Fourteen blocks to daycare / Goblet

He looked out the window again. The rain hadn't let up. He looked at his watch again. Damn. If he was going to make it to work on time he had to leave now. He put the rain cover over the stroller, threw on the closest thing he had to a rain coat over his back, and opened the door to begin his journey.

14 blocks to daycare.

He hadn't made it two blocks before his socks were wet. Mother fucker. A full day at the office wearing wet socks. Splish sploshing from conference room to conference room. Beautiful.
After a few more blocks he realized he'd forgot his lunch. Fuck it. He'd gone too far to turn back now. Looks like he'd be dropping $12 at the deli. $12 he could have used to help pay for baby formula, diapers, or wipes.
Half way there and it really started to pour. Torrential. If anyone happened to peek out their window no doubt they'd laugh at the jackass pushing a stroller in a monsoon. I was almost funny. Check that, it was funny. He laughed to himself out loud like a crazy person.
A couple blocks later any trace of humor had transformed into pure rage. He tried to pinpoint the moment of his life where the first domino fell, triggering the series of events that transformed him from a young hot shot whose biggest worry was the size of his television to the poor schlep pushing his kid through a rain storm.
Perhaps it was when he cancelled his gym membership. It also could have been when he picked up that book of 10,000 baby names he saw sitting on his neighbor's stoop. Or maybe it was the day he caught himself humming the song the stuffed bear sang.
Now just a few blocks from the daycare, he audibly cursed a don't walk sign for suggesting he stop. He cursed a passing garbage truck for smelling like garbage He cursed the sidewalk for being uneven.
Fuck. This. Shit.

As he parked his stroller next to the others the rain tapered off to a light drizzle. He pulled back his hood and did his best to shake himself dry before removing the stroller's rain cover. The baby was asleep.
She opened her eyes as he lifted her out. The heavy mist in the air caused her to blink her eyes several times. She looked towards the sky and seemingly took in the day, her eyes now wide with wonder. Just then the sun broke through the clouds and she took a deep breath, pure and clean.

He stood there in his wet socks and held his daughter for some time before taking her inside.

The undocumented pancake blow back / Vestibule

A scene you've undoubtedly scene in several movies:

[The kids sit anxiously around the kitchen table, forks and knives in hand. Dad's standing over the stove wearing a Penn University XXL t-shirt, a pair of sweats, and a day's worth of stubble. He's holding a spatula and flipping pancakes. Mom is leaning against the kitchen counter sipping her large mug of coffee, smiling, soaking it all in.]

Dad: Ok Billy, hope you're hungry. One triple stack of smiley faced pancakes coming up.
Billy: Yay!!
Dad: What about you princess? What do you want for breakfast?
Julie: I want bacon!
Dad: Bacon it is. Anything else?
Julie: And waffles.
Dad: How about bacon and waffles with strawberries and whip cream for the little lady?
Julie: Yay!!
As Dad is serving breakfast a horn honks outside
Mom: That's the bus.
Dad: OK guys don't forget to grab your lunches.
Billy: Bye Mom. Bye Dad.
Julie: Bye Dad. Bye Mom.
Dad: Good luck on that math test big guy.
Billy and Julie scamper out the door to catch the bus.
Dad: Christ they grow up fast.
Mom: They're good kids. I love you Jim.
Dad: I love you too

END SCENE

The aftermath that's never shown:

