Monday, Monday

I've never been one to get "a case of the Mondays" before. Today, though, I didn't just pick up a case of them; I went to the Costco and got the entire pallet of them. (Buying in bulk saves money in the long run.) I wish I knew why. I wish I could look back at the last 24-48 hours and say, "This is why I don't feel like riding the bus to work on Monday. This is why I don't feel like working with any clients on Monday. And this is why I hope no one walks past my cube and asks how my weekend was on Monday."

But I can't.

For all intents and purposes, I had a good weekend. I did some great pre-work on next weekend's 24-Hour Film Festival entry (nothing against the rules; just some wardrobe and location decisions.) I had a fairly-o.k. show with The Outtakes, even if others thought it wasn't solid. I got to watch my daughter interact with both sets of her grandparents, which is something that always makes me proud of my own parenting skills. And there was a full hour of The Simpsons on Sunday night, which is always a plus.

So wherein lies the problem? I keep poking and poking, but I can't put my finger on it. I did not sleep well last night- daughter and dog both had problems sleeping last night- but I went through college an insomniac: I'm use to that. It is suppose to snow another 4-6 inches tonight, but I'm a Minnesotan: I'm use to that, too. There is political and economic strife at home and abroad, but I don't read the newspaper; I'm use to being oblivious.

I think I'm going to break my 4-week strike against caffenie and grb an early-morning Mountain Dew. We'll see if that helps. And if it doesn't . . . I don't know. My plans rarely have a "Step 2." If it can't get done in one or less steps, I usually hire a minority to do it. That's not true: it's just inappropriate. But the fact that I'm immediately jumping to "racial humor" is a sign that my "case of the Mondays" could be leaving.

Fly away, Mondays. Fly, fly, fly.

The 'House

Garfield Minus Garfield

Garfield Minus Garfield is a site dedicated to removing Garfield from the Garfield comic strips in order to reveal the existential angst of a certain young Mr. Jon Arbuckle. It is a journey deep into the mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness and depression in a quiet American suburb.

http://garfieldminusgarfield.net

Mimes

So I was trying to explain to my father last night why it would be funny to see a group of mimes get shot by another mime "mimeing" a gun. Then I stopped. I guess if you don't immediately see the humor, maybe you never will.

Stop it, trees!

It was so nice on St. Patrick's Day after work, that I passed on the evening of drinking green beer and eating corned beef and cabbage to spend it with my daughter. Granted, my wife's sudden work meeting and the fact that it is illegal for my two-year-old daughter to go without adult supervision may have factored in the decision process ever-so-slightly.

Anyway, we decided to have a picnic and walk around a park. So we did. It was one of those daddy-daughter bonding moments that I pray sticks with me forever. I really do. Just me and her, holding hands while jumping in puddles and going down slides . . . it was fun, and the absolute perfect way for me to begin the spring.

But as the late-afternoon turned to evening, and the wind turned from a pleasant breeze to a gusty blast, it got kind of chilly for us in our spring jackets and green T-shirts, so we headed back to the car. As we did, my daughter suddenly stopped, and looked directly at a small patch of trees directly in front of us.

"Stop it, trees!" she yelled quite annoyingly at them.

"Aurelia, what are the trees doing to you?" I asked.

"They are blowing on me!" she told me.

My two-year-old daughter had taken it upon herself to decide that the gusts of wind that stung her were coming from trees blowing on her, like she were a birthday candle. I wanted to explain to her what was wrong with this logic, but I didn't. I just smiled at the innonence of it all, hoping again that this be another memory I keep with me forever.

Especially when she starts dating, and I need to embarrass her.

Wooooooooooooooooolhouse

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I'm not Irish, so don't kiss me today.

Woolhouse

My greatest fear

We all have fears . . . that intangible that- through years of self-discovery, therapy, and voodoo- to this day and to the end of days, will strike you down to the core.

My greatest fear? I know I'm not alone in this, and perhaps- if enough people sharing my infliction read my blog- a support group can be formed, and together- as a unit- we shall overcome.

My fear is using the toilet at a friend or family members' house, only to discover that the flushing mechanism does not work.

I've had this fear way before that sickening and heartless scene from "Dumb and Dumber" made light of my condition, and it was just recently I've 1.) Been able to appreciate the subtle comedic performance of Jeff Daniels again, and 2.) Come up with a solution to my problem.

From now on, I'm peeing in your sink. And pooping in the wastebasket.

Thanks for listening.
The 'House

I am a proud father

My daughter kicks butt. So much so that I decided to inform her of this. The following bit of dialouge is taken word-for-word, and would not doubt make any father proud of their 2-year-old daughter.

ME: Aurelia, you kick butt.

AURELIA: Daddy, my butt is awesome!

THE END

God and the Devil

I played "God" in an improvised scene for some promotional material at work last week. It was "God" spreading the word of the Bible via YouTube. It was interesting. The "director" gave me a lot of leeway, offering only advice and directions of "move left" and "cut that part out to speed it up." It is making its debut tonight, and could very well be used in a marketing campaign coming up this spring. Yay. I think I made God proud...

Until the following Saturday, when I played Satan in an improvised scene at Outtakes' practice. It wasn't a "bad" Satan, per se: I just talked Jeff into killing himself to become the new Satan. That's all. Then he killed "Satan." The end.

I think God liked my performance better than Satan. At least, I can only hope.

And pray.

I mean, I'd hate for Satan to be so proud of my performance he recruits me to Hell to play him in some autobiographical-self-fellated biopic just to appease his ego.

Unless the pay was right.

Pay = money, with no mention of my soul in the contract. Got it?

Wooooooooooolhouse