Wii Need To Get Physical

The newest gadget in my house is a Wii Fit board. The Wii Fit’s concept is grand. The invention turns one of the most sedentary activities out there (video games) into a task that requires you to move – no doubt a cause-based marketing tactic directed at the fight against obesity. I had a *similar idea years ago but Nintendo seems to have refined their concept more than I did.

(*My invention being a retractable tether ball pole that could be secured to your living room ceiling. The ball was a sensor that swung back in your direction with increasing weight/intensity depending upon the force at which it was punched. Another spinoff: child-sized skis secured to a conveyer belt. Belt became increasingly steeper as child advanced in levels. The statement ‘You Broke Your Pelvis – Let’s Try Again!’ flashed across the screen when a player wiped out in a ravine or mogul.)

The Wii Fit comes with a variety of exercise programs. I have tried Yoga. As you perch on the board, (which suspiciously resembles a scale) a female instructor calmly demonstrates poses. While you struggle to contort your ridged body to resemble her perfect, digitally-generated curves, a urine-colored cloud appears near targeted areas. If your pose is in line with the instructor’s movement, a red dot materializes. If your pose is (inevitably) off, the instructor says antagonizing (errr), I mean, encouraging remarks like, “I notice you are not stable – find your center of balance” or “Remember to relax – breath in through your nose, out through your mouth.” While I am grateful for the constructive criticism, I don’t appreciate the haughty tone that creeps into the Instructor’s voice as I attempt the Half Moon Bend for the fifth time. My mind begins to wander. What does she really know? She lives inside a consol manufactured in Japan. She’ll never feel the pains of the freshman fifteen or post-baby stomach flab. Her figure will stay flawless, immune to the wear of aging. Is she a sympathetic motivator or just one of those mean, non-perspiring girls at the gym that glances condescendingly at your treadmill timer while you puff away? I don’t want to salute the sun! You salute the sun, Bitch! I lurch off the board, pick my runaway stretch pants out of my butt crack, grab the Wii and turn it off with a satisfying click. Then I go into the kitchen and calm myself down with a cookie.

How Corrupt Are You??

Ever wonder how rotten you really are? Take the "Casino Jack - How Corrupt Are You?" quiz and find out! I created the questions as well as the result descriptions. . .

http://casinojack-movie.com/corrupt-game/

Merry Bed Intruder

My sister Toni dreamed Santa was beside her bed on Christmas Eve, watching her sleep. I asked her to sketch a picture of what he looked like. In Toni's photo, Santa is beardless - a strong-jawed gentleman with twinkling eyes. I find her doodle to be inconsistent, despite her earnestness. Santa resembles another very real fantasy dude - Edward Cullen/Robert Pattinson. I gave Liv, my other sister, "Eclipse" on DVD that morning. My theory is as follows: Toni's subconscious is being overcrowded with pop culture triggers. Her Santa looks like a morose vampire because of Twilight mania. Her claim that he invaded her room stems from the viral video "Bed Intruder." Sooner or later "Up On The Housetop" will morph into "He be climbing into your chimney/Snatching your cookies up/Hide your Kids/Hide your Wife..."

Pull On My Beard

I have a few distinct memories of jolly St. Nick. I remember visiting him once or twice at the mall. One visit in particular is seared into my brain because of the carnage my brother left behind. In an attempt to touch the fake snowbanks in the Christmas Village, he managed to knock over the picket fence border, toppling all nearby decorations in a slapstick domino pile-up. I still recall the shrieks of other children in line, children horrified by the sight of paralyzed mechanical reindeer, (robotically pivoting their necks back and forth, back and forth, the side of their faces scraping against the ground) felled jumbo candy canes and crushed ornaments. Amidst the chaos, Kyle sat in the cotton batting, feeling the material with his fingertips and then loudly declaring, "This isn't real."

I had similar doubts about the legitimacy of Santa Clause. When I finally got to the front of the line and was placed upon his lap, I was more suspicious than impressed. Like those damn snowbanks, he was all fake flash - a beard made of perfect ringlets, a plastic belt buckle, matted fur cuffs. This isn't real.

