Well, today is Halloween. Woo hoo! Except, as a diabetic, it’s the worst holiday in the world for me. There’s candy everywhere. And I look at each delicious Snickers bar and convert it to how bad my blood sugar will be after I eat it.
Sure, I try to will my blood sugar down. “If only I can have an insulin reaction, I can eat that!” Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, Insulin isn’t telepathic. It just doesn’t work.
I was diagnosed with diabetes 21 years ago, when I was eight. I got sick over Halloween (still can’t stand the smell of pumpkins) and was in the hospital being treated and learning about the disease over Thanksgiving.
I learned a lot about the disease and realized that my life as a kid was over. Halloween was definitely out. I figured I wouldn’t go trick or treating. Naturally, I had nearly a year to change my mind. And I did. I don’t remember what I was dressed as, but it was probably something stupid. It wasn’t until sixth grade that I went as Eddie Van Halen. So I was probably something simple like a baseball player or a Sandinista Rebel. I do remember that my friend Mike was a cat burglar that year. Dressed in all black with a mask, he was jumping out and scaring the crap out of everyone.
His house was the highlight of the neighborhood. His parents had installed loud speakers on their roof for some reason (we found a good use for them in High School, though the police felt they could be used in a more productive way). Mike’s dad used to play a creepy Halloween sound-effects record, making the whole neighborhood frightening with shrieking, moaning and rattling chains. All the kids loved it. Most of the neighbors loved it. Mr. Perrin hated it and would always call the police. It was tradition.
When I got home with my loot, my mother and I sat there looking at it. We were both pleased that I was able to enjoy this tradition of childhood but . . . what do you do with seventy pounds of pure Diabetic death?
We thought about it for a while and couldn’t come up with anything. So we dumped it in a plastic pumpkin and put it on the table. The next morning when my sister was dropping off her son for my mom to watch, it dawned on me. As she reached for a succulent Snickers bar I blurted out, “It’ll cost you a nickel!” And she paid!
It became a tradition. I’d sell my candy every year. A nickel a piece, a dime a handful. For the next several years, I was able to make all my Christmas money off of Halloween candy. No more shopping at Walgreen’s for me! I was able to pick up some quality gifts from Venture.
Now, of course, I have self-control. Candy isn’t the threat it once was. And now I have kids to live vicariously through. Young Matilda will be Harry Potter this year. She’s got a nice Griffindor Quidditch robe, a wand and is using a pair of my old glasses. For some reason she didn’t want to be Hermione. Odd.
Gertrude, who is celebrating her first Halloween and, no doubt, will find it a surreal experience, is going as a baby gorilla. She’s amazingly cute in her outfit. She wore it over to the sitter’s this morning and as soon as I carried her outside half the neighborhood came out to say how cute she is. (Followed shortly by half the neighborhood dads when my wife came out dressed as Britney Spears. She thought it was funny. I suggested going as a school marm. She still went with Britney. The good news is when she told Matilda she was dressing as Britney, Matilda responded, “Ewww.”) I’m not dressing as anything. My yearly dream of dressing as David Byrne from Stop Making Sense was dashed once again. I still cannot find the perfect suit. Matilda suggested I dress as one of our neighbors. But I think it’s too cold out to go as “Shirtless Guy.”
Can you imagine Halloween from a baby’s perspective? It must be horrifying. All these bizarre creatures running around demanding sweets from unsuspecting old couples who are throwing the treats as far as possible from the door screaming, “Back! Back! Get away from my door!”
Maybe that’s just the neighborhood we live in.
Thursday, October 31, 2002
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
New website feature! The Truth.
Learn things about the world you never knew. And probably didn't want to know.
Learn things about the world you never knew. And probably didn't want to know.
Whew! I finally have some time to take a break today. Let me tell you, writing summaries of books on drugs and addictions just really make me want to light up a cigarette, down a couple of beers and follow it all up with some espresso chasers. Anyone want to join the party? Imagine the halitosis that would follow that bender. That could knock over an elephant. Plus, I wouldn’t know if I was depressed and in love with everyone or if I should impulsively clean my house.
Lately I’ve been thinking of my adventures in the Dot Com world that I barely survived. I should really document those stories and share them with the world. The inept management, disgusting use of investor money, Play Boy Bunnies and sockless, sweater-vested bastards, is just too juicy to ignore.
For example, early on at one of my Dot Coms, we got the editorial team together with the Business Development team. We sat down to discuss strategy, development of our sections of the site and how we were going to proceed in building an amazing website that had no chance in hell to ever draw revenue without selling organs on the black market. (Conclusion: we were all idiots because we live in the Midwest. They were all superior because they lived on one of two coasts and did not wear socks.)
We decided to discuss our credentials and were introducing ourselves via conference call.
My introduction went something like this: “I’m Gary O’Brien, the ________ Editor. I spent five years in the publishing industry developing the content of college, medical and nursing textbooks. I have a degree in English, with a minor in creative writing. I’m an award-winning short story writer and have written movie reviews for several publications since 1996. As of right now, I’ve had roughly 300 movie reviews published. I’m a Taurus, enjoy long walks on the beach and frequently protest the treatment of midgets in Hollywood movies. Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear and, when I do, it’s usually something unusual.”
Most of my colleagues had similar backgrounds. We had writers with experience in magazines, newspapers, people with degrees in film, former radio personalities, etc. One of our editors had an MFA from Iowa University. In the writer’s world that’s akin to having a Nobel Prize in chemistry or being a Rhodes scholar. Most of us had quite a bit of experience in developing content for websites and were all published authors of one sort or another.
Well, our Coastal friends got to speak. One touted the fact that he was “employee number 11” to which my boss replied, “I’m employee number one.” They had all done something with cable stations and various other entertainment industry businesses. At first, we were all impressed until their ringleader spoke.
“I’m Dippy McDipwap. My career has been long and interesting! I started in the business as a break dancer in the 1984 Olympics opening ceremonies.”
At this point there were muffled giggles. But he went on.
“I was a television stunt man for many years. Maybe you’ve seen my work on Hardcastle & McCormick. I have produced several movies, including (a large blockbuster) . . .” (Note: I checked this out. It was true. He had produced one movie. A movie I had reviewed a few years earlier as a direct to video release. It was horrible. Simply horrible. He was not in anyway involved with this blockbuster, that I could see. In short . . . he was bs-ing us.)
Oh but it goes on!
“I founded XY website on deep sea fishing in California. Oh, and I went on tour with Ray Parker Jr. as a back up singer and dancer.”
At this point the speakerphone was on mute. I was on the floor gasping for air I was laughing so hard. If these were all lies, this guy needed to double-check what he considered cool. If it was the truth, well, it was sad. Just plain sad. He admitted to break dancing for a living. Oh my God. This man needs help.
He finally wrapped it up with a few more exaggerations of his career. His boss got on the phone and lauded his brilliance “in the industry” and how he was an asset to the company (number of business deals he closed in his time with the company: zero. Number of knockdown, drag out arguments I had with him: 10. Number he won: 0). And this staff of coastals worshiped this idiot and assumed we would be impressed by his ability to bust a move and the fact that his brother-in-law as a crappy B-Movie actor.
All of these people were VPs of the company. None of them wore socks. I’m serious. For some reason they viewed socklessness as a sign of their superiority. I viewed it as unhealthy and a breeding ground for fungus.
These people had no concept whatsoever of how a website worked. They assumed that when they wanted a change to the entire database, we could send Tinkerbell out to sprinkle her pixie dust on the servers to make the change. They had no idea the amount of work or time it took to make their “necessary” changes. They had no idea of the hours we put into creating the content they didn’t ever look at.
In the end, we were vindicated, however. They became the laughing stock of the company. They worked for stock options, we worked for salary. I had a check; they now have very thick toilet paper. Oh boy!
When we went bankrupt (it was inevitable, but we all had a blast), I was one of six employees retained throughout the sale of the company. They all did such a thorough job of pissing off the entertainment industry with their stupid ideas and brazenness that they had to explain this two-year mar on their resume. I was able to get a higher paying job based on that resume.
Oh, and when they finally sold the company the one asset they could list? The database that my colleagues, our staffs and the tech team built. In the end, we were what were valuable.
And the sockless bastards turned out to be just that. Sockless bastards.
Lately I’ve been thinking of my adventures in the Dot Com world that I barely survived. I should really document those stories and share them with the world. The inept management, disgusting use of investor money, Play Boy Bunnies and sockless, sweater-vested bastards, is just too juicy to ignore.
For example, early on at one of my Dot Coms, we got the editorial team together with the Business Development team. We sat down to discuss strategy, development of our sections of the site and how we were going to proceed in building an amazing website that had no chance in hell to ever draw revenue without selling organs on the black market. (Conclusion: we were all idiots because we live in the Midwest. They were all superior because they lived on one of two coasts and did not wear socks.)
We decided to discuss our credentials and were introducing ourselves via conference call.
My introduction went something like this: “I’m Gary O’Brien, the ________ Editor. I spent five years in the publishing industry developing the content of college, medical and nursing textbooks. I have a degree in English, with a minor in creative writing. I’m an award-winning short story writer and have written movie reviews for several publications since 1996. As of right now, I’ve had roughly 300 movie reviews published. I’m a Taurus, enjoy long walks on the beach and frequently protest the treatment of midgets in Hollywood movies. Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear and, when I do, it’s usually something unusual.”
Most of my colleagues had similar backgrounds. We had writers with experience in magazines, newspapers, people with degrees in film, former radio personalities, etc. One of our editors had an MFA from Iowa University. In the writer’s world that’s akin to having a Nobel Prize in chemistry or being a Rhodes scholar. Most of us had quite a bit of experience in developing content for websites and were all published authors of one sort or another.
Well, our Coastal friends got to speak. One touted the fact that he was “employee number 11” to which my boss replied, “I’m employee number one.” They had all done something with cable stations and various other entertainment industry businesses. At first, we were all impressed until their ringleader spoke.
“I’m Dippy McDipwap. My career has been long and interesting! I started in the business as a break dancer in the 1984 Olympics opening ceremonies.”
At this point there were muffled giggles. But he went on.
“I was a television stunt man for many years. Maybe you’ve seen my work on Hardcastle & McCormick. I have produced several movies, including (a large blockbuster) . . .” (Note: I checked this out. It was true. He had produced one movie. A movie I had reviewed a few years earlier as a direct to video release. It was horrible. Simply horrible. He was not in anyway involved with this blockbuster, that I could see. In short . . . he was bs-ing us.)
Oh but it goes on!
“I founded XY website on deep sea fishing in California. Oh, and I went on tour with Ray Parker Jr. as a back up singer and dancer.”
At this point the speakerphone was on mute. I was on the floor gasping for air I was laughing so hard. If these were all lies, this guy needed to double-check what he considered cool. If it was the truth, well, it was sad. Just plain sad. He admitted to break dancing for a living. Oh my God. This man needs help.
He finally wrapped it up with a few more exaggerations of his career. His boss got on the phone and lauded his brilliance “in the industry” and how he was an asset to the company (number of business deals he closed in his time with the company: zero. Number of knockdown, drag out arguments I had with him: 10. Number he won: 0). And this staff of coastals worshiped this idiot and assumed we would be impressed by his ability to bust a move and the fact that his brother-in-law as a crappy B-Movie actor.
All of these people were VPs of the company. None of them wore socks. I’m serious. For some reason they viewed socklessness as a sign of their superiority. I viewed it as unhealthy and a breeding ground for fungus.
These people had no concept whatsoever of how a website worked. They assumed that when they wanted a change to the entire database, we could send Tinkerbell out to sprinkle her pixie dust on the servers to make the change. They had no idea the amount of work or time it took to make their “necessary” changes. They had no idea of the hours we put into creating the content they didn’t ever look at.
