Did I Mention Bonnie Hunt?

This blog post is addressed to the astute, observant reader.  Two days ago, in the midst of a spring break induced writing frenzy, I attached a label 'Bonnie Hunt' to the post.  Upon careful reading of that post you may notice that there is no mention of Bonnie Hunt in my writing.   I did not mean to cause any undo stress or confusion among my readers.  It was merely an oversight on my part.  Allow me to explain.

Sure, I could go back into the settings of that posting and delete Ms. Hunt's name from the label section.  I do not have the seconds that it would take for me to do that.  Instead, I will take a half an hour now to explain why I don't.  Time management was never my strong suit. 

It was a chilly April morning and I was reeling (not really) from remembering a repressed memory about an airport, a bathroom, and some disturbing graffiti.  The airport was in Chicago and I know, from watching her show not from stalking in any way, that Bonnie Hunt has a strong connection to Chicago.   I was also going to make some sort of smart alec remark that, since I had already declared that Bonnie is my celebrity girlfriend, when she asks me to fly my family in to meet her family, show us around the city, and eat Thanksgiving dinner together, I would need to fly into a different airport.  Someone with a Sharpie has forever besmirched the image of O'Hare. 

That's it.  I didn't want scare anyone or make anyone think I had started to lose my mind...especially since we all know that the marble losing process had already begun early on in my childhood.  I would also like to inform Ms. Hunt that my team of therapists have already explained that a signature on a restraining order does technically count as an autograph so I will stop trying to contact you since I already have about six "autographs" framed on my wall.  Ok seven.  And they all have those brass artwork lights over them.

Thank you for your time, dear readers, and I just want to mention that this month has been the blog's most viewed month ever!  By more than a hundred people!  I have also taken another step toward fame (but not fortune).  I am starting to get mail asking me to visit and then "like" other people's blogs.   I was so excited that I had comments only to find out that they were essentially ads for their blogs.  One almost sounded like it was a Nigerian prince who wanted me to like his blog.  I am not sure how to handle that one since I am still recovering from the other Nigerian prince, and his millions of dollars, not returning my calls. 

Thanks for reading.
Jeff

Doesn't B-B-B-Bother Me At All

For today's therapy session...I mean blog post...I thought I would just get right down to it and talk about something that we are going to call a repressed memory of sorts.  I consider it something that is embarrassing and uncomfortable to talk about, so I thought I would write about it on the internet where millions of people can see it.  In reality there are about fifteen hundred clicks on the blog every month but it could be read by millions...if they wanted to. 

What made me think of it was when we drove our family friend to the airport to see her off to Germany.  While we were waiting for her flight to leave I needed to use the facilities.  That was what reminded me of this story.  Yes, an airport bathroom.  But don't worry...it's not that bad.  For this hidden memory there is another person involved, we'll call him the perpetrator, and he may very well be someone who reads this blog.  It may reveal to him the kind of harm he inflicted and cause him to make amends.  For that unknown person I would like to say that a suitcase full of money delivered to a yet to be disclosed location would be a good start...unless you are a publisher who is interested in my book.  Then we can call it even. 

As most unpleasant memories go (unless you are a character in a science fiction novel) this happened in the past.  I have rarely, if ever, spoken of it.  I was about nineteen or twenty and my friends Rachel and Mike asked me to fly out to Missouri, hang out for about a week, and then help them drive their cars and their stuff out to California where they would be living.  It sounded like a great adventure and I had some vacation time coming so off I went to the travel agent.  I was warned that I would need to fly to Chicago's O'Hare airport to get to Missouri from California.  So that would be...San Francisco, Chicago, and then Missouri.  SFO, ORD, STL.  (I keep mentioning this because I couldn't believe that I needed to fly past where I wanted to go and then backtrack to get to my friends)  I would also have to fly through what was the busiest and largest airports in the country, if not even the world, to get to my friends.  That meant a layover...and a worry.

