I remember reading in one of the Psalms something like “Out of the mouths of infants and babes came out perfect praise.” I need to add “Out of the mouths of toddlers came out the pacifier.”
Finally.
“Pacifier,” the word itself sounds so soothing, comforting, and so addictive, like nicotine or crack. I’m sure whoever invented it was truly a peace-maker and a genius, but didn’t have any kids.
My daughter just turned three, and I’m ashamed to confess that my wife and I were enabling her addiction to nicotine and crack---just kidding. She was addicted to her pacifier. It truly seemed like an addiction because she would not take the sucker out of her mouth.
My wife came out with the clever idea of sending her pacifiers, all 20 of them, I mean, all 3 of them to the Paci Fairy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure what her address was. I know Santa lives in the North Pole. The Tooth Fairy makes house calls. But, the Paci Fairy? It almost sounds like a boat you’d take up in Washington State. I had to improvise, so I pawned it on my mail carrier.
She declined. “Return to sender. No such name and address.” The envelope read.
The suitable alternative according to my spouse was to take my daughter to the best department store for children: Target. “Right on Daddy!” was my little one’s reaction. “So, what do I do when I get there?” I asked my better-half. “Get her whatever toy or stuffed-animal she wants and have her turn her paci in.” I thought “brilliant!”
After many aisle-chases, questions and bribes, consisting of chocolate and other sugar supplements, my three-year-old settled for a lovely, cuddly and furry, white puppy dog with a blue bandana around his neck. She immediately baptized him with hugs and drool with the name “Tiger, Tiger.”
Much to our surprise, she only asked for her paci for the first two nights after her third birthday---that was the dateline I had given her. “You don’t need a paci anymore. That’s for babies,” I would say. To which she would always reply, “Yeah, I just need it to go to sleep.”
It’s been three weeks since she quit the pacifier, and she’s holding up strong with no signs of relapse. Her only withdrawal symptom has been dropping “Tiger, Tiger” for another stuffed animal. “Pepe, the Singing Chihuahua” is my daughter’s new compulsion.
Now, if I could only get rid of this paci-stuffed envelope in my sock drawer. . .
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
What I Learned from Henry
I recently purchased a 2004 small SUV. Everything but the miles per gallon has been wonderful. However, there is one thing that really annoys me about Henry---that’s how I named my car since I don’t want to give any free advertising for the auto maker.
Henry is obsessed with my safety.
I’ve always been notoriously slack about wearing my seatbelts. And my previous car was a sports car, which didn’t seem to have a problem with me going strapless. Henry, on the other hand, has a beeping device that goes off almost immediately if I drive without wearing my seatbelts for less than a second. It’s not so much the noise itself, but the frequency and length of that “TINTINTINTINTINTIN” sound that really gets under my skin. When I start hearing that sound, I try to ignore like a bad rash hoping it's going to go away.
It never does, unless I obey.
Henry’s manufacturer obviously put a lot of thought into that safety device because it really works. I find myself buckling up even in my sleep to avoid hearing that alarming sound. Every now and then, I rebel against the evil sounding device and muster enough courage to drive unbuckled to the grocery store around the corner. Two blocks at 45 MPH; that’s about 3 or 4 sets of “TINTINTINS” in two and half minutes. If I ever get pulled-over on the way to the store, I’m sure I’ll get a ticket for not clicking it AND speeding.
Henry taught me that if we ask somebody with relentless perseverance to do something we want them to do, or more importantly, they need to do for us; they’ll do it. I made up my mind to ask my boss for a raise. If he says “no,” I’m going to start chiming TIN-TINS uncontrollably to let him know I’m serious. If I don’t get fired, it will surely put more money in my wallet.
Not only is the Henry technique good for getting people to do what you want, but it can also get you out of doing something you don’t want to do. Let’s call it the Henry escape clause. If my wife asks me to change my daughter’s poopy diaper, I use it. If she tells me to keep the toilet seat down, I let her have it. Next time your significant other makes an unwanted request, just play the TIN-TINS. And just say, “Oh, it’s just a little inside joke between me and Columbus. You know, my SUV.”
Henry is obsessed with my safety.
I’ve always been notoriously slack about wearing my seatbelts. And my previous car was a sports car, which didn’t seem to have a problem with me going strapless. Henry, on the other hand, has a beeping device that goes off almost immediately if I drive without wearing my seatbelts for less than a second. It’s not so much the noise itself, but the frequency and length of that “TINTINTINTINTINTIN” sound that really gets under my skin. When I start hearing that sound, I try to ignore like a bad rash hoping it's going to go away.
It never does, unless I obey.
Henry’s manufacturer obviously put a lot of thought into that safety device because it really works. I find myself buckling up even in my sleep to avoid hearing that alarming sound. Every now and then, I rebel against the evil sounding device and muster enough courage to drive unbuckled to the grocery store around the corner. Two blocks at 45 MPH; that’s about 3 or 4 sets of “TINTINTINS” in two and half minutes. If I ever get pulled-over on the way to the store, I’m sure I’ll get a ticket for not clicking it AND speeding.