In the end, we were vindicated, however. They became the laughing stock of the company. They worked for stock options, we worked for salary. I had a check; they now have very thick toilet paper. Oh boy!
When we went bankrupt (it was inevitable, but we all had a blast), I was one of six employees retained throughout the sale of the company. They all did such a thorough job of pissing off the entertainment industry with their stupid ideas and brazenness that they had to explain this two-year mar on their resume. I was able to get a higher paying job based on that resume.
Oh, and when they finally sold the company the one asset they could list? The database that my colleagues, our staffs and the tech team built. In the end, we were what were valuable.
And the sockless bastards turned out to be just that. Sockless bastards.
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
I guess now I can finally give you the weekend wrap up. I’ll go in order of atomic weight.
1. The (almost) All-O’Brien Trivia Team came out triumphant once again at the MQP Trivia Night. We recovered from last year’s late game bad call and have proven that there are few people in the world that can remember useless crap better than the O’Briens. Someday they’ll have a section where you name a movie based on the opening credits and I’ll win it hands down.
I have to admit that I was disappointed in the amount of science questions. There was one. I was ready this year. I was ready!
2. I helped my brother install DSL at my sister’s house. At one point my sister lovingly puts her hand on my shoulder, looks at me seriously as if she’s about to tell my that I have a tumor and says, “Gary . . . don’t grow a goatee.”
I have to admit that I am trying to grow a goatee. It is something I do every couple of months to ensure that I actually have facial hair. I’ve been particularly heartened lately by my attempts because I’m starting to get what looks like real hair! And it’s almost filled in! And yes! I’m almost 30! Woo hoo!
But, of course, she’s right. I shouldn’t grow a goatee. It doesn’t look right on me. I should grow a soul patch.
3. My brother understood. He replied to my sister, “He’s not growing a goatee! He’s an O’Brien male. He’s just seeing if he can grow a goatee.”
Yes, in O’Brien land it is a rite of passage to see if you can grow facial hair.
4. I’ve been giving the baby cookies lately, much to Mom’s chagrin. Granted, they’re really animal crackers, but Mom’s saying I should slow down. But, I can’t help it. She’s so cute! “Want a cookie,” you ask and she runs to the pantry and waits patiently. Well, this morning it backfired. She had eaten her breakfast and was playing quietly on the floor. Mom was doing her hair and I was eating. I heard a rustling in the kitchen, but didn’t think anything of it. Then out comes toddling the baby with an animal cracker in her hand and a smile on her face. I guess I didn’t close the door tightly. What amazes me is that she knew which bag contained the animal crackers. I’m just glad she didn’t get the cat food.
5. Whose idea was it to put marshmallows in cereal? It seems like a really odd idea.
1. The (almost) All-O’Brien Trivia Team came out triumphant once again at the MQP Trivia Night. We recovered from last year’s late game bad call and have proven that there are few people in the world that can remember useless crap better than the O’Briens. Someday they’ll have a section where you name a movie based on the opening credits and I’ll win it hands down.
I have to admit that I was disappointed in the amount of science questions. There was one. I was ready this year. I was ready!
2. I helped my brother install DSL at my sister’s house. At one point my sister lovingly puts her hand on my shoulder, looks at me seriously as if she’s about to tell my that I have a tumor and says, “Gary . . . don’t grow a goatee.”
I have to admit that I am trying to grow a goatee. It is something I do every couple of months to ensure that I actually have facial hair. I’ve been particularly heartened lately by my attempts because I’m starting to get what looks like real hair! And it’s almost filled in! And yes! I’m almost 30! Woo hoo!
But, of course, she’s right. I shouldn’t grow a goatee. It doesn’t look right on me. I should grow a soul patch.
3. My brother understood. He replied to my sister, “He’s not growing a goatee! He’s an O’Brien male. He’s just seeing if he can grow a goatee.”
Yes, in O’Brien land it is a rite of passage to see if you can grow facial hair.
4. I’ve been giving the baby cookies lately, much to Mom’s chagrin. Granted, they’re really animal crackers, but Mom’s saying I should slow down. But, I can’t help it. She’s so cute! “Want a cookie,” you ask and she runs to the pantry and waits patiently. Well, this morning it backfired. She had eaten her breakfast and was playing quietly on the floor. Mom was doing her hair and I was eating. I heard a rustling in the kitchen, but didn’t think anything of it. Then out comes toddling the baby with an animal cracker in her hand and a smile on her face. I guess I didn’t close the door tightly. What amazes me is that she knew which bag contained the animal crackers. I’m just glad she didn’t get the cat food.
5. Whose idea was it to put marshmallows in cereal? It seems like a really odd idea.
Monday, October 28, 2002
I'd love to tell you all about my weekend and how my family trivia team won the big prize this weekend. And also how I drank a pot of coffee in about an hour. But, I don't have time. Work is crushing me! Woo!
In the meantime, go watch this.
In the meantime, go watch this.
Friday, October 25, 2002
Yesterday I had a nice conversation with fellow tech-geek, Disney park enthusiast and musician Mike of Sparkle*Jets UK. I realized that many of you, sadly, have probably never heard their music. That, I’m afraid, is a shame. Bamboo Lounge is a fine CD that you should check out. One spin of “Sorry” or “So Gone” will each give you at least seventeen reasons why you should listen to this disc. Sparkling (no pun intended) harmonies, killer guitar work, sly lyrics, nice bass and one hell of a female lead vocal on several tracks are just a few of the reasons to check them out. Either visit their website or check out their samples on MP3.com. It’s good stuff. And if you don’t think so, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Really. You should get yourself checked. Maybe even “Consult Your Physician.”
Besides, can you beat a song entitled “Surfing Monkeys”?
On the home front, there isn’t a lot going on. It’s raining. I’m still obsessed with physics and am struggling to pick up some of the math required to understand some of the concepts. I’ve been listening to the Feynman lectures on physics and reading some of his theoretical work. It’s difficult stuff but . . . compelling at the same time. I know I’ll have to move on to other scientists and other work at some time but Feynman’s lust for life and the thrill he gets from discussing the mere interaction between electrons. Amazing. I can’t muster that sort of passion for anything. What a brilliant bastard.
Sorry, I’ve been obsessed. I’ll move on to something eventually. I assume I will, at least. Maybe. We’ll see. I think. How silly it must seem for a man my age to be obsessed with an area of science that takes decades to fully understand. But, as a layperson I have to say, it’s exciting. The universe is beautiful in so many ways that we can’t see. It’s exhilarating to find a new layer to peel away and see something that you couldn’t before.
Well, I don’t have anything profound to say today. Nor anything exciting to talk about. I don’t even have any jokes to crack.
I think it’s too rainy and glum outside to feel like joking. I think I’ll just allow the gray day wrap itself around me and allow me to brood over things. Perhaps.
Gertrude’s first birthday is coming up. Family, be prepared for a party. If Gert isn’t the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, then you haven’t looked very hard.
The kid’s a comedian of the truest form. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Wiggle, giggle and jiggle. She’s a daredevil, an inquisitive little soul. She’s curious, sweet and loving. Everything you could ever want in a child.
Just this morning she ran up behind her nascent skater sister and gave her a big morning hug. It was cute.
And her sister’s no slouch herself. Yesterday her friend was handing out candy. She came inside and said, “I have a surprise for you. Guess which hand its in.” I did. And it was revealed to be in her right hand. It was a package of bottlecaps. I think I mentioned once that as a child these were my favorite candies. And when offered any piece of candy she could choose, this is what she chose.
And she gave it to me.
Besides, can you beat a song entitled “Surfing Monkeys”?
On the home front, there isn’t a lot going on. It’s raining. I’m still obsessed with physics and am struggling to pick up some of the math required to understand some of the concepts. I’ve been listening to the Feynman lectures on physics and reading some of his theoretical work. It’s difficult stuff but . . . compelling at the same time. I know I’ll have to move on to other scientists and other work at some time but Feynman’s lust for life and the thrill he gets from discussing the mere interaction between electrons. Amazing. I can’t muster that sort of passion for anything. What a brilliant bastard.
Sorry, I’ve been obsessed. I’ll move on to something eventually. I assume I will, at least. Maybe. We’ll see. I think. How silly it must seem for a man my age to be obsessed with an area of science that takes decades to fully understand. But, as a layperson I have to say, it’s exciting. The universe is beautiful in so many ways that we can’t see. It’s exhilarating to find a new layer to peel away and see something that you couldn’t before.
Well, I don’t have anything profound to say today. Nor anything exciting to talk about. I don’t even have any jokes to crack.
I think it’s too rainy and glum outside to feel like joking. I think I’ll just allow the gray day wrap itself around me and allow me to brood over things. Perhaps.
Gertrude’s first birthday is coming up. Family, be prepared for a party. If Gert isn’t the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, then you haven’t looked very hard.
The kid’s a comedian of the truest form. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Wiggle, giggle and jiggle. She’s a daredevil, an inquisitive little soul. She’s curious, sweet and loving. Everything you could ever want in a child.
Just this morning she ran up behind her nascent skater sister and gave her a big morning hug. It was cute.
And her sister’s no slouch herself. Yesterday her friend was handing out candy. She came inside and said, “I have a surprise for you. Guess which hand its in.” I did. And it was revealed to be in her right hand. It was a package of bottlecaps. I think I mentioned once that as a child these were my favorite candies. And when offered any piece of candy she could choose, this is what she chose.
And she gave it to me.
Thursday, October 24, 2002
Yay! I’m all moved in! I can do whatever I want now. I have space, I have the means I have the tools. All I lack are those ever-reclusive ideas. Perhaps I’ll catch a few today. Doubtful, but possible.
I want to thank my personal Yoda for helping me with the web design. He allowed me to make the mistakes I needed to make and helped me when I needed help. The design looks as good as it does because of his help. Thank you Master Yoda! Your Padawan learner is appreciative!
I still have a lot to do. Pages to build, content to write, Meta tags to write, etc. It’ll be a long process but eventually it’ll be worth it. I’d estimate that it is going to be roughly 2005 when I feel it was all worth it.
I’m hitting crunch time with my freelance work. Books are due! I have more manuscript than I know what to do with! It’s exciting and scary at the same time. I may take February to sleep. But by then I’ll be reviewing pages and I’ll be tired, tired, tired.
I’m tired now. I keep having these revelations at four a.m. for some reason. Last night the baby woke up hungry and the wife and I woke with her. As she was snarfing up her food, my mind started to wander. I realized something very important.
We’re all experts in something, right? Whether it’s web design, science or potato peeling, we can all say that we’re good at something. And, quite often we’re in awe of people who can do things that we either can’t or don’t understand.
That’s the way I am with physics. I’m working to understand it as best I can, but it’s a slow process. A fun process, but slow. Most people with English degrees don’t suddenly decide to study physics on their own. Sure I could take a class, but there’s something about suddenly understanding a particular law of physics that enthralls me.
Here’s what I realized. When you look at a scientist you’re amazed and confounded by all they understand. But to them it’s easy because they can see it. Richard Feynman understood QED because he could see the motion and properties of atoms because he studied them. I can’t.
Imagine your house. You can simply say your address and you can visualize your house. You can see the trees, the wood, the doors, the grass. But if you say your address to a stranger, they won’t be able to see it. They haven’t been there. To them, it’s just an address. A concept rather than reality.
The same holds true for science. If you understand physics, it isn’t so difficult to find your way to quantum physics. Because you can see it. You can visualize it. For the layperson, like me, I don’t have the map. I’m still trying to find it.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about childhood. It could be because of Matilda being a full-fledged child, perhaps. I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking of what I was like in first grade.
I know that I was really, really confused. My dad had died the year before, so I wasn’t exactly a normal kid. I was a little . . . forlorn, I guess. I’m not sure I always showed it outwardly, but I know for a fact that I acted out on it countless times.
