What do you do when your baby outsmarts the safety precautions you’ve put in place to ensure that she doesn’t hurt herself?

We spent the weekend covering outlets, padding corners, locking cabinets and placing things that are breakable, chokable and flammable out of her reach. It’s our duty as parents to ensure that Baby Gertrude doesn’t hurt herself. Now, after what she’s done, we fear for the welfare of the planet.

First, it’s important to understand that she is able to pull herself up from a sitting position. Now, this doesn’t seem all that exciting to you because you’ve had this skill for quite some time. You lose it periodically when something like a keg or Jagermeister is involved but, for the most part, you are quite adept at standing up.

Understand that Baby Gertrude is only six months old. From what I understand she isn’t even supposed to be crawling yet. The little wiener is ahead of the curve. Of course, this works out well for me because that also means she’s two months ahead on her training for the first manned mission to Mars.

I mean, this kid is incredible. She’s able to pull a full gee while sleeping!

It all started two weeks ago when we placed her toys in a new set of colorful bins. We were proud of them. Primary colors, short and squat. Completely mobile so that we can move them out to her as needed. Within three minutes of the set up the bins were on top of her, toys everywhere. After hearing the crash and seeing her pinned beneath these plastic bins I expected the obligatory scream to follow. Not so. She had a book and was eating it contently, despite the fact that she was buried underneath seventeen pounds of toys.

But it gets worse. We padded the corners of furniture so that she couldn’t hit her sensitive little noggin as she played. Seems sensible enough. These little rubber corner protectors are soft and malleable so that she’ll bounce right off. They are applied to the wood using NASA-style super-duper strength non-toxic adhesive.

Within one minute she had them off the corners and in her mouth. She moved so quickly and with such precision I had no time to stop her. Oddly, I was sitting next to the scene of the crime when it happened. I swear that she was at lest fifteen feet away from these safety devices.

Maybe she’s telling me something. Perhaps she’s trying to explain that, though I have every parent’s intense desire to protect her from harm that it is inevitable that something will happen. She needs to learn that the Universe may not always be the most conscientious playmate. Sometimes it bites back.

But still, I have to provide her with a safe environment. But, how can I do so when she defeats all possible safety devices? Will I need to provide secondary backups? Even tertiary? What’s a dad to do?

Not that it matters. At six months she’s able to kick my ass.

My wife doesn’t believe that she has super powers. But I know it’s true. Flying isn’t far off. I just hope she uses these powers for the forces of good, not evil.

I’d hate to be the father of the world’s first super villain.

I'll be out most of the day at an author meeting. I'm even wearing a tie. But nothing else. It's hot!

Anyway, perhaps I'll post later. Perhaps not. Maybe I'll send telepathic signals to everyone about how to tie your shoes using only one hand. It's a useful skill.

New installment of The Halves and Half Knots up today. You’ll hate it. I do. I don’t know why I wrote it.

This morning I saw a woman driving a town car with white wall tires. Now, when I say white wall tires I don’t mean with a little stripe running around the circumference of the tire. I mean the entire side of the tire was white. And so was the hubcap. And the car. Gleaming white. With shiny chrome and glistening windows.

I can’t help but think, “Why?” The futility of this gesture startles me. First of all, you have an immaculate car. Second of all, you have the world, which likes to lean toward dirtiness and chaos.

Put the two together and . . . what will win? Yep. Chaos.

I’m not a car guy. To me a car is a way to move around without getting my feet wet. It’s an enclosed CD player that allows me to move down the highway quickly, without getting run over. It allows me to be lazy.

Having an immaculate car seems stupid. It’s more work than it needs to be. You can never win. It becomes a museum that no one can soil without punishment of death.

Can you take it on a country drive? No, too much mud. Can’t take it through the city because the sediment in the air will cause it to get dirty. I suppose all you can do is keep this car in your driveway. Wait, nix that, birds will see it as a beacon for target practice.

So what do you do? Clean it every weekend? That doesn’t seem like much fun. And you certainly shouldn’t be able to pay someone to wash your car for you every week. That just seems like a waste of money. Unnecessary extravagance for a vehicle.

