Jeff Astrof has 100 days off. See how he spends them.

Archive for February 2011

Day 15

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“Shawni, hurry up, the limo’s here!”  That’s one of about 50 lines I use to my wife to hit home the fact that we never have anywhere to go on “Hollywood’s big night”.  I know my parents who live in a retirement community in Vegas will be going to at least three different Oscar parties tonight, and I’m sure I have friends of friends who are going to the Oscars themselves, but for me, here in Tinseltown, the Oscars only mean one thing: there is traffic coming home from Little League.  The truth is, it once was a sign of an active social life that we had a place to go on Oscar night, but now it’s been relegated to another “big night” like Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve that is spent with me making 50 jokes to my wife about how we have no place to go.

But yesterday we did have someplace to go: the Four Seasons Hotel in Westlake Village which was a complete success in terms of a relaxing night away from the kids (even though I woke up every hour or so and thought “if I were home the kids would be coming into bed right now!”  Thank you Shawni for planning such an amazing night out!   The thing I was most looking forward to (that I will talk about) is watching a movie uninterrupted.   Since I’d already seen How to Train Your Dragon 30 times, the next logical choice was The Black Swan.  But it wasn’t easy for me: you see Darren Aronofsky, the director, is one of my nemeses.  Anyone who reads the tabloids knows that without him, I would be the most famous Hollywood personality to have gone to Crane Lake Camp in West Stockbridge, Massachusetts in the early 80’s.  I remember him as kind of a wise-ass camper with red hair and freckles, while I was a wise-ass counselor with brown hair and freckles.  I have video footage of him in the audience watching me kill it playing Doody in our camp production of Grease in 1983.  Damn, how the tables have turned.  Anyway, I guess it’s not such a rivalry since: A– he probably does not know who I am or what I do and B– he is not doing the “Hurry up the limo’s here!” joke.   As my wife pointed out, had he been the one who was marrying Natalie Portman, he may have sealed the competition, but I think I still have an outside chance of winning.

One of the other things my wife planned for me today was a spa treatment.  While the spa is usually one of the places where I am at my “assiest’ for a variety of reasons, mostly because I’m not a very touchy person , this treatment was perfect.  I believe that a spa therapist– or any therapist for that matter– should be perfectly neutral in looks: not distractingly beautiful or unattractive. As a customer, I also try to hold up my end of the bargain.  Yoshiko, who was my spa person, fit that bill perfectly: she looked like a South Park rendering of a Japanese spa worker.  One of the reasons I don’t go to spas that often is that it’s hard for me to relax there– I keep thinking that the therapist is thinking, “my God, what happened here!”  Today, as I was having crushed coffee grounds smeared over my back, all I could think was that Yoshiko was going over every choice she ever made in her life that led her to this moment, and what she would have done differently.   In any case, after an hour and fifteen minutes into my 80 minute treatment I finally gave in to relaxing.

In keeping with things that should help me relax but don’t, I also went to yoga tonight.  I hate yoga.  But like so many other relationships in my life, I have been unable to break this one off (my marriage, that God, is not one of these).  I have been practicing yoga– practicing, I hate that they call it practicing— for about 20 years.  I am still so tight and awkward that if I told you I had been practicing yoga for 20 years and you watched me practice yoga, the only way you would possibly be impressed is if I followed it up by telling you that I used to not have legs.  But I still do yoga.  Maybe it’s a form of self-torture: I constantly look around the room to try to find the one person who is worse than I am– usually someone pregnant but I’ll take it.  That’s right, I’m competitive at yoga.  I also do it only for exercise, not meditation.  It’s impossible for me to meditate.  And I cheat.  As soon as the teacher turns around I drop into child’s pose.  I am in child’s pose more than my 3 month old nephew.   The only thing I am good at at yoga is when the teacher says we can exhale with a sound.  My sound is like a dying walrus.  People laugh but I’m not trying to be funny.  I am in pain.  The teacher announces, “Well, we know Jeff is here” and people laugh more.  My practice turns yogis mean.   One time after class a woman came up to me and said, “that was you?  I never heard a man make a sound like that before.”     My goal is to keep doing yoga, even if it’s just to break even, because nothing, and I mean nothing, feels better than being done with yoga.