How? Because I was a liar. I lied constantly. Not to my mother, but to my friends about my life.
A memory came rushing back to me recently from when I was in first grade. I was standing at the front of Miss Meyer’s class for show and tell. I was holding a Storm Trooper action figure (from Star Wars, not the Third Reich). I spun an elaborate yarn about how my dad, before he died, made the molds for the action figures and that we had thousands of them laying around the house because he made them.
The thing is, I knew this was a lie. My dad worked for a company that distributed bearings. He’d never once carved a mold for a plastic action figure. I sincerely doubt he had the artistic talent to do it.
But I believed my own lie at the moment. Because in that moment, I knew my dad. He wasn’t my “true” dad, of course. But he was one that was alive in my head.
My own memories of my dad are muddy at best, but for a moment they were clear. Even if they weren’t true. I never mentioned to my friends that I was jealous that they had dads that would help them in cub scouts. I never told them that I was jealous of their dads cheering on the sidelines of soccer games and I certainly never mentioned my anger at them when they told me their dad was a jerk. In my mind I figured at least they had a dad.
Memory is a strange thing. I hadn’t thought about my storm trooper lie for years. In fact, I doubt I had thought of it again since I told it. So why did it occur to me recently?
In a way I want to go back and tell all those kids that I didn’t tell them the truth. That my dad never once carved a storm trooper or any other Star Wars related toy. I want to tell them that the way my dad, in the short time I knew him, was just fine with me.
He may have never made toys but he was a cowboy soldier, a professional hockey player (who didn’t know how to ice skate) and had been bayoneted in the chest during the war (though there are rumors that the scar on his chest was really from when he climbed a barbed wire fence as a teen).
I know these things because he told me.
I want to thank my personal Yoda for helping me with the web design. He allowed me to make the mistakes I needed to make and helped me when I needed help. The design looks as good as it does because of his help. Thank you Master Yoda! Your Padawan learner is appreciative!
I still have a lot to do. Pages to build, content to write, Meta tags to write, etc. It’ll be a long process but eventually it’ll be worth it. I’d estimate that it is going to be roughly 2005 when I feel it was all worth it.
I’m hitting crunch time with my freelance work. Books are due! I have more manuscript than I know what to do with! It’s exciting and scary at the same time. I may take February to sleep. But by then I’ll be reviewing pages and I’ll be tired, tired, tired.
I’m tired now. I keep having these revelations at four a.m. for some reason. Last night the baby woke up hungry and the wife and I woke with her. As she was snarfing up her food, my mind started to wander. I realized something very important.
We’re all experts in something, right? Whether it’s web design, science or potato peeling, we can all say that we’re good at something. And, quite often we’re in awe of people who can do things that we either can’t or don’t understand.
That’s the way I am with physics. I’m working to understand it as best I can, but it’s a slow process. A fun process, but slow. Most people with English degrees don’t suddenly decide to study physics on their own. Sure I could take a class, but there’s something about suddenly understanding a particular law of physics that enthralls me.
Here’s what I realized. When you look at a scientist you’re amazed and confounded by all they understand. But to them it’s easy because they can see it. Richard Feynman understood QED because he could see the motion and properties of atoms because he studied them. I can’t.
Imagine your house. You can simply say your address and you can visualize your house. You can see the trees, the wood, the doors, the grass. But if you say your address to a stranger, they won’t be able to see it. They haven’t been there. To them, it’s just an address. A concept rather than reality.
The same holds true for science. If you understand physics, it isn’t so difficult to find your way to quantum physics. Because you can see it. You can visualize it. For the layperson, like me, I don’t have the map. I’m still trying to find it.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about childhood. It could be because of Matilda being a full-fledged child, perhaps. I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking of what I was like in first grade.
I know that I was really, really confused. My dad had died the year before, so I wasn’t exactly a normal kid. I was a little . . . forlorn, I guess. I’m not sure I always showed it outwardly, but I know for a fact that I acted out on it countless times.
How? Because I was a liar. I lied constantly. Not to my mother, but to my friends about my life.
A memory came rushing back to me recently from when I was in first grade. I was standing at the front of Miss Meyer’s class for show and tell. I was holding a Storm Trooper action figure (from Star Wars, not the Third Reich). I spun an elaborate yarn about how my dad, before he died, made the molds for the action figures and that we had thousands of them laying around the house because he made them.
The thing is, I knew this was a lie. My dad worked for a company that distributed bearings. He’d never once carved a mold for a plastic action figure. I sincerely doubt he had the artistic talent to do it.
But I believed my own lie at the moment. Because in that moment, I knew my dad. He wasn’t my “true” dad, of course. But he was one that was alive in my head.
My own memories of my dad are muddy at best, but for a moment they were clear. Even if they weren’t true. I never mentioned to my friends that I was jealous that they had dads that would help them in cub scouts. I never told them that I was jealous of their dads cheering on the sidelines of soccer games and I certainly never mentioned my anger at them when they told me their dad was a jerk. In my mind I figured at least they had a dad.
Memory is a strange thing. I hadn’t thought about my storm trooper lie for years. In fact, I doubt I had thought of it again since I told it. So why did it occur to me recently?
In a way I want to go back and tell all those kids that I didn’t tell them the truth. That my dad never once carved a storm trooper or any other Star Wars related toy. I want to tell them that the way my dad, in the short time I knew him, was just fine with me.
He may have never made toys but he was a cowboy soldier, a professional hockey player (who didn’t know how to ice skate) and had been bayoneted in the chest during the war (though there are rumors that the scar on his chest was really from when he climbed a barbed wire fence as a teen).
I know these things because he told me.
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
Today I will be talking about my latest scientific theory as it relates to life. It is entitled, “The Theory of Reason Standing.” I’ve been practicing it for a few weeks and it seems to be working for me. Perhaps it can work for you.
Now, before you think I’m about to spout off some sort of psychobabble, new agey, spiritual crap based on the hum of the Earth, I want to quell your fears. This is none of that. It is simply my perspective on life for the periods between 10/1 and 10/31. Next month it could be the “Theory of Relative Crap.” Which, since Christmas is coming up is a likely topic, as it’s the time of year relatives give you useless crap.
My theory is bourn out of my current reading. I’ve been devouring the works of Richard P. Feynman, a brilliant physicist and all around goofball. It’s not his scientific theories that are striking me (though they are quite interesting in and of themselves) but, rather, it is his view on life that is most impacting the way I think.
Feynman had a brilliant mind, there is no doubt. But how his brilliance manifested went well beyond quantumelectrodynamics. He played drums; he picked locks and sniffed people’s hands at parties. He flouted rules just to prove how they didn’t work and he took on a governmental commission to help uncover the truth behind the Challenger accident. He was funny, could tell an amazing story and had a booming New York voice that gave rise to many debates, accolades and much disdain.
What I see in Feynman is something I see in myself, minus the brilliance. Feynman loved to joke, he loved to tell stories and he often accidentally offended people. I do that too. But, more to the point, people could rarely tell when he was joking and when he was serious. A problem that I often have as well.
Feynman looked at life in an amazingly simple way, considering the man could visualize subatomic particles. He broke down life into what was important and what wasn’t. And, by golly, he was going to have a good time no matter what. He could waste his time feeling sorry for himself or he could recognize his situation as an accident of life.
Feynman realized that sometimes the Universe was a wonderful playmate, full of wonders and mysteries that were there for him to discover. He loved the pursuit and sharing of knowledge. But he also understood that the Universe sometimes plays ugly, dirty tricks on you. You could choose to wallow or you can move forward to your next discovery.
What his life tells me is that I can use the basic scientific yearn for understanding to help me understand and deal with my own life. I won’t ignore my emotions. Hardly. Rather, I will better understand and direct my emotions towards the correct end result.
Imagine life as an experiment. You set up all the components and you mix together a solution and add it to your Bunsen burner. BOOM. It explodes and you are left at a crossroads. Naturally, you’re angry. You want to smash all the rest of your work because it took you four hours just to get to this point. But you don’t. Rather you step back and review what you did. In the end, you realize that you are not angry at your experiment as a whole, but you’re angry that 10ppm of Barium was too high a percentage. You redo your work and this time the experiment succeeds.
The lesson learned is that you focused on what the heart of the situation was. You didn’t trash your bottles, flasks and graduated cylinders because your experiment failed. You rather took those emotions and put them toward discovering and correcting the error.
This can easily be applied to life. I know because I’ve been doing it. I’m in better harmony with my own emotions not because I’m ignoring them, but because I better understand their focus.
Life, in this case, is the experiment. I remember the variables; I remember the environment and seek to find the proper steps to avoid that in the future. Or, better yet, I devise a formula that I think will not only avoid explosion, but also succeed and allow me to move on to another set of experiments.
So, let me apply the Theory of Reason Standing to a basic situation:
You come home on Friday upset at your boss. You’ve been working all week long on a report for him. A report in which you’ve invested a great deal of time, work and passion. You are very proud of your work. You submit the report to your boss and he dismisses the ideas, conclusions and work that was done. When you get home you are livid. You are upset that your boss is so mean and has no regard for other people’s feelings.
However, if you apply the Theory of Reason Standing, you’ll discover that you’re not upset at all about your boss’s disregard for your feelings.
Take a look at the entire situation. What are the variables? 1. You were given a task. 2. You worked hard on that task. 3. Your work was ultimately dismissed and negated.
This has nothing to do with your boss’s handling of the situation. Rather, you feel that your work was invalidated. It doesn’t matter whether or not your boss was nice or cruel about the delivery of the news. He could have attached $1000 to your rejection and your feeling wouldn’t have changed. Your work, your time, your efforts and ideas were negated and pushed aside.
So, you come up with a plan of action. You sit down with your boss and discuss your report. It may turn out that your work was highly appreciated, but missed the mark. It’s possible that the instructions you were given were wrong and there was no way to succeed from the start. If you find out WHAT you need to be upset about, you can better figure out what needs to be fixed.
Your boss’s ability to be nice is meaningless in the experiment. Therefore it STANDS TO REASON that if you understand your emotions and focus them in the right direction, the results of your experiment will be more successful.
Life, in the end, is a series of experiments. We know the variables going in, but the end result is a discovery. Sometimes our experiment blow up in our faces. Other times we make great strides and discoveries.
The key here is allowing everything to stand to reason. Distill the situation for what it is. Get angry at the brick that fell on your head, not the entire wall.
And, slowly but surely, you will find that life is much simpler than you imagined. The better you understand your situations the better you can respond.
When the Universe plays a trick on you sit down and figure out how that trick worked. Then you will find that the next time the Universe plays that trick you will be prepared.
Now, before you think I’m about to spout off some sort of psychobabble, new agey, spiritual crap based on the hum of the Earth, I want to quell your fears. This is none of that. It is simply my perspective on life for the periods between 10/1 and 10/31. Next month it could be the “Theory of Relative Crap.” Which, since Christmas is coming up is a likely topic, as it’s the time of year relatives give you useless crap.
My theory is bourn out of my current reading. I’ve been devouring the works of Richard P. Feynman, a brilliant physicist and all around goofball. It’s not his scientific theories that are striking me (though they are quite interesting in and of themselves) but, rather, it is his view on life that is most impacting the way I think.
Feynman had a brilliant mind, there is no doubt. But how his brilliance manifested went well beyond quantumelectrodynamics. He played drums; he picked locks and sniffed people’s hands at parties. He flouted rules just to prove how they didn’t work and he took on a governmental commission to help uncover the truth behind the Challenger accident. He was funny, could tell an amazing story and had a booming New York voice that gave rise to many debates, accolades and much disdain.
What I see in Feynman is something I see in myself, minus the brilliance. Feynman loved to joke, he loved to tell stories and he often accidentally offended people. I do that too. But, more to the point, people could rarely tell when he was joking and when he was serious. A problem that I often have as well.