While Mall Santa embodied all of the tacky wonders of middle America consumerism, Land of Make Believe Santa was a far stranger character. Land of Make Believe Santa lived in the Christmas Barn, one of the many attractions my hometown's kiddie amusement park had to offer. The barn was open year round, enabling children to have a chat with the Big Man in the heat of July. Visitors were escorted through a doorway that resembled a chimney. Upon climbing up a spiral staircase, one entered a gigantic attic filled with light-up displays. At the end of the path sat Santa, waiting patiently, creepily, for an inevitable interaction. While at the Christmas Barn, I refused to even sit on Santa's lap, choosing instead to stand a good five feet away and nod my head vigorously in response to his rhetorical questions. The decision was wise beyond my years. Santa smelled like moth balls and probably was played by Carnies on rotating shifts.

In my mind, if there was a Santa, he was Chris Van Allsburg's version. I had a copy of The Polar Express that came with a read-along cassette. I would take the book and my Casio recorder into my closet, shut the door and listen. The narrator's voice was deep and soothing. The story was also great. In The Polar Express, the main character is doubtful. However, Santa is a smart man, one who weaves the power of belief into the details of ordinary life. A train could take you to New York or the North Pole, a bell was a porch chime or part of a reindeer's harness. Magic was there but you had a choice - you could only see what you wanted to see.

Fighting Words Part II

In my last post, I described a fabulous Avoidance technique that recently has been used a great deal in order to avoid arguments with my Mom. I wish to follow up that remark with yet another procedure to add to one's arson of discourse skills. Sometimes the Avoidance tactic ("I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT ANYMOORREEE!") doesn't do the trick. Frequently this is because the phrase is not utilized early enough in the conversation to quell the heat. In these situations, it is good to have an argument back-up plan to cut the subsequent awkwardness of future interactions that occur pre -make up (i.e. encounters at the dinner table, encounters in the living room, encounters in the hallway. . . if you are unfortunate enough to live with the person.) I will call technique two the Smack Talk Tension Reliever.

Steps:

1. Approach wronged/irritated individual
2. Start to say, "You make me so mad. . ."
3. Followed by a detailed description of an aggressive yet outlandish act
4. Encourage wronged/irritated individual to reciprocate
5. Hug each other

Examples of Potential Aggressive Yet Outlandish Acts:

"You make me so mad I am going to get you in the scissor hold and flick your earlobes until you whimper for mercy."

"You make me so mad I am going to punch your kneecaps with my thumb knuckles until they are red and chapped."

"You make me so mad I am going to pin you down, cram my big toe into your navel and dangle my bangs in your mouth."

The reason the Smack Talk Tension Reliever works is two-fold. First, it allows both parties to express hostility without physical contact. Secondly, it infuses humor into an otherwise humorless situation. Cracking a smile is the beginning step on the road to reconciliation.

Fighting Words

I have a good relationship with my Mom. Still, we do occasionally fight. Back in high school, I used to duke it out full force, passionately defending my point until the spat reached a shrill peak and both parties stormed off to their respective corners to simmer. Since moving home post-college, my arguing style has morphed into a more passive technique adopted from a friend of mine. If a conversation is going nowhere, instead of waiting until I am forced to completely commit to a debate, I say the phrase, "I don't want to talk about it anymore." Usually, the remark is initially ignored. Mom keeps voicing her complaint. Thus, I am forced to say it again, this time much louder: "I don't want to talk about IT ANYMORE!" The second statement generally elicits a pause - an improvement, but still not enough to end the conversation. Third time is a charm. By that point, I am yelling, "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT ANYYYMMMORRREEEE!!" - a shriek that is followed by silence.

I don't mean to suggest that avoiding talking about problems is an efficient way of solving them. I guess I am just at the point where I am grounded in my own personal perspective on things. I don't envision Mom changing her ideas on life and therefore don't expect mine to change much from sparring against hers. I am at my most unmovable when red-faced and irate. Mom does influence me though, more so in her day to day. When I come home from work and my coffee maker is magically clean, I want to be more organized. When I see her hot gluing Civics dioramas late into the evening, I want to be more involved. When I see her extend kind words to cashiers, waitresses, gas attendants and the like, I want to be more selfless. Most importantly, when I witness any of these actions I feel lucky to have her. . . even if she does drive me crazy from time to time.