My Sister is a Whore

It is never a good sign when you're calling the person you look up to and whom you hold in the highest regard, a whore. Luckily, even though she's a Catholic school girl, the kind of whore I'm referring to has nothing to do with getting drunk and telling a guy you'd like to see his condo at 4 AM. (This is a relief since she's married to my brother and has a three year old). The kind I'm referring to is strictly limited to the whorish tendencies of Facebook. This is not to be confused with the Facebook stalker category, which I have admittedly fallen in to from time to time.

A few years back, I was at my brother and sister-in-law's house, surfing the Internet and likely Facebook stalking, when Kristyn glanced over my shoulder and said with the underlying tone that I might be a pedafile, "You have a Facebook page?" I replied yes and quickly closed the window, knowing that Facebook was more of a college thing and she probably thought of it as a way to meet creeps online. In actuality, it was an avenue to look at your high school friends at their respective colleges, taking beer bongs and smoking pot bongs.

In the past year or so, Facebook has evolved from a community of college kids to a place where I've become friends with everyone from my former campers to my third grade teacher. And then came Kristyn...the Anti-Christ. A couple of weeks ago I got a Facebook alert that Kristyn Perlman Kaplan had requested me as a friend. Initially, I went through my brain filofax to make sure I didn't know anyone else by that name. When it finally set in, I accepted her and waited for the madness to begin.

Her next move was an album filled with pictures primarily of Alexis, my niece. (Side Bar---When my brother joined Facebook I deleted all pictures I had up of Alexis for fear that he'd yell at me for exposing her online.) Still confused, I rolled with it.

Last night as we discussed our weekend plans on the phone, Kristyn admitted that she was stressed out. Assuming it was something involving work, family or a new purchase from Intermix, I asked her why. She sighed and said she was annoyed because she couldn't figure out how she knew her latest Facebook request and it had taken her all day to figure it out. I laughed, especially when her next thought was to ask me if I had any good pictures she could post on her profile.

I will continue to marinate this new idea of the entire world being on Facebook. If my grandma signs up, I might have to deactivate.

"Fo', Fo', Fo'."

I've been sharing a bed with Moses Malone.

This would make me Kareem Abdul Jabbar. And every night we box out and fight for position like it's Game 4 of the 1983 Finals with about a minute and a half left to play. Our game hinges on one crucial rebound and we scrap and claw and push and cheap shot like our season is on the line. I'm an All Star. A Hall of Famer. One of the greatest rebounders in basketball history. I'm the one with the more storied and celebrated career. The UCLA pedigree. It doesn't matter. I'm going to lose this battle. No matter how hard I try, Moses is going to come down with the ball and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

The Moses I speak of is my 3 year old daughter, Alexis. Over the last week she has developed a distaste for her bedroom. As she seems to have the final word on all matters in our home, we've inherited a third bedmate over the last several nights. On the surface, there is naturally a part of me that enjoys this. She looks great, smells delightful and is quite charming. I feel guilty admitting it, but the novelty wears off a bit around 1 AM when it's time for me to really throw down on some sleep. That's when Moses comes out and starts clearing the glass. Moses weighs in at around 41 lbs and is barely 3 feet tall. So I've got 3 feet and about 150-200 pounds on her (I'm not proud of this by the way). This shouldn't even be a fair fight.

SIDENOTE: I have years of experience playing ball. While my skills are QUITE limited (save when I'm playing on the hoop at Mike Redmond's house), the one thing I could always do was rebound the basketball. I have always had a fleshy stomach, a warehouse back, a sore right elbow, loose ankles, poor eyesight, limited stamina, no hops and an overall crodgetty jewish man's physique. None of that matters--Laimbeer didn't look pretty doing it either. The bottom line is...I can board, baby! Throw me onto the Atlanta Hawks and put me out there in dress clothes for 20 minutes per game. If you don't think I'm getting you six boards a night, you've got another thing coming.

You're probably asking what's with the basketball analogy. Well, the battle for position in our bed is quite synonymous with rebounding. Positioning, blocking out, timing and using your elbows and knees to give you any possible advantage. Always remembering to protect your back, your eyes and your private regions at the same time. My wife, Kristyn, would dispute this, but she typically is allotted around 60% of our king sized bed for her own luxurious sleeping pleasure (We'll call her MJ (or Michael Jordan for you non-basketball readers) for the purpose of this post. Meaning that she's going to get all the whistles and there isn't anything we can do about it.) So it's a foregone conclusion that MJ is going to get her 30 a night, and therefore the left side of the bed is off limits for myself and my adversary, Moses. We are stuck fighting in the paint for that remaining 40% of mattress. There is no gray area. The winner is going to be guaranteed a good night's sleep. The loser is going to be stuck in the guest bedroom at 1:30 AM on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning writing this ridiculous blog as they've lost the ball to their opponent and the corresponding right to a proper night's rest (that's probably too much foreshadowing).

