For all things Tooks, and some things, er, relating to other people. As well as to other things. You get the picture.

22 September 2006

Tooks McBlogovich

Overheard yesterday in an elementary classroom in Rochester, NY:

"Mr. R, you look like a rockstar today. Maybe it's your hair."

Kid, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.

Admire the wisdom of American youth with me,


16 September 2006

Tooks McBlogovich

Yesterday my girlfriend said the word "vaginal" in a conversation with my mother. This is not a word I expected her to say in that situation. Granted, it was in the context of her OB nursing clinical experience, specifically a description of a birth, as opposed to a Caesarean. Nevertheless, you can imagine my surprise, and dismay.

That word is on my List of Words That Should Never Come Up Between My Girlfriend and My Mother. Other words on the List include "ring," "wedding," and "babies."

Hum to avoid hearing other terrifying words with me,


04 September 2006

Tooks McBlogovich

Happy Mother Jones Day, everybody. Happy Cesar Chavez Day, and A. Philip Randolph Day, and Woody Guthrie Day. Happy Weekend Day, and Eight-Hour Workday Day, and Worker's Comp Day, and Fair Wage Day. Happy Aren't-You-Glad-You-Don't-Work-In-a-Sweatshop Day.

Enjoy it, and don't forget the people who fought to make it so. And remember, too, the people who make our shirts and jeans, and the people who clean the toilets where we work (and maybe where we live), and the people who cook our foods in restaurants (and maybe in our homes), and the people who pick our tomatoes and peaches and bananas and apples, and the people who build our homes and our roads.

Sing "I'm-a stickin' to the union till the day I die" with me,


03 September 2006

Tooks McBlogovich

Well, thank goodness this beautiful woman is home again. Things really went to the dogs--and mice--without her. I did my best to clean, although the kitchen was a no-go because of the mousy menace. But she's taken a very proactive, even aggressive stance towards the in-pest-ation. Here's an example:

SHE: Where do you think it is?

ME: Well, as long as it stays there until I'm out of this room, I'm ok not knowing.

SHE: Oh, hush. Here, help me move the fridge.

ME: Are you nuts?! You're going to make it run out here, and then I'll be forced to scream, and nobody wants that.

SHE: You're absurd. What we need here is a little shock and awe. Hand me that broom. Do we have any smoke grenades?

So she's playing rodent Rumsfeld and I'm trying to give peace a chance. Don't get me wrong: I want this damn thing out of my house more than anyone. I'm just terrified of it, and want to have no contact with it whatsoever, be it manual, visual or spiritual. The main issue at the moment seems to be that the humane traps we're using are largely ineffectual. The mouse enters, eats the cheese (how very stereotypical), and exits at will. It's mocking me. I can almost hear it snickering as it gorges itself on cheap cheddar. So I'm giving it tonight to snare itself, or I will cease having a heart and begin having a vendetta. Consider yourself warned, Mickey. Clear out, 'cause come sunrise, this means war.

Watch _Rambo_ for inspiration with me,


02 September 2006

Tooks McBlogovich

So today two bad things happened, besides the sloppy remains of (Hurricane) Ernesto:

1) A mouse appeared in my apartment and it made me scream like a girl and swear very loudly and enlist the help of my neighbor, who despite being a woman, is far more of a man than I may ever be. Apparently, the mouse was living in my big lunchbox (Shenkel, you know the one.) The mouse refused to be apprehended and ran behind the stove. I bought a humane trap so that when I catch it and let it go, it will come back and continue to mock me.

2) Papi peed on the bed. Not his bed. Mine. I don't know why. I'm very upset. Not angry, but disappointed. It's like I caught him with drugs. I keep asking myself: Where did I go wrong in raising him? What did I do to make him so angry, or confused, or urinational? Where do we go from here? Those books on dog training that I read didn't mention this specific problem. He's pretty well housebroken; and if he were going to pee in the house, why wouldn't he just go on the carpet or something? I'm trying not to take it personally, but he made the effort to hop up on the bed and lay it down. Now that I think about it, it wasn't _my_ side of the bed he peed on....Hmmm.

So it's been a doozy. I'm contemplating hitting the hay on the early side in the hopes that the mouse finds his way into the trap tonight and Papi apologizes in the morning. Any consoling comments would be most welcome.

Feel sorry for me and my messy, mousy, pissy apartment with me,