So why? Why have a white car?

I have my theory.

This little old woman, who clearly cannot clean this car on her own every week, has a dirty secret. She kills delivery mean with a shovel and then buries them in the basement. Her little old sister, who lives alone with her, cannot live with the knowledge of her sister’s crimes but is fearful of losing her only companion and living alone should she turn her in.

So, every week she goes out and polishes her sister’s car until it shines. So that, on the outside, her gleaming white car is the antitheses of the atrocities hidden with in the heart of this lonely old woman. Her sister’s white car hides the hidden heart of darkness in their home.

Or maybe this little old woman is anal and really likes clean things. She probably throws out her socks after one wear because they’ve been soiled.

My very first installment of The Halves and Half Knots has been added. Read at your own risk.

This weekend was pretty odd. Saturday we spent the day trying on bikes for the wife. Baby Gertrude and school-aged Matilda in tow, Geekfriend as the advisor. We looked, we prodded, we gasped at prices and, after about four hours of shopping, chose one. Then it took us two days to return to said store to actually purchase the bike.

Now the whole family needs helmets, a bike rack and some way to tote the baby on our family rides. Looks like we’re getting a baby trailer. I have officially become a granola Yuppie.

Saturday night I saw Attack of the Clones. And, I admit, I liked it. For what it was. Sure, the dialogue was terrible, the direction awful and the images cluttered. But the portions I liked, I really liked. It was better than The Phantom Menace. But certainly it was no Empire Strikes Back. This whole series is missing a Han Solo.

Lucas has hired some of the best actors of our generation and what does he do with them? Turns them into puppets in front of his purty digital pictures.

Sunday was a family bar-b-que. As usual I was ridiculed for not eating beef. Whatever. When I attend the mass angioplasty to remove all the plaque from arteries, I can laugh. Good burger? Huh? Make fun of my soy, will you?

I befriended my little niece this time. Don’t know how, but there’s no better way of feeling loved than gaining the trust of a one-year-old. We played with the baby and ran around the house. It was fun. She’s a cutie.

Oh, and one of my teen-aged nieces friends described me as being like “Chandler from Friends.” I assume that is a compliment. I have taken it as such. As far as I know, unlike Matthew Perry, I’m not addicted to prescription medication. So, I assume they were referring to my wit.

Other than that, the weekend was pretty much non-eventful. Nothing died, nothing exploded and no one called me a dickhead. So, in the end, I suppose it ended up happy.

And my veggie burgers were quite good. And kind to my stomach, which is in the throes of bad medication for GERD. So, NAH!

Today marks a new beginning for Confessions of a Geek. We're moving beyond just having a regular blog full of various and sundry messages about the mundanity of my life.

Soon there will be two new sections for your (lack) of enjoyment.

1. The Halves and Half Knots (or Rants, over to your left) will be a collection of societal and political rants. Perhaps you'll agree with them. Probably not. I hope they offend you in some way, but cause you to think about what's going on around you.

2. Part of This Nutritious Breakfast (or Fiction over to your left) is a place where you'll (eventually) find a new character whose story will unfold in random, serialized tidbits. This new character does not have a name yet, but he's slowly finding his identity. His world and self will be created before your eyes.

Anyway, I'm off to buy my wife a bike, my kid a carseat and myself some shorts. The neighbors are starting to complain about me walking around in my underwear.

Quote of the Day, thanks to my lovely wife:

"I can't. I have meat hands."

Confessions of a Caffeine Deprived Madman, Part II:

We're going to a family barbeque tomorrow. Wife has a thing against meat this week, which is cool. However, she wants to bring kabobs.

Never understood kabobs. Essentially, they are meat and vegetables on a stick. They are a linear stew. Why?

Put the damn things in a pot and cook them properly. Stew should not be on a stick.

Note to self: Frozen dinner idea: Pizzabobs(TM). Dough, Cheese, Tomatoes and Pepperoni on a stick. Heat and eat. Mmmmm. Good.