Feynman looked at life in an amazingly simple way, considering the man could visualize subatomic particles. He broke down life into what was important and what wasn’t. And, by golly, he was going to have a good time no matter what. He could waste his time feeling sorry for himself or he could recognize his situation as an accident of life.
Feynman realized that sometimes the Universe was a wonderful playmate, full of wonders and mysteries that were there for him to discover. He loved the pursuit and sharing of knowledge. But he also understood that the Universe sometimes plays ugly, dirty tricks on you. You could choose to wallow or you can move forward to your next discovery.
What his life tells me is that I can use the basic scientific yearn for understanding to help me understand and deal with my own life. I won’t ignore my emotions. Hardly. Rather, I will better understand and direct my emotions towards the correct end result.
Imagine life as an experiment. You set up all the components and you mix together a solution and add it to your Bunsen burner. BOOM. It explodes and you are left at a crossroads. Naturally, you’re angry. You want to smash all the rest of your work because it took you four hours just to get to this point. But you don’t. Rather you step back and review what you did. In the end, you realize that you are not angry at your experiment as a whole, but you’re angry that 10ppm of Barium was too high a percentage. You redo your work and this time the experiment succeeds.
The lesson learned is that you focused on what the heart of the situation was. You didn’t trash your bottles, flasks and graduated cylinders because your experiment failed. You rather took those emotions and put them toward discovering and correcting the error.
This can easily be applied to life. I know because I’ve been doing it. I’m in better harmony with my own emotions not because I’m ignoring them, but because I better understand their focus.
Life, in this case, is the experiment. I remember the variables; I remember the environment and seek to find the proper steps to avoid that in the future. Or, better yet, I devise a formula that I think will not only avoid explosion, but also succeed and allow me to move on to another set of experiments.
So, let me apply the Theory of Reason Standing to a basic situation:
You come home on Friday upset at your boss. You’ve been working all week long on a report for him. A report in which you’ve invested a great deal of time, work and passion. You are very proud of your work. You submit the report to your boss and he dismisses the ideas, conclusions and work that was done. When you get home you are livid. You are upset that your boss is so mean and has no regard for other people’s feelings.
However, if you apply the Theory of Reason Standing, you’ll discover that you’re not upset at all about your boss’s disregard for your feelings.
Take a look at the entire situation. What are the variables? 1. You were given a task. 2. You worked hard on that task. 3. Your work was ultimately dismissed and negated.
This has nothing to do with your boss’s handling of the situation. Rather, you feel that your work was invalidated. It doesn’t matter whether or not your boss was nice or cruel about the delivery of the news. He could have attached $1000 to your rejection and your feeling wouldn’t have changed. Your work, your time, your efforts and ideas were negated and pushed aside.
So, you come up with a plan of action. You sit down with your boss and discuss your report. It may turn out that your work was highly appreciated, but missed the mark. It’s possible that the instructions you were given were wrong and there was no way to succeed from the start. If you find out WHAT you need to be upset about, you can better figure out what needs to be fixed.
Your boss’s ability to be nice is meaningless in the experiment. Therefore it STANDS TO REASON that if you understand your emotions and focus them in the right direction, the results of your experiment will be more successful.
Life, in the end, is a series of experiments. We know the variables going in, but the end result is a discovery. Sometimes our experiment blow up in our faces. Other times we make great strides and discoveries.
The key here is allowing everything to stand to reason. Distill the situation for what it is. Get angry at the brick that fell on your head, not the entire wall.
And, slowly but surely, you will find that life is much simpler than you imagined. The better you understand your situations the better you can respond.
When the Universe plays a trick on you sit down and figure out how that trick worked. Then you will find that the next time the Universe plays that trick you will be prepared.
Monday, October 21, 2002
We made an important discover this weekend with young Gertrude. She’s mastered walking, is tackling talking and her motor skills are developing at a perfectly fine clip. But now, she has discovered something that has enriched her life in ways she never imagined.
Cookies. To be specific, animal crackers. And all you have to do is say “cookie” and she motors over to the pantry and pants like a dog in anticipation.
Now, I know that this isn’t exactly a good thing to teach your kids. Meaning, one should never introduce junk food to a child who is perfectly happy eating healthy food. But, I also think it is important that children understand what is important in life. And cookies rank third, right behind nachos and hot wings.
Let me back up and explain how this happened. It was early Saturday morning and mommy and I made a deal. She would let me sleep in if I offered her something in return. I offered money, prime cuts of veal and a very expensive bottle of wine, but she settled for an afternoon nap.
Our day went as normal . . . you could even say it was fun (I got another Feynman book and was investigating his lectures in book form). Mom was tired and baby wouldn’t sleep. So baby and I played downstairs, Matilda outside and mom slumbered happily upstairs. Well, Gertrude and I were having a fine time of it when we decided to have a snack. Now, it’s difficult to give an 11 month old child a snack. Most of the food you give kids of this age will turn into a pasty mush and stick to things better than monkey poo on a humid day.
Well, we had animal crackers and they looked good to me. So, Gertrude and I sat down on the kitchen floor and she and I munched on cookies and drank milk. She seemed happy with her discovery of yummy food. She munched and crunched and asked for more (using sign language . . . she can ask for more, say she’s all done and we’re trying to teach her to say thank you.)
Well, for the rest of the weekend I’d say, “You want a cookie?” and she’d haul over to the pantry panting. Mom yelled at me, especially when we were making dinner and it would ruin it.
But I couldn’t help it. She was being cuter than hell. I couldn’t resist.
That’s because I’m a sucker and a fool. This kid has me wrapped around her finger. When she runs up to me, arms out giggling happily I turn into a puddle on the floor. Sometimes you get overwhelmed.
So I give her cookies. And she eats them. And looks at me with a love and happiness that tells me, “Someday Daddy, you’ll give me my own car. You may not realize it yet, but you will. You will.”
Cookies. To be specific, animal crackers. And all you have to do is say “cookie” and she motors over to the pantry and pants like a dog in anticipation.
Now, I know that this isn’t exactly a good thing to teach your kids. Meaning, one should never introduce junk food to a child who is perfectly happy eating healthy food. But, I also think it is important that children understand what is important in life. And cookies rank third, right behind nachos and hot wings.
Let me back up and explain how this happened. It was early Saturday morning and mommy and I made a deal. She would let me sleep in if I offered her something in return. I offered money, prime cuts of veal and a very expensive bottle of wine, but she settled for an afternoon nap.
Our day went as normal . . . you could even say it was fun (I got another Feynman book and was investigating his lectures in book form). Mom was tired and baby wouldn’t sleep. So baby and I played downstairs, Matilda outside and mom slumbered happily upstairs. Well, Gertrude and I were having a fine time of it when we decided to have a snack. Now, it’s difficult to give an 11 month old child a snack. Most of the food you give kids of this age will turn into a pasty mush and stick to things better than monkey poo on a humid day.
Well, we had animal crackers and they looked good to me. So, Gertrude and I sat down on the kitchen floor and she and I munched on cookies and drank milk. She seemed happy with her discovery of yummy food. She munched and crunched and asked for more (using sign language . . . she can ask for more, say she’s all done and we’re trying to teach her to say thank you.)
Well, for the rest of the weekend I’d say, “You want a cookie?” and she’d haul over to the pantry panting. Mom yelled at me, especially when we were making dinner and it would ruin it.
But I couldn’t help it. She was being cuter than hell. I couldn’t resist.
That’s because I’m a sucker and a fool. This kid has me wrapped around her finger. When she runs up to me, arms out giggling happily I turn into a puddle on the floor. Sometimes you get overwhelmed.
So I give her cookies. And she eats them. And looks at me with a love and happiness that tells me, “Someday Daddy, you’ll give me my own car. You may not realize it yet, but you will. You will.”
Friday, October 18, 2002
I was talking to Matilda yesterday about how people view her. What, did she think, was the one thing that she did or was interested in that she thought people identified as her main interest? Without missing a beat she replied, “Art.” She said the same thing about her mom. Art is the one thing that most defines her.
So I asked her what she thought about me. I fully expected movies, books or music. Those are the things I think I spend the most time talking about. The fact that people called me “The Movie Guy” for so long had to come with a reason. Right?
I guess I was wrong. Matilda responded, “Either computers or science.”
Interesting. True, I am interested in both, without a doubt. But how could this eagle-eyed seven-year-old have so thoroughly picked up on it?
Computers are an obvious choice. After all, I spend most of my time on a computer. Too much time, in fact. Morning, noon and night I’m working on this damned machine. Either on freelance work, writing, Intercot or just plain goofing off. She heard the conversations I had when I was toiling over what to do about the old crappy machine and planning the future with the machine I have now.
But science? Where did she get that? I’m not denying the interest. It’s there, overtly to be sure. However, where did she pick up on it? I encourage all of her scientific interests, that’s true. When she wanted to take part in Mad Science, I applauded. When she gets home from each session I grill her about all the details. Is it because I’m encouraging her or is it because I’m jealous? Hard to be sure.
But I don’t think in our daily home life I talk about science incessantly. Do I? How much is my interest a part of my life? It’s true that when I was investigating a satellite service to make my living hell in this rented rat hole a little easier the one thing I refused to live without was the NASA channel. It’s true that when I have the chance to watch the NASA channel I will vegetate in front of it for hours watching two anonymous suited individuals fitting the ISS with some random coupling. And if there’s nothing of note currently occurring on the NASA channel I will watch the tracking of the ISS or random images of Earth from space. I can’t help it.
And it’s true that I like to point out random scientific facts. When Matilda is interested in something, I always ask if she knows how it works. We try to appreciate the world not only for its aesthetic beauty but also for its mechanical and atomic beauty. I admit to being fascinated by the structure of a blade of grass or the sociology of squirrels.
But do I make these things obvious? I didn’t think so. I could swear that I spend more time discussing the finer points of the bridge in “God Only Knows” than I do the finer points of Quantumelectrodynamics. Both are great interests of mine.
For that matter, I’m not the geeky dad who takes apart the TV to see how it works and I certainly do run experiments in my kitchen. Of course, when we were at the Science Center last and watched a presentation on comets, I suppose she could tell by my rapt attention and complaints about inaccuracy that maybe, perhaps, there was an interest there.
More importantly I think Matilda has keyed into my insatiable curiosity. If something clicks with me, I need to understand it. And I think she knows, somehow, that if I had it all to do over again I think I would find a way to become a scientist.
You can look at a scientist in any way you wish. Most people just find them weird and boring. But hardly. My personal opinion is that any scientist has a brilliant mind that has never lost a child’s curiosity. You may see them working on a vastly complex issue involving concepts that you don’t understand. But I think they see themselves a merely trying to figure something out. Trying to understand.
And that’s where my late quest for scientific understanding comes in. I want to understand things. Whether it’s the function of a quasar to the purpose of a neutrino, I want to know. Sure, it takes me a long time to understand, but I really do want to get to the heart of the matter.
Scientists should have the accolades of Rock Stars. They may not have the glamour of the good life, but what they do is fascinating. More so than Hoobastank. They see life in so many different layers than we do. And yet we mock them and run away.
I want to be a scientist. But I never will be. Perhaps one of my kids will be. But, to be honest, I’ll be happy if they’re dog groomers.
But, in the very least, if I can convince them to look beneath the layers and seek understanding, I’ll be happy. I can already see it happening. Can I take credit? Probably not. But it doesn’t matter. Because right now, in many ways, Matilda shares my quest.
And that’s a good thing.
So I asked her what she thought about me. I fully expected movies, books or music. Those are the things I think I spend the most time talking about. The fact that people called me “The Movie Guy” for so long had to come with a reason. Right?
I guess I was wrong. Matilda responded, “Either computers or science.”
Interesting. True, I am interested in both, without a doubt. But how could this eagle-eyed seven-year-old have so thoroughly picked up on it?
