I was folding laundry last night in our bedroom and listening to the weather radio (as you may recall, I've christened it the "Bajeebus Alarm"). There was a little bit of soggy weather in the area - a nice change from the 90+ degrees of the previous two days - and the automated voice was giving an update of the borderline-stormy weather nearby.
The weather robot giving the update must have been modeled after Ron Burgundy, because he will truly read anything that's on the teleprompter. I say this because I was listening, and it said:
"... elsewhere, mostly scattered showers extended from near Seymour ... north across the Columbus area into southwest Rush County. These may produce an (garbled) quarter-inch as they continue moving northeast at 15 mph."
My ears perked up at the garbled portion of the sentence ... "What the hell was that???"
I waited about 5 minutes for the robot to read the update again, and there was indeed something garbled there. "Is that word supposed to be 'additional'?" I thought. "Because it sure sounds like 'addiontal.'" Made sense in the context of the sentence.
I logged onto the National Weather Service website and checked the short-term forecast for that area. Sure enough, here was the text of the update:
"ELSEWHERE MOSTLY SCATTERED SHOWERS EXTENDED FROM NEAR SEYMOUR...NORTH ACROSS THE COLUMBUS AREA INTO SOUTHWEST RUSH COUNTY. THESE MAY PRODUCE AN ADDIONTAL QUARTER INCH AS THEY CONTINUE MOVING NORTHEAST AT 15 MPH."
Hee! "Addiontal!"
It's the little things like that that bring laughter into my life.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Freedom Reins redux ...
Hey, remember this?
I thought it was just a sentiment, a hastily worded, ironically written sign that was all "Hooray for America!" You know, like a sign that says, "Honk if you support our troops," etc., written by someone who doesn't know the difference between "reins," "reigns" and "rains," or perhaps who thought that the lyric was "Let freedom reign" instead of "ring." Pro-troop sentiment is strong in the area where that sign is posted along the highway, and it's easy to confuse the difference between the three homophones*. And I thought it ironic, the wording of this particular sign, because on the one hand, you have "freedom," which connotes "freedom," and then on the other hand, you have "reins," which connotes "not freedom."
(* - Homophones: words that sound alike but have different meanings. Does not mean "mode of communication Jeff Gordon uses.")
Well. I'm an asshole.
The sign does not state, as I had figured, a "hooray for America and apple pie and baseball and expectant moms" sentiment that makes us feel all warm and fuzzy, spelled by someone who also likes to write the term "alot" and says that his day is "not going to bad."
Oh no. The sign is correct. (!)
Freedom Reins is a not-for-profit business; it is (get this) a "therapeutic riding center" whose mission is "to improve the bodies, minds and spirits of children and adults with disabilities through the use of horse therapy."
I'm an asshole. Holy crap, am I an asshole.
Anyway. Apologies to the proprietors of Freedom Reins Therapeutic Riding Center for making sport of your sign previously, and incidentally, I saw your new sign that replaced that old one. Very nice.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pound myself about the head and torso with a rubber mallet.
I thought it was just a sentiment, a hastily worded, ironically written sign that was all "Hooray for America!" You know, like a sign that says, "Honk if you support our troops," etc., written by someone who doesn't know the difference between "reins," "reigns" and "rains," or perhaps who thought that the lyric was "Let freedom reign" instead of "ring." Pro-troop sentiment is strong in the area where that sign is posted along the highway, and it's easy to confuse the difference between the three homophones*. And I thought it ironic, the wording of this particular sign, because on the one hand, you have "freedom," which connotes "freedom," and then on the other hand, you have "reins," which connotes "not freedom."
(* - Homophones: words that sound alike but have different meanings. Does not mean "mode of communication Jeff Gordon uses.")
Well. I'm an asshole.
The sign does not state, as I had figured, a "hooray for America and apple pie and baseball and expectant moms" sentiment that makes us feel all warm and fuzzy, spelled by someone who also likes to write the term "alot" and says that his day is "not going to bad."
Oh no. The sign is correct. (!)
Freedom Reins is a not-for-profit business; it is (get this) a "therapeutic riding center" whose mission is "to improve the bodies, minds and spirits of children and adults with disabilities through the use of horse therapy."
I'm an asshole. Holy crap, am I an asshole.
Anyway. Apologies to the proprietors of Freedom Reins Therapeutic Riding Center for making sport of your sign previously, and incidentally, I saw your new sign that replaced that old one. Very nice.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pound myself about the head and torso with a rubber mallet.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
A.J. Floyt: "It's g****mned humid out."
The pleasantness of spring (recent crappy weather notwithstanding) has given way to July-like weather. The season of simple endurance is upon us.
I've carried out three very simple chores outside over the last two days, and sweat poured out of every pore, including places where I didn't know I had sweat glands. Managed to fill up Son's pool yesterday, so it should be near comfortable temperatures today. Also put a new flag on the flagpole. Dad said he'd be awfully disappointed if he came over and saw us flying a tattered flag, and I'd be disappointed too.
Today, I put some horseshoe stakes in the ground (regulation: 40 ft distance between the two posts) and stupendously (see paragraph 1 of below post) tossed some 'shoes for awhile. To what end, I don't know - it's not like I'm going to enter any horseshoe tournaments anytime soon. The real temperature is 90, and the humidity is probably in the 80 percent range. It's friggin' hot, too hot for your fat little buddy here.
So, I figured I'd come back inside and look at bridges. Wife is helping prepare for her niece's graduation party at 4, and Son is at my dad's for the day. Writer's block is starting to lift a little bit, and my mood has improved considerably despite the smothering heat that creeps up inside of your clothes and saps your will to perform any physical activity.
Spent yesterday with Son, as my wife had been in Chicago for work for three days. We loaded up all of the aluminum cans we had saved and took them over to my high school buddy's recycling center about 45 minutes away; he made it worth the drive, as he was paying 75 cents a pound for cans. Afterwards, we dropped in on the Captain for a short visit; Son scared his cat and played with a decorative rock/candle item on the coffee table, and later stepped on dog poop in the yard. It was a nice time.
There's an Indy 500 marathon on ESPN Classic today. Some of my fondest childhood memories are going down to my grandma's on the Sunday before Memorial Day, packing a picnic lunch and going up to the top of the hill behind her house with the rest of the extended family, listening to the race on the radio since Indiana TV stations were blacked out of the live coverage. Our family was full of A.J. Foyt fans, and it took me several years to learn that it was "Foyt" and not "Floyt."
Before I dropped my wife off at her sister's to help prepare for the graduation party, they were showing the 1982 race on ESPN Classic, which featured the accident in the runup to the green flag that took out four cars after 2nd-place qualifier Kevin Cogan inexplicably veered right into Floyt's car, then bounced off Mario Andretti, who said afterwards that "this is what happens when you have children doing a man's job." Floyt said that Cogan was driving with "his head in his ass." Hee.
Only rarely do you hear such candid commentary anymore in racing. Too bad, too; the commercialization of auto racing has stripped it of its rogueish charm. That's my problem with NASCAR anymore: be sure you thank your sponsors, and don't trash the other guy. Ugh.
I've carried out three very simple chores outside over the last two days, and sweat poured out of every pore, including places where I didn't know I had sweat glands. Managed to fill up Son's pool yesterday, so it should be near comfortable temperatures today. Also put a new flag on the flagpole. Dad said he'd be awfully disappointed if he came over and saw us flying a tattered flag, and I'd be disappointed too.
Today, I put some horseshoe stakes in the ground (regulation: 40 ft distance between the two posts) and stupendously (see paragraph 1 of below post) tossed some 'shoes for awhile. To what end, I don't know - it's not like I'm going to enter any horseshoe tournaments anytime soon. The real temperature is 90, and the humidity is probably in the 80 percent range. It's friggin' hot, too hot for your fat little buddy here.
So, I figured I'd come back inside and look at bridges. Wife is helping prepare for her niece's graduation party at 4, and Son is at my dad's for the day. Writer's block is starting to lift a little bit, and my mood has improved considerably despite the smothering heat that creeps up inside of your clothes and saps your will to perform any physical activity.
Spent yesterday with Son, as my wife had been in Chicago for work for three days. We loaded up all of the aluminum cans we had saved and took them over to my high school buddy's recycling center about 45 minutes away; he made it worth the drive, as he was paying 75 cents a pound for cans. Afterwards, we dropped in on the Captain for a short visit; Son scared his cat and played with a decorative rock/candle item on the coffee table, and later stepped on dog poop in the yard. It was a nice time.
There's an Indy 500 marathon on ESPN Classic today. Some of my fondest childhood memories are going down to my grandma's on the Sunday before Memorial Day, packing a picnic lunch and going up to the top of the hill behind her house with the rest of the extended family, listening to the race on the radio since Indiana TV stations were blacked out of the live coverage. Our family was full of A.J. Foyt fans, and it took me several years to learn that it was "Foyt" and not "Floyt."
Before I dropped my wife off at her sister's to help prepare for the graduation party, they were showing the 1982 race on ESPN Classic, which featured the accident in the runup to the green flag that took out four cars after 2nd-place qualifier Kevin Cogan inexplicably veered right into Floyt's car, then bounced off Mario Andretti, who said afterwards that "this is what happens when you have children doing a man's job." Floyt said that Cogan was driving with "his head in his ass." Hee.
Only rarely do you hear such candid commentary anymore in racing. Too bad, too; the commercialization of auto racing has stripped it of its rogueish charm. That's my problem with NASCAR anymore: be sure you thank your sponsors, and don't trash the other guy. Ugh.
With friends like these ...
I have been wrapped up in some pretty dumb litigation the last two years. If "stupendous" could be defined as "advanced stupidity," then you could consider the lawsuit against me and others to indeed have stupendous qualities.
Some background: At a previous job I held in cable ad sales, the company I worked for had offices all over the state; I worked in the Bloomington office, while the main office in the state was in Anderson, about three hours north of Bloomington. Because of the fact that we were a satellite office (pardon the pun there), I had contact multiple times a day with people in the main office. I made friends there, friends who I still have despite my departure from the company in the fall of 2004.
One person, who I'll call Tracy (not her real name), was one of my main contacts there. She handled ad traffic for the Bloomington market for a time. Tracy was someone who I had considered one of the aforementioned "friends."