That’s all for now, I should really get ready.  The limo will be hear any minute.



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February 28, 2011 at 2:58 am

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Day 14

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This will be a quick post because I am about to leave for an overnight with my wife to an undisclosed local hotel for a night of noneofyourbusiness (ie: we’ll probably watch Tron and go to sleep).  In any event, today was a day of rest.  It was FREEZING in LA– probably got down into the mid-50’s so I got to wear my winter coat.  Tonight the kids will be staying with their very first nanny and her children.  Our nanny, I’ll call her Sandra because that’s her name, was wonderful with the kids as babies but then seemingly became resentful after seven years that we were having her do stuff like clean up– the kids were at school so there wasn’t so much nannying to do.  My wife and I are both terrible at confronting people, so we lived in passive-aggressive hell for the last year of that relationship.  The breaking point should have come when our nanny announced one day that she was “working from home” which seemed impossible since her job was to straighten out her house.  Our response, predictably was, “oh, okay”.  Anyway, she’s amazing with kids and has since gone on to work for two peers of mine who now pay her more money than I make so I’m very happy for her.  I also think she has a pilot going for the CW but I can’t be sure.  Anyway, the point is, that my wife, who admittedly is not a gift-giver and is married to someone who loves giving and getting gifts, got me the perfect gift which is an overnight where the kids won’t (please God!) call us to come home.   As a side note, since the Oscars are in town this weekend, all of the nicer “local” hotels are booked up, so I believe we’re going to Utah.  No booze, just tron and a salt scrub from a hearty Mormon.  Ahhhhhh…. that’s a nice gift.

More tomorrow.

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February 27, 2011 at 2:50 am

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Day 13

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This will be quick (yes, I know that’s what she said, I’m well aware of what she says but I don’t have time for this!).  Fridays disappear in a blur and no matter when sundown is– when the Astrof family shuts off all electronica and tries to relax (and Daddy Astrof notices every single ceiling crack and water stain and resolves to do something about it but immediately forgets until the following Friday night)– the day passes quickly.  When I am at work my focus and ability to tell jokes miraculously speeds up to fit a full day’s work into whatever time I wind up leaving (a much bigger miracle then, say, oil lasting for 8 nights).  But I don’t have time for these digressions.

People should not get depressed by their birthdays.  They should get depressed by the day after their birthdays.  That’s when your facebook friends recede back into the woodwork– all the cute girls you had crushes on from camp who are now mothers of cute girls who go to camp forget about you until Facebook reminds them a year from now that you got older.  Forty-five reminded me of its significance at the gym this morning when my supernaturally upbeat trainer gave me another timed challenge– a crazy combination of leg-lifts, dead lifts and push-ups– that would have been a snap for a 44 year old, but were a bit much for this 45 year old.  I was listening to a Ke$ha song yesterday– I debated whether or not to admit that I like Ke$ha’s music, but I thought as long as I don’t admit that I have Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA” on my “Pump It” iPod playlist I won’t subject myself to too much ridicule.  (Pump It refers to the gym by the way).  Anyway, Ke$ha has a lyric that says “We’re young and we’re bored”.  I started to wonder whether I ever said in my twenties, “Wow, I’m young.”  Or whether I was bored in my twenties.  My wife and I always have conversations looking back at pictures of ourselves from twenty (!) years ago saying how cute we were back then.  I remember feeling not cute back then, but somehow in the pictures I become much cuter with my pompadour and non-furrowed brow.  Anyway, it scares me a little that one day twenty years from now I may go, “Wow, look how cute and thin I was back then.”  It scares me equally to think that I won’t.