Computers are an obvious choice. After all, I spend most of my time on a computer. Too much time, in fact. Morning, noon and night I’m working on this damned machine. Either on freelance work, writing, Intercot or just plain goofing off. She heard the conversations I had when I was toiling over what to do about the old crappy machine and planning the future with the machine I have now.
But science? Where did she get that? I’m not denying the interest. It’s there, overtly to be sure. However, where did she pick up on it? I encourage all of her scientific interests, that’s true. When she wanted to take part in Mad Science, I applauded. When she gets home from each session I grill her about all the details. Is it because I’m encouraging her or is it because I’m jealous? Hard to be sure.
But I don’t think in our daily home life I talk about science incessantly. Do I? How much is my interest a part of my life? It’s true that when I was investigating a satellite service to make my living hell in this rented rat hole a little easier the one thing I refused to live without was the NASA channel. It’s true that when I have the chance to watch the NASA channel I will vegetate in front of it for hours watching two anonymous suited individuals fitting the ISS with some random coupling. And if there’s nothing of note currently occurring on the NASA channel I will watch the tracking of the ISS or random images of Earth from space. I can’t help it.
And it’s true that I like to point out random scientific facts. When Matilda is interested in something, I always ask if she knows how it works. We try to appreciate the world not only for its aesthetic beauty but also for its mechanical and atomic beauty. I admit to being fascinated by the structure of a blade of grass or the sociology of squirrels.
But do I make these things obvious? I didn’t think so. I could swear that I spend more time discussing the finer points of the bridge in “God Only Knows” than I do the finer points of Quantumelectrodynamics. Both are great interests of mine.
For that matter, I’m not the geeky dad who takes apart the TV to see how it works and I certainly do run experiments in my kitchen. Of course, when we were at the Science Center last and watched a presentation on comets, I suppose she could tell by my rapt attention and complaints about inaccuracy that maybe, perhaps, there was an interest there.
More importantly I think Matilda has keyed into my insatiable curiosity. If something clicks with me, I need to understand it. And I think she knows, somehow, that if I had it all to do over again I think I would find a way to become a scientist.
You can look at a scientist in any way you wish. Most people just find them weird and boring. But hardly. My personal opinion is that any scientist has a brilliant mind that has never lost a child’s curiosity. You may see them working on a vastly complex issue involving concepts that you don’t understand. But I think they see themselves a merely trying to figure something out. Trying to understand.
And that’s where my late quest for scientific understanding comes in. I want to understand things. Whether it’s the function of a quasar to the purpose of a neutrino, I want to know. Sure, it takes me a long time to understand, but I really do want to get to the heart of the matter.
Scientists should have the accolades of Rock Stars. They may not have the glamour of the good life, but what they do is fascinating. More so than Hoobastank. They see life in so many different layers than we do. And yet we mock them and run away.
I want to be a scientist. But I never will be. Perhaps one of my kids will be. But, to be honest, I’ll be happy if they’re dog groomers.
But, in the very least, if I can convince them to look beneath the layers and seek understanding, I’ll be happy. I can already see it happening. Can I take credit? Probably not. But it doesn’t matter. Because right now, in many ways, Matilda shares my quest.
And that’s a good thing.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
I’m quite groggy this morning. I was out late last night seeing a movie and an hour after I fell asleep Gertrude woke up and decided it was time to play. If you want to understand true fear, stare into the eyes of an alert baby at 1 a.m.
It’s like staring down the barrel of a Howitzer. You know that you don’t have a chance.
Now, I’m the dad in this situation. It’s my job to convince the baby to go back to sleep not because I’m afraid she’ll be crabby all day. I do it because I’m afraid I’ll be crabby all day.
I situate her, rub her back, snuggle with her, coo at her. No avail. She wiggles and squirms and gets angry and kicks and fidgets. Then she looks at me, gives me the raspberries and says “Uh-oh.”
Meanwhile I’m getting frustrated thinking about all the things I have to do in the morning and how difficult they will be when I’m looking at life through the fog of exhausted parenthood.
I love this baby. I really do. I love this child in ways I cannot describe. She brings out emotions in me that I never thought I’d feel. That I didn’t even dream were possible. When I look at her little sweet face I’m overcome by joy and happiness.
But that’s between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m. At 1 a.m. I’m frustrated with her. I feel horrible for being frustrated with her. She can’t help it that she’s wide-awake at this hour. It’s not her fault that her daddy took of the night before to have a beer and see a movie with friends. It’s not her fault that she didn’t get to play with him before bedtime or steal the book he and her sister were reading, just like every other night. And gosh darn it, here she is conveniently awake and whom does she find? Daddy! Why don’t we party papa? I’ll grab the beanie ferret and you make the funny voices. Come on!
I tried to convince her that daddy would be much more interesting in the morning. That daddy would love to wiggle and giggle with her during her favorite morning kids’ shows AT A REASONABLE HOUR.
I was just about at the end of my rope. I had tried everything I could to calm this baby down and convince her to sleep.
Then her mother picked her up, put her back in her crib and came back to bed. The baby started to cry. I started to get out of bed to go get her, but my wife grabbed my arm to stop me. She cried for five minutes. Then ten. Then . . . nothing.
I think she stopped breathing. I started to get out of bed. The hand on my arm again.
Two minutes later I hear a gentle little snore.
Huh. Put her back in bed and let her fall asleep on her own. I admit I had never thought of that. I’ll have to send that on in to Ann Landers.
It’s like staring down the barrel of a Howitzer. You know that you don’t have a chance.
Now, I’m the dad in this situation. It’s my job to convince the baby to go back to sleep not because I’m afraid she’ll be crabby all day. I do it because I’m afraid I’ll be crabby all day.
I situate her, rub her back, snuggle with her, coo at her. No avail. She wiggles and squirms and gets angry and kicks and fidgets. Then she looks at me, gives me the raspberries and says “Uh-oh.”
Meanwhile I’m getting frustrated thinking about all the things I have to do in the morning and how difficult they will be when I’m looking at life through the fog of exhausted parenthood.
I love this baby. I really do. I love this child in ways I cannot describe. She brings out emotions in me that I never thought I’d feel. That I didn’t even dream were possible. When I look at her little sweet face I’m overcome by joy and happiness.
But that’s between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m. At 1 a.m. I’m frustrated with her. I feel horrible for being frustrated with her. She can’t help it that she’s wide-awake at this hour. It’s not her fault that her daddy took of the night before to have a beer and see a movie with friends. It’s not her fault that she didn’t get to play with him before bedtime or steal the book he and her sister were reading, just like every other night. And gosh darn it, here she is conveniently awake and whom does she find? Daddy! Why don’t we party papa? I’ll grab the beanie ferret and you make the funny voices. Come on!
I tried to convince her that daddy would be much more interesting in the morning. That daddy would love to wiggle and giggle with her during her favorite morning kids’ shows AT A REASONABLE HOUR.
I was just about at the end of my rope. I had tried everything I could to calm this baby down and convince her to sleep.
Then her mother picked her up, put her back in her crib and came back to bed. The baby started to cry. I started to get out of bed to go get her, but my wife grabbed my arm to stop me. She cried for five minutes. Then ten. Then . . . nothing.
I think she stopped breathing. I started to get out of bed. The hand on my arm again.
Two minutes later I hear a gentle little snore.
Huh. Put her back in bed and let her fall asleep on her own. I admit I had never thought of that. I’ll have to send that on in to Ann Landers.
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
You know, I just don’t really have a lot to write about today. I suppose that is the danger to promising to write something every single day.
Let’s see . . . I have work to do. That’s exciting. I have a website to work on. That’s fun. The design is coming along, with help (I’m certainly no designer). The kids are still alive and strange as ever.
Today Gertrude grabbed the remote, ran toward the TV squealing and managed to turn it on mid-Wiggles episode. She dropped the remote and danced.
Sometimes kids are so damn cute you just can’t help deciding to keep them, rather than sell them on the black market.
Matilda, however, is frightening me. Years ago Geek Friend sold us his Play Station and games to give to Matilda. Most of the games he had benefited me, so we picked up a few age-appropriate titles for Matilda. Winnie the Pooh, Disney Racing and the like. However, after time, she discovered me playing Tony Hawk Pro Skater. A game I find entirely relaxing because of its fluid movement.
Matilda asked to play. Then she started getting good. Now she plays with frequency. I figured, well . . . it’s a skateboarding game. There’s no violence, except for when you land a particularly graceless face plant. Well. It’s certainly not violent but . . .
The soundtrack is filled with punk music. Not the profane “Let the mother----- burn” type of punk. But more mainstream, family friendly punk by bands who usually do the more vulgar variety. Well . . . She’s picked up the songs. I noticed this last night as we were trying to grab a hidden tape in a particularly beguiling place. Suddenly, Matilda began yelling, “I’ve got . . . Psycho Vision.” This was the song playing in the background.
Now, I have to admit that I’m happier with her listening to inane punk without a hint of sexuality than plastering her walls with Justin Timberlake and declaring him a hottie, like her friends. At her age my favorite song was "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'" by Journey (someone should have stopped me). However, I can’t help but feel like a horrible parent for introducing my seven-year-old daughter to punk music.
Granted, punk isn’t exactly what it used to be. I mean, we’re not talking about Matilda listening to Johnny Rotten spew out his particular brand of tuneless, revolutionary music. However, she’s listening to music that has a hard edge (but only within the confines of this game, mind you).
I know I need to put a stop to it. But she is so truly enjoying this game. It’s her only kid-like indulgence outside of playing in the dirt. She’s such a quiet, reserved little one that it’s surprising to hear her exclaiming with glee, “I just nailed a totally massive Japan Air!” It’s really odd.
However, I’m wondering what the future holds. Will she eventually move off to the more socially acceptable pop music detritus that is all the rage these days? Or will her love of “Pyscho Vision” and “New Girl” eventually lead to an obsession with the Dead Kennedys and variety of piercings by her ninth birthday?
Maybe I’ll just turn off the music. Or maybe I’ll buy an X-Box, which allows you to create your own playlist for their games.
I wonder if she’ll be able to grab some mad air while listening to Stereolab?
Let’s see . . . I have work to do. That’s exciting. I have a website to work on. That’s fun. The design is coming along, with help (I’m certainly no designer). The kids are still alive and strange as ever.
Today Gertrude grabbed the remote, ran toward the TV squealing and managed to turn it on mid-Wiggles episode. She dropped the remote and danced.
Sometimes kids are so damn cute you just can’t help deciding to keep them, rather than sell them on the black market.
Matilda, however, is frightening me. Years ago Geek Friend sold us his Play Station and games to give to Matilda. Most of the games he had benefited me, so we picked up a few age-appropriate titles for Matilda. Winnie the Pooh, Disney Racing and the like. However, after time, she discovered me playing Tony Hawk Pro Skater. A game I find entirely relaxing because of its fluid movement.
Matilda asked to play. Then she started getting good. Now she plays with frequency. I figured, well . . . it’s a skateboarding game. There’s no violence, except for when you land a particularly graceless face plant. Well. It’s certainly not violent but . . .
The soundtrack is filled with punk music. Not the profane “Let the mother----- burn” type of punk. But more mainstream, family friendly punk by bands who usually do the more vulgar variety. Well . . . She’s picked up the songs. I noticed this last night as we were trying to grab a hidden tape in a particularly beguiling place. Suddenly, Matilda began yelling, “I’ve got . . . Psycho Vision.” This was the song playing in the background.
Now, I have to admit that I’m happier with her listening to inane punk without a hint of sexuality than plastering her walls with Justin Timberlake and declaring him a hottie, like her friends. At her age my favorite song was "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'" by Journey (someone should have stopped me). However, I can’t help but feel like a horrible parent for introducing my seven-year-old daughter to punk music.