FBI warns of possible scuba diver terror attacks

Oh. Okay. But I'll remember to go about my normal life while I'm at it. But I won't fly, drive, walk, run, swim, drink the water, dance, sing, go shopping, go to the movies, go to any sporting events or any gathering of people. I won't visit monuments, parks, celebrations of any sort of national pride or significance, I won't buy an American car and I certainly won't go to Disney World because I don't want to go anywhere where there might be the distinct possibility of a terrorist attack. Or even a terrorist scowl. Or someone who is reading an article about a terrorist who scowls.

I feel like the police keep calling me at 2 a.m. to say, "There may be some armed criminals trying to break into your house. Or not. Just wanted you to know. Go back to sleep and have a good evening."

Note to my wife about her post today.

I don't have a dress code. I work from home.

Neener.

I could work naked if I want.

Not that I would.

Paper cuts, you know?

Sometimes shaking a bug is nearly impossible. I feel like I’ve been put on a biological terror alert by my brain that’s as vague and unfocused as those the government is now issuing.

“This is the brain. We have uncorroborated reports that SOMETHING is going to happen between the vicinity of the head and toes sometime between January 1 and December 31. Do not panic. Go about your business. But be vigilant!”

I don’t know if I’m better or not. Every time I think I’m better my body reminds me that . . . well . . . I’m not. I’ll come crashing down into exhaustion so complete that even my clothes feel brittle and dry.

But, I’ll try to get back to my regular publishing schedule next week. I’ve had a ton of topics I wanted to cover this week, but most of them were lost in the haze of fever.

Really, I promise a return to normal next week. But, for now, I leave you for this weekend with this piece of familial pastiche.

Today was the bubble extravaganza at Matilda’s school. I was up until 11 p.m. last night creating a bubble solution that would amaze and amuse a mass throng of six and seven year olds for thirty minutes.

I felt like a mad scientist finding the formula to raise a zombie army. “Mwhahaha! Add glycerin. Yes. Yes! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS.”

Of course, moronic me didn’t consider the fact that these kids would be more interested in slinging the solution at one another in an attempt to blind little Johnny or Susie. It’s survival of the fittest . . . or cruelest in first grade.

The whole event went off well, for the most part. It was raining, so we go shoved underneath a little bridge in order to protect ourselves from getting wet. Which, of course was pointless. Between having kids with more soap and water on them than had been applied in their previous evening’s bath time coming up and hugging me and the fact that the humidity level was at 80000%, I was soaking wet. Lost another four pounds of fat in addition to the six pounds I lost from the flu.

My lovely daughter, however, was the picture of grace and ease. She moved through the bubble stations like a pro (of course, she had been our guinea pig) and didn’t viciously attack anyone with my precisely concocted bubble solution, nor did she drink any of it (several kids did . . . and subsequently imitated the cartoons we grew up with by hiccupping water and bubbles for an hour).

By far, the most interesting and adventurous group we had was a group of hard of hearing kids. Not only were they amazingly well behaved, but these kids had a little flame of scientist in their hearts. Despite the myriad of tools we had provided, this group discovered a new way of using the tools. They taught me how to use my own hands to make bubbles and there was a sheer joy in each discovery they made. You could almost hear the neurons making connections right in front of you. There was a crack and sizzle of brain activity occurring.

The teachers turned out to be of no help at all. And I don’t blame them a bit. I think that, after the entire school year, they were thrilled to have other people on the receiving end of the kids’ abuse. Every day they are the ones who get tapioca in their hair, vomit on their shoes and urine on their carpet because someone was afraid to ask to go to the bathroom. These teachers deserve combat pay from May until the end of the school year. These kids know that summer vacation is around the corner and, despite the fact that half of them go to camp, summer school or other organized activities; the last month of school becomes an exercise in personal freedom.

Do math? You can’t make me. Stop torturing Jimmy by putting bubble solution in his eyeball and asking him to call me master? No!

When did this start happening? Since when is summer an extension of school? When I was a kid, summer was a disorganized mess of swimming, getting dirty and watching subpar television in the frigid comfort of forced air. The kids who went to summer camp were freaks whose parents clearly didn’t love them.