Anyway, my Friday started in typical dramatic fashion because my daughter is still sick.  As I mentioned, she probably would have been the first snack to be had if she were in the Donner party.  I decided that since she wasn’t throwing up or febrile she should go to school.  To me, one of the hardest parts of parenting is knowing when to draw the line like my parents did, offering me on numerous occasions “something to cry about” when it was clear I had already found something to cry about– and when to pull back.  I chose to force her to go to school– again, no fever, no throwing up, no head spinning– which resulted in her having a tantrum, at which point I kissed my wife on the cheek and left for the gym.  Before you judge me, it was the best thing for my daughter that I wasn’t there for the dramatic dropoff.  And yes, I owe my wife one, but I owe my wife a million so what am I going to do.

One of  my Friday chores is doing the food shopping– a chore that my wife hates and that I happen to enjoy.  I like it because it feeds into my goal-oriented nature.  I have a list of things to do and I get to do them immediately.  Sure, I get hung up on whether or not to scan the items myself to save time and pretend I work at Ralph’s (which always takes longer than had I entrusted the scanning to an actual Ralph’s employee), but it always feels very hunter/gathery of me.  After my hunting and gathering, I go get a manicure (if the Ke$ha run didn’t scare off the last heterosexual man reading about my day, this oughta do it).  My wife turned me on to getting manicures about 5 years ago and I’m hooked.  Nailworks on Wilshire and Highland is my “Cheers”; it’s where everybody knows my name.  Sure, they call me “Jack” which I believe is Vietnamese for “Jeff”, but I’m not going to be defensive about my weekly manicure and buff.

One thing specific to this particular Friday was a conversation I had with a dear friend of mine– the one who almost died of alcohol poisoning with me at my 30th birthday.  He’s one of my best, most trusted friends, whom I talk to about once a month and see even less, but he’s always good for a deep dark laugh.  He just found out that the show he was working on is getting trashed by the network, so his entire creative year seems to have been for naught.  Not exactly naught, he made money and had a place to go, but in our business you need to get traction– be on a show that will get you noticed and help you get another deal.  I have not had traction in many years, and right now I’ve got four bald tires on a patch of black ice.  (Again, if I give myself the same credit I give him, I realize that this year provided me with great experience, good pay, work with good people and more contacts.  But neither of us got traction.)  Our conversation quickly led to where it always lead: what if we hit the lottery and get a hit show on the air.  Will that make us happy?  The quick answer, of course, is: Yes, of course it will!  I mean, no.  No it won’t.  The truth is, I’d love to have the challenge of being super wealthy and staying grounded.

After we hung up I turned on the radio to hear Charlie Sheen (super rich, super crazy) rant about Chuck Lorre (nee Chaim Levine, super rich, notoriously cranky), two prime examples of money not curing everything, or maybe anything.

Anyway, that’s all.  Tomorrow night my wife is taking me away to a hotel where we will get spa treatments and do what every married man with children in America fantasizes about: sleep in and watch live tv with commercials.  That’s a good birthday present.  Huh, this turned out to be longer than I thought (not what she said).

Look how cute and thin my nails were when I was 45.

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February 26, 2011 at 1:24 am

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Day 12

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So, it’s official: the best thing about Facebook, by far, is that people you never ever talk to or see wish you a happy birthday.  That, and you know, bringing Democracy to the Arab world.  As dumb as it sounds, it actually makes you feel like people care.  And then they send some stupid request like to join Farmville and you realize you have nothing in common, but still…