Granted, punk isn’t exactly what it used to be. I mean, we’re not talking about Matilda listening to Johnny Rotten spew out his particular brand of tuneless, revolutionary music. However, she’s listening to music that has a hard edge (but only within the confines of this game, mind you).
I know I need to put a stop to it. But she is so truly enjoying this game. It’s her only kid-like indulgence outside of playing in the dirt. She’s such a quiet, reserved little one that it’s surprising to hear her exclaiming with glee, “I just nailed a totally massive Japan Air!” It’s really odd.
However, I’m wondering what the future holds. Will she eventually move off to the more socially acceptable pop music detritus that is all the rage these days? Or will her love of “Pyscho Vision” and “New Girl” eventually lead to an obsession with the Dead Kennedys and variety of piercings by her ninth birthday?
Maybe I’ll just turn off the music. Or maybe I’ll buy an X-Box, which allows you to create your own playlist for their games.
I wonder if she’ll be able to grab some mad air while listening to Stereolab?
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
I’ve got some of the site up. The blog’s not working over there yet, so don’t click on that link. However, some of the other sections are sort of working. They probably won’t look like that and the content isn’t finalized. But still . . .
Lately I’ve been trying to work out how I deal with situations in a more logical manner. I think this new outlook on life is coming from reading the works of Richard Feynman, a Nobel winning physicist who was a colorful character who made the most out of life. Through his writing about science and his life I’m learning that I need to look at life with less seriousness than I have in the past.
Usually when I get upset or angry, I do it in a big way. I let my entire life pile up on me until I snap and buckle beneath its weight. After that, life is hell for everyone around me while I beat myself up and act like a wounded bear in search of a picnic basket.
But now I just apply logic to the situation. I don’t deny my right to feel the emotions, mind you. I choose to look at the situation and discover what I’m really upset about. Then I find the appropriate response.
Matilda is taking this journey with me. And it’s working for her as well. Her latest tooth loss is a good example.
She’s no longer fooled by the Tooth Fairy and knows where the money comes from. She would, however, rather be tortured by marmosets than admit the truth to any other child. Last Friday night, she had a fresh tooth ready for TF. Last year her Grandmother gave her a special pillow with a pocket designed specifically for the Tooth Fairy. This time, however, the pillow was buried in a box of stuff from her room we’ve been meaning to sort.
She was greatly upset. So we sat down and discussed it.
“What are you upset about?”
”I can’t find my Tooth Fairy pillow.”
“Where did you last see it?”
”It’s in the box in my room.”
”So we know exactly where it is?”
”Yes.”
“So, really, you’re upset because you know exactly where your pillow is but we can’t get to it right now.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
”Well, we have two choices. We can wait until tomorrow when we can get the pillow or we can put the tooth in an envelope under your pillow.”
”I’ll wait until tomorrow.”
And she was happy. So was I.
We get upset so easily about the wrong things. But, when you look at life logically, you realize that quite often you’re really upset about nothing in particular. Because the truth of the situation is generally trivial.
And it’s working for me. Whenever I feel stressed out I can figure out that life is exactly what I’ve been expecting, I’m just throwing in wrenches for myself. All in all I think I’ve been happier and more productive these days. I’m busier than ever before but I can sleep at night because everything I’m worried about has been diffused by reality.
And it’s good. Everything is good. You should try it yourself. It really works.
Lately I’ve been trying to work out how I deal with situations in a more logical manner. I think this new outlook on life is coming from reading the works of Richard Feynman, a Nobel winning physicist who was a colorful character who made the most out of life. Through his writing about science and his life I’m learning that I need to look at life with less seriousness than I have in the past.
Usually when I get upset or angry, I do it in a big way. I let my entire life pile up on me until I snap and buckle beneath its weight. After that, life is hell for everyone around me while I beat myself up and act like a wounded bear in search of a picnic basket.
But now I just apply logic to the situation. I don’t deny my right to feel the emotions, mind you. I choose to look at the situation and discover what I’m really upset about. Then I find the appropriate response.
Matilda is taking this journey with me. And it’s working for her as well. Her latest tooth loss is a good example.
She’s no longer fooled by the Tooth Fairy and knows where the money comes from. She would, however, rather be tortured by marmosets than admit the truth to any other child. Last Friday night, she had a fresh tooth ready for TF. Last year her Grandmother gave her a special pillow with a pocket designed specifically for the Tooth Fairy. This time, however, the pillow was buried in a box of stuff from her room we’ve been meaning to sort.
She was greatly upset. So we sat down and discussed it.
“What are you upset about?”
”I can’t find my Tooth Fairy pillow.”
“Where did you last see it?”
”It’s in the box in my room.”
”So we know exactly where it is?”
”Yes.”
“So, really, you’re upset because you know exactly where your pillow is but we can’t get to it right now.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
”Well, we have two choices. We can wait until tomorrow when we can get the pillow or we can put the tooth in an envelope under your pillow.”
”I’ll wait until tomorrow.”
And she was happy. So was I.
We get upset so easily about the wrong things. But, when you look at life logically, you realize that quite often you’re really upset about nothing in particular. Because the truth of the situation is generally trivial.
And it’s working for me. Whenever I feel stressed out I can figure out that life is exactly what I’ve been expecting, I’m just throwing in wrenches for myself. All in all I think I’ve been happier and more productive these days. I’m busier than ever before but I can sleep at night because everything I’m worried about has been diffused by reality.
And it’s good. Everything is good. You should try it yourself. It really works.
Monday, October 14, 2002
P.S. Last week I spoke to someone who kept asking me if I had spoken to "George and Judy" yet. I was honest and said "no."
Inside I was bursting. I wanted to say, "No, but I spoke with Elroy and Astro. They'll be happy to help."
Epilogue: History of the Universe in 200 words or less.
Inside I was bursting. I wanted to say, "No, but I spoke with Elroy and Astro. They'll be happy to help."
Epilogue: History of the Universe in 200 words or less.
This weekend was rather hectic and strange. It culminated in highly infections materials being spread over the entire house. But I get ahead of myself.
Matilda stayed home on Friday because she had no school. Naturally, it was difficult getting anything done. Working at home by yourself is difficult enough. Working at home with a gaggle of insane children running up and down the stairs is nearly impossible.
If you think you can to it easily, I’ll be happy to send a group of these kids over to your office one day while you’re trying to get the Smegma contract out the door. Let’s just see how well you do. Would you be Dr. Spock or Mr. Hyde? I just wonder.
Saturday we had a wedding of one of my childhood friends. I always dread weddings. First of all because I generally don’t like the food. Secondly I have to wear a suit and I’m not very good at that. Thirdly it’s usually required that I dance. I’m not a very strong dancer. In fact, there’s few counties left in the state that actually allow me to dance.
Luckily the wedding was so far away from civilization that no one could possibly notice that I suck. Whew.
We made some fun Wedding Friends whom we chatted with, conspired with and got seriously inebriated with. Yes, inebriated. I had four beers before dinner. I was done drinking before the first course arrived. Then one of my tablemates passed around shots of whiskey he had horked from the bar. I declined, saying I was hoping to stay sober in order to drive my wife home. They played the Irish card. I couldn’t disappoint my lineage so I tanked it.
By the time I got the feeling in my face back, they were passing around another load. I sipped it and passed it along to a good friend of mine who looked like he was ready for the evening to end. He downed it and couldn’t feel his face either. Best I can figure our entire table had numb faces. We probably all looked like a bunch of dental patients who really enjoyed Novocain. Which I don’t, by the way.
Later, as I was enjoying my dessert, I discovered that one of my new wedding friends had spiked my coffee with a liberal amount of said whiskey (I must add that this wasn’t typical wedding whiskey that comes in a familiar looking bottle with a name like “Mack Laniels” or “Ack Dandiels.” No, this was good stuff. Really good stuff. $60 a bottle good. My face was numb, but it was numb in a pretentious sort of way.)
It was now nine o’clock and I had treacherous, rain-slicked roads to drive. While I wasn’t exactly drunk, I was happy. And that pissed me off because that meant I was having fun at a wedding. Sorry Jim. But I had to get sober in order to drive home. Since I was only buzzed, it wouldn’t take long.
However, what happened in the intervening time wasn’t my fault. Let’s just say it involved dancing and “Let’s Get It On.”
I enjoyed the time with our new wedding friends. I’m not sure if we’ll ever hang out with them again. It would be rather fun, as they were enjoyable company. And, despite the fact that my suit was too big and I looked like my tie was strangling me, they appeared to think we were cool.
Or, more appropriately, I think they thought my wife was cool. And married to a weird, fat guy who had a numb face.
Matilda stayed home on Friday because she had no school. Naturally, it was difficult getting anything done. Working at home by yourself is difficult enough. Working at home with a gaggle of insane children running up and down the stairs is nearly impossible.
If you think you can to it easily, I’ll be happy to send a group of these kids over to your office one day while you’re trying to get the Smegma contract out the door. Let’s just see how well you do. Would you be Dr. Spock or Mr. Hyde? I just wonder.
Saturday we had a wedding of one of my childhood friends. I always dread weddings. First of all because I generally don’t like the food. Secondly I have to wear a suit and I’m not very good at that. Thirdly it’s usually required that I dance. I’m not a very strong dancer. In fact, there’s few counties left in the state that actually allow me to dance.
Luckily the wedding was so far away from civilization that no one could possibly notice that I suck. Whew.
We made some fun Wedding Friends whom we chatted with, conspired with and got seriously inebriated with. Yes, inebriated. I had four beers before dinner. I was done drinking before the first course arrived. Then one of my tablemates passed around shots of whiskey he had horked from the bar. I declined, saying I was hoping to stay sober in order to drive my wife home. They played the Irish card. I couldn’t disappoint my lineage so I tanked it.
By the time I got the feeling in my face back, they were passing around another load. I sipped it and passed it along to a good friend of mine who looked like he was ready for the evening to end. He downed it and couldn’t feel his face either. Best I can figure our entire table had numb faces. We probably all looked like a bunch of dental patients who really enjoyed Novocain. Which I don’t, by the way.
Later, as I was enjoying my dessert, I discovered that one of my new wedding friends had spiked my coffee with a liberal amount of said whiskey (I must add that this wasn’t typical wedding whiskey that comes in a familiar looking bottle with a name like “Mack Laniels” or “Ack Dandiels.” No, this was good stuff. Really good stuff. $60 a bottle good. My face was numb, but it was numb in a pretentious sort of way.)
It was now nine o’clock and I had treacherous, rain-slicked roads to drive. While I wasn’t exactly drunk, I was happy. And that pissed me off because that meant I was having fun at a wedding. Sorry Jim. But I had to get sober in order to drive home. Since I was only buzzed, it wouldn’t take long.
However, what happened in the intervening time wasn’t my fault. Let’s just say it involved dancing and “Let’s Get It On.”
I enjoyed the time with our new wedding friends. I’m not sure if we’ll ever hang out with them again. It would be rather fun, as they were enjoyable company. And, despite the fact that my suit was too big and I looked like my tie was strangling me, they appeared to think we were cool.
Or, more appropriately, I think they thought my wife was cool. And married to a weird, fat guy who had a numb face.
Friday, October 11, 2002
Thursday, October 10, 2002
I wasn’t going to write today because, technically, I don’t have time. I have a dental appointment today that is designed to cause me great pain and then Parents as Teachers later this afternoon.
But, as I was driving Gertrude to her sitter this morning I heard something that truly, truly disturbed me in ways that I cannot even begin to describe. It’s kind of walking in on your grandma while she’s wearing a leather teddy and carrying a whip. It was just . . . wrong.
What was it? A milk commercial. A milk commercial starring Aaron Neville. A milk commercial starring Aaron Neville singing a song thanking his mother for giving him milk.