Henry taught me that if we ask somebody with relentless perseverance to do something we want them to do, or more importantly, they need to do for us; they’ll do it. I made up my mind to ask my boss for a raise. If he says “no,” I’m going to start chiming TIN-TINS uncontrollably to let him know I’m serious. If I don’t get fired, it will surely put more money in my wallet.
Not only is the Henry technique good for getting people to do what you want, but it can also get you out of doing something you don’t want to do. Let’s call it the Henry escape clause. If my wife asks me to change my daughter’s poopy diaper, I use it. If she tells me to keep the toilet seat down, I let her have it. Next time your significant other makes an unwanted request, just play the TIN-TINS. And just say, “Oh, it’s just a little inside joke between me and Columbus. You know, my SUV.”
Monday, December 1, 2008
Not Now, I Have a Headache
It’s 4:45 pm on a Saturday. It’s mid-October and the weather is perfect. A typical Carolina afternoon: 72 degrees, clear skies and a gentle breeze coming from the East. Yet, I’m stuck in a cubicle the size of a cheap airline seat and we are not moving.
I work for a major insurance company as a “Direct Sales Professional,” which is a fancy way of saying I do phone sales. This company prides itself in telling their customers that they are “taken care of.” I’m hesitant to use their actual marketing phrase, in case one of their top suits might be reading this essay. If one of you is reading, could we please have bigger cubes? Or at least give us some peanuts and a Coke to make our working experience more passable.
I feel my body has been telling me for months that this job is hazardous for my health. I work second shift, 2:30 to 11:00 pm, and have a 45-minute commute, which makes falling sleep before 2:00 am impossible. The fact that my almost terrible two-year-old daughter usually wakes me and my wife up around 7:30 in the morning makes flipping burgers nine to five a wise alternative.
Since I’ve been sleep-deprived for a few months, my immune system has gotten used to this lingering cold I’ve been nursing for a couple weeks now. This stubborn malady punishes me with a vicious headache with horrifying punctuality around four in the afternoon almost daily, especially on Saturdays.
The thing I like the most about this job is talking to my customers on the phone and coming up with creative small talk while they scramble to find their VIN number. The thing I dislike the most about it is having to talk to my customers on the phone on a Saturday---with a headache.
There should be a college class called: “How to Buy car Insurance over the Phone.” The whole quote and bind process takes about 25 minutes, but the amount of questions I have to ask my customers is downright excessive and intrusive. By the time we’re finished, I’m qualified to offer them a job, or ready to turn them in. I must confess that before I started working here six months ago, I knew nothing about insurance. My average customer knows even less. However, it’s not their fault since there’s nothing exciting about remembering your current policy number, or figuring out how many miles you drive to work one-way.
As my mind drifts away in between calls, another call brings me back to reality. I envy those who enjoy the great outdoors on this gorgeous day, while I contemplate the smallness of my cube, fumble some Aspirin, and pray for 11:00 to come soon.
“Thank you for calling. . .”
I work for a major insurance company as a “Direct Sales Professional,” which is a fancy way of saying I do phone sales. This company prides itself in telling their customers that they are “taken care of.” I’m hesitant to use their actual marketing phrase, in case one of their top suits might be reading this essay. If one of you is reading, could we please have bigger cubes? Or at least give us some peanuts and a Coke to make our working experience more passable.
I feel my body has been telling me for months that this job is hazardous for my health. I work second shift, 2:30 to 11:00 pm, and have a 45-minute commute, which makes falling sleep before 2:00 am impossible. The fact that my almost terrible two-year-old daughter usually wakes me and my wife up around 7:30 in the morning makes flipping burgers nine to five a wise alternative.
Since I’ve been sleep-deprived for a few months, my immune system has gotten used to this lingering cold I’ve been nursing for a couple weeks now. This stubborn malady punishes me with a vicious headache with horrifying punctuality around four in the afternoon almost daily, especially on Saturdays.
The thing I like the most about this job is talking to my customers on the phone and coming up with creative small talk while they scramble to find their VIN number. The thing I dislike the most about it is having to talk to my customers on the phone on a Saturday---with a headache.
There should be a college class called: “How to Buy car Insurance over the Phone.” The whole quote and bind process takes about 25 minutes, but the amount of questions I have to ask my customers is downright excessive and intrusive. By the time we’re finished, I’m qualified to offer them a job, or ready to turn them in. I must confess that before I started working here six months ago, I knew nothing about insurance. My average customer knows even less. However, it’s not their fault since there’s nothing exciting about remembering your current policy number, or figuring out how many miles you drive to work one-way.
As my mind drifts away in between calls, another call brings me back to reality. I envy those who enjoy the great outdoors on this gorgeous day, while I contemplate the smallness of my cube, fumble some Aspirin, and pray for 11:00 to come soon.
“Thank you for calling. . .”
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