Happy 2nd Birthday, Emerson

His name is Henry, and after some initial apprehension he is apparently her new best friend.

To be opened in the event of our untimely death

The missus & I made a lot of decisions when we first had the LBC, not the least of which was forming a trust to handle all our assets & naming the LBC the beneficiary.  Unfortunately, when it came time to pick a successor for us (in terms of raising Emerson) if we both died in an accident, we chose with our hearts rather than our minds, and based the choice on “sweetness” rather than actual ability to raise a small child, which is how we ended up picking Emerson’s grandmother as the person we wanted in charge of raising her if we both died. 

The choice doesn’t make a lot of sense on paper, as Grandma is pretty old currently, and raising a small child isn’t something you start in your sixties unless you’re in the Rolling Stones, or maybe one of those Guiness World Record holding “oldest crone to give birth” types.  So, upon reflection we decided to change things up & leave Emma to my brother & his wife, who have done pretty well on their children so far.  Unfortunately, this means not only the legal headache of changing the Trust/Will, but also the emotional minefield of telling Grandma that she’s out. 

The missus & I were discussing the best way to broach the subject, and I suggested just sending Grandma a sealed envelope entitled “To be opened in the event of our untimely death,” which would bluntly state what the deal was.  It works flawlessly, in that we would no longer be there for the awkwardness, but the missus pointed out that Grandma might violate the rules, to which I would say we just need to amend the letter to read “Nana Ellen, if you’re reading this & we’re still alive, then clearly you can’t follow simple instructions & we can’t trust you with the Cupcake.  If, on the other hand we’re dead, this is just to let you know that we went with someone else for the position of child rearing.  Thanks for the sugar cookies!!”

Reaping What You Sow

Me: Check out my cool vintage watch, it’s from 1936.

Co-Worker: Wow.  I didn’t realize they made ladies watches in 1936.

Me: [Makes Sad Face]

Co-Worker: That right there? That was me doing my best impression of you.

What are the odds?

Loyal fans of the Jonsonblog will know that I have two pugs, Oscar & Lola (names chosen for different reasons, pugs acquired at different dates, ~6-7 years ago).  So it was a little surprising the other day when a friend forwarded me this link.  Note the names on the sweaters.  If the dogs in the photo were pugs, I’d be exceptionally weirded out.

Happy Birthday to ME!

As previously mentioned, I share the same birthday as Jimi Hendrix, Chick Hearn & Bruce Lee, and while I have “being awesome” in common with them, the one thing I notice about all my awesome birthday pals is that they are all dead.  And two of them (Hendrix/Lee) died younger than I am now. 

I’m officially 36 today, closer to 70 than 0.  I’m not good with math, so it’s possible that “closer to 70 than 0″ thing happened last year, but it just occurred to me today.  Seventy.  Jesus.  That’s old.  I better get moving on this finding a small town to retire to.  Thank God I had an adorable baby or my life would be almost completely devoid of accomplishments by this point.  I need to start working on a list of things to do before I die.  I’ll start now.

1. Burn down the Mazda dealership in Irvine where I bought that shitty MX6 back in 1994 (they’ll never suspect it after all these years, it’s the PERFECT CRIME).
2. Umm….

Hm.  I’m starting to see why I’ve accomplished so little.  Poor planning.

All right, enough blogging, I’ve got some pipe bombs to make. 

Holy crap, I still have a blog?

I’m not sure why, but I seem to have forgotten that I had a blog over the last week or so.  Sorry for the slim updates.  I think everyone who reads this thing either had a baby or is just about to have a baby, so I’m pretty sure you’ve found other things to occupy your time.  If you haven’t had a baby in the last couple of weeks, you totally should.  November babies are awesome, especially famous ones like Bruce Lee, Jimi Hendrix & Chick Hearn.  Wait, what’s that? MY birthday?  Yes, now that you mention it, my birthday IS coming up.  The 27th, actually.

Back in the early days of the web, there was a site called something like “The world birthday database” and people would voluntarily go there and put in their name, email address & birthday, and occasionally strangers would send you email on your birthday wishing you well. Then, in phase two, benevolent dorks wrote scripts to parse the page & automate a daily birthday greeting to everyone on their birthdays.  Seconds later, advertisers figured out how to harvest the page for contactable data & pretty soon the entire page was gone.