Of course, the greatest moment for me today was when I dropped by my daughter’s class afterward, caked in a soapy slime. They were reading a story as a group and I didn’t want to interrupt. She saw me in the hallway, waved and, using proper sign language, signed “thank you.”

Sorry gang. I was out sick yesterday and now I play catch up. There's nothing worse than the stomach flu, is there? Except, perhaps, for an anal probe from particularly vicious aliens. However, how often does that happen?

If you’re looking for the pictures of Leo Laporte’s hair, scroll to yesterday’s post. When it gets archived I’ll provide a static link because, well, we all love Leo’s hair.

My oldest daughter is six (and 11/12, she would like me to tell you). She’s a pretty girl, and getting prettier every day (her Mom’s fault, alas . . . I am not genetically related, though I’ve had severe psychological effects as a step-dad). Deep down, I know it’s inevitable that boys will start calling. I dread that day. Though I plan to make their lives a living hell, as is my parental duty.

At this point, she should be thinking boys are gross and disgusting creatures that carry germs and may be only a few evolutionary steps above cockroaches. And, for the most part, she does. She freaks any time her mother and I hold hands, much less kiss.

But, times they are a-changin’. This year she has discovered the recess pastime of chasing boys. According to her, there is a pecking order that must be met. Thomas is chased first, then Jordan, then Ellis and so on. What does she do when she catches the boys? Gives them to Claire, because “She knows what to do with them.” Thank god it’s someone else’s kid that knows what to do with the boys.

But, much to my dismay, the fascination with the elusive creature known as “boy” has begun. And the boys are noticing her. Naturally, this is pre-adolescent mimicry, but still . . . it’s heart-wrenching to know that this little girl is growing up and that, at some point, she’s going to start dating.

I’ve told her she can start dating when we make the first trip to Mars.

Recently, she came home from school with two notes from boys. Here they are:






Hmm . . . Boy number one is clearly a stalker in the making. “I think of you sometimes” is something akin to “play Misty for me.” It’s not comforting. I imagine that as soon as he’s allowed to cross the street he’ll be standing outside my door at odd hours. The little bastard.

Boy number two is clearly not ready to commit. He’s taken the time to write, but didn’t want to give too much away all at once. I think he’s playing hard to get. Or, perhaps he’s trying to set the record straight. I have to admit, I respect him. At least he doesn’t want to lead her on, make her think they’ll share pudding cups at lunch. Let’s be realistic. He’s six and has to keep his options open. Everything changes in second grade.

Either way, I think this proves that romance is not dead amongst the youngsters. Granted, these aren’t the most expressive love notes I’ve ever seen, in fact the first is downright disturbing, but I think these boys should be given credit for taking the time to write. In this technological age they would normally just send Instant Messages. Not that my daughter has access to the Internet yet. Still, most of these kids do their homework on a PDA, so I’m sure they all have their own email accounts, WebPages and message boards.

The bottom line is these boys are supposed to be out playing war or Pokemon or something. Not writing love notes to my daughter. And, when she is old enough for love notes, I will be correcting them and sending them back for revision. I won’t stand for a semi-illiterate moron dating my little girl.

In fact, I have a few criteria for her future beaus:
1. Must be a physicist, astronaut or guitarist for Power Pop trio. Will not accept psychologist, race car driver or Senator.
2. He must not drive a sports car, SUV, motorcycle or any other flashy, gas-guzzling machine. Acceptable means of transportation are: Segway, hybrid car, hover car (I figure this is at least a decade and a half off).
3. He may not be named Trey, Clay, Brandon, Cliff, Geoff (Jeff is okay), Sterling or Chad.
4. Must be able to discern between David Lynch, Ray Lynch and Lynchmob.
5. Must have thorough understanding of the works of Kurt Vonnegut, James Steinbeck and William Carlos Williams.


But, most of all he better be able to run fast, because inevitably he’ll make her cry. And woe is the boy who makes my little angel cry.

Note to self: Check out legality of tarring and feathering . . .

Ahhhhhh. We’re back. Looks like Blog Spot had a little system burp that required a little nudging. Reason number 124 to get my own domain.