In essence, it isn’t disturbing, really. In fact, I should consider it sweet. But I don’t. Instead, with the way he sings it like a passionate love song, I find my skin crawling. I know he’s talking about cow’s milk, but yet I picture this massive man with the girly voice suckling his Mama in deep Louisiana. And I find it gross.
More so, he discusses how his mom told him that milk would make him grow big and strong. Which it did. Aaron Neville is a huge man with arms like tree trunks. But he sings like a little girl. So, he certainly has strong bones and massive muscles, but his testes never dropped.* Maybe he should have asked his mom to stop force feeding him milk and get him straight to a doctor to find out about this issue.
I would have.
But, I can’t fault him for thanking his mom. Like I said, it’s kind of sweet, in a sick and twisted sort of way. Still, certainly there are more important things that his mother taught him that he could thank her for. I mean a good amount of people are lactose intolerant anyway.
For example, his mom potty trained him. He wouldn’t have had the musical career he’s had if he still wore diapers. That’s pretty important. Odds are she taught him to tie his shoes too. Again, a grown man who can’t tie his shoes won’t get anywhere. Can you respect a forty-year-old man with Velcro shoes? Probably not. Did she teach him how to use a fork and spoon? Probably. And he’s benefited from that.
But to me, a grown man who drinks milk isn’t all that unique. I mean, I’m glad he’s big and strong (despite his testes), but seriously, there’s just something wrong with this song . . .
*Note: I have no information on Aaron Neville’s testes nor do I want them. I just can’t figure out how a 300-pound man sings like Shirley Temple. My comments were not intended to disparage Aaron Neville, The Neville Brothers, their mother, the State of Louisiana, Dairy Farmers or people named Ethelbert.
But, as I was driving Gertrude to her sitter this morning I heard something that truly, truly disturbed me in ways that I cannot even begin to describe. It’s kind of walking in on your grandma while she’s wearing a leather teddy and carrying a whip. It was just . . . wrong.
What was it? A milk commercial. A milk commercial starring Aaron Neville. A milk commercial starring Aaron Neville singing a song thanking his mother for giving him milk.
In essence, it isn’t disturbing, really. In fact, I should consider it sweet. But I don’t. Instead, with the way he sings it like a passionate love song, I find my skin crawling. I know he’s talking about cow’s milk, but yet I picture this massive man with the girly voice suckling his Mama in deep Louisiana. And I find it gross.
More so, he discusses how his mom told him that milk would make him grow big and strong. Which it did. Aaron Neville is a huge man with arms like tree trunks. But he sings like a little girl. So, he certainly has strong bones and massive muscles, but his testes never dropped.* Maybe he should have asked his mom to stop force feeding him milk and get him straight to a doctor to find out about this issue.
I would have.
But, I can’t fault him for thanking his mom. Like I said, it’s kind of sweet, in a sick and twisted sort of way. Still, certainly there are more important things that his mother taught him that he could thank her for. I mean a good amount of people are lactose intolerant anyway.
For example, his mom potty trained him. He wouldn’t have had the musical career he’s had if he still wore diapers. That’s pretty important. Odds are she taught him to tie his shoes too. Again, a grown man who can’t tie his shoes won’t get anywhere. Can you respect a forty-year-old man with Velcro shoes? Probably not. Did she teach him how to use a fork and spoon? Probably. And he’s benefited from that.
But to me, a grown man who drinks milk isn’t all that unique. I mean, I’m glad he’s big and strong (despite his testes), but seriously, there’s just something wrong with this song . . .
*Note: I have no information on Aaron Neville’s testes nor do I want them. I just can’t figure out how a 300-pound man sings like Shirley Temple. My comments were not intended to disparage Aaron Neville, The Neville Brothers, their mother, the State of Louisiana, Dairy Farmers or people named Ethelbert.
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Becoming a parent gives you the opportunity to create memorable moments for your children. The type of memorable moments that Mike Brady would give his entire bunch after they played ball in the house. “See, I've always believed that it doesn't matter where your home is because home is where your heart is. Now we may lose this house, but we'll always have our family because we're Bradys, and this family is our home. That's why we'll always have our home, as long as we have our family, even if we lose our house, we're still Bradys.” And then my kids would always remember that and share it with their kids.
Granted, the only “quotes” I remember from my parents are, “It’ll put hair on your chest” and, “Where am I going? Crazy if I don’t mend my ways.”
Now it’s my turn. I get to provide the children with their own simple quotes that will always be attributed to me.
But, there comes a time in every child’s life where they discover sass. They have to try it on, see how it feels, how it works. It’s like smoking. Even the good kids try it once.
Matilda is a good kid. She’s a great kid. She never gets in trouble; she’s smart, funny, well spoken and polite. But lately, and maybe it’s her age, she’s been spewing out some rudeness to her mother.
Why is it always Mom that the kids pick on? They never dare sass dad. But MOM, well, she’s going to get every bit of smarmy, gross, cruel comments. The worst I’ll get in the future is “You’re not my real dad.” Well, no I’m not.
But dads tend to say, “What did you say to me?” And the kids shy away. Maybe it’s because dads have a better “serious” voice. Who knows?
The other night Matilda was going to the store with her mom. Mom said to put on a jacket. Matilda threw a fit and started talking back to her mom.
Now, I must interject here. Mothers, in my opinion, are the world’s greatest gift. They should be treated like saints and honored for all they do. The love, the caring, the tenderness. Everything. They deserve honor and respect.
So, in my family, talking back to your mother is a sin. However, I don’t want to be a tough, mean bastard whenever the kids sass their mom. If it was me I could say, “Knock it off” and they would. But moms battle sass with sighs, guilt and hurt feelings. It usually works, but it’s a long-term battle that is designed to make children into kind adults. Dads deal in the moment.
So, Mom sighs and just gives Matilda a hurt look. I feel I must do something. So, I give her my version of a Mike Brady speech.
“Honey, listen to your mother. How old is she? And she’s still alive isn’t she? Clearly she understands survival if she’s lived this long. Just listen to her and put on your jacket.”
So she did. And some day she just might use those words herself.
Parents don’t try to make their kids’ lives a living hell. We don’t want to tell them not to do something. But it’s our job. We try our best to be nice and fair. But sometimes, to a kid, life isn’t fair. It’s hard to understand why you can’t play after dinner because your parents want to hang out with you. They don’t realize that it hurts our feelings when they’d rather play with the neighbor kids than watch a movie with us.
But, in the end, it’s okay. Because, when the time comes, we get to spoil their kids.
Payback’s a bitch.
Granted, the only “quotes” I remember from my parents are, “It’ll put hair on your chest” and, “Where am I going? Crazy if I don’t mend my ways.”
Now it’s my turn. I get to provide the children with their own simple quotes that will always be attributed to me.
But, there comes a time in every child’s life where they discover sass. They have to try it on, see how it feels, how it works. It’s like smoking. Even the good kids try it once.
Matilda is a good kid. She’s a great kid. She never gets in trouble; she’s smart, funny, well spoken and polite. But lately, and maybe it’s her age, she’s been spewing out some rudeness to her mother.
Why is it always Mom that the kids pick on? They never dare sass dad. But MOM, well, she’s going to get every bit of smarmy, gross, cruel comments. The worst I’ll get in the future is “You’re not my real dad.” Well, no I’m not.
But dads tend to say, “What did you say to me?” And the kids shy away. Maybe it’s because dads have a better “serious” voice. Who knows?
The other night Matilda was going to the store with her mom. Mom said to put on a jacket. Matilda threw a fit and started talking back to her mom.
Now, I must interject here. Mothers, in my opinion, are the world’s greatest gift. They should be treated like saints and honored for all they do. The love, the caring, the tenderness. Everything. They deserve honor and respect.
So, in my family, talking back to your mother is a sin. However, I don’t want to be a tough, mean bastard whenever the kids sass their mom. If it was me I could say, “Knock it off” and they would. But moms battle sass with sighs, guilt and hurt feelings. It usually works, but it’s a long-term battle that is designed to make children into kind adults. Dads deal in the moment.
So, Mom sighs and just gives Matilda a hurt look. I feel I must do something. So, I give her my version of a Mike Brady speech.
“Honey, listen to your mother. How old is she? And she’s still alive isn’t she? Clearly she understands survival if she’s lived this long. Just listen to her and put on your jacket.”
So she did. And some day she just might use those words herself.
Parents don’t try to make their kids’ lives a living hell. We don’t want to tell them not to do something. But it’s our job. We try our best to be nice and fair. But sometimes, to a kid, life isn’t fair. It’s hard to understand why you can’t play after dinner because your parents want to hang out with you. They don’t realize that it hurts our feelings when they’d rather play with the neighbor kids than watch a movie with us.
But, in the end, it’s okay. Because, when the time comes, we get to spoil their kids.
Payback’s a bitch.
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
I think I’m settling into this design. It will go across the entire new site, when I get it set up. Which may be never since I found the time to do this design at midnight last night. My first chance. Even now, as I write this, I should be doing something else. Sometimes, in the course of human events, all hell breaks loose and there’s nothing you can do. Hell has broken loose and I have a piece of burning brimstone in my shorts. I hope I don’t get blisters.
I’d like to than everyone who offered their help with website design, at generous prices (Free, actually . . . except one person wanted a goat, why?). However, I think I’m going to stick this out on my own. I need to learn, right? No better way to learn than trial by fire (since I have brimstone in my pants, I’m getting used to the heat).
The rest of the site design will mirror this. However it will have different title bars and the black section will match the title bar. What I’ll put in the black section on other pages I don’t know. Maybe pictures of myself dressed as famous monkeys in history.
I’d like to than everyone who offered their help with website design, at generous prices (Free, actually . . . except one person wanted a goat, why?). However, I think I’m going to stick this out on my own. I need to learn, right? No better way to learn than trial by fire (since I have brimstone in my pants, I’m getting used to the heat).
The rest of the site design will mirror this. However it will have different title bars and the black section will match the title bar. What I’ll put in the black section on other pages I don’t know. Maybe pictures of myself dressed as famous monkeys in history.
Here's a preview of the new look. Hope you like it. If you don't, keep your comments to yourself. I'm not a designer. I do what I can.
The stunning lack of color here is related to my color-blindness, by the way.
Comments are gone. They were pissing me off in the new design so, screw them. If you want to contact me, feel free to do so by clicking on Mr. Geeky there.
Now all I have to do is get set up on the server and my new site is ready to go.
Well, I have a design (even more than just this one). The only thing left is that pesky content.
But I have plans. Oh yes, I have plans. Mwhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
The stunning lack of color here is related to my color-blindness, by the way.
Comments are gone. They were pissing me off in the new design so, screw them. If you want to contact me, feel free to do so by clicking on Mr. Geeky there.
Now all I have to do is get set up on the server and my new site is ready to go.
Well, I have a design (even more than just this one). The only thing left is that pesky content.
But I have plans. Oh yes, I have plans. Mwhahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Monday, October 07, 2002
Oh how I’d love to tell you the story of my weekend. It involves nachos, lawn darts and turkeys. But I’m in a time crunch here for work. In fact, the time crunch probably won’t really end until February, to be honest. (To those in publishing, I have eight books to turn over by then and so many loose ends to tie up in the mean time.)
Plus, I have about 40 pages at Intercot to do, not to mention several things I’ve been promising to John for a while. Plus I want to get my website jumpstarted, which means content development and I have to get a second draft of the film story done ASAP. Then there are the kids and the wife and getting licensed to practice medicine in the South. It’s a busy time.
I’ll try to update this week. However, if I don’t, please understand. And if you don’t understand I understand that you don’t understand so please understand my understanding of your lack of understanding.
Understand?
What a weird word. If you break it out it doesn’t really mean what it is supposed to mean. Stupid English language. Let’s riot.