Another friend I thought I had made was a man named Van (not his real name). Tracy had been assigned to handle another market's ad traffic, and Van was the person they had hired to handle our market. Van and I had also struck up a friendship. He had sent me some pipes and pipe tobacco that he had purchased from a tobacconist in Gatlinburg; I was too polite to turn it down in spite of the fact that cigarettes are my selected vice, not pipes. I thought it was a nice gesture, though.
After Tracy left the company in early 2004 under somewhat mysterious circumstances, I was one of the first people she called, and we made a promise to keep in touch. We traded e-mail for a short time afterwards, and as is my wont, ended up falling out of touch for no particular reason. She had asked me if my wife and I would come up to her house to spend an afternoon with her and her husband. I never took her up on the invitation – not out of malice, but because she lived near Anderson, which is a long friggin' ways away.
Van was also out of the company in short order, for various performance-related reasons. I thought it too bad, and Van also asked if my wife and I would come up to the metropolitan Anderson area someday; perhaps we could have spent a day at the horse track up there. Again, I never took him up on the invitation, being rather trapped by my own inertia on the weekends. Plus, Wife was pregnant at the time, and it had been a difficult pregnancy anyway. I made an empty promise to make the trip up "sometime."
Several months passed, and the Monday after my son came home in June 2004 after a three-week stay in the NICU, I returned to work and was subsequently served with legal papers.
Two other people in the company, both of whom worked in Anderson, and I were being sued, along with the company itself, for slander. The plaintiff in the suit was Tracy. Tracy had named me in the suit thanks to a "statement" (read: unfounded allegations that were wrapped in lies) against me from Van. Tracy also sued her former boss and another man in the company.
Unbelievable.
Would they have named me in the suit if I had kept up the friendships I thought I had with them? I don't know. I know I spent a lot of the summer – which should have been the happiest time of my life, thanks to the birth of my son – dwelling on the suit and feeling guilty about not trying harder.
The gist of the suit against me was that I had called up to the Anderson office one day, and Tracy wasn't there; this was while Van was still being trained, so I was still in contact with Tracy because she was still my main traffic coordinator. So, because Tracy wasn't there, I rang Van's phone and supposedly asked of Tracy's whereabouts, and when Van told me that she wasn't there that day, I supposedly said, "Oh, she must be gone for an STD appointment."
Except, as you hopefully have gleaned from the previous paragraph, I never said it.
Unbelievable.
Doesn't that just sound ridiculous? I mean, who even says "STD" anymore? Especially in that context? I had no knowledge of Tracy's sexual history, because it wasn't my business and I never made it my business. People who are more petty and have smaller minds might concern themselves with whatever diseases other people might be carrying. And even if Tracy had a problem like that, it wouldn't have mattered to me – I still would have considered her my friend.
Anyway, I've had this hanging over my head for the better part of two years. While I've been confident that the truth would prevail, it's been a rather worrisome time regardless; juries have been known to be stupid, and this thing's been inching toward a jury trial.
But good news arrived last month and again yesterday:
Van gave an affidavit to our lawyers in the case and completely bungled his version of the facts. He said that I had an office in the Anderson office, and that we had seen each other every day and so on and so forth. Then, he realized his mistake, backtracked and said that he was talking about one of the other people being sued. It really made for hilarious reading.
The damage was done; if he couldn't even be trusted to get information right like which office I worked in – really basic stuff - how in the hell could he be believed when he says that I said something that I clearly didn't? Fabulous work, Van! (Dumbass.)
Consequently, the judge in the case determined that the suit against me was wholly without merit, and that I should be dropped from the suit. Tracy had one month to appeal my exclusion from the case, and that one month passed last week without appeal, says the lawyers.
Pending the final order from the judge, this case should finally, thankfully, be a part of my past. I wish I had the resources for a countersuit against them, but attorneys supposedly don't typically take slander cases on contingency basis (that is to say, you don't pay until after you win). I'm not one of those litigation-happy people who wants to drag people into court at every opportunity, but …
This suit has really been a drain on me emotionally and mentally, and I would like to determine whether I have any recourse as far as that goes. Here's my thinking:
There are sworn statements on paper that contain various lies about things I was purported to have said - doesn't this amount to defamation of my character? (As if my character could be anymore defamed from any self-inflicted defamation, right?) I'm no lawyer, as you may well know, but doesn't it follow that the depositions that were given against me are a matter of public record? The fact that I've been tentatively dropped from the suit may expunge those things from the record, but regardless, I'm not sure that being dropped from the suit is reward enough for the stress and anguish - and there's a term that lawyers love to pounce on: "mental anguish" - of the last two years. "Congratulations - you get to keep your future income!" Hooray?
Some background: At a previous job I held in cable ad sales, the company I worked for had offices all over the state; I worked in the Bloomington office, while the main office in the state was in Anderson, about three hours north of Bloomington. Because of the fact that we were a satellite office (pardon the pun there), I had contact multiple times a day with people in the main office. I made friends there, friends who I still have despite my departure from the company in the fall of 2004.
One person, who I'll call Tracy (not her real name), was one of my main contacts there. She handled ad traffic for the Bloomington market for a time. Tracy was someone who I had considered one of the aforementioned "friends."
Another friend I thought I had made was a man named Van (not his real name). Tracy had been assigned to handle another market's ad traffic, and Van was the person they had hired to handle our market. Van and I had also struck up a friendship. He had sent me some pipes and pipe tobacco that he had purchased from a tobacconist in Gatlinburg; I was too polite to turn it down in spite of the fact that cigarettes are my selected vice, not pipes. I thought it was a nice gesture, though.
After Tracy left the company in early 2004 under somewhat mysterious circumstances, I was one of the first people she called, and we made a promise to keep in touch. We traded e-mail for a short time afterwards, and as is my wont, ended up falling out of touch for no particular reason. She had asked me if my wife and I would come up to her house to spend an afternoon with her and her husband. I never took her up on the invitation – not out of malice, but because she lived near Anderson, which is a long friggin' ways away.
Van was also out of the company in short order, for various performance-related reasons. I thought it too bad, and Van also asked if my wife and I would come up to the metropolitan Anderson area someday; perhaps we could have spent a day at the horse track up there. Again, I never took him up on the invitation, being rather trapped by my own inertia on the weekends. Plus, Wife was pregnant at the time, and it had been a difficult pregnancy anyway. I made an empty promise to make the trip up "sometime."
Several months passed, and the Monday after my son came home in June 2004 after a three-week stay in the NICU, I returned to work and was subsequently served with legal papers.
Two other people in the company, both of whom worked in Anderson, and I were being sued, along with the company itself, for slander. The plaintiff in the suit was Tracy. Tracy had named me in the suit thanks to a "statement" (read: unfounded allegations that were wrapped in lies) against me from Van. Tracy also sued her former boss and another man in the company.
Unbelievable.
Would they have named me in the suit if I had kept up the friendships I thought I had with them? I don't know. I know I spent a lot of the summer – which should have been the happiest time of my life, thanks to the birth of my son – dwelling on the suit and feeling guilty about not trying harder.
The gist of the suit against me was that I had called up to the Anderson office one day, and Tracy wasn't there; this was while Van was still being trained, so I was still in contact with Tracy because she was still my main traffic coordinator. So, because Tracy wasn't there, I rang Van's phone and supposedly asked of Tracy's whereabouts, and when Van told me that she wasn't there that day, I supposedly said, "Oh, she must be gone for an STD appointment."
Except, as you hopefully have gleaned from the previous paragraph, I never said it.
Unbelievable.
Doesn't that just sound ridiculous? I mean, who even says "STD" anymore? Especially in that context? I had no knowledge of Tracy's sexual history, because it wasn't my business and I never made it my business. People who are more petty and have smaller minds might concern themselves with whatever diseases other people might be carrying. And even if Tracy had a problem like that, it wouldn't have mattered to me – I still would have considered her my friend.
Anyway, I've had this hanging over my head for the better part of two years. While I've been confident that the truth would prevail, it's been a rather worrisome time regardless; juries have been known to be stupid, and this thing's been inching toward a jury trial.
But good news arrived last month and again yesterday:
Van gave an affidavit to our lawyers in the case and completely bungled his version of the facts. He said that I had an office in the Anderson office, and that we had seen each other every day and so on and so forth. Then, he realized his mistake, backtracked and said that he was talking about one of the other people being sued. It really made for hilarious reading.
The damage was done; if he couldn't even be trusted to get information right like which office I worked in – really basic stuff - how in the hell could he be believed when he says that I said something that I clearly didn't? Fabulous work, Van! (Dumbass.)
Consequently, the judge in the case determined that the suit against me was wholly without merit, and that I should be dropped from the suit. Tracy had one month to appeal my exclusion from the case, and that one month passed last week without appeal, says the lawyers.
Pending the final order from the judge, this case should finally, thankfully, be a part of my past. I wish I had the resources for a countersuit against them, but attorneys supposedly don't typically take slander cases on contingency basis (that is to say, you don't pay until after you win). I'm not one of those litigation-happy people who wants to drag people into court at every opportunity, but …
This suit has really been a drain on me emotionally and mentally, and I would like to determine whether I have any recourse as far as that goes. Here's my thinking:
There are sworn statements on paper that contain various lies about things I was purported to have said - doesn't this amount to defamation of my character? (As if my character could be anymore defamed from any self-inflicted defamation, right?) I'm no lawyer, as you may well know, but doesn't it follow that the depositions that were given against me are a matter of public record? The fact that I've been tentatively dropped from the suit may expunge those things from the record, but regardless, I'm not sure that being dropped from the suit is reward enough for the stress and anguish - and there's a term that lawyers love to pounce on: "mental anguish" - of the last two years. "Congratulations - you get to keep your future income!" Hooray?
Friday, May 26, 2006
Malaise II (Son of Malaise)
I will not be Fox Sports’ “Next Great Sportswriter.” I didn’t want the friggin' thing anyway.
The contest was one of those things where you get out of it what you put into it, and I admittedly made minimal effort, contributing a grand total of three posts to the contest. So, this isn’t sour grapes, insomuch that I don’t feel like my three blog posts should have written me a ticket into the finals. I didn’t put anything into it, and the results show that.
Conversely, it is sour grapes in that if I had put any sort of effort into it at all, I would be talking how awesome it would be to be a finalist today. Some of the finalists ... just aren't very good.