Age 45 started out with a groan that can only come from a man with two 45 year old groin muscles that were pulled during basketball.  I felt like Carl, the old man from Up, hobbling to the bathroom.  Okay, enough with the sexy talk.  For the last 15 years– since my 30th birthday when I rented out the top room of the erstwhile Brown Derby, invited the cast of “Friends” and got so drunk I got kicked out of my own party but not before hitting on one of the studio executives who worked on our show (it was unsuccessful if you must know)– I’ve thrown myself a big birthday party.  Some of the highlights were the two times I rented out roller rinks and a three day trip to Lake Tahoe where I invited a bunch of friends to Caesar’s Palace to gamble, ski and have what turned out to be a life-changing weekend.  That was 11 years ago, and it wound up leading to me getting my first dog, Tahoe, and my first fiancee, Shawni.   Anyway, this year, right around the time I would plan such a party, my job ended and I got the word that my pilot was not going to be picked up, so my desire to drop a lot of money to watch old people roller skate to “I Wanna Rock With You” was dampened.  Coincidentally, my daughter asked why we always went out on my birthday and didn’t involve the kids.  I decided not answer honestly, “because kids make things less fun,” and instead agreed that this year we would go out for a big family dinner with just the four of us, and maybe my cousin and sister and brother in law would drop by.  Those plans were scuttled when my daughter got sick so we are ordering in sushi and having a cake that my kids are fighting over who gets to decorate (see: “kids make things less fun”).  Anyway, the real celebration will take place Saturday night when my wife takes me to a hotel until the kids call us crying and we come back– but I’m really looking forward to a ride to a hotel with my wife.  Just so it doesn’t seem like such a bummer– I love my kids despite my daughter crying because she thinks I think it’s her fault she gets sick (I may have once said “it’s your fault you get sick”), I came downstairs this morning to find a bunch of colorful drawings from my kids wishing me a happy birthday and telling me all the things they love about me: I make good eggs, I’m funny, I’m a good writer, etc. hanging from the light in the foyer.  They will no doubt be hanging there until next year, but it really did make me feel good.  If I haven’t said so already, “I love my kids”.

This morning marked the end of my involvement for the year at $#*! My Dad Says.  I went in to meet the guys who created the show for a couple of hours to help edit a small promotional reel for the show.  It was a weird feeling for me.  The show was cut short after only 18 episodes instead of the usual 22, so I never got to feel that huge sense of relief/fatigue/accomplishment that comes with the end of a full season.  I guess, like my Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, I never got closure.  (I spoke to a mutual friend yesterday who told me my crazy ex was disappointed that she and I didn’t have more of an interaction when we reunited at the gym the other day.  I replied, “Did she want a kiss?  Last time we saw each other she threatened to kill me!”  “No, she just wanted closure.”  “I’m married with two kids.  There’s her closure.”)  Anyway, it was a little sad to go back into my office which was transformed into the offices of a new pilot, with nary a trace that I was ever there.  Everything in Hollywood is illusory, even having an office.  (I also realized that one of the benefits of work is that it takes up much of the space during the day that you think would otherwise be taken up by pure birthday celebration, but when you’re not working, you realize that, no, there’s only a couple of hours of birthday celebration anyway, so why not have the illusion that if you weren’t at work it’d be Marti Gras all day long.)

So as I turn 45, I am comforted by the fact that I have kids, who make things less fun, but are ultimately good kids, and a wife who is way out of my league in every way– she “married high”, as in, she got me when I was able to rent out fancy restaurants and have “Friends” over.  Now I don’t even have friends–small f– over.  And while I fear the unknown– where will I work next year– I count my blessings and am comforted by a story I recently heard on the radio that said that people peak creatively in their mid-forties.  So, here I am, peaking.   I was also comforted, by of all people, my agent– usually of the agency of Doom & Gloom– who is very upbeat about the future.  (In a sitcom we would cue a Flip To: Jeff moving into a one-bedroom apartment under the 10 Freeway.)

Anyway, my kids are calling me in to see the cake so I should go.  By the way, the cake is Mrs. Beasley’s chocolate with cream cheese icing and chocolate chips.  It’s the best cake in the world and I only eat it once a year, on my birthday, which makes it even better.  As a funny side story, on the way home from lunch with my wife– during which my Facebook happy birthdays went from 50 to 80!– I was musing that I wonder what it’s like when you stop having any desire for intimacy with your partner.  My wife replied, “It’s not so bad.”   Happy birthday to me, huh?