Plus, I have about 40 pages at Intercot to do, not to mention several things I’ve been promising to John for a while. Plus I want to get my website jumpstarted, which means content development and I have to get a second draft of the film story done ASAP. Then there are the kids and the wife and getting licensed to practice medicine in the South. It’s a busy time.
I’ll try to update this week. However, if I don’t, please understand. And if you don’t understand I understand that you don’t understand so please understand my understanding of your lack of understanding.
Understand?
What a weird word. If you break it out it doesn’t really mean what it is supposed to mean. Stupid English language. Let’s riot.
Friday, October 04, 2002
It’s rainy and dreary today and I can’t think of a thing to write about. I could tell you how I almost had satellite TV but my apartment complex squashed it, but that’s stupid. I should be happy with what I have (no Tech TV though . . . who can be happy without a daily dose of Leo LaPorte?). I could complain about the fact that there’s condensation on our air conditioner, but I don’t know how to explain it.
Or, I could tell you about the guy who’s in my basement fixing the crack in the foundation. But how boring is that? I mean, come on. It’s a friggin crack. The only thing amusing about it is the fact that it is the company’s slogan, “A dry crack is a happy crack.” Yeah . . . Sounds like a proctologist.
Even the kids have been pretty normal the past few days. Nothing too exciting going on here. The weekend is coming up and I don’t think we have anything pressing to do, except laundry and cleaning. I could write about that, couldn’t I? Do you want to know what’s in my darks pile? Probably not.
I could tell you how I sat rapt, watching a TV show designed for two-year-olds this morning. But you’d make fun of me. (I’ll take on anyone who makes fun of The Wiggles! Come on. I dare you. It so happens that The Monkey Dance is one of the most brilliant songs ever written.)
So, what does that leave me with? Music? Movies? Stuff? Things? I could wax philosophical about something, but there’s nothing I’m feeling philosophical about.
Nope. It’s all pretty boring here. I have projects to work on, both paid and personal. I have kids to play with, both big and little. I have a wife. Only one of those, thank God. And she only comes in one size.
So, see? There isn’t really anything to talk about today. Just a normal, boring, rainy day. And I kind of like it that way. It’s muggy in the house since I don’t have the air on. But other than that . . . Today isn’t too bad. Lots of work, but Monk is on tonight and that makes me happy. Then Saturday is movie night and Sunday Sopranos. Can you beat that?
Single people with no children may not reply to that question.
Or, I could tell you about the guy who’s in my basement fixing the crack in the foundation. But how boring is that? I mean, come on. It’s a friggin crack. The only thing amusing about it is the fact that it is the company’s slogan, “A dry crack is a happy crack.” Yeah . . . Sounds like a proctologist.
Even the kids have been pretty normal the past few days. Nothing too exciting going on here. The weekend is coming up and I don’t think we have anything pressing to do, except laundry and cleaning. I could write about that, couldn’t I? Do you want to know what’s in my darks pile? Probably not.
I could tell you how I sat rapt, watching a TV show designed for two-year-olds this morning. But you’d make fun of me. (I’ll take on anyone who makes fun of The Wiggles! Come on. I dare you. It so happens that The Monkey Dance is one of the most brilliant songs ever written.)
So, what does that leave me with? Music? Movies? Stuff? Things? I could wax philosophical about something, but there’s nothing I’m feeling philosophical about.
Nope. It’s all pretty boring here. I have projects to work on, both paid and personal. I have kids to play with, both big and little. I have a wife. Only one of those, thank God. And she only comes in one size.
So, see? There isn’t really anything to talk about today. Just a normal, boring, rainy day. And I kind of like it that way. It’s muggy in the house since I don’t have the air on. But other than that . . . Today isn’t too bad. Lots of work, but Monk is on tonight and that makes me happy. Then Saturday is movie night and Sunday Sopranos. Can you beat that?
Single people with no children may not reply to that question.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
Oh the things I do for coffee. We ordered coffee from Gevalia Kaffe because we’d get both the coffee and a new coffee pot (which we don’t need) for free. The way we figure it, we never look a gift bean in the mouth. Or something.
Well, I’ve discovered how completely spoiled I am. With my newfound love for our little local shop, VJ Coffee & Teas, I cannot drink this new Gevalia. VJ is fresh and rich and full-bodied, like a Playboy Playmate (think about the analogy and you’ll be fine). Gevalia, while I would have found it good four months ago, is gross. It’s bitter, oily and tastes stale. Plus it gives me the burps. VJ does not. In fact, VJ does not irritate my gastrointestinal condition in the least. Gevalia awakens it like Persius and the Kraken.
So, I apologize to Stan the Coffee Man at VJ for cheating on him. I did it for the coffee maker. And, I have to admit, that Gevalia did not sing Sinatra songs to me while giving me beans. Nor did they put a little extra in the bag for me, like you do. You’re a good coffee man Stan.
Yesterday, while driving the kids home from Gert’s sitter, Matilda taught her to do the most amazing thing. Truly amazing. I was so blown away by the little one’s talent at this that I immediately called mom to share the moment.
She can now say “uh-oh.” This is added to her rapidly increasing vocabulary, which includes her stunning, heartfelt rendition of “Bye-bye” or, in Gertie language “ba ba.” Apparently she only does hyphenated words. Her next will be “atmospheric re-entry.”
She toddles around the house saying “uh-oh” at any given chance. Sister says it, baby responds. Mommy says it, baby responds. Kitty says it and we call the exorcist.
She even appears to understand the context, which is quite stunning. Yesterday, while throwing her food on the floor at dinner she would exclaim “uh-oh!” as every bit of her beloved meat stick hit the floor.
The only downside, that I can see, is that now I constantly think there are accidents occurring in the house. I hear “uh-oh” from someone and I come running.
What’s really amazing is hearing this little voice come out of the little ten-month-old body. Her words are so big, but her body is so small. Everything new thing she does is so deliberate and done with such care that it consistently causes me to pause and wonder at the rate her little brain is growing. Each step she takes is taken with caution. She lifts her pudgy little leg so high with each step it looks as if she’s walking through a cow pasture trying to avoid the cow chips. And she chews on the “uh” of “uh-oh” like William Shatner trying to say “Sabotage”.
I’m concerned about her mother, however, who was so excited about this new mental development that she’s seizing Gertrude’s sponge-like ability for language by trying to teach her Elvish, from Middle-Earth. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea though. This morning when I asked Gertrude is she wanted another Ochie-Oh she said:
Neledh Gorvath 'nin Ellerain no i menel,
Odo'ni Nauhírath ne rynd gonui în,
Neder'ni Fîr Fírib beraid fíred,
Êr am Morchír ned morn-orchamm dîn
Ne Dor e-Mordor ias i-Ndúath caedar.
Er-chorf hain torthad bain, Er-chorf hain hired,
Er-chorf hain toged bain a din fuin hain nuded
Ne Dor e-Mordor ias i-Ndúath caedar.
I took that as a "no."
Well, I’ve discovered how completely spoiled I am. With my newfound love for our little local shop, VJ Coffee & Teas, I cannot drink this new Gevalia. VJ is fresh and rich and full-bodied, like a Playboy Playmate (think about the analogy and you’ll be fine). Gevalia, while I would have found it good four months ago, is gross. It’s bitter, oily and tastes stale. Plus it gives me the burps. VJ does not. In fact, VJ does not irritate my gastrointestinal condition in the least. Gevalia awakens it like Persius and the Kraken.
So, I apologize to Stan the Coffee Man at VJ for cheating on him. I did it for the coffee maker. And, I have to admit, that Gevalia did not sing Sinatra songs to me while giving me beans. Nor did they put a little extra in the bag for me, like you do. You’re a good coffee man Stan.
Yesterday, while driving the kids home from Gert’s sitter, Matilda taught her to do the most amazing thing. Truly amazing. I was so blown away by the little one’s talent at this that I immediately called mom to share the moment.
She can now say “uh-oh.” This is added to her rapidly increasing vocabulary, which includes her stunning, heartfelt rendition of “Bye-bye” or, in Gertie language “ba ba.” Apparently she only does hyphenated words. Her next will be “atmospheric re-entry.”
She toddles around the house saying “uh-oh” at any given chance. Sister says it, baby responds. Mommy says it, baby responds. Kitty says it and we call the exorcist.
She even appears to understand the context, which is quite stunning. Yesterday, while throwing her food on the floor at dinner she would exclaim “uh-oh!” as every bit of her beloved meat stick hit the floor.
The only downside, that I can see, is that now I constantly think there are accidents occurring in the house. I hear “uh-oh” from someone and I come running.
What’s really amazing is hearing this little voice come out of the little ten-month-old body. Her words are so big, but her body is so small. Everything new thing she does is so deliberate and done with such care that it consistently causes me to pause and wonder at the rate her little brain is growing. Each step she takes is taken with caution. She lifts her pudgy little leg so high with each step it looks as if she’s walking through a cow pasture trying to avoid the cow chips. And she chews on the “uh” of “uh-oh” like William Shatner trying to say “Sabotage”.
I’m concerned about her mother, however, who was so excited about this new mental development that she’s seizing Gertrude’s sponge-like ability for language by trying to teach her Elvish, from Middle-Earth. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea though. This morning when I asked Gertrude is she wanted another Ochie-Oh she said:
Neledh Gorvath 'nin Ellerain no i menel,
Odo'ni Nauhírath ne rynd gonui în,
Neder'ni Fîr Fírib beraid fíred,
Êr am Morchír ned morn-orchamm dîn
Ne Dor e-Mordor ias i-Ndúath caedar.
Er-chorf hain torthad bain, Er-chorf hain hired,
Er-chorf hain toged bain a din fuin hain nuded
Ne Dor e-Mordor ias i-Ndúath caedar.
I took that as a "no."
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
I apologize for the lack of updates these days. I’m terribly busy with work. Paid work, not the fun kind that I enjoy doing. This week, thus far, has been nuts.
I look over the people I do work for and I’m sometimes amazed that I’m able to get it all done. Granted, I’ll be doing work at 9 p.m. and on the weekends . . . and through to 1 a.m. sometimes. But, I’m able to work all these insane hours for a variety of different people, with different expectations and I’ve been able to do it.
In a way, I’m kind of proud of it.
For the moment, though, I have to chide my wife. We both went to the doctor today and just combined appointments and went in together. Well, my lovely wife goes on to tell the doctor all about my sleeping problems.
“He snores and then sounds like he can’t breathe.”
”Do you do this Gary?”
”I don’t know. I’m asleep.”
”He feels like crap all day and he doesn’t feel rested in the morning.”
”Stop telling my secrets to the doctor! He’ll think I’m not healthy!”
Well, she sold me down the river. Now I have to spend an evening in the hospital sleeping for an audience to check for sleep apnea.
Damn her.
Well, at least this command performance is something I feel comfortable doing.
In fact, I think I’ll go practice now.
I look over the people I do work for and I’m sometimes amazed that I’m able to get it all done. Granted, I’ll be doing work at 9 p.m. and on the weekends . . . and through to 1 a.m. sometimes. But, I’m able to work all these insane hours for a variety of different people, with different expectations and I’ve been able to do it.
In a way, I’m kind of proud of it.
For the moment, though, I have to chide my wife. We both went to the doctor today and just combined appointments and went in together. Well, my lovely wife goes on to tell the doctor all about my sleeping problems.
“He snores and then sounds like he can’t breathe.”
”Do you do this Gary?”
”I don’t know. I’m asleep.”
”He feels like crap all day and he doesn’t feel rested in the morning.”
”Stop telling my secrets to the doctor! He’ll think I’m not healthy!”
Well, she sold me down the river. Now I have to spend an evening in the hospital sleeping for an audience to check for sleep apnea.
Damn her.
Well, at least this command performance is something I feel comfortable doing.
In fact, I think I’ll go practice now.
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