***
As soon as I hit “publish” for the below post the other night, I heard a thump.
Recall that we purchased a new mattress and box springs some weeks back. Because of its newness, the set sits about 8 inches higher than the old worn-out set did; when I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet hang about 6 or 7 inches off the floor. I almost need a step stool to climb into bed at night.
Maybe three nights a week, Son will climb into bed with us at various points in the night. (Bad idea, I know, but it’s not like he’s 9.) He can climb into the new bed with much effort; usually, when he comes into our room at those times, one of us just lift him up into bed and plop him down between us.
Friday night was one of those nights; he woke up shortly after Mommy had gone to bed and Daddy had started blogging about how awful his mood has been as of late. He took his pillow and blankie and climbed into bed with Mommy. I paid it no mind; as is the routine, as soon as I’m ready for bed, I’ll put him in his own bed and call it a night.
I wrote for a little over an hour, and after hitting “publish,” I heard a thump and a cry. I scampered into our room and found Son on the floor between the bed and my dresser. He didn’t break anything; I think he was just scared from the fall, and it was a really long fall for him. I picked him up and took him into the living room, but he was fairly inconsolable; he kept on crying for Mommy. She asked me to bring him back in the bedroom and lay him down in there, where his tears dried up shortly thereafter and he went to Slumberland.
So, in addition to everything else, I’m a bad parent.
***
I wish I could bottle up weekends like the one we had last weekend; the memories are a salve to my aching soul, and it’s a place I’ve gone back to several times over the past couple of days.
Perhaps on its face, the weekend might not have been anything special or out of the ordinary, but it was special just by virtue of its existence. Son and I spent most of it outside, where he played and played and played and played till he was exhausted. The weekend was just a great Daddy-Son bonding time. For instance, on Sunday, I pulled him around in his wagon for a couple of laps in the front yard, then out to a place in the yard where I unsuccessfully tried to dig up a small maple tree that is growing out of a large apple tree. He watched me in wonderment.
We sat in the shade together during breaks and consumed fluids, then when I gave up hope of getting the tree pulled out, I pulled Son back up to the house in his wagon. He had a look on his face like there was no place else in the world he'd rather be.
We had small moments like those all weekend. It's the kind of rewarding thing that makes the sleepless nights, the accidents, the dirty diapers, and everything else about parenting all worthwhile.
***
So. What the hell's wrong with me? I don't know. I'll shake this funk, and look back on this post some weeks from now and say, "Wow, that was pretty silly."
The contest was one of those things where you get out of it what you put into it, and I admittedly made minimal effort, contributing a grand total of three posts to the contest. So, this isn’t sour grapes, insomuch that I don’t feel like my three blog posts should have written me a ticket into the finals. I didn’t put anything into it, and the results show that.
Conversely, it is sour grapes in that if I had put any sort of effort into it at all, I would be talking how awesome it would be to be a finalist today. Some of the finalists ... just aren't very good.
***
As soon as I hit “publish” for the below post the other night, I heard a thump.
Recall that we purchased a new mattress and box springs some weeks back. Because of its newness, the set sits about 8 inches higher than the old worn-out set did; when I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet hang about 6 or 7 inches off the floor. I almost need a step stool to climb into bed at night.
Maybe three nights a week, Son will climb into bed with us at various points in the night. (Bad idea, I know, but it’s not like he’s 9.) He can climb into the new bed with much effort; usually, when he comes into our room at those times, one of us just lift him up into bed and plop him down between us.
Friday night was one of those nights; he woke up shortly after Mommy had gone to bed and Daddy had started blogging about how awful his mood has been as of late. He took his pillow and blankie and climbed into bed with Mommy. I paid it no mind; as is the routine, as soon as I’m ready for bed, I’ll put him in his own bed and call it a night.
I wrote for a little over an hour, and after hitting “publish,” I heard a thump and a cry. I scampered into our room and found Son on the floor between the bed and my dresser. He didn’t break anything; I think he was just scared from the fall, and it was a really long fall for him. I picked him up and took him into the living room, but he was fairly inconsolable; he kept on crying for Mommy. She asked me to bring him back in the bedroom and lay him down in there, where his tears dried up shortly thereafter and he went to Slumberland.
So, in addition to everything else, I’m a bad parent.
***
I wish I could bottle up weekends like the one we had last weekend; the memories are a salve to my aching soul, and it’s a place I’ve gone back to several times over the past couple of days.
Perhaps on its face, the weekend might not have been anything special or out of the ordinary, but it was special just by virtue of its existence. Son and I spent most of it outside, where he played and played and played and played till he was exhausted. The weekend was just a great Daddy-Son bonding time. For instance, on Sunday, I pulled him around in his wagon for a couple of laps in the front yard, then out to a place in the yard where I unsuccessfully tried to dig up a small maple tree that is growing out of a large apple tree. He watched me in wonderment.
We sat in the shade together during breaks and consumed fluids, then when I gave up hope of getting the tree pulled out, I pulled Son back up to the house in his wagon. He had a look on his face like there was no place else in the world he'd rather be.
We had small moments like those all weekend. It's the kind of rewarding thing that makes the sleepless nights, the accidents, the dirty diapers, and everything else about parenting all worthwhile.
***
So. What the hell's wrong with me? I don't know. I'll shake this funk, and look back on this post some weeks from now and say, "Wow, that was pretty silly."
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Malaise.
Really, I have no reason in the world to be down in the dumps.
I have a wonderful wife (previous post about last weekend notwithstanding), a son who is going to grow up to be a fine young man despite the rocky start to his life, a house in the country, a job that pays fairly well in spite of what I have to put up with ... really, it's the American Dream, if you think about it. Or, at the very least, my American Dream. Your mileage may vary, as the kids used to say.
(Dusty Rhodes billed himself as "The American Dream," but it always sounded like "Amewican Dweem." The man could not enunciate.)
Part of my problem is the suddenness with which illness sat in this week. It had rained on eight consecutive days (not for eight consecutive days, mind you), and on the first clear day afterwards, I came home from work and mowed around the house so it would look like someone was still living here. (As if the grill on the porch and children's toys in the yard weren't a dead giveaway.)
After mowing a section of the yard to my satisfaction, I went in the house, showered, re-dressed in clean clothes, and thought, "My, I'm a little bit chilly!" Didn't give it a second thought - the shower seemed kind of warm, and the house is still a little bit cool. About a half-hour later, the aching started; again, I was in denial: my body is not used to the work of mowing yet this year, and so I'm sore. So?
An hour later ... still cold. I took my temperature: 101. Yikes.
To paraphrase an earlier post: Where did *that* come from?
The illness left my body almost as quickly as it came, though I unfortunately had to use a day of leave to recover. But paranoia sat in during the height of my fever (which approached 102): bird flu west nile bird flu west nile bird flu west nile. Had to be one of those two merry maladies. West Nile, after all, has been found in the next county over, and bird flu is so prevalent in the news that every time I have a twinge of pain anymore, I'm sure the end is near. Thanks, news media, for feeding my paranoia!
(The Captain says to never trust birds. I thought he was joking. But, as noted before, the Captain's not wrong about much.)
More about the current malaise later.
I have a wonderful wife (previous post about last weekend notwithstanding), a son who is going to grow up to be a fine young man despite the rocky start to his life, a house in the country, a job that pays fairly well in spite of what I have to put up with ... really, it's the American Dream, if you think about it. Or, at the very least, my American Dream. Your mileage may vary, as the kids used to say.
(Dusty Rhodes billed himself as "The American Dream," but it always sounded like "Amewican Dweem." The man could not enunciate.)
Part of my problem is the suddenness with which illness sat in this week. It had rained on eight consecutive days (not for eight consecutive days, mind you), and on the first clear day afterwards, I came home from work and mowed around the house so it would look like someone was still living here. (As if the grill on the porch and children's toys in the yard weren't a dead giveaway.)
After mowing a section of the yard to my satisfaction, I went in the house, showered, re-dressed in clean clothes, and thought, "My, I'm a little bit chilly!" Didn't give it a second thought - the shower seemed kind of warm, and the house is still a little bit cool. About a half-hour later, the aching started; again, I was in denial: my body is not used to the work of mowing yet this year, and so I'm sore. So?
An hour later ... still cold. I took my temperature: 101. Yikes.
To paraphrase an earlier post: Where did *that* come from?
The illness left my body almost as quickly as it came, though I unfortunately had to use a day of leave to recover. But paranoia sat in during the height of my fever (which approached 102): bird flu west nile bird flu west nile bird flu west nile. Had to be one of those two merry maladies. West Nile, after all, has been found in the next county over, and bird flu is so prevalent in the news that every time I have a twinge of pain anymore, I'm sure the end is near. Thanks, news media, for feeding my paranoia!
(The Captain says to never trust birds. I thought he was joking. But, as noted before, the Captain's not wrong about much.)
More about the current malaise later.
Monday, May 15, 2006
A proud member of Boris Zhukov Stand-ins Local 228 (P.S. - can attend meetings after I get my coconuts back from my wife)
Unfortunately, I am not blessed with a gorgeous shock of flowing brown hair. Every few months, I become vastly unhappy with the state of my hair – it ends up looking like three-quarters of a bird’s nest, a semi-circled mess of stems and debris - and buzz the whole thing off. My clippers gave out about a year ago, so whenever my hair gets to be the mess that it has been of late, I have to enlist the services of a third party. So …
On Mother’s Day, Wife and I treated ourselves to haircuts at the Wal-Mart salon. Wife reverted to what she calls “mom hair” – really short, off the shoulders, barely covering the neck, still kind of long in front, more difficult for Son to grab and pull – and to tell the truth, it’s kind of hot. Historically, I’ve never been into short, short hair on women – I tend to think, “OK, fine - are you going to be a boy or a girl?” - but in this case, it works.
(That reaction, incidentally, isn’t an original one. When I had hair that ran halfway down my back during the early-to-mid ‘90s, my dad would mockingly tell me, “I don’t care if you want to be a girl.” [i.e., “I am not particularly pleased with your choice of hairstyle, Son.”] Between that and the constant miscalls of “ma’am?” when a clerk would call out to me in a store, and the constant calls for security over the P.A. system in a store when I would walk in, which were surely not coincidental, I gave up and did away with the long hair.)