I was warned by seasoned travelers that I would have to run as fast as I could in order to get to my next connection.  And watch my wallet because pickpockets were a real problem in the airport.  The bags would make it in a transfer but I probably wouldn't.  I kept telling people that I had a whole hour to get from one plane to the other.  That didn't help calm anyone's fears.  "I hate that place!"  Another said.  "It's so huge!  It's ridiculous!"  Still another.  I was doomed!  I even got warned by someone who worked at the airlines.  He said, "I once got a taxi to go from one terminal to the other so I would make my flight!  And that was when I had two hours! Good luck!"  Great, the first time I venture out on my own and I was doomed to wander the airport aimlessly, penniless, for the rest of my days. 

I started training. (yeah right)  I studied the map of the airport.  (nope) I figured, it'll work out.  (we have a winner)  But I was still a bit apprehensive.  When I got to the airport in Chicago I said, "Buh bye" to the stewardess (that's what they called them back then!) and found out the number of the gate where I would need to meet my new plane!  I got into the airport at gate 23 in terminal 1 and I needed to get all the way over to gate 25 in terminal 1...which meant I had to walk approximately 27 feet...in just over an hour.  I put on my track shoes, I got into the starting position, I walked over and sat down. 

It was at this time, when I had fifty nine and a half minutes to wait for my plane, that I got paged.  "Jeff Garrett to the white courtesy phone.  Jeff Garrett to the white courtesy phone please."  Turns out it was nature calling so I answered the call.  Lucky for me, the labyrinthical airport had a men's room right across from gate twenty five.  I got out a piece of bread and started leaving breadcrumbs as I made my way over.  It was your average airport facility.  Mostly clean, mostly white with hints of stainless steel, and it was absolutely empty.   This is where I was traumatized...kind of.  I went into the stall and locked the door (pickpockets remember!) and answered the white courtesy phone call of nature.  And then I saw the graffiti.  It said, "If you are interested in beginning a meaningful relationship with someone of the same sex be here at 10:50 A.M. on the morning of June 25th."  For graffiti aficionados you know that I cleaned up the message quite a bit, but you probably get the idea.  This is where it gets weird.  I said to myself, "Boy!  That is oddly specific!  Hey, isn't today the 25th of June?  I wonder what time it is?"  I looked at my watch.  (this was before people had cell phones and watches were obsolete)  "What do you know...10:49!  Crap!" 

Let me just say that I ended the call, washed my hands (because my mom told me that the whole fabric of society would fall apart if I didn't), and contacted my Sherpa to get me back to my terminal where I waited and kept a suspicious eye on everyone who went into and out of the bathroom.  I have since realized that I was just the unfortunate victim of painfully coincidental vandalism, but at the time it gave me the willies.  The plane arrived, I boarded, and I had a relatively uneventful trip to Missouri.  The trip home from Missouri was fraught with peril...but that is for another day.

Paid? Me?

April 18th, 2010.  A day that will live in...infamy?  The day I started writing my blog.  The day I pressed the "publish post" button for the first time and got a little anxious about what would happen next.  I, of course, had the far off dream of being rich and famous and being able to travel the globe while "motor" home-schooling our children.  In the short term I was hopeful that someone, somewhere, would read my odd ramblings and send me greetings from afar.  In the very short term I was hopeful that there wasn't some sort of fee that would be involved in the publishing of a free blog.  Well, meeting short term goals is good.  Right?

There are indeed no fees involved in the writing of this blog.  Unless you are an IRS agent and then I totally remodeled the front of our house to make it into a home office.  The cost was astronomical...and all of the leftover supplies and materials we donated to several local charities whose records have all mysteriously disappeared.  But I digress...

I have made several steps in the blog writing process.  I have gone from the initial hope and excitement to more realism but I am still excitable.  Not quite as much as an over-caffeinated chihuahua but I can get a little silly at times.  I remember the day that I ventured into the tabs along the top of this website.  I mean what were these things that I never even really noticed before?  Comments?  Settings?  Design?  Stats?  I have to say that I was pleased when I figured out that people in other countries were clicking onto the site.  (Pleased will be defined as: jumping and running around the house yelling, "Germany, Poland, Canada, Slovenia!" over and over again.)  It was a little thrilling (frightening) for the kids but they are resilient, right?

