days of  
n a z e  
 and don't say no

I've learned one thing about myself in the last week.  It is very dangerous to have a copy of Burger Time in the house.  

For those of you who aren't acquainted with the thrills and chills of this 1982 Data East arcade classic, you must beg, buy or steal a copy.  You are Peter Pepper, tiny chef, armed with but a pepper shaker and your wits.  Your opponents: hot dogs, fried eggs and pickles intent on your demise.  Your mission:  assemble the hamburgers or die!  (And die, eventually, I should say...)  

Which explains why you've had to wait so long for a new entry.  (You have been waiting haven't you?...) 

Mornings are not my favoritist time.  I am a night person which means I'm up all night jabbering at you guys or reading about Peter or watching Charlie Rose when I know that half the time I'm going have to comfort the baby at 3 and 5 a.m. and get up a couple hours later and take my 2 boys and my nephew to their respective schools.  I know I'm going to be exhausted when the 2 legged alarm pounces but I just can't change my nocturnal ways. 

Last week I had a particularly evil overnight with the tiny terror and woke with a start at the hour of 7:30 a.m.  Oh shit!  I threw breakfast together, hounded them to hurry (which must have been very annoying to them -- I was the one who overslept).  Dressed and groomed them, showered and dressed me, and then we're out the door like a shot. 

And the car window is open.  It rained last night.  Crap.  Jack and Nick are arguing over who gets the window seat while I'm hunched over trying to load David into the baby seat. 

We're at the boys' school in a few minutes.  A bell rings.  We run.  I've signed a damned contract saying that I will get them to school on time.  As we're racing down the hallway to the kindergarden room, in spite of our frantic pace, I recall how much I loved elementary school, especially in September.  The teacher is at the door smiling, greeting the other stragglers, and I really wish I was in kindergarden. 

Now that my time critical cargo has been delivered, the little one and I can return to a more normal hectic rush.  I catch a bumper sticker of a parked car out of the corner of my eye:  Red Wings Suck.  Ah, I'll have to report this to my cube neighbor, Stan, a die hard Red Wings fan with the NHL logos screen saver.  Cruising northward on Grand Avenue the traffic slows with congestion.  A 20ish young man leans out of a big, beat up gray pickup with a bullhorn and rallies the morning commuters to "D.A.R.E. to keep cops off Viagra!", which I thought made a lot of sense. 

My youngest son never looked back when I dropped him off at pre-school.  He found his heart's desire, a large yellow dump truck that needed a little boy. 

On the road again. An Egg McMuffin was calling my name but the clock was meaner, telling me to ignore Ronald.  I did with great reluctance.  The hell commute to Beaverton was not quite so hellish.  Perhaps the 2nd ring instead of the average 8th ring of Dante's traffic equivalent. 

As I neared the great brick building of work and discipline: an omen. A Little Debbie delivery truck!  In distress no less.  This normal sized tow truck was staggering under the greatness of the snack conveyance vehicle.  It looked as if it was just trying to make it to the shoulder.  I seriously considered pulling over to help with visions of reward.  "Mr. Naze, as a sign of our gratitude we'd like you to have these 7 crates of Devil Cakes and take these Donut Sticks as well..." 

I had another day to begin in the information slinging biz... 

p.s.  Productive work dialogue:   
"Peanut butter doesn't really have any butter in it." 
"No." 
"It shouldn't really be called peanut butter." 
"No, maybe 'peanut mash' or 'peanut squish', but definitely not 'peanut butter'." 

p.p.s.  Don't you think you owe me an e-mail at the very least? 

p.p.p.s.  Come back next week and I'll get more Stupid for you.  I promise.

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