My haircut took all of three minutes; it doesn’t take much “styling” to pull the guard off the shears and shave it down to about an eighth of an inch off my head. Easiest $12.50 they’ve ever made, I’m sure.
Alas, they did not touch my facial hair; I didn’t ask, but thought maybe they would. I ended up looking like I was going to audition for the lead in The Boris Zhukov Story, or possibly a live-action Wooly Willy flick.
Anyway, I lopped all of my facial hair off later Sunday evening. Son didn’t freak out at Daddy’s drastic transformation, but stood transfixed, watching as I ran my electric shaver over my face. I gave him a reassuring smile every now and again, and he smiled back once he realized that the shaver wasn’t eating Daddy.
The weekend wasn’t a total loss, but it sure seemed to start out that way. Friday wasn’t completely awful; I received some good news related to work (no, not that Doom had been crushed by a falling airplane, but the next best thing – a raise and a bonus!). I made plans to buy a wooden swing-set kit for Son for his birthday, and imagined how proud I would be once I got the thing put together. I had a picture in my head of the halcyon times that would follow once Son’s play area – still in planning stages – came into existence, and my heart would swell with potential pride.
My dad put stuff together for me when I was little - a swing set, a bike, etc. - and he did it right; I imagine that he harbored illusions of passing his gift for handiwork on to me. After the divorce, though, my mom got custody of me, and any hope of me being able to do things with my hands went out the window. On the bright side, I can do and have done wonderful and creative things with my mind. On the down side, don’t ask me to change the oil in my vehicle or fix that leak in the sink or actually build anything. That’s just not how I was raised – I was protected from ever having to do any sort of strenuous labor. In my neck of the woods, this is akin to wearing a scarlet letter – “G” for “gay.”
But I’m trying to reverse that trend. I want to build things for my son also. I don't want him growing thinking that Daddy is totally useless with his hands.
I was very eager to go pick up a wooden swing-set kit for him, and the picture in my head I spoke of earlier only glowed further the more I thought about it. It made me smile.
I married into a family who is just the opposite of me: blue-collar, roughneck, salt-of-the-earth folks. Good people, really; I love them to death, though I wonder if they “get” me sometimes because we’re so opposite. My father-in-law is in the middle of building a new house for him and my mother-in-law. Two of the sons drive trucks for a living, and the third works in a factory. You get the picture.
Fast forward to Friday night. Wife was telling her mom on the phone about my bonus, and about our desire to purchase and assemble a swing set for Son. And then, as if I wasn’t there, as if she assumed I would not be interested in doing or could not be able to do such a thing, she said, “Can Dad and the boys come out and put it together?”
I was furious.
I stormed out of the house, grabbed a chair and chain-smoked for about 20 minutes.
By the time I went back in the house, she hadn’t moved from the couch: “I just meant that maybe we could use their tools to put it together?”
“That’s not what I heard,” I shot back. “Why don’t you just say, ‘My useless husband is too much of a wuss to do it, so we need some actual men to come out and put it together’? Because that’s what I hear every time you say that. It’s really quite emasculating.”
“What?”
“I said, it’s really quite emasculating.”
And it is. Every time there is something around the house that requires any sort of manual labor, she’s on the phone to her dad or her brothers in about three seconds. Yeah, OK, I’m a wussy, ineffectual sissy boy. I get it.
I just wish she wasn’t so blatant about saying so (in, admittedly, not so many words).
A few minutes passed, and I think she thought the storm had passed as well.
“I had an affair at work today,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. (She didn’t really have one, but at that point, I didn’t really care.)
“I hope it was with someone who knows how to use tools,” I said, still in no mood. (I suppose that was kind of a womanly thing to say, wasn’t it?)
We didn’t say anything to each other the rest of the night. She’s one of those people – and we all know one – who gets mad at a person for being mad at them, who almost seems to thrive on being pissed off at someone. That’s something that I’ll never get.
She fell asleep on the couch almost immediately thereafter, and I played with Son the rest of the evening. We had a good time, me and him. For his birthday, Sitter got him one of those plastic cars with a spot cut out of the bottom of it for his feet to go through, like a Fred Flintstone car, and he drove that around the biggest part of the night.
We eventually made up, and the weekend was saved. I just hope it stops raining soon, because we'll probably end up killing each other before it's all said and done. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Incidentally, after all that, we still haven’t bought the swing set.
On Mother’s Day, Wife and I treated ourselves to haircuts at the Wal-Mart salon. Wife reverted to what she calls “mom hair” – really short, off the shoulders, barely covering the neck, still kind of long in front, more difficult for Son to grab and pull – and to tell the truth, it’s kind of hot. Historically, I’ve never been into short, short hair on women – I tend to think, “OK, fine - are you going to be a boy or a girl?” - but in this case, it works.
(That reaction, incidentally, isn’t an original one. When I had hair that ran halfway down my back during the early-to-mid ‘90s, my dad would mockingly tell me, “I don’t care if you want to be a girl.” [i.e., “I am not particularly pleased with your choice of hairstyle, Son.”] Between that and the constant miscalls of “ma’am?” when a clerk would call out to me in a store, and the constant calls for security over the P.A. system in a store when I would walk in, which were surely not coincidental, I gave up and did away with the long hair.)
My haircut took all of three minutes; it doesn’t take much “styling” to pull the guard off the shears and shave it down to about an eighth of an inch off my head. Easiest $12.50 they’ve ever made, I’m sure.
Alas, they did not touch my facial hair; I didn’t ask, but thought maybe they would. I ended up looking like I was going to audition for the lead in The Boris Zhukov Story, or possibly a live-action Wooly Willy flick.
Anyway, I lopped all of my facial hair off later Sunday evening. Son didn’t freak out at Daddy’s drastic transformation, but stood transfixed, watching as I ran my electric shaver over my face. I gave him a reassuring smile every now and again, and he smiled back once he realized that the shaver wasn’t eating Daddy.
The weekend wasn’t a total loss, but it sure seemed to start out that way. Friday wasn’t completely awful; I received some good news related to work (no, not that Doom had been crushed by a falling airplane, but the next best thing – a raise and a bonus!). I made plans to buy a wooden swing-set kit for Son for his birthday, and imagined how proud I would be once I got the thing put together. I had a picture in my head of the halcyon times that would follow once Son’s play area – still in planning stages – came into existence, and my heart would swell with potential pride.
My dad put stuff together for me when I was little - a swing set, a bike, etc. - and he did it right; I imagine that he harbored illusions of passing his gift for handiwork on to me. After the divorce, though, my mom got custody of me, and any hope of me being able to do things with my hands went out the window. On the bright side, I can do and have done wonderful and creative things with my mind. On the down side, don’t ask me to change the oil in my vehicle or fix that leak in the sink or actually build anything. That’s just not how I was raised – I was protected from ever having to do any sort of strenuous labor. In my neck of the woods, this is akin to wearing a scarlet letter – “G” for “gay.”
But I’m trying to reverse that trend. I want to build things for my son also. I don't want him growing thinking that Daddy is totally useless with his hands.
I was very eager to go pick up a wooden swing-set kit for him, and the picture in my head I spoke of earlier only glowed further the more I thought about it. It made me smile.
I married into a family who is just the opposite of me: blue-collar, roughneck, salt-of-the-earth folks. Good people, really; I love them to death, though I wonder if they “get” me sometimes because we’re so opposite. My father-in-law is in the middle of building a new house for him and my mother-in-law. Two of the sons drive trucks for a living, and the third works in a factory. You get the picture.
Fast forward to Friday night. Wife was telling her mom on the phone about my bonus, and about our desire to purchase and assemble a swing set for Son. And then, as if I wasn’t there, as if she assumed I would not be interested in doing or could not be able to do such a thing, she said, “Can Dad and the boys come out and put it together?”
I was furious.
I stormed out of the house, grabbed a chair and chain-smoked for about 20 minutes.
By the time I went back in the house, she hadn’t moved from the couch: “I just meant that maybe we could use their tools to put it together?”
“That’s not what I heard,” I shot back. “Why don’t you just say, ‘My useless husband is too much of a wuss to do it, so we need some actual men to come out and put it together’? Because that’s what I hear every time you say that. It’s really quite emasculating.”
“What?”
“I said, it’s really quite emasculating.”
And it is. Every time there is something around the house that requires any sort of manual labor, she’s on the phone to her dad or her brothers in about three seconds. Yeah, OK, I’m a wussy, ineffectual sissy boy. I get it.
I just wish she wasn’t so blatant about saying so (in, admittedly, not so many words).
A few minutes passed, and I think she thought the storm had passed as well.
“I had an affair at work today,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. (She didn’t really have one, but at that point, I didn’t really care.)
“I hope it was with someone who knows how to use tools,” I said, still in no mood. (I suppose that was kind of a womanly thing to say, wasn’t it?)
We didn’t say anything to each other the rest of the night. She’s one of those people – and we all know one – who gets mad at a person for being mad at them, who almost seems to thrive on being pissed off at someone. That’s something that I’ll never get.
She fell asleep on the couch almost immediately thereafter, and I played with Son the rest of the evening. We had a good time, me and him. For his birthday, Sitter got him one of those plastic cars with a spot cut out of the bottom of it for his feet to go through, like a Fred Flintstone car, and he drove that around the biggest part of the night.
We eventually made up, and the weekend was saved. I just hope it stops raining soon, because we'll probably end up killing each other before it's all said and done. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Incidentally, after all that, we still haven’t bought the swing set.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
I had a teacher in school who would have pronounced it "Parr-ade."
The local grocery was selling 32-ounce bottles of the sports drink Powerade for 50 cents last week. I picked up about 10 of them; really, I prefer Gatorade, but I’m not fiercely loyal to it.
On the label:
“Welcome to the Powerade system of great tasting, high performance beverages.”
Thank you – glad to be here! But I’d like to point out just a minor fallacy in your welcome address: “great tasting” and your “Green Squall” flavor are mutually exclusive. Green Squall both turned me green and made me squall. (Yes, I know – not the right “squall.”) It was awful.
Also, my performance didn’t necessarily improve thanks to your Green Squall high-performance beverage:
Me: Did you notice a difference in my performance?
Wife: You performed?
Get me legal! Deliberate misleading advertising!
“Powerade is liquid fuel designed to feed your maverick spirit –“
Uh-oh. I think they lost me there. My maverick spirit died years ago, replaced by a comfortable libertarianism/conservatism. Me and "maverick spirit" go together like ..... well, they just don't. Am I getting too much liquid fuel for my money?