In writing I also wanted to make a statement about the human condition and its tendency toward the blurring of geo-political boundaries in an existential co-mingling of ... Who am I trying to kid...I wanted to write about my whacked out family, friends, and the occasional weird sign they hang in Safeway.

When I started writing I thought it would be really cool to be interviewed by Bonnie Hunt.  I have already declared her as my "celebrity girlfriend" so you have to understand that there was an ulterior motive involved.  But additionally I think that she was just about the only talk show I had a shot of getting on.  Leno would have made fun of the fact that I was a teacher and wasn't good at geography.  Kimmel would have made a joke about hitting on my wife. (understandable)  Letterman would have made a joke about hitting on my daughter. (eww)  Miss Hunt would have seen me, regular guy, teaches kindergarten, sister who's a nurse, just trying to make people smile...for free...that is the type of person she had on her show.  I miss it.  And that is one goal that shall not be met. 

I also went from saying, "It's silly but you could check out my writing." to "You think that was funny?  You should read my blog!"  I actually wrote myself out of conversations.  I would be talking to a friend and begin a story only to have them say, "Yeah, I read all about that."  Which, unfortunately for me, meant that I had nothing more to say and usually ended up talking about how the Bears were doing.  Not the team, the animals in Jellystone...I have an affinity for Yogi and Boo Boo.

But ultimately I was hoping that my little corner of the internet might net me a profit and maybe even get picked up into a newspaper.  And while I have not heard anything from the Times, the Post, or the Argus (our local paper where it was good enough for Ray Orrock so it would be good enough for me) so I have nothing more than to hope for the best in the money department.  I should be completely honest and say that I hadn't heard from the newspapers mostly because I hadn't contacted them, ever.  And this is when I tell you that I have made it to achieve one of my goals.  I have just received a letter, in the real mail, that asked me for information regarding how to send me my first check resulting from the blog.  I have always said that I would not call myself an author until I got paid to write...I may just be able to do that soon.  Of course there are those who say that in order to consider yourself being paid as an author you should be able to make a living at it.  The best I can figure is that I will be getting a check for approximately $9.23 after only ten months of writing.  I'm not sure I can make stretch that enough to live on but it will make for an interesting decoration to hang on the wall.  My first check!  Well it'll be a copy of my first check.  I'm cashing that sucker as soon as it arrives.  Papa wants to go to the movies!

My supportive family has been helping me along with my dream.  They allow me to zone away while I write and I try to only do that while they are otherwise engaged.  They provide me with endless good humor and plenty of material to write about (some of which has self-imposed statutes of limitations so keep reading for years and I can write about the kids when they move out)  My sister and my dad have even gotten me books that deal with the subject of writing.  Dad got me one about writing fiction.  Publishing ideas.  Sis got me one that was essentially, "How to make money with your blog."  Cool!  Problem is, when I opened the book it said something like, "Step one:  Have a point."...  Crap...I guess I can try again tomorrow.

I...Have...Arrived...(kinda)

A while ago, way back in November, I wrote about Dave Barry in my blog.  I wanted to let you, my faithful readers, know that I have been contacted by Mr. Barry, and it wasn't a cease and desist order either!  I was writing about the fact that he was actually getting paid for writing silly things in the paper.  I have been getting paid as well.  As of this writing I am skyrocketing up to six dollars and thirty two cents in revenue generated by the ads on my blog.  Google doesn't actually send checks for less than ten dollars so I haven't actually seen any of the profit yet, but it could happen at any time!  Well, at any time in about four hundred days since I average about a penny a day...but I digress.

As is my custom, whenever I mention people in the blog I send them a note to let them know.  I have reconnected with old friends, I have gotten new followers, and I have been rumored to have received a restraining order or two...but I'm sure Bonnie was only kidding.  Well, when I sent Dave a note explaining that I had taken his name, in vain, he sent one back to me...in the real mail!  USPS baby!