In the 1990s, when I was asked for my email address on questionable warez/mp3 sites,  I would always give my address without hesitation, ’cause after all, I could just delete any spam I received.  Oh, sweet innocent days, how I miss them.

The Heartbreak of Restless Leg Syndrome

According to the Wikipedia, Restless Leg Syndrome “is a condition that is characterised by an irresistible urge to move one’s legs” which sounds like something I’d normally make fun of if it weren’t for the fact that I’m busy making fun of the cure for Restless Leg Syndrome. 

Apparently you can bring much needed rest to your lower appendages through a steady diet of Requip, a drug whose side effects are as bizarre as the Syndrome they cure.  From the Requip site:  Also tell your doctor if you experience new or increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges while taking Requip. WTF?  The cure for the jimmylegs makes you want to fuck & gamble?  I’m worried someone has been putting Requip in my Diet Pepsi, cause I spend 92% of my waking thoughts on sex and gambling, and most of my dreams are sexy gambling dreams. 

I may be on to something here.  I wonder if my body naturally manufactures the Requip endorphins, which is why my legs are naturally so non-jittery and also why I sexy gamble* so much.

*sexy gambling is a new term I have made up, covering a broad spectrum of activities that I cannot go into on a public forum.

Slanket FAQ

My recent acquisition of a Slanket  has triggered a number of questions from jonsonblog readers, both in the comments and in my real-life interactions.  Towards that end, I have compiled the following FAQ.

1. Q: Does the Slanket actually exist?  Do you own one?  A: Yes, I own a Slanket. This product actually exists, and I own one.
2. Q: Is it called a Slanket because it is a blanket with sleeves? A: Not at all; the inventor, Finnegan Q. Slanket wanted to honor his family name.  Of course it is called Slanket because it is a Blanket with Sleeves. Dumbass.
3. Q: Is there a hole for your junk? A: You have the Slanket confused with some sort of masturbation aid.  I understand why, as it is a product you first heard of here on the jonsonblog, which likely means it has some association in your mind with genitalia & the proper use thereof.  Nonetheless, this product is only for warming of the torso & arms and should not cause orgasms in any way except among cozy fetishists.
4. Q: Will you be providing a product review? A: It is a Slanket.  You put your arms in the sleeves & lie on the couch reading Thoreau playing videogames.  What is there to review?
5. Q: Isn’t the Slanket just a terrycloth bathrobe that you wear backwards? A: No, but I see how you could make that mistake.  Here, refer to the following diagram:

The City of Boston Must Be Stopped

As I write this, the Patriots are 7-0, Boston College is undefeated & ranked #2 in the nation, the Red Sox just won game 1 of the World Series by 12 runs and the Celtics are about to begin the NBA season after signing Ray Allen & Kevin Garnett and giving up nothing much in exchange for them, making them the pre-season favorites to represent the East in the NBA finals next spring.  Apparently Boston also has a professional ice-hockey team, but I don’t know what’s going on with them. Probably something annoying.

So, allow me to add my voice to the growing chorus of people on the web lamenting this state of affairs and demanding that someone do something.  My initial thoughts involved Tom Brady getting run over by a car, but then I realized I was thinking small.  What this situation calls for is Tom Brady to be driving in one direction, at like 50 m.p.h., and then running head on into another car being driven by Paul Pierce in the opposite direction.  Also, they’re both giving a lift to Manny Rodriguez & David Ortiz, respectively.   Finally, just as every Boston sports fan on Earth arrives at the scene of the crash to see if anyone survived, the gas tanks explode.  Alright, the concepting phase is officially done - now someone make that happen.

Men are different than women

In talking with the missus the other night, I made an offhanded comment about the perpetual horniness of teenage boys, and when the comment was greeted with mild skepticism, I responded “oh please, when I was 14 I would have tried to fuck an apple if I could find an apple corer with roughly the same diameter as my penis.” 

Now, we’re pretty close, the missus and I.  We’ve been together for nearly 10 years, married over 7 of those, and we’ve seen a lot of each other during that time.  But she literally has no idea if I’m exaggerating for comic effect or if my fetish for older women extended to include Granny Smith.  And that’s really as it should be. 

All I can say is, I’m glad the LBC is not a little boy, I don’t want to have to gaze around the kitchen suspiciously in 12 years.