Feb 23, 2011-- Age 44

Feb 24, 2011, Age 45

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February 25, 2011 at 3:00 am

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Day 11

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The last day of my 44th year on this planet has been a good one, if uneventful.   The greater part of my morning was spent trying to anonymonize (take my name off of) the little animation video I did.  My lack of handiness that plagued me since I was a kid has followed me into the technological age.  My first attempt to change the flat bicycle tire of my Huffy Strider 10 speed bike in ninth grade involved me using gardening shears to cut the tire off.  I graduated second in my High School class out of 304 students, but there was nowhere in my brain that said, “Hey, how are you going to get the tire back on if you slice it in half?”  Using this skill set, I spent several hours trying to remove my name from this video.  I’m not optimistic that I was successful.  My last attempt at this happened two years ago and it’s worth repeating:

The only time I have been truly successful at losing weight has been when I have had meals prepared for me and delivered to me.  If I know exactly how much I’m supposed to eat, I won’t eat anymore than that– otherwise, the world is my portion.  In any case, I had great success using a delivery service, I’ll call them Kosher Zone LA.  Well, great success in terms of the results– in the four times I used them I lost a gross total of 120 pounds (net total =0).  The pattern went as follows: I would lose weight until I could no longer stand the service (giving me hamburgers despite my pleas for no red meat, forgetting to deliver some days, etc.) at which point I would fire off an angry email to them canceling the program and promising them I would never come back.  Then, after 6 months I would gain the weight back and send them a follow-up email asking if I could rejoin.  The last time I did this I thought it would be funny if the follow-up email contained the thread of my angry quitting email in which I promised never to use them again.  I was wrong.  They told me that they were not accepting new clients.  It was impossible to believe that in this economy someone had too much business.  The truth, I was surmised, was that I pissed off a group of people who deal with the crankiest people in the world: dieting Jews.  Certain that they were lying, I came up with the perfect plan.  I sent them an email from another fictional person, Peter Rubens, asking to join.

This is what the email said:  “Dear KosherZoneLA, my name is Peter Rubens.  I just moved to LA and would like to go on your program.  Are you accepting new clients?  Sincerely, Peter Rubens.”  This is how it looked to them:

To: Sales@KosherZoneLA.com

From: PeterRubens@gmail.com <Jeffrey Astrof>

Dear KosherZoneLA, my name is Peter Rubens.  I just moved to LA and would like to go on your program.  Are you accepting new clients?  Sincerely, Peter Rubens

They did not get back to me.  Anyway, a long story, but one I wanted to mention.  Not worth spending another second on.

Other things about my day: As I predicted, my daughter is home sick for the day.  I think she has now officially missed six months of school.  If her routine changes at all, or if someone sneezes in the next town, or if her body gets used to having more than two days off of school, she will get sick.  I love her more than anything, but she is whiney.  There, I said it.  I am whiney, too, when I get sick, so I keep my body so stressed out that it is inhospitable to germs.

Today I also had lunch with my wife and another friend who was Lea Michelle before people paid a lot of money to have someone be Lea Michelle.  Her name, in fact, is Michelle, and it’s always good seeing her.  More importantly, it’s always nice having lunch with my wife.  We’ve been married almost 11 years and I don’t thinks she’s pissed me off more than three times.  She cannot say the same about me, but one of the best things about getting older is getting older with her.

Finally, I started to clean the garage!  That is, I opened the garage door so I could start putting together shelves that my wife bought and I realized that I would have to clean out the garage to have room for the shelves.  It was the gift of the Magi, or the rock that God created that He couldn’t lift.  Or just a garage from the show Hoarders.  In any case, in an effort to be productive, I removed four bags of gravel from the garage and put them in the dog run.  The dog run is one of my favorite things that I’ve ever built.  And by built, I mean, called someone to build.  It is nothing more  than a chain link fence that cuts through our backyard and lowers our property value, but it allows me to have a green lawn.  And as I get older and older, things like that will get more important to me.