Knowing the level of my blogular obsession, Kristiana took a picture of his note and sent it to me as a text.  I was happy to say the least!  I have written to some fairly important people in my day and aside from Ray Orrock, who used to answer my letters in his newspaper column, this is the first time anyone has ever written back to me.  Happy as I am, as excited as I was, I promptly...lost the note.  The time it took me to read the note, read it again, double check the signature against one that is in a book my sister had him sign, and then misplace the note...took all of about forty five minutes.  I was upset!  I turned over the pile of papers where I last had it, I checked the kitchen table...twice, I even checked the freezer (you never know).  I was a little frantic.  I had it, in my hand, and then poof...gone.  I wanted to write this blog yesterday but wanted to quote it in my writing and I hadn't yet memorized it...I have now.  You see, not only did I find it but I took my own picture of it, I have it in our safe, and I have plans to have a replica tattooed over my heart.

I was a little disturbed by the fact that I found his note, and I am not making this up, under my pillow.  I can imagine that a rich and powerful man such as Mr. Barry would be able to have the resources needed to break into my house, obtain the note, and plant it under the pillow on my side of the bed.  That would be a funny joke that he and his minions would be able to laugh about for days!  I interrogated the kids, nothing.  I lovingly asked my wonderful bride.  "Seriously?  No."  I remembered that it was on my nightstand when I made the bed earlier...understandable, but not even remotely as funny.

His note was simple, elegant, and yet, to the point.  After years of getting paid to write this man is a wordsmith extraordinaire!  When this little scene is portrayed in the movie they make about my life, Kurt Russell will play me (Mr. Barry's note will be played by Mr. Barry's note) it will surely be the clincher in the Academy Award sweep. 
"Not a dry eye in the house!"  Washington Post.
"The raw emotion!  Breathtaking!"  New York Times
"Hey!  I thought Bonnie Hunt was supposed to be in this!"  Fremont Argus

Have I kept you all in a satisfactory yet not intolerable amount of suspense yet?  Hopefully, since it is winter time and, exactly on schedule, my fingers have started cracking at the tip and each keystroke is a new reason to cringe, flinch, and whimper. 

Mr. Barry's note said, and I quote, "Hey, Thanks.  Sincerely Dave Barry"  Anyone have a tissue?  I have a little something in my eye....nevermind...I think there's one under my pillow.

Whew! I'm Beat!

I am a dedicated writer. I even get up early on days when I could sleep in to come beg publishers to discover me and pay me kajillions of dollars to turn my blog into a book, movie, TV series, t-shirt, or refrigerator magnet. There are those out there who would say, "But Jeff, isn't it possible that you are only up early because you forgot to turn off the alarm clock that is set to go off 5 days a week?" Oh Ye of little faith...and loads of insight. Yup, six o'clock on the dot and I hear the wonderful light rock selections beginning to ramp up. A few beeps later and the alarms are all turned off so Sylvia can remain sleeping, but I am completely awake. Good for her, and good for you (if you enjoy reading this) because I have sort of taken the position that I am not going to just get up and turn on the TV to wait for everyone else in the world to get up. Thus this post.

I also need to give some credit to my sister who made a special request that I "labor over a blog entry before the end of Labor Day." She is, in fact, a big reason I started writing this in the first place. You can alternately thank or blame her as the case may be. (she is the follower whose name rhymes with snoozin)

It may seem like my idea stream has slowed to a trickle over the summer, but the fact is that my writing time has been impeded by getting things done around the house. "Laboring", as it were. It used to be that I could get up around 7 or so and start to write for about ninety minutes before anyone even knew I was up. Fudge, the wonder dog, is as reliable an alarm clock as anything Timex has ever produced. You remember the slogan, "There is no ticking, he just keeps on licking." I would get up, wipe off my face, let him out (which is a euphemism for something), and feed him...right before I sat down to write. I would be a paragraph away from done before there were any other sounds in the house.

Over the summer we had the goal of getting our van into the garage and, since Sylvia didn't like my idea of just backing way back and ramming it in, we needed to sort some things out. In order to do that Sylvia started waking early to get started for the day. When she came out she would always say, "It's OK, keep writing." But guys, it was that tone. You know the one. The same as a "nothing" that you know darn well means "something." So I put down the laptop and started in helping. It made for some really long times between posts...it also made for a big empty spot in the garage that fits the van nicely. Or rather it did until we allowed Jake to buy a set of drums with his own money...but that is another post.