When I think of “maverick spirit,” I think, “Come to Marlboro Country!”
(then, after some crap about B-vitamins and carb fuel ...)
“Drink Powerade. Defy convention.”
You know what I think would defy convention? Drinking, say, goat pee. That would defy convention. Drinking a B-level sports drink is probably not unconventional so much as it is an indication that Gatorade wasn't available.
On the label:
“Welcome to the Powerade system of great tasting, high performance beverages.”
Thank you – glad to be here! But I’d like to point out just a minor fallacy in your welcome address: “great tasting” and your “Green Squall” flavor are mutually exclusive. Green Squall both turned me green and made me squall. (Yes, I know – not the right “squall.”) It was awful.
Also, my performance didn’t necessarily improve thanks to your Green Squall high-performance beverage:
Me: Did you notice a difference in my performance?
Wife: You performed?
Get me legal! Deliberate misleading advertising!
“Powerade is liquid fuel designed to feed your maverick spirit –“
Uh-oh. I think they lost me there. My maverick spirit died years ago, replaced by a comfortable libertarianism/conservatism. Me and "maverick spirit" go together like ..... well, they just don't. Am I getting too much liquid fuel for my money?
When I think of “maverick spirit,” I think, “Come to Marlboro Country!”
(then, after some crap about B-vitamins and carb fuel ...)
“Drink Powerade. Defy convention.”
You know what I think would defy convention? Drinking, say, goat pee. That would defy convention. Drinking a B-level sports drink is probably not unconventional so much as it is an indication that Gatorade wasn't available.
"Tact"? What do you mean?
Last weekend, we held our son's second birthday party at a local park. He actually turned 2 only yesterday, but it was more convenient for all involved, supposedly, if the party were to be held the Saturday before, as opposed to today. Oddly enough, the people for whom we juggled the schedule did not show up.
I would be irritated at their absence, but last Saturday *was* a better day, weather-wise. We've received at least some rain every day since Wednesday, and the National Weather Service forecasts at least a 20 percent chance of rain every day till next Friday. Bleh. I feel like moving to Washington and writing grunge albums. The weather really has been a downer this week.
About a month ago, Son received one of those Fisher-Price Power Wheels vehicles (a Jeep) from my aunt, whose son had outgrown it several years ago. "It just needs new batteries," she told us. OK!
We bought a couple of new 6-volt batteries for the vehicle (and paid out the nose for them), but it was still for naught because they needed charging, and we do not have a battery charger yet. My mom said she'd spring for one, and actually also tried to spring for the batteries, but I wouldn't let her.
One day last week, she gave me a bag with what I assumed was the charger in it. It was only several days later that I opened the bag and realized that it held ....... another battery.
Hey, it happens.
Anyway. Back to the party: Captain and Mrs. Captain made an appearance (hooray!), and I was standing outside the shelterhouse talking to them. Captain and I were making small talk, and he mentioned something about a receipt.
The word "receipt" triggered something in my brain, and I excused myself from the conversation to find Mom, who was sitting with my grandma (my dad's mother). And I announced, for God and the whole world to hear:
"Hey, Mom? You know that charger that you got for Son?"
"Yes?" she replied.
"Do you still have the receipt for it?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because I opened up the bag and saw that you had gotten him a battery instead."
She looked offended, and I immediately realized my error: the implication, in front of everyone, that she didn't know the difference between a battery and a battery charger.
"Well, why don't you just tell everyone that your mom's an idiot?" she fired back.
"If the shoe fits ..." I thought to myself. Oh, I did not.
Anyway, I apologized all over myself, but the day was ruined, at least as far as she was concerned. Shortly after cake, she left in a little bit of a huff.
Oh well. Really, I wasn't trying to belittle her or humiliate her in front of everyone. I was so eager to remember to tell her about needing to take the battery back that I left tact at the door.
****
The party went pretty well, my idiocy notwithstanding. Son got a little red wagon, and all little boys need a little red wagon. I spent the afternoon pulling him around the yard in it (at his behest). I don't know that he got the point right away, but the last nice evening we had this week, he finally figured out the purpose of the wagon, piling rocks and other detritus in it and pulling it around.
Captain and Mrs. Captain checked in with a bubble mower. Son loved it; I've refilled the bubble soap twice since the party. It will be good practice for about six or seven years from now, when he mows for real. (What's the point of having kids if you can't make them mow the yard?)
I would be irritated at their absence, but last Saturday *was* a better day, weather-wise. We've received at least some rain every day since Wednesday, and the National Weather Service forecasts at least a 20 percent chance of rain every day till next Friday. Bleh. I feel like moving to Washington and writing grunge albums. The weather really has been a downer this week.
About a month ago, Son received one of those Fisher-Price Power Wheels vehicles (a Jeep) from my aunt, whose son had outgrown it several years ago. "It just needs new batteries," she told us. OK!
We bought a couple of new 6-volt batteries for the vehicle (and paid out the nose for them), but it was still for naught because they needed charging, and we do not have a battery charger yet. My mom said she'd spring for one, and actually also tried to spring for the batteries, but I wouldn't let her.
One day last week, she gave me a bag with what I assumed was the charger in it. It was only several days later that I opened the bag and realized that it held ....... another battery.
Hey, it happens.
Anyway. Back to the party: Captain and Mrs. Captain made an appearance (hooray!), and I was standing outside the shelterhouse talking to them. Captain and I were making small talk, and he mentioned something about a receipt.
The word "receipt" triggered something in my brain, and I excused myself from the conversation to find Mom, who was sitting with my grandma (my dad's mother). And I announced, for God and the whole world to hear:
"Hey, Mom? You know that charger that you got for Son?"
"Yes?" she replied.
"Do you still have the receipt for it?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because I opened up the bag and saw that you had gotten him a battery instead."
She looked offended, and I immediately realized my error: the implication, in front of everyone, that she didn't know the difference between a battery and a battery charger.
"Well, why don't you just tell everyone that your mom's an idiot?" she fired back.
"If the shoe fits ..." I thought to myself. Oh, I did not.
Anyway, I apologized all over myself, but the day was ruined, at least as far as she was concerned. Shortly after cake, she left in a little bit of a huff.
Oh well. Really, I wasn't trying to belittle her or humiliate her in front of everyone. I was so eager to remember to tell her about needing to take the battery back that I left tact at the door.
****
The party went pretty well, my idiocy notwithstanding. Son got a little red wagon, and all little boys need a little red wagon. I spent the afternoon pulling him around the yard in it (at his behest). I don't know that he got the point right away, but the last nice evening we had this week, he finally figured out the purpose of the wagon, piling rocks and other detritus in it and pulling it around.
Captain and Mrs. Captain checked in with a bubble mower. Son loved it; I've refilled the bubble soap twice since the party. It will be good practice for about six or seven years from now, when he mows for real. (What's the point of having kids if you can't make them mow the yard?)
Monday, May 08, 2006
Ding-Dongs were a lot better when they were wrapped in foil.
Sometimes I wonder if the proprietors of Hostess were just a bunch of perverts, or if the innuendo-laden names of their products were not so laden with innuendo at the time of their original production. Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, Ho-Hos … I suppose you could even make a case for the name of the Suzy-Q snack cake holding a certain level of prurience.
Or is it just me who’s the perv?
Well, at least the names mean something. Wife rolled her eyes at me last night when we were behind a vehicle called a “Catera” – I believe it’s a Cadillac product – and I said, “Catera! A name that inspires feelings of nothingness, for it means nothing!”
(I dated a Catera once. Not really; it was a Catina, the Catera’s older badass sister. She inspired much more than feelings of nothingness, so that clearly wouldn’t be the good name for a car.)
Speaking of old girlfriends, the only one from my past I would have dropped everything to marry (up until Wife and I got serious) made a cameo in a dream I had last night. It was pleasant up until she got on my lap and tried to kiss me, and I kept on fighting her off, telling her I was married and not in journalism anymore. (As if the two things had to be mutually exclusive.)
I woke up: Wow. Where did *that* come from?
Seriously. Was this one-time occurrence something that dream psychologists would have a field day with, or is there a pretty simple explanation for her showing up there? I’ll have to dig up the dream encyclopedia that I got for Wife a couple of Christmases ago that has never been used.
And why did I act that way in my dream? Like I said, Jen was someone who, in retrospect (and I didn't know this at the time we were dating), I would have dropped everything to marry, had we only been a little older and I still had the opportunity. Had things not fallen into place as they did and the chance arose, I’d be on the next flight to Texas. Yet, with a guilt-free opportunity to be with her again in the realm of sleep – where no one else ever has to know - she inspires feelings of fidelity to my wife?
… the hell?
Am I really that faithful? I’d like to think I would be, but I’ll also have to admit that I’ve not really been in the position to cheat since getting married. (And I don’t ever care to be.) People who watch too much Dr. Phil might claim, “Once a cheat, always a cheat.” And I did my share of it back before I had sense, at least online. But that was a thousand years ago. (Give or take 993.)
Anyway. I’m both proud of and mystified with myself for not cheating on my wife in a dream I had. People do a lot worse in real life.
Still haven’t heard from the curling folks re: my Fox Sports blog, but am not giving up on the project yet. In the meantime, enjoy my Indy 500 preview if you’re into that sort of thing.
More about my weekend later.
Or is it just me who’s the perv?
Well, at least the names mean something. Wife rolled her eyes at me last night when we were behind a vehicle called a “Catera” – I believe it’s a Cadillac product – and I said, “Catera! A name that inspires feelings of nothingness, for it means nothing!”
(I dated a Catera once. Not really; it was a Catina, the Catera’s older badass sister. She inspired much more than feelings of nothingness, so that clearly wouldn’t be the good name for a car.)
Speaking of old girlfriends, the only one from my past I would have dropped everything to marry (up until Wife and I got serious) made a cameo in a dream I had last night. It was pleasant up until she got on my lap and tried to kiss me, and I kept on fighting her off, telling her I was married and not in journalism anymore. (As if the two things had to be mutually exclusive.)
I woke up: Wow. Where did *that* come from?
Seriously. Was this one-time occurrence something that dream psychologists would have a field day with, or is there a pretty simple explanation for her showing up there? I’ll have to dig up the dream encyclopedia that I got for Wife a couple of Christmases ago that has never been used.