I ended my day by playing basketball which is one of the funnest things I do.  I’ve been playing in the same game for over 12 years, and while I’m not good, I try hard.  I feel like my son who runs at everything he does as hard as he can and that’s a good thing.  Of course, it took its toll.  In the middle of the third game I felt my cellphone buzz in my pocket, and then realized that my cellphone wasn’t in my pocket.  Time to hit a hot bath.  I imagine things like that will get more important to me with age.

So long, 44.

Dog run and gravel. Today I am a man.

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February 24, 2011 at 6:39 am

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Day 10

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The main thing I don’t like about the internet is that it reveals that non-professionals can be funny, too.  The other thing I don’t like is that while it’s thrilling to have your work be seen by millions–okay thousands, fine, hundreds, okay a dozen good friends– it also makes you terribly vulnerable to attack.  When you work on a tv show you can (and always do) blame the cast for something that doesn’t work, or maybe the director who didn’t get the right shot, or the editor who cut out your smart Dickensian reference to make room for the second-pass fart joke that slayed the audience ( that you wished you had pitched).

This morning I spent working on one of those xtranormal videos– you know where you make your own animation and the characters talk in robot voices which makes it 60% funnier?  Anyway, I came up with this idea in the shower– most of my ideas in the shower revolve around a resolution to stop eating a quart of almond milk ice cream right before bed– and I decided to stretch my computer capabilities by making an animation video.   It’s still a work in progress, but it’s kind of political and I don’t want to open myself up to criticism from fringe a-holes who don’t agree exactly with my point of view (which by definition makes them a fringe a-hole).  I’m not so concerned about comments on this blog because A, I’m really doing this for myself, and B, the 12 people who read it are mostly friends of my wife’s who are too nice to write anything mean.  A friend of mine who made his name by blogging told me that I’ll know when I’ve made it when someone calls me a fag in the comments.  I have a good 15 pounds to go before anyone comes close to calling me that.

Anyway, so far, my favorite comments on 100daysoff have been those who give notes on it like it’s my pilot.  A typical comment will call for the action to start sooner (drop days one through four, get to where you really screw up your kids), or my friend Ira who in his best network impression recommended the tiny tweak of changing it to “100 Days ON” about a fit Irish guy who’s killing it in the advertising business.  It reminds me of an actual note I got when I pitched my show “Bad Dad” to the networks a couple of years ago.  The studio relayed to me that the network loved the pitch. Me: “And?”  Studio: “And nothing.  They loved it!” Me: “So they didn’t have any notes?”  Studio: “Nope.  Well one note.” Me: “A big note?”  Studio: “No no no no no.  I’d say a medium note.”  Me: “What was the medium note?”  Studio (without irony): “They want him to be a good dad.”   Sigh.  Anyway, this is the business I’ve chosen.  Not sure if and when I’ll send out my little animation piece, and I’ll probably do it anonymously, but it was a morning well-spent.

The other big event of the day was parent-teacher conference.  My wife made the dubious choice of having me go alone to talk to our children’s teachers since she had to take our son to gymnastics and she talks to the teachers every day anyway.  Being off from work as I am, I was perfectly available to go.  For me, seeing my kids’ teachers is like seeing a doctor after a physical.  I dropped my last doctor because he would always draw out the analysis before telling me that everything is okay.  After my last physical with Dr. U he had my chest x-ray on that big light board in his office.  Dr. U: “Come in.  Sit down.”  Me: (voice quivering) “Okay.”  Dr. U: “You see this big shaded area here?”  Me: (IT’S CANCER!) “Yes?” Dr. U: “That’s your heart.”  Huge sigh of relief.  Dr. U: “But these big blurry zones here…”  Me: (YOU MEAN THE CANCER?) “Yes…”  Dr. U:  “These are your lungs.”  Anyway, that’s what it’s like for me with my kids’ teachers.  I just want me to come in and have the teachers say “they’re normal.”  The truth is, they’re not so normal.  And that’s what kills me.  Because any abnormality has been passed down through me via nature or nurture.  Except thank God, that my kids are cute like my wife.  Hopefully this will compensate for the anxious baggage I gave them as a birthrite.  On the other hand, no kids are “normal”.