So now we come to Labor Day. I know to capitalize it because I am a teacher and I know that some people call it a holiday. But I submit that it is not a real holiday as the evidence clearly shows.

First the name. Labor Day. Websters defines labor as "doing stuff." Well I'm pretty sure that's what it would say if I felt like getting up and looking. I'm nothing if not thorough. The name can be interpreted as meaning that we need to "do stuff" because this is the day for labor. But we all know that this is not the meaning. Otherwise only presidents would be allowed to buy washers and dryers with no interest for three years on Presidents Day. No, Labor Day is to take a day off from doing your labor. But wait! Isn't this the opposite of what is happening these days? It starts early on. Paper Men (I am convinced that there are no more paperboys) need to work harder than almost any other day other than the Friday after Thanksgiving because of all the ads. Then, because of all of those ads, the stores need to have almost all of their employees come in to handle all of the extra customers who find it impossible to live without the newest big ticket item at no interest for three years...even if you aren't a president. It seems to me the largest group of people who get the day off are those who work for the government (and lets be honest, they fail at even my definition of labor).

So the name doesn't lend itself to being an actual holiday. Thanksgiving - give thanks. Christmas - Christ Mass. Independence Day - the day of independence. Arbor day - the day you are supposed to walk under one of those flower draped white arches they have at weddings. I mean those make sense! Labor Day, seriously?

Now I don't want to complain too much because, well, I get the day off too. But let me tell you when someone deals with a room full of five year olds (and nearly five year olds) where one of them comes up to you and says, "Amo pego" (I love to hit...in Spanish) there is labor involved. I shall not be purchasing any big ticket items this labor day (even though I am the president of the Bonnie Hunt Fan Club...it's an honorary title I bestowed upon myself) and I will feel mildly guilty if we should happen to need to go to the store for something. I will not, however, admit that it is a real holiday.

The final and most compelling evidence that this is not a real, honest to goodness, holiday rests in the most reliable purveyor of holiday validation. I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the...world...(movie line....any takers?) that Labor Day is simply not a holiday because Google.com has not turned its logo into anything involving labor! Case Closed!

Have a nice Labor Day! Whether you "labor" or not is completely up to you...unless you are a president.

I Don't Have Multiple Personalities...And Neither Do I

"You have the patience of a saint."
I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I have heard those words. I'm not sure how saints became the high water mark for patience, but that seems to be how people compliment kindergarten teachers these days. Especially, I believe, six foot three inch (5 foot fifteen inch if I am feeling you need to be "messed with" when you ask) male kindergarten teachers.

Having said that I want to talk about my impatience. There are several things about which I have absolutely no patience at all:
Adults with absolutely no logical reasoning.
Driving slowly in the "fast" lane.
Pets that bite...even though the little rodent is just "being cute" and "it doesn't hurt."

And now, it seems, for NOT being offered millions of dollars to write a book and eventually get interviewed on TV to talk about it.

Because of the last one, I thought I would take this opportunity to interview myself. No seriously, I think it can work. But since I do not have multiple personalities I will have to turn up my imagination knob. (If you were in my kindergarten class you would know that the imagination knob is located just behind your right ear...The volume knob is located behind the left ear but all of them have been disabled at the factory) Here I go, bear with me.

Jeff: So now that you are famous. How do you deal with the notoriety?
Jeff: I'm not sure you know who I am. I am not famous at all. I teach kindergarten. I write a blog.

Jeff: Number one in the New York Times, Number three in Canada, required reading in American schools. Have you made any extravagant purchases with your new found wealth?
Jeff: Is this a joke? I have not written a book. I write a blog. Say it with me...blllooooggggg. It's not important or life changing...it is for fun and I would love to someday be paid for writing but right now I am just having fun.

Jeff: What gave you the idea to write a best selling book?
Jeff: Am I being Punk'd? Ashton? Where are you? The idea for writing a blog...BLOG...came from the movie Julie and Julia. The movie was very good and it reminded me that my sister had suggested that I write a blog. I actually wrote about this in some of my first entries...have you even read any of these? And this isn't even a best read blog. There are only 22 followers and mostly it's my friends and family but I would love to hear what others are thinking. I added a Facebook share button on the blog so others can send it to their friends. I think a big accomplishment for me would be to become a "Blog Of Note" for Blogger. I would like that. It isn't like music where I can suddenly hear one of my songs on the radio. They don't read blogs over the radio.