And why did I act that way in my dream? Like I said, Jen was someone who, in retrospect (and I didn't know this at the time we were dating), I would have dropped everything to marry, had we only been a little older and I still had the opportunity. Had things not fallen into place as they did and the chance arose, I’d be on the next flight to Texas. Yet, with a guilt-free opportunity to be with her again in the realm of sleep – where no one else ever has to know - she inspires feelings of fidelity to my wife?
… the hell?
Am I really that faithful? I’d like to think I would be, but I’ll also have to admit that I’ve not really been in the position to cheat since getting married. (And I don’t ever care to be.) People who watch too much Dr. Phil might claim, “Once a cheat, always a cheat.” And I did my share of it back before I had sense, at least online. But that was a thousand years ago. (Give or take 993.)
Anyway. I’m both proud of and mystified with myself for not cheating on my wife in a dream I had. People do a lot worse in real life.
Still haven’t heard from the curling folks re: my Fox Sports blog, but am not giving up on the project yet. In the meantime, enjoy my Indy 500 preview if you’re into that sort of thing.
More about my weekend later.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Online Integrity ...
Apologies to those who aren't here for the PSAs; this will only take a minute ...
A movement is underway to clean up some of the more recent nasty things that have taken place in the blogosphere. The posting of personal information by others has gotten out of hand, and I'm not going to go into the whys and wherefores of what's taken place to this point.
Bramble Tamble has always taken extra care to ensure that no private citizens' names or information are disclosed in the posts here. As such, it was a no-brainer for me to sign on to the Online Integrity Statement of Principles.
If you have a blog or a website, and you're someone who's always done things above-the-board as far as your site is concerned, check it out and sign on at onlineintegrity.org.
/psa mode off
A movement is underway to clean up some of the more recent nasty things that have taken place in the blogosphere. The posting of personal information by others has gotten out of hand, and I'm not going to go into the whys and wherefores of what's taken place to this point.
Bramble Tamble has always taken extra care to ensure that no private citizens' names or information are disclosed in the posts here. As such, it was a no-brainer for me to sign on to the Online Integrity Statement of Principles.
If you have a blog or a website, and you're someone who's always done things above-the-board as far as your site is concerned, check it out and sign on at onlineintegrity.org.
/psa mode off
And it's only seemed like 275 million seconds, tops!
Here's a thought that I can let depress me if I put my mind to it:
Sometime during July 24 of this year, I turn 1 billion seconds old.
What are your "alternative" birthdays? Like, when will you turn 2,000 weeks old? 15,000 days old? 20,000,000 minutes old? Click here and find out.
Sometime during July 24 of this year, I turn 1 billion seconds old.
What are your "alternative" birthdays? Like, when will you turn 2,000 weeks old? 15,000 days old? 20,000,000 minutes old? Click here and find out.
He tries to dial out 9-9-9-9-9-9-9 ..... and other thoughts on a nondescript Wednesday
The complete good works of Brian Eno are playing on the don’t-call-it-an-iPod right now. He had three excellent albums back in the ‘70s, and a fourth that had its moments, but foreshadowed his subsequent incursion into instrumental frippery (no pun intended, for you Eno fans).
Here Come The Warm Jets, Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy), Before and After Science, and, to a lesser extent, Another Green World all shine as examples of idiosyncratic, melodic rock that is a constant surprise to the listener. The moments of soothing calm – “Taking Tiger Mountain,” “Everything Merges With The Night,” the grandiose, sweeping “On Some Faraway Beach” – stand in stark contrast to raucous, shambolic rockers like “Needles in the Camel’s Eye,” “King’s Lead Hat” and “The Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch.” There is perfect pop-rock – “Cindy Tells Me,” “Backwater,” “I’ll Come Running” – and noisy, screeching pop-art-rockers – “Blank Frank,” “The True Wheel,” “Baby’s On Fire.” Every note and noise couldn't seem more like it belonged there; Eno’s music from that era is not a bit contrived.
Upsettingly, “Needles in the Camel’s Eye” and “Burning Airlines Give You So Much More” did not transfer to my MP3 player from my computer. This will need remedied, post-haste.
Itching for change, and I don’t mean three dimes and a nickel. The minor blog redesign didn’t hit the spot (what, you didn't notice?) – more needs to be done, because I’m starting to really hate “Sand Dollar,” but none of the other templates do it for me either - and changing the appearance of my desktop and whatnot aren’t doing it either. For a couple of years, I’ve been a Verdana/Tahoma groupie, but when doing the minor redesign here, I wanted a new, more readable blog font, and I fell for Trebuchet, the font that you are looking at now. Now, of course, I’m starting to go off the deep end with the font - make everything Trebuchet! - and I’m sure I’ll burn myself out on it in about 7 hours.
Oh well. Trebuchet still beats the hell out of Comic Sans MS, which should be destroyed. Nothing screams “Warning: amateur!” like the use of Comic Sans MS; it destroys the credibility of the message, IMHO. Here’s a typography snob’s site. The site's proprietor is absolutely correct, by the way.
Anyway, on the change front, we’re doing a bit of an overhaul in the house in the coming weeks, and I hope that quenches my thirst for fluidity. Domestika pointed me in the direction of a free piece of software that Google offers that seems like it would help with home redesign. We’re just doing a minor overhaul (a contradiction in terms, no doubt): a three-room switch in which Son will get his own bedroom, the living room will be moved into the family room (where he presently sleeps) and my office (where Son is moving to) will be relocated to the living room, where it will be combined with the dining room that we don’t currently have.
I know he’s just turning 2 next week, but I think he’s big enough for his own room now. Wife is still a bit paranoid about the prospect, because of the room’s location and the windows in it. But I don’t think we’re going to be taking advantage of the upstairs for anything beyond storage for the foreseeable future, and he needs a room. Grand plans are in the works; aren’t they always? Truly, I’m tired of hearing about them. I used poor judgment about two weekends ago and spoke of my Plan Fatigue to Wife, which caused a seemingly irreversible rift in our marriage, but it healed over (I hope).
Failed commercial idea:
“Thank you for calling OnStar; this is Robert.”
(panicked sobbing) “Yes, I’ve been carjacked.”
“I am sorry to hear that, ma’am. Is the carjacker in the car with you?”
(sobbing) “Yes.”
“OK, I will need your PIN number ………”
(fade out) (announcer goes into spiel about OnStar being available in GM vehicles, etc.)
At the behest of my mom, Wife and I tuned in to the NBC game show “Deal or No Deal” the other night. It happened to be on at the same time as the Brawl For It All between Son and Transient. So, we were a little distracted while the show was on.
Regardless, even if I were fully focused on the show, I couldn't imagine a more tedious, monotonous, mindblowingly boring way to spend an hour. They should call it “Dull or No Dull,” and then after selecting the first six cases, I would holler out, “Dull!”
The fanfare with which I announced my entry into the Next Great Sportswriter contest on foxsports.com has, I admit, not been matched by results. It may seem like I own stock in Half-Ass and Half-Ass LLC, and I wouldn’t blame you, Gentle Reader, for thinking as such, seeing as how a million years pass between posts here some weeks.
Honestly, I have a couple of things brewing that are pending replies from interested parties. I’m working on a piece on the U.S. men’s curling team’s success in the Olympics and if there was any ensuing big deals brewing as a result. I e-mailed the folks at USA Curling, the national organization, and they said they would be happy to help. Their initial enthusiasm hasn’t resulted in an actual reply to my questions, though. (I’ll check my e-mail right now before I go off half-cocked …)
Nothing.
Ugh. I hope that it’s because they’re tracking down answers; I had some pretty varied questions that the PR folks there might not be able to answer on their own … right?
My other pending post is about my former athletic “glory.” If you roll your eyes and think that it’s going to be an Al-Bundy-four-touchdowns story that bears ignoring, think again. There’s a reason why “glory” is in quotes there.
Here Come The Warm Jets, Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy), Before and After Science, and, to a lesser extent, Another Green World all shine as examples of idiosyncratic, melodic rock that is a constant surprise to the listener. The moments of soothing calm – “Taking Tiger Mountain,” “Everything Merges With The Night,” the grandiose, sweeping “On Some Faraway Beach” – stand in stark contrast to raucous, shambolic rockers like “Needles in the Camel’s Eye,” “King’s Lead Hat” and “The Paw Paw Negro Blowtorch.” There is perfect pop-rock – “Cindy Tells Me,” “Backwater,” “I’ll Come Running” – and noisy, screeching pop-art-rockers – “Blank Frank,” “The True Wheel,” “Baby’s On Fire.” Every note and noise couldn't seem more like it belonged there; Eno’s music from that era is not a bit contrived.
Upsettingly, “Needles in the Camel’s Eye” and “Burning Airlines Give You So Much More” did not transfer to my MP3 player from my computer. This will need remedied, post-haste.
Itching for change, and I don’t mean three dimes and a nickel. The minor blog redesign didn’t hit the spot (what, you didn't notice?) – more needs to be done, because I’m starting to really hate “Sand Dollar,” but none of the other templates do it for me either - and changing the appearance of my desktop and whatnot aren’t doing it either. For a couple of years, I’ve been a Verdana/Tahoma groupie, but when doing the minor redesign here, I wanted a new, more readable blog font, and I fell for Trebuchet, the font that you are looking at now. Now, of course, I’m starting to go off the deep end with the font - make everything Trebuchet! - and I’m sure I’ll burn myself out on it in about 7 hours.
Oh well. Trebuchet still beats the hell out of Comic Sans MS, which should be destroyed. Nothing screams “Warning: amateur!” like the use of Comic Sans MS; it destroys the credibility of the message, IMHO. Here’s a typography snob’s site. The site's proprietor is absolutely correct, by the way.
Anyway, on the change front, we’re doing a bit of an overhaul in the house in the coming weeks, and I hope that quenches my thirst for fluidity. Domestika pointed me in the direction of a free piece of software that Google offers that seems like it would help with home redesign. We’re just doing a minor overhaul (a contradiction in terms, no doubt): a three-room switch in which Son will get his own bedroom, the living room will be moved into the family room (where he presently sleeps) and my office (where Son is moving to) will be relocated to the living room, where it will be combined with the dining room that we don’t currently have.