Mom: One question though. Why'd you cook them pancakes and waffles?
Dad: Because it's my specialty. You know that.
Mom: I understand that but you know they had school today.
Dad: Yeah. So?
Mom: And they just left to catch the bus without eating any breakfast.
Dad: Hey. It's not every day that I'm able to cook for them. I thought it would be a nice gesture to make them something special.
Mom: I understand the sentiment but they're on a pretty tight morning schedule. It doesn't make any sense to serve them a Denny's style breakfast when they only have 5 minutes to eat.
Dad: Well excuse me for trying to jolt a little excitement and spontaneity into this family.
Mom: This is the type of shit I've been talking about with Dr. Spendler. You're a fucking ghost six days out of the week and you think you can magically make up for it by cooking a batch of pancakes on a Thursday morning that the kids can't even eat.
Dad: Cheryl, they're fucking pancakes. Let's not make a federal case of it. You and that shrink think you can selectively grab these isolated incidents and draw grand conclusions about how I'm compensating for my own feelings of abandonment or whatever other psycho-babble bullshit happens to be the hot topic of the week. Fact is they were just some fucking pancakes. They can be saran wrapped and put in the fridge and we can have breakfast for dinner. Now if we're done here I need to go put on my monkey suit and head to the office where I'll get shit from Paul and Felix for requesting next Thursday and Friday off so we can visit your train wreck of a sister in rehab.
Mom: Fuck you Jim. What did I ever do to you?
Dad: Ahh blow me. Or should I say not blow me.
Mom: You're a monster.
Dad shoves a whole pancake in his mouth and makes a monster face at Mom before heading upstairs to change. Mom sits at the kitchen table and sobs as her coffee gets cold.

End Scene

Scene from 1166 6th Ave. 15th floor / Marsh

You want revenue projections?

I think I'm entitled to them.

You want revenue projections?!

I want the truth.

You can't handle the truth! Son, we live in a world that has numbers. And those numbers have to be analyzed by men with pivot tables. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Associate Media Planner Michael Steinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Q4 inventory constraints and you curse the atlas third party discrepancy. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: That Macy's underdelivery, while tragic, probably saved revenue. And my spreadsheets, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, save revenue. You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me in PeopleSoft. You need me in PeopleSoft. We use words like seasonality, v-look up, and net effective CPM...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent calculating something. You use 'em as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very data I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide them. I'd prefer you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you open up Excel and build a macro. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to.

Did you overforecast August pageviews to the video console?

I did my job I'd do it again.

Did you overforecast August pageviews to the video console?

You're goddamn right I did!

Liar / Tendril

So I’ve started lying more to my girlfriend, not because I’m trying to get away with anything or I’m hiding something from her, but mainly because I talk to her on the phone probably five times a day.

Five times a day! Whose life is so exciting that updates are needed every 5 hours?

Like there’s anyone who’s, “Hello. Hey what’s up? I’m parasailing. No, from a helicopter, why? Yeah, like 5 hours ago but that wasn’t my monkey. Listen I gotta go. I can’t say – CIA remember? Switzerland. Stolen Diamonds. Chinese star. I’ll call you later.”

And every time she calls, first things she wants to know is what I’m doing.
“Hey, What’s up?” “ Whatcha doing?” “ Whatcha up to?” Which is fine. But when she calls me five times a day - I only do about two or three things.

Not a very big repertoire.

There’s only so many times I can say, “Lying on the couch.” “I’m eating Chinese Food.”

So I started telling these little pitiful lies about what I’m doing.

I’ll be lying on the couch but I tell her I’m sitting in the kitchen.

Subtle, yet crucial.

Because now if you were to ask her, she’s fully aware I enjoy lying on the couch and eating Chinese food, but she’s also under the impression that I occasionally sit in the kitchen and eat Caesar salads.

Little does she know that life is a fantasy.

The ole' debit card dupe / Chinchilla

The Set-Up

You need to live with at least one other person with whom you have a joint checking account to which you have online access to. You also need to be out of groceries.

The Hook

Arrange it so that your wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, or roommate goes grocery shopping without you. Make sure they plan to pay with a debit card. Tell them to buzz the apartment when they get back and you'll help them carry the groceries inside.

The Tale

While they're off grocery shopping you go online and access your checking account, waiting for the grocery store purchase to register. When it does you make a mental note of the exact total.
When they get back from grocery shopping you meet them outside to help them carry the groceries into the apartment. You complain over how many groceries they bought and the sheer number of bags. Remark that it must have cost a fortune. Ask who gave them permission to buy the expensive paper towels, why they keep purchasing tomato juice if they're never going to drink it. Make certain you are obnoxious enough with your incessant whining that it triggers them to get defensive. They should argue that they did not, in fact, spend a fortune.

The Sting

You tell them that judging by the weight and volume of the groceries you helped carry you estimate that they spent $176.43, and that's not exactly chump change.