Jeff: Since you've been invited to throw out the first pitch at the World Cup and I know this is your first time in South Africa, how are you enjoying the weather?
Jeff: Sir, you need some sort of help. Really. Have you ever considered shock therapy? There are so many things wrong with what you have said. The pitch in soccer is what they play on, not what gets thrown. The World Cup people have no need for anyone to begin the match much less me, who has never played soccer in my life. And, I have never been to South Africa so I have absolutely no idea what the weather is like. I think it is beginning to be their winter season soon though since they are in the southern hemisphere. I could look it up if you...do you really want to talk about the weather in South Africa?

Jeff: If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?
Jeff: That's it. Take this microphone off. I'm outta here.

Jeff: Given the strife in Smurfville, do you think it is time for Papa Smurf to step down and name a successor? What about the rumors about him and Smurfette?
Jeff: Security!

Jeff: Did you see "One Crazy Summer"? I liked that movie.
Jeff: Goodbye! Get my agent on the phone. Wait, I don't have an agent! This never would have happened on the Bonnie Hunt Show. I miss that show.

Jeff: Is it a burden being ridiculously handsome?
Jeff: Finally! A serious question.

Jeff: No, I was just kidding. (music playing) Well tune in next time when I interview Abraham Lincoln and ask him, was it difficult getting used to zero gravity on the moon?

Bonnie Hunt is my Celebrity Girlfriend!

Bonnie Hunt is my celebrity girlfriend! There it is. True confession time. It feels good to get that off my chest.



To clarify, Wikipedia defines a celebrity girlfriend as: Someone who you like to see in movies and on TV, but have no chance of ever meeting in person. Not to be confused with actually desiring or attempting a romantic relationship (see stalking).



Ok, true confession time (take two)...there is not a Wikipedia definition for this. I made it up. I do things like that.



Let me also explain, the smartest thing I have ever said was, "I do" and the best thing I've ever eaten is wedding cake. I certainly won the marriage lottery. Additionally, I try really hard to make sure that Sylvia feels the same way. I want her to come away from a "husband complaint session" (I know they exist) feeling great in comparison. I try to give her something to add to the jabs, back and forth, so every once in a while I "forget" to hit the automatic start button on the coffee maker the night before, after I set it up. And if you believe that is the only thing, I have an autographed first edition Bible I can sell you.

Let me also add that Sylvia has held Patrick Swayze and Kurt Russell over my head as her celebrity boyfriends for YEARS!! (and boy are her arms ... sorry, old joke)

Wikipedia defines celebrity boyfriend as: Someone who, if ever met in person, all other attachments and relationships wouldn't matter and running off to frolic on the beach forevermore would ensue(see scantily clad).

True conf...oh you get the idea.

I know there is a disparity in the definitions...It's a risk I am willing to take. But if you ever see me running and carrying Sylvia over my shoulder, fireman style, you'll know that I saw someone who looked like Kurt Russell walking toward us.

So, finally, I come to the point of this post. Yesterday I mentioned that Kristiana was mortified that I have a Twitter account. Let me tell you why. The Bonnie Hunt show has a bit where she "tweets" something, and if you are the first caller you win a prize. The world's best dog brusher, celebrity perfume, book of the week...whatever. Almost never wanted the prize, but it would have been great to talk to her. I would have told her that I thought she was very entertaining and that I appreciated her show being thoughtful and funny and respectful and not gossipy...all things that make other shows turn-offs for me. Anyway, that is the only reason why I opened a Twitter account. The problem is, I never got the things that she was sending even though I "followed" her alone. It's OK, I'm not hurt. Sniff.

So that's it. My final true confession. I only have an account to win a prize. I do not even know that I have it set up correctly. I tried to set it up on my new smart phone but the "App" that looked like it had all the parts I needed cost 99 cents! I mean there IS a limit!

And by the way, if this ever gets back to Bonnie Hunt...Let me just tell you, Bonnie, that Larry King and I LOVED you in Twister! KIDDING!