Right this second I shouldn’t be writing this. I’m too busy. I have so much to get done in the next few weeks I’ll be kissing my evenings goodbye. The good news is the weeks following will be a little lean, so it’ll all balance out.

My schedule will look something like this:
· 6:30 Wake up. (More likely be punched awake by the freshly fed baby who has been laying next to me since the wife went to get ready for work.)
· 7-8 Get self, kids, wife ready for the day.
· 8-8:30 Get eldest on the bus, answer email, get coffee ready
· 8:30-3 Work my hiney off
· 3-3:30 Get eldest from bus. Find out how her day was, supervise homework and snack.
· 3:30-5 Work.
· 5-8:30 Dinner, play with kids, bathe kids, read stories, supervise tooth brushings, etc.
· 8:30-11:30 Continue working.
· 11:30-11:31 See how my wife is doing and how her day was.
· 11:32-6:30 Try to sleep without panic attacks.

The wife is busy these days too. She has class on Thursdays and will need to work the other nights as well. So, we’ll be just happy and content all the time!

So, if I owe you any work that you aren’t paying for right now . . . it’s going to wait. Sorry.

I’ll be back in a few minutes with a real post. I need to decompress for a little while, before the bus comes. My choices are to write a blog or breathe into a brown paper bag. I’ll try blogging.

Hullo? Blogger? Can you hear me? Are you alive?

Get the paddles quick! The server is down!

Damn you web monkeys! Damn you all to hell!

The Hair Up There

Ahhh . . . the weekend. Once there was a time in my life where I would spend such a time in a drunken stupor attempting to meet people who shared my slurred speech and red face.

This weekend? I waited in line to meet Geek Gods Leo Laporte and Patrick from TechTV’s “The Screen Savers.” To a geek, these guys are uber-cool. They are the penultimate of coolness.

Clearly, people like me don’t get out often. The fact that I was able to find a beautiful woman who was willing to marry me boggles the mind.

On with the story. We were quite shocked to see the line that was forming. We knew the show was popular, but we didn’t realize how popular. By the time things got rolling, we were about midway through the line. However, during our entire stay at the event, we noticed the end of the line never changed. People kept showing up. There were a few, we were sure, that misread the sign and though they were there for Leo and Patrick of “The Sheep Shavers.”

It was a nice sunny day, slightly cool but not bad. The sun beat down and you could hear the sizzle of the sensitive, pale geek skin cooking in the ultra-violet rays.

TSS producer Paul Block, as played by George Segal, was on hand. This was a real treat. He worked the line like a drunken father in a wedding receiving line. He asked us if there were one thing we could get rid of from the show, what would it be? So, if you work at The Screen Savers right now, be nice to Paul. He apparently is hoping to fire someone. Martin is fine. Apparently Paul thinks Martin is the funniest man on Earth. That’s why Paul is a producer. He likes to tell half-truths and mislead you. If Martin enters the entertainment world, it will be on his own terms. Ever see “King of Comedy”?

We told him that we’d like to see a urinal installed on the set. It gets embarrassing watching Patrick run off the set during the commercial bumpers.

To avoid getting fired, I suggest you buy him stinky cigars. With cigar firmly clamped between his teeth, he wandered around like Ed Asner in Mary Tyler Moore. I half expected him to start arguing with Leo, with Leo responding, “Oh Paaaaul!” and crying.

But all of this is beside the point. My real reason for attending the event was to see Leo’s hair. It has long been a point of debate between my friend John. Is it real? Or does Leo use a Flowbee? Below is a photo comparison from a nice windy Saturday. Perhaps the truth will finally be known:

Hypothesis: Leo’s hair is real, but his stylist needs help.
Evidence:


Besides the snow on the roof, it looks fine here in this slightly dark photo. The wind was low, but here there appears to be no sign of coif lines. Verdict: Inconclusive.


Here we get a better look at Leo’s Do. Now, notice again there is no line and the hair is holding up to the sun and wind nicely. Either he has a good toupee or this is natural. Verdict: Still inconclusive. However, who would buy a piece that has that cowlick in the back?