So why can't I beat her? Sure, she's my kid and I love her and everything, but saying that I'm going easy on her would be a cop out. I'm in it to kick ass. It's a dog eat dog fight and I want my 30% of mattress (which is still comparable to a cot, but hey, I'm not greedy). Why can't I use my weight and strength to command my territory? I try. I literally pick her up and wing her three feet to the right (Kareem never tried that). But she's relentless. Within seconds, her foot is once again entrenched in my back. I'm laying on my side completely straight, barely hanging onto my 5% of the bed, defying gravity and logic by not falling off the side. I don't give up easily though. I reach deep down, fighting exhaustion, and hoist her again. I reposition myself to quickly grab this newly created open space laying my body flat now and even leaving some extra room on the edge for myself. I'm feeling invincible. I weigh 2?? pounds for god's sake. She can't move me. Can she? She can. She does. I don't even know how. Her low post moves are otherworldly. She is from a new generation of players. She thrashes and elbows and kicks and pushes. It's symphonic. Within moments I'm back down to 5% of total mattress. Only 25% of my body is even on the bed at this point. The rest of me is somehow floating in mid air. It's a miracle of physics and probably not in a good way. Before I plummet to the floor like a bowling ball out of a plane, I decide to make one last ditch effort. I pick her half angelic/half 83' Finals MVP body up delicately. I gently tiptoe into her room and carefully place her in her bed. She immediately starts crying. Sobbing, in fact. A very un-Moses like move, but I give her points for her relentlessness. I'm defeated. She is ruthless. I quickly rush to her aid and obediently bring her back into our bed. Game. Set. Match.

I am now exiled into the guest bedroom. My season is lost. But I'll be back. Extended workouts, diet--it will be a complete overhaul of my body. Training camp is around the corner. The season is not far off. Moses--you'd better be ready for me.

The Mindless Thoughts of a Road Tripping Son-in-Law

The last few months since my father in law became ill, my wife and I have been driving back and forth from Chicago to Toledo at least a couple times per month. Under normal circumstances I could go months without even seeing the expressway. Now I'm towing the white line like I'm Doyle Brunson circa 1963 (if you don't know what I'm talking about pick up a copy of Super System). Among other things, it has given me the opportunity to take in the splendor of what we affectionately call AMERICA. The Heartland, the Midwest, the Heart of our Coun.....oh, who am I kidding, the drive is brutal. I've actually become a semi-regular at the Elkhart Olive Garden. The waitress there actually recognized me last night. This is not a good thing. However, if you're looking for a below average meal with above average company, you can usually find us there every other Monday night around 7. Mention this blog and I'll even throw in a free appetizer of fried lasagna or whatever other preposterous dish they're serving. Bon Appetito!

So aside from seeing tons of farmland, open space and Indiana cops, the drive also gives me the opportunity to view some of America's finest retail and dining establishments from the comfort of my car. Many of these places we take for granted. Maybe this is unfortunate. Let's take the crazy monstrosity that we know as Target. The breadth of products and services they carry has always been mindblowing to me. Based on my recollection, this is a place where you can buy a cantaloupe, a lawn mower, a plasma television, a fall wardrobe, a pizza and salad lunch, a birthday card, a propecia prescription (not that I'd know anything about that), a sectional couch, a set of 400 thread count egyptian cotton sheets and a Mr. Potato Head all under one roof. It's basically a Publix/Home Depot/Best Buy/Bloomingdales/Pizza Hut/Hallmark/Rite Aid/Crate and Barrel/Bed Bath and Beyond/Toys R Us rolled into one annoying superstore. I hate the insanity of Target and when I see one (and they're difficult to miss) I cringe a little bit. Last night was no exception as I was barreling down I-90W and saw it coming in my peripheral vision. Only this wasn't any Target. This was, in fact (I'm still in a state of disbelief), a....Super Target! It was unmistakable (literally, considering the sign was so large that you could see it from the moon on a clear night). My mind was racing with thoughts--what about this Target could make it "Super" relative to the other Target's? So far, I've come up with 2 possible answers:

1) Maybe it's called Super Target because it has super powers. Does this location wear a cape? Do Super Target customers get to wear capes while shopping? Is the store made of steel? Can it fly? Does Super Target fight crime? Can it swim underwater, communicate with animals, run really fast, jump very high or see in the dark? Does it have super strength? Can it make itself invisible (this is the option I'm secretly hoping for)? Or maybe it's "Super" in that it gives "Super" great value to the citizens of Metropolis (or in this case I think South Bend, Indiana) on their day to day purchases. After much consideration, I'm guessing that it's probably not called Super Target due to it's Superhero qualities. Which lead me to my next theory....

2) Maybe it's called Super Target due to it's super size relative to your regular Target. Seems somewhat logical. Of course, a regular Target is typically about the size of Michigan Stadium. Just how big could this Super Target be? Is Super Target it's own self contained city? Have they recently added a new county in Indiana called Super Target and I just haven't heard about it? Or, maybe it's larger than that. Maybe the government is in talks of adding Super Target as our 51st state? Bigger than that? Maybe the Super Target people have made this Super Target so big that they are planning on seceding from the Union? Are we headed towards another Civil War?

I now started feeling like I was getting closer to getting my answer. But if this Super Target was super due to its super size relative to a regular Target wouldn't their product offerings need to be super by comparison also? I was starting to get a headache. I already detailed the extensive and exhaustive line of products and services that your regular Target carries a couple paragraphs ago. What other things could this Super Target possibly sell you that you can't get in a regular Target. After much thought, here are some possibilities that I've come up with:

-400 single family homes strategically located throughout the store (I've already contacted my realtor friend in Indiana about getting me information on a 4 bedroom near the frozen food section. I like Ice Cream.)

-An 18 hole Jack Nicklaus championship golf course (site of the 2012 Ryder Cup)

-A car dealership

-A full service hospital

-A private school

-A plumbing supply emporium

-A Turkish bath house

-A nuclear waste storage facility

-A pot dealer

-Bookmaking services

-A race track

-An international airport

-A discotheque

-A funeral parlor

-A catering facility

-A church

-A temple

-A mosque

-A cemetery

So, needless to say, as much as I hate regular Target, this Super Target--I need to check this mother f&*%$# out! I will be driving through in the next couple weeks and will pull over and have a look around. I will report back my findings. Or, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll buy land there, become a general in the Super Target Army, and declare war on all of you bastards. As the old saying goes, The South Will Rise Again!