I know he’s just turning 2 next week, but I think he’s big enough for his own room now. Wife is still a bit paranoid about the prospect, because of the room’s location and the windows in it. But I don’t think we’re going to be taking advantage of the upstairs for anything beyond storage for the foreseeable future, and he needs a room. Grand plans are in the works; aren’t they always? Truly, I’m tired of hearing about them. I used poor judgment about two weekends ago and spoke of my Plan Fatigue to Wife, which caused a seemingly irreversible rift in our marriage, but it healed over (I hope).
Failed commercial idea:
“Thank you for calling OnStar; this is Robert.”
(panicked sobbing) “Yes, I’ve been carjacked.”
“I am sorry to hear that, ma’am. Is the carjacker in the car with you?”
(sobbing) “Yes.”
“OK, I will need your PIN number ………”
(fade out) (announcer goes into spiel about OnStar being available in GM vehicles, etc.)
At the behest of my mom, Wife and I tuned in to the NBC game show “Deal or No Deal” the other night. It happened to be on at the same time as the Brawl For It All between Son and Transient. So, we were a little distracted while the show was on.
Regardless, even if I were fully focused on the show, I couldn't imagine a more tedious, monotonous, mindblowingly boring way to spend an hour. They should call it “Dull or No Dull,” and then after selecting the first six cases, I would holler out, “Dull!”
The fanfare with which I announced my entry into the Next Great Sportswriter contest on foxsports.com has, I admit, not been matched by results. It may seem like I own stock in Half-Ass and Half-Ass LLC, and I wouldn’t blame you, Gentle Reader, for thinking as such, seeing as how a million years pass between posts here some weeks.
Honestly, I have a couple of things brewing that are pending replies from interested parties. I’m working on a piece on the U.S. men’s curling team’s success in the Olympics and if there was any ensuing big deals brewing as a result. I e-mailed the folks at USA Curling, the national organization, and they said they would be happy to help. Their initial enthusiasm hasn’t resulted in an actual reply to my questions, though. (I’ll check my e-mail right now before I go off half-cocked …)
Nothing.
Ugh. I hope that it’s because they’re tracking down answers; I had some pretty varied questions that the PR folks there might not be able to answer on their own … right?
My other pending post is about my former athletic “glory.” If you roll your eyes and think that it’s going to be an Al-Bundy-four-touchdowns story that bears ignoring, think again. There’s a reason why “glory” is in quotes there.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
It's not a pinot noir from '72 - a very good year, they say - but ...
... anyone into the Trebuchet?
Alice Childress, Alice Springs ...
After a solid month of an aural diet of essentially nothing but Bad Religion, I finally put a playlist together of other stuff on my MP3 player that I haven't heard in a while. I'll share (except as noted, I selected entire catalogs by artists instead of individual songs):
B-52s - "Roam" - I talked about the greatness of this song here, and will repeat my "vastly underrated" assessment of it. Speaking as someone who is not a B-52s fan - I find songs like "Rock Lobster" and "Love Shack" to be the equivalent of eardrum sandpaper - if I were putting together a fantasy team of songs from the late '80s, I'd go to bat with (and win with) this one.
Wire - "Outdoor Miner" - Robert Pollard, avert your eyes: Wire, to me, is generally unlistenable. Except for this sweet gem of a song that clocks in at a hair under 1:50. If it had come out in the 1960s, you'd find it on one of those Nuggets compilations. Pure guitar pop.
Ben Folds, Liz Phair - Two of my forgotten favorites. Both had stunning debut albums, followed by disappointing subsequent releases. It might have been Phair who said something along the lines of how "you have 20 years to write songs for your first album, then 6 months to write songs for your second album," and the quality of the sophomore effort often suffers in comparison. Folds and Phair both were afflicted by this malady. Ben Folds Five's self-titled debut was a masterpiece; songs like "Philosophy," "Best Imitation of Myself," and "Jackson Cannery" wouldn't work nearly as well if Folds' piano were replaced by a guitar, but in this setting, they beat the hell out of anything Billy Joel ever did. Phair's success, on the other hand, could be attributed as much to her potty mouth (check out the NC-17 lyrics to "Flower" sometime) as her skewed pop sensibilities ("Divorce Song," "Soap Star Joe").
And then both artists went somewhat to crap. Sure, some of the individual songs on later albums shined - Folds' "Landed" was the best song on the radio last year, if it was on your radio, while Phair's anthemic "Shitloads of Money" was a highlight of her third album. But Folds started doing duets with William Shatner, and Phair's sound became overproduced and flaccid thanks to her ill-fated stab at teenybopper stardom. Ugh.
Hank Williams Jr. - "I'd Love To Knock The Hell Out Of You" - Heh. Who *wouldn't* love a song called "I'd Love To Knock The Hell Out Of You"?
Silver Jews - The opening line on their American Water album is the greatest opening line to an album in music history: "In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection." In addition, the same song, "Random Rules," also features the line, "I know that a lot of what I say has been lifted off of men's room walls." They're country rock without the twang, indie rock without the screeching.
Stranded at the Drive-In - Bloomington's other last best hope in a different time and place (aside from sorely-missed John Walsh and the Sinkholes). Often closed their shows with a cover of GbV's "Smothered In Hugs," which garnered them my undying affection. Their self-titled album is a keeper, a showcase of catchy guitar pop. "Amphetamine," "Sick All Over," "Spoon Fury," "Crawlspaces," and "Soundcheck" were all radio-ready power-pop hits if only they'd made it to radio.
Better Than Ezra - Scoff if you must; I'll grant that a lot of their later work (i.e. a lot of their songs after their debut "Deluxe" album) has that bland, inoffensive sound that would fit perfectly into an episode of "Dawson's Creek." I'm honestly surprised they're still kicking around. My faves of theirs are "This Time of Year," "King of New Orleans," "Desperately Wanting," and "Sincerely, Me." Pop-rock!
The Captain will note that a lot of the music on this list is exactly the same thing I was listening to in 1999. RAWK IS DED.
B-52s - "Roam" - I talked about the greatness of this song here, and will repeat my "vastly underrated" assessment of it. Speaking as someone who is not a B-52s fan - I find songs like "Rock Lobster" and "Love Shack" to be the equivalent of eardrum sandpaper - if I were putting together a fantasy team of songs from the late '80s, I'd go to bat with (and win with) this one.
Wire - "Outdoor Miner" - Robert Pollard, avert your eyes: Wire, to me, is generally unlistenable. Except for this sweet gem of a song that clocks in at a hair under 1:50. If it had come out in the 1960s, you'd find it on one of those Nuggets compilations. Pure guitar pop.
Ben Folds, Liz Phair - Two of my forgotten favorites. Both had stunning debut albums, followed by disappointing subsequent releases. It might have been Phair who said something along the lines of how "you have 20 years to write songs for your first album, then 6 months to write songs for your second album," and the quality of the sophomore effort often suffers in comparison. Folds and Phair both were afflicted by this malady. Ben Folds Five's self-titled debut was a masterpiece; songs like "Philosophy," "Best Imitation of Myself," and "Jackson Cannery" wouldn't work nearly as well if Folds' piano were replaced by a guitar, but in this setting, they beat the hell out of anything Billy Joel ever did. Phair's success, on the other hand, could be attributed as much to her potty mouth (check out the NC-17 lyrics to "Flower" sometime) as her skewed pop sensibilities ("Divorce Song," "Soap Star Joe").
And then both artists went somewhat to crap. Sure, some of the individual songs on later albums shined - Folds' "Landed" was the best song on the radio last year, if it was on your radio, while Phair's anthemic "Shitloads of Money" was a highlight of her third album. But Folds started doing duets with William Shatner, and Phair's sound became overproduced and flaccid thanks to her ill-fated stab at teenybopper stardom. Ugh.
Hank Williams Jr. - "I'd Love To Knock The Hell Out Of You" - Heh. Who *wouldn't* love a song called "I'd Love To Knock The Hell Out Of You"?
Silver Jews - The opening line on their American Water album is the greatest opening line to an album in music history: "In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection." In addition, the same song, "Random Rules," also features the line, "I know that a lot of what I say has been lifted off of men's room walls." They're country rock without the twang, indie rock without the screeching.
Stranded at the Drive-In - Bloomington's other last best hope in a different time and place (aside from sorely-missed John Walsh and the Sinkholes). Often closed their shows with a cover of GbV's "Smothered In Hugs," which garnered them my undying affection. Their self-titled album is a keeper, a showcase of catchy guitar pop. "Amphetamine," "Sick All Over," "Spoon Fury," "Crawlspaces," and "Soundcheck" were all radio-ready power-pop hits if only they'd made it to radio.
Better Than Ezra - Scoff if you must; I'll grant that a lot of their later work (i.e. a lot of their songs after their debut "Deluxe" album) has that bland, inoffensive sound that would fit perfectly into an episode of "Dawson's Creek." I'm honestly surprised they're still kicking around. My faves of theirs are "This Time of Year," "King of New Orleans," "Desperately Wanting," and "Sincerely, Me." Pop-rock!
The Captain will note that a lot of the music on this list is exactly the same thing I was listening to in 1999. RAWK IS DED.
Kids do the damnedest things.
As of late, long days are the rule and not the exception at the Bramble Tamble compound.
I detailed earlier the saintly nature of our babysitter, who has been willing to take Son at all hours of the night as necessary, as well as keep him for three days at a time when we go on our Tunica trips. She keeps him late when Wife works late, takes him to doctor appointments when neither of us are available, etc.
These things, of course, tend to come back around to you, and they did starting last Friday, when Sitter went to New York with her husband on a business trip. She took her oldest kids with her (the ones who are still school age, anyway; her very oldest son goes to college), but left her two youngest girls, ages 3 and 1, in the care of Wife and me. “Nine days of fun and sun,” we called it, trying to sell the kids on the merits of staying with us. (There have been neither.)
It should be noted here that I did not necessarily consent happily to this arrangement; at the very least, it wasn't consent so much as it was resignation. Here's my thinking:
We have paid Sitter fairly handsomely for all of the extra things she does for us and Son (as noted in paragraph two above). Are we even, in the grand scheme of things? Well, she charges us below-market rates for her services because of her pre-existing friendship with Wife, so maybe not ... but it's not like we're going to pull her aside and say, "Hey, we'd really love to give you more money for this." Regardless, I consider us even; it's not exactly our fault she won't tighten the noose and extort ... I mean, extract ... more money from us.