Here we have a comparison between Patrick and Leo’s hair. Patrick is clearly natural. Looking closely at Leo, it is clear there is no chemical used to adhere the hair to his scalp. Notice the glare, clearly this is the baby skin of newly exposed flesh. An airplane landed in the parking lot nearby after this photo was taken. They thought they had discovered a lost hiker signaling with a mirror. Verdict: Leaning towards real hair. Of course, some good wigs are made of real hair. Perhaps Leo’s wigmaker is an artiste.


Here we see Leo signing. This is the best view of our suspicions. There is a definite delineation between what’s up top and what’s below. Notice his equatorial line. Verdict: Inconclusive. Perhaps working on cable is hazardous to one’s hair color and hairline.


My favorite picture of the day, by the way. Here I think we can conclude that Leo does not wear a piece. That is the hair he was born with, though slightly out of style. I think Alan Alda had that hair cut during the first season of M*A*S*H. Oh, and guys, we thought the guy from Charter was a schmuck too. Verdict: It’s real.

Conclusion: Leo needs a new hairstylist. Perhaps that’s what we should have told Paul. Mr. Block, please . . . Provide your star with proper access to proper hair-styling. You can’t afford to lose his talent to another network because he was dissatisfied with the coif with which you provided him.

Leo: You need a new contract. No matter what they tell you, Great Clips is not the official hair styling salon of TechTV. They’re just trying to keep the bills low by sending you out for hair cuts at $11.99 a piece. $9.99 if they give you a coupon clipped from the back of a grocery receipt. That’s a damn cool watch, though.

I want to go back to that last photo for a second. Look over Patrick’s shoulder at the woman standing below the words “Everything cool . . .” It’s clear she’s looking at the group of us wondering, “Is this really cool? I mean, really. Is it? And where did I leave my Celine Dion CD?”

Thanks to Todd for sharing his pics. You can see his more creative work at Optical Musings.

"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies--God damn it, you've got to be kind."
--Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater

Sorry for the lack of update yesterday. I was not feeling well. Then the kids and I had to play all evening.

But today . . . today is reserved for instruction. Today I explain the mysteries of pregnancy to my dear friends, The Artists, who are expecting their first child. I think they expect the child to be human, in the very least. I expect he or she will be very odd. If you knew The Artists, you would agree. Artist husband spent the bulk of his youth analyzing the social implications of Star Trek. Artist wife was more normal. But that’s only relative. I’ve spoken to some of her friends and have heard stories about their misadventures in college. Let’s just say that . . . Where they live, the police must be very forgiving.

I’m extremely excited about their little one’s arrival. I think they’ll be fantastic parents. They just need to remember what too many new parents forget: Relax! The baby feeds off of your energy. If you are tense, the baby will sense that and be tense. Though it is amazingly difficult to remain calm with a colicky baby, the looser and calmer you are, the easier it will be to calm the baby. After all, if you were upset and someone who was tense and excitable tried to calm you down, how would you feel?

So, here are the things that NO ONE will tell you about pregnancy. Cut these out and place them in your wallet.

1. Super Smell and Super Taste. I don’t know if it’s related to the hormones or the fact that a woman has the power to grow life (which is a pretty awesome power, when you think of it . . . The only life men can grow is the fungus in ten-year-old tennis shoes). But the fact remains: Pregnancy leads to the development of superpowers. ESP is one. She'll know what you are thinking. Even if you think that you aren't thinking what you says you're thinking, you would be wrong. But Super Smell and Super Taste are the ones you need to look out for.

It starts small. You’ll find out that she doesn’t like the smell of something you’ve always eaten. For the sake of argument, let’s say it’s potatoes. The smell will make her nauseous. You will be unable to go anywhere that has a hint of potatoes. Potatoes will be her mortal enemy. Want to go to Bill and Sharon’s house? You can’t. Why? Because on July 17, 1984 they ate potato soup. She’ll remember it clearly. But, you’ll say, “That was so long ago!” It doesn’t matter; it’ll smell like potatoes. Can Bill and Sharon come over? Hell no! They’ll have the smell in their clothes!

