had rolled his ankle on the curb, I was, of course, in no mood to play the role of Florence Nightingale.

Know Your Audience

This is the kind of joke that only gets a laugh in a room full of Shakespeare geeks-- some student left a CAPITALISM SUCKS pin on a desk in the back of the room, so I held it up and said to the class, "Someone left a CAPITALISM SUCKS pin here . . . would anyone like to buy it from me?"

Don't Count Your Giants Before They Play

My friend from Ohio promised me that the Giants would destroy the Browns, so I didn't even attempt to stay up and watch the game . . . and that's the last time I trust anyone from the Midwest

Steady as He Pees?

Sometimes, in the early morning, I hear the sound of a stream of liquid cascading into a pool of water . . . punctuated by several ominous silences, and the number and length of those silences determine how much of my son Alex's urine I will have to wade through in my bare feet to get to the sink.

Am I Getting in Good Shape or Full of Intestinal Parasites?

I don't mean to get all Brigitte Jones on you, but between playing lots of soccer, running around with my kids, coaching and having no kitchen, I'm down to just a shade over twelve stone (186 pounds) and I've been on a reverse diet-- plenty of ice cream and candy and pizza-- so I'm very happy with the weight loss, but of course, there's the chance that I have giant intestinal roundworms again.

I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing

We didn't get the message, and so Alex wore his Darth Vader shirt on school picture day-- and if he becomes infamous or famous in some way, you can bet someone will dig that photo up and attach some sort of symbolic value to it.

Thirteen Goals is Much More Fun Than Nil-Nil

Those of you who don't think soccer is high scoring enough would have enjoyed my team's eight to five victory over Old Bridge-- and this was a real score, not one of those games in which the score gets padded when the subs go in-- it was five to five several minutes into the second half.

Great Moments in Teaching Episode #287

                                        

I told my Creative Writing students to get up and make a big circle so we could play a memory game-- and so all the kids stood up and started arranging themselves: pushing desks out of the way, and shuffling between them-- except for one girl, who did not stand up-- she sat in a desk in the middle of the circle, head down, doing something in her notebook; finally, she picked her head up and looked around at everyone standing around her . . . and with a sheepish grin she held up what she had been so diligently working on-- she had taken my directions literally and drawn a circle.

The Earth, She is a Swiftly Tilting Planet

Yesterday signified the end of something: we went to the beach and the day started cold, rainy, and windy but by noon it was sunny and the ocean was freakishly warm and both boys got completely wet, and after I changed them we went to Pete and Elda's for pizza and then they slept all the way home . . . it was hard to remember that soon enough we're in for a long dark winter.

A Very Cheap Buzz

If you're an eighth grade soccer player on the bus after a game, then the height of fun is to sniff the inside of a fellow competitor's cleats.

Dave is a Rejuvenated Cucumber (or melon)

This morning, I was feeling tired, and so when I showered I used some of my wife's Cucumber Melon Rejuvenating Body Wash, and it was very refreshing: almost instantly I felt like a ripe and fresh cucumber (or melon) sitting plumply in a spring garden, dew dripping down my firm and smooth cucumber (or melon) skin and-- just like a rejuvenated cucumber (or melon) I was ready to face the day.

Two For One Pizza: Sounds Like A Good Idea, Right?

A fond memory: Aposto's, the narrow Italian bistro where we ate the other night, was once a far grubbier pizza joint called 2 For 1 Pizza, and the deal was this: when you ordered one pie, you got two pies for the price of that one-- in theory this was a good deal, but the same absurd dialog comprised every order . . . I'll take two pies . . . okay boss, two pies . . . so that means four pies? . . . you want four pies? . . . no, no, because then I'll get eight pies, right? . . . you want eight pies? . . . no I want four pies . . . okay, four pies . . . yes, so I'm only ordering two pies, so I get two for one, like the name, right . . . yes, then you get four pies . . . okay, just ring up two pies, okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . just to be sure, I'm going to walk out of here with four pizza pies, right? . . . right . . . okay . . . right . . . okay.

Huh?

Republicans: the party of financial regulation.

Remembrance of Zills Past

There's a tambourine in the back seat of my car, but the only time I remember it's there is when I hit a bump.

The Doppelgangers is a Bad Name for a Sitcom

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree . . . Alex likes to use the right word for things, a fairly useless and frustrating characteristic; yesterday in the stroller, we passed by the house that has the same model and color Subaru as we do, and Alex reminded me of his fantasy about the family that lives there: that they are our twins in most every way-- number, age, appearance, etc.-- and then he asked me what we called them and I said, "I don't know" and made up a nonsensical rhyme of our last name and he said "No, not that kind of name" and then I remembered what word he was looking for . . . "our doppelgangers?" and he said, "Yeah, doppelgangers, they're our doppelgangers!" and I'm hoping he doesn't bring this up at pre-school because he's already weird enough.