I should go on the record also as saying this: I love kids … my own. I’d walk on water if I could for kids … my own. Our house is well-suited for kids … our one. And maybe a future one or two.
Still, my protestations amounted to nothing, however, as far as altering the plans for keeping her girls with us was concerned.
In the first minutes after the arrival of Wife on Friday night with three kids in tow, I even pulled out a master four-point plan for making sure that this would not come to pass again in the future (i.e. more kids for us): vasectomy, divorce, moving to the monastery down in Ferdinand, turning gay. Any combination of the four was, to me, viable, though I'm not clear how I would have swung #3 and #4 simultaneously.
This was all very humorous to my wife, who clearly didn’t understand the gravity of my threats. I even wielded scissors at one point over the weekend to take care of option #1, and had to have them taken away from me.
(I suppose it would have been somewhat rash for me to do that.)
It was roughly 45 minutes before we averted the first crisis with the additional children: the oldest one requested SpongeBob mac & cheese. All well and good – I wouldn’t have minded paying the extra $8 a box for the SpongeBob name – but our small-town grocery does not stock SpongeBob mac & cheese. SpongeBob mac & cheese is found only in your more high-falutin' superstores, apparently.
In my mind’s eye, I imagined the colossal fit that she would throw upon learning of this development; she’s got bright red hair and a temper to match. Surprisingly, the apocalypse did not come to pass, and supper that first night came and went without incident.
It was the first time that the 3-year-old had been away from her mommy and daddy, and it began to wear on all of us as the weekend went on. We ended up arranging for Sitter’s sister-in-law to come get her and keep her through the rest of the week; at the very least, with that arrangement, she would be able to spend a little time at her house and play with her toys and whatnot. Good for her.
So, we’re down to two kids – Son (who is 23 months and 2 weeks) and the 18-month-old, who for the purposes of this story, I will call Transient.
Still, it's not been the walk in the park that we had hoped it to be with the removal of the 3-year-old from the picture. Take last night, for instance:
Son has a box that he likes to play in. ($1,000 worth of toys, and he plays in a cardboard box.) Said box is probably 18x18x24. Many evenings, after it gets dark out and he can’t play outside anymore, he’ll come in and play in his box, which has several of his toys in it also.
“Wouldn’t it be neat if we put Transient in there with him?” Wife and I asked each other at practically the same time. Sure, it’d be cute!
(An aside: Lewis Black does a routine about why they stopped selling knives at airports – something about getting liquored up on the plane and being in a confined space with other strangers not lending itself well to safe knifeplay.
(The same principle applies here.)
Putting Son and Transient in this 18x18x24 space went well for about 20 seconds. Then, being a baby, she wanted to play with a toy that he was playing with, and tried to pull it out of his hand.
Let it be known here that being an only child, Son has issues with sharing his toys.
Son’s right hand and Transient’s left hand were death-gripped on this toy; I think it was one of our old cell phones. In his left hand was a little Hot Wheels car … and he started beating her in the head with it to try to get her to release the cell phone.
I was too shocked to spring into action immediately.
(Somewhat shamefully, there was also a part of me that couldn’t help but think to myself, “… yeah!” Because, you know, you tend to root for your kids when these confrontations come about, and we’re not going to raise our son to be a pacifist.)
Transient has a squealy squawk for a cry that grates on my last nerve, and naturally, upon having the front of a diecast car tattooed on her head, the squawking started. We pulled her out of the box and put him in “time out” (ugh). Once “time out” was done and he apologized to her, he went back in the box … and she wanted back in the box with him because the toy that started the original dispute was still in it.
Being a dumbass, I lifted her into the box.
Son was not pleased. He started beating her with his hands, and then laid down in the box and just started kicking the holy hell out of her.
Back into time out. And the box had to go. I hid it in our bedroom and shut the door, evoking fits of rage from Son and Transient.
“Hey, let’s get another box so they can both have boxes to play in!” Wife suggested. I cleaned out one of her Tupperware boxes which was about the same size, got the original box back out, sat both on the living room floor and placed Son in the box with his toys, and Transient in the empty box.
“Son – would you like to give Transient some of your toys so she can play with them in her box?”
With pleasure, I’m sure he thought.
He starts picking up toys with both hands – mostly diecast cars – and throws them at her, most of them plunking her in the head and shoulders.
You would think that she would have been happy to have some toys in the box with her. Of course, she wasn’t.
Eventually, the struggle ended, and Transient went to bed, followed by Son about an hour later. No bloodshed or, shockingly, visible marks on this night; hopefully, the outcome will remain the same over the next six days.
I detailed earlier the saintly nature of our babysitter, who has been willing to take Son at all hours of the night as necessary, as well as keep him for three days at a time when we go on our Tunica trips. She keeps him late when Wife works late, takes him to doctor appointments when neither of us are available, etc.
These things, of course, tend to come back around to you, and they did starting last Friday, when Sitter went to New York with her husband on a business trip. She took her oldest kids with her (the ones who are still school age, anyway; her very oldest son goes to college), but left her two youngest girls, ages 3 and 1, in the care of Wife and me. “Nine days of fun and sun,” we called it, trying to sell the kids on the merits of staying with us. (There have been neither.)
It should be noted here that I did not necessarily consent happily to this arrangement; at the very least, it wasn't consent so much as it was resignation. Here's my thinking:
We have paid Sitter fairly handsomely for all of the extra things she does for us and Son (as noted in paragraph two above). Are we even, in the grand scheme of things? Well, she charges us below-market rates for her services because of her pre-existing friendship with Wife, so maybe not ... but it's not like we're going to pull her aside and say, "Hey, we'd really love to give you more money for this." Regardless, I consider us even; it's not exactly our fault she won't tighten the noose and extort ... I mean, extract ... more money from us.
I should go on the record also as saying this: I love kids … my own. I’d walk on water if I could for kids … my own. Our house is well-suited for kids … our one. And maybe a future one or two.
Still, my protestations amounted to nothing, however, as far as altering the plans for keeping her girls with us was concerned.
In the first minutes after the arrival of Wife on Friday night with three kids in tow, I even pulled out a master four-point plan for making sure that this would not come to pass again in the future (i.e. more kids for us): vasectomy, divorce, moving to the monastery down in Ferdinand, turning gay. Any combination of the four was, to me, viable, though I'm not clear how I would have swung #3 and #4 simultaneously.
This was all very humorous to my wife, who clearly didn’t understand the gravity of my threats. I even wielded scissors at one point over the weekend to take care of option #1, and had to have them taken away from me.
(I suppose it would have been somewhat rash for me to do that.)
It was roughly 45 minutes before we averted the first crisis with the additional children: the oldest one requested SpongeBob mac & cheese. All well and good – I wouldn’t have minded paying the extra $8 a box for the SpongeBob name – but our small-town grocery does not stock SpongeBob mac & cheese. SpongeBob mac & cheese is found only in your more high-falutin' superstores, apparently.
In my mind’s eye, I imagined the colossal fit that she would throw upon learning of this development; she’s got bright red hair and a temper to match. Surprisingly, the apocalypse did not come to pass, and supper that first night came and went without incident.
It was the first time that the 3-year-old had been away from her mommy and daddy, and it began to wear on all of us as the weekend went on. We ended up arranging for Sitter’s sister-in-law to come get her and keep her through the rest of the week; at the very least, with that arrangement, she would be able to spend a little time at her house and play with her toys and whatnot. Good for her.
So, we’re down to two kids – Son (who is 23 months and 2 weeks) and the 18-month-old, who for the purposes of this story, I will call Transient.
Still, it's not been the walk in the park that we had hoped it to be with the removal of the 3-year-old from the picture. Take last night, for instance:
Son has a box that he likes to play in. ($1,000 worth of toys, and he plays in a cardboard box.) Said box is probably 18x18x24. Many evenings, after it gets dark out and he can’t play outside anymore, he’ll come in and play in his box, which has several of his toys in it also.
“Wouldn’t it be neat if we put Transient in there with him?” Wife and I asked each other at practically the same time. Sure, it’d be cute!
(An aside: Lewis Black does a routine about why they stopped selling knives at airports – something about getting liquored up on the plane and being in a confined space with other strangers not lending itself well to safe knifeplay.
(The same principle applies here.)
Putting Son and Transient in this 18x18x24 space went well for about 20 seconds. Then, being a baby, she wanted to play with a toy that he was playing with, and tried to pull it out of his hand.
Let it be known here that being an only child, Son has issues with sharing his toys.
Son’s right hand and Transient’s left hand were death-gripped on this toy; I think it was one of our old cell phones. In his left hand was a little Hot Wheels car … and he started beating her in the head with it to try to get her to release the cell phone.
I was too shocked to spring into action immediately.
(Somewhat shamefully, there was also a part of me that couldn’t help but think to myself, “… yeah!” Because, you know, you tend to root for your kids when these confrontations come about, and we’re not going to raise our son to be a pacifist.)
Transient has a squealy squawk for a cry that grates on my last nerve, and naturally, upon having the front of a diecast car tattooed on her head, the squawking started. We pulled her out of the box and put him in “time out” (ugh). Once “time out” was done and he apologized to her, he went back in the box … and she wanted back in the box with him because the toy that started the original dispute was still in it.
Being a dumbass, I lifted her into the box.
Son was not pleased. He started beating her with his hands, and then laid down in the box and just started kicking the holy hell out of her.
Back into time out. And the box had to go. I hid it in our bedroom and shut the door, evoking fits of rage from Son and Transient.
“Hey, let’s get another box so they can both have boxes to play in!” Wife suggested. I cleaned out one of her Tupperware boxes which was about the same size, got the original box back out, sat both on the living room floor and placed Son in the box with his toys, and Transient in the empty box.
“Son – would you like to give Transient some of your toys so she can play with them in her box?”
With pleasure, I’m sure he thought.
He starts picking up toys with both hands – mostly diecast cars – and throws them at her, most of them plunking her in the head and shoulders.
You would think that she would have been happy to have some toys in the box with her. Of course, she wasn’t.
Eventually, the struggle ended, and Transient went to bed, followed by Son about an hour later. No bloodshed or, shockingly, visible marks on this night; hopefully, the outcome will remain the same over the next six days.
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