Then comes the taste. Do you have any pots or pans that have cook the offending dish? Throw them out. Because no matter what is cooked in them now will taste like potatoes. Did you eat potato chips last Thursday and make her a sandwich this afternoon? Throw the sandwich away. There will be a hint of legume essence on the bread, which, of course, will seep into the condiments and ruin the whole thing.

The important thing to remember is that her nausea must be avoided at all costs. This is a sort of nausea that no man will ever understand. It blows the stomach flu, food poisoning and alcohol out of the water. There is no nausea like this on the planet. It isn’t felt in her stomach, but in her whole being. Her aura is nauseated. She’ll actually be able to shoot nausea across the room to you.

2. You must be willing to leave the house at any time, for any reason. This is no longer your home. It is incubation central and the woman rules the roost. That’s not your TV. It isn’t your stereo and that’s certainly not your bed. Anything and everything in that house is used as a tool for pregnancy. One day you may come home and find her massaging her back with a meat tenderizer and n frayed electrical wire. Do not ask why. But, for the sake of all humanity, offer to help!

She may ask you to leave for a number of reasons. It is your duty as a husband to do so. She may want humus at 2 a.m. Get it. Find it at all costs. She has a ravenous need for humus. Do not ignore the need or you will be killed. She may ask you to leave for a full week because you breathe funny. This may or may not be true. But, she has more hormones running through her body on a daily basis than you have had in your entire life. She has a human being leaping from her stomach to her liver and bouncing off her ribs. She’s uncomfortable. If she wants you out of the house, it’s better for all to leave until you are invited back. Pregnant woman have powers, my friend, and you do not.

3. Breasts. They will grow. Leave them alone. They’re not for you.

4. The bladder. She will be using the bathroom every ten minutes. Again, she has a human being sitting on her bladder. You’d pee every ten minutes too of I pushed on your bladder 24 hours a day. Be understanding. It will take you three weeks to watch a movie. Never complain. And NEVER tease her about it. Remember, you cannot possibly understand what she’s going through. Your job is to make her comfortable.

5. For her comfort and happiness your wife will begin sleeping with another man. This man will be in the form of a body pillow. Only he will be able to make her comfortable through the night. Only this body pillow will alleviate the back problems, leg pains and breathing problems she will be experiencing. I hope you have a big bed, because the whole thing now belongs to her. You will get exactly ¾ of an inch. And none of the covers.

6. Temperature. The laws of physics no longer apply. She will be hot when it is 12 below zero. She will be cold when it is 110. Live with it. You will be unable to do anything about it. In the winter your home will be somewhere near absolute zero. Pets will be freezing in mid-walk.

7. Your wife has the right to change her mind at any given time. For example . . . you are having friends over for dinner. At 10 a.m. you plan a menu that consists of several Mexican dishes. At 4 p.m. you buy the materials to create said dinner. At 4:30, she will decide she needs Italian. You go back to the store and pick up the materials. At 5 p.m. you begin cooking. At 5:30 she’ll decide she wants Chinese. You go back to the store. At 7 p.m. dinner is served. You and your guests have a lovely time, and great conversation. At 8 p.m., while you are doing the dishes, she’ll really wish you had had Mexican instead.

YOU MUST SMILE through this whole process. No complaints. Unless you want to find out what it’s like to have spaghetti shoved up through your nose and removed through another orifice.

8. During labor never say, “Hey that was a big contraction” or “That one didn’t seem bad.” You’ve never had the sensation of having your body try to expel another human being. And, if you do not want to find out then only say, “Honey you’re doing great!” Do not turn on the TV. Do not crack jokes. The woman you are looking at is working. Very hard. She’s working to give birth and that, my friend, is an amazing process. It’s also something that she has been both looking forward to and fearing for a long time. She’s been thinking about this moment since before you met. Tell her that you love her. That you are happy to be there with her, sharing this moment. And you know what? Thank her for being your wife. She deserves it.

9. This is the most important. YOU ARE WRONG. No matter what the situation. You are wrong. If she says the Smurfs fought the War of 1812 in 1945 then, damn it, it was.