Overall, my kids are doing great.  One is exceedingly shy but coping socially.  We have a little ways to go, but this kid is performing at or above grade-level which is perfect (don’t want too high because then my Aspergers alarm goes off).  My other kid has a touch of the ADD.  Last time I was at the parent-teacher’s conference the teacher was telling us this when I jumped in, “It says here on page 7 that the children should be writing in script by now.  Is my child doing that?”

That’s pretty much it.  Today would have been my Grandma Ethel’s 100th birthday.  She and I were very close.  Without her I wouldn’t be the person I am today.  And I mean that in a good way.

Tomorrow the schedule is open wide.  Time to hit that garage.  Happy Birthday Grandma Ethel, I miss you.

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February 23, 2011 at 5:49 am

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Day 9

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What could be better than taking the family to Legoland on President’s Day Weekend?  Answer:  ANYTHING.  What a dumb move.  To be fair, Legoland was my idea.  Well, not the park, I never could have conceived of charging a family of four $250 to go on a bunch of lame-ass rides made of Legos in my wildest dreams.  But I figured since we were in Orange County already we might as well stop by.  I’m constantly compelled to do things I wish my dad had done with me, not realizing that I’m just not really wired that way to be a fun-loving unflappable dad.  In fact, I’m extremely flappable.  I now have newfound respect for my father for not taking me to theme parks as a kid: he was just being honest with himself about his own limitations.

Anyway, in the three plus hours we were there we went on five “rides”.  I know they were rides because each sign said, “90 Minute wait time for this ride.”   Otherwise, these “rides” were just five minute bumpers between waiting on lines to go on other “rides”.  Made of Legos.  $250.  The best part of the day was that I got to overhear other fathers who made the same mistake I did yell at their kids about things like keeping their shoes on and saying things like “I don’t know why the damn line for the damn sky cruiser is so long.  IT JUST IS!”  Aside from that, this day was really about giving my kids a memory about the time dad wasn’t honest with himself.  (Another small perk is that we got a picture of our family going on some lame “roller coaster” made of legos and both Shawni and I looked good so we bought it.  Kids were making goofy faces, but anymore it’s about the parents not being embarrassed by how we look).

Speaking of kids, I realized late last night that the 11 year old I got into a fight with earlier in the day because he was riding the escalator in a dangerous/obnoxious way was probably somewhere on the spectrum of having a social disorder.  I tried to pass off his behavior as the result of him having a father who wore two earrings (one on each ear, late 30’s, come on, dude), but Shawni doesn’t thing that was the reason.  I should probably give money to a charity tomorrow.

Anyway, that’s really all.  I’m exhausted– maybe the tiredest I’ve ever been.  I actually fell asleep for two minutes on the drive home and when I awoke I asked Shawni if she would drive.  Now that I’m back home I really need to focus on accomplishing tasks.  My days are already quickly being eaten up by hiking dogs, shopping and running errands.  Throw in lunch and a trip to the Coffee Bean and it’s time to write in my journal already.  I don’t see tomorrow being a productive day: the kids are off from school (the only reason they won’t get sick tomorrow after a long weekend of not sleeping is because tomorrow is not a school day) which means it will be a lot of babysitting.   Tomorrow is also the day for parent-teacher conferences and since Shawni has to take my son somewhere  in the afternoon, I will have to do the conferences myself.  SPOILER ALERT: It will not go well.  Another one of my limitations is dealing with anything having to do with my kids’ educations.

Stay tuned…

Don't fall for this! It is NOT a ride just because it has the word "ride" on the sign.

Written by 100daysoff

February 22, 2011 at 5:52 am

Posted in Uncategorized