10. Ever heard of a home vasectomy kit? If you violate any of the other nine rules, you will. Try to decline the offer.

In all seriousness, this process will be the most amazing months of your life. Even now, with my baby here, growing daily and cute as a button, part of me misses pregnancy. Part of me misses feeling the baby move. Seeing the ultrasound and wondering, “What will you be like?” And hearing the heartbeat for the first time . . .

Treasure every moment. You won’t get it back. You aren’t waiting for the baby, it’s already here. It’s already a part of your life. Talk to it. Tell it about yourself.

And that moment, when you first see that child . . . you will cry. Because you’ve just witnessed a new life beginning. That moment is like the first page of a story and you have no idea how it will end. You will cry when you see this beautiful little person cradled in your wife’s arms for the first time and realize that everything you love . . . everything that makes life worth living is sitting there right in front of you. And that moment will be perfect.

Unless you say, “Hey, he looks like Winston Churchill.” Then, my friend, you’re on your own.

I don't know why I did it. I really don't. But, I made a Geek Store. You can buy geek stuff with my crappy geek logo. The only upside I can see is that I put some funny sayings on some of the things. Why? I have no fargin' idea. But it was fun.

There's a solid link over to the left.

If anyone actually buys something I may pass out.

I kind of like the little guy. He has a minimalist quality I like. I drew him, so don't make fun of him. I'm fragile.

My wife thinks I've given too much thought to the subject of superheroes. I think she hasn't given it enough thought. Where are her priorities, I ask. Where are her plans for a genetically enhanced future? What will she do when our baby begins to fly?

I'll be prepared. Will she?

So, about those superheroes. I’ve been considering them ever since I saw Spider-Man. It’s been foremost on my mind.

First, let’s consider the staples of the superhero world. Superman and Batman.

Superman flies. He is bulletproof and has heat vision. Why? Because he came from a planet with a red sun and Earth has a yellow sun, of course! How this explains superpowers is beyond me.

But Geekfriend and I were talking about Superman and have begun to wonder about a few things.

1. He flies at super speeds, without goggles. How does he do this and keep his eyes open? We figure the only explanation is that he has Supertears. His eyes water at such amazing speeds that you cannot even see the tears.

2. He may be bulletproof, but the guy still has skin. Again, flying at such speeds creates friction. Would he not chafe? Does he add lubing up with Vaseline as part of his great changing from Clark to Superman routine? He’d need to, otherwise he’d have dry, cracked skin and Lois wouldn’t be interested in his flaky ass. It would also explain why super villains tend to slip through his grasp.

3. He wears a cape when he flies. Now, I’m no physicist but I believe this would create drag and slow him down. It serves no purpose in his ability to fly. Except, that is, that capes look cool as they flap in the breeze. Even Zorro wore one. Therefore, we conclude that Superman wears a cape because it is color-coordinated with his uniform. He thinks he looks fabulous.

On to Batman. This guy has no superpowers. He only has rage and an unlimited source of wealth. With a little therapy and a new financial advisor that wouldn’t allow him to spend untold millions on his secret lair, he’d be fine. Just another spoiled, rich guy who shreds documents and buys politicians like consumer electronics.

In the real world, none of these guys would stand a chance. No one would believe that a) they have super powers or b) they are truly trying to do good. They’d be considered freaks, ranked up there with the crazies that claim to be Elvis and Jesus. They’d be driven out of town or submitted to random drug tests.

Plus, these idiots have a very strenuous job. And, yet, they wear spandex. The fight and fly in heat! They should be one slippery mass of sweat. Superman should be passing out from heat exhaustion as he fights Lex Luthor. But that never happens. Dehydration is not a concern in the superhero universe.

What’s worse is Spider-Man, god love the guy. But if his skin allows him to stick to walls, how is it possible for him to wear the suit? Wouldn’t that block his ability? Or is that too rational?

Plus, he and Batman both wear masks when they fight Evil. Do they have no consideration for peripheral vision? How can they see what’s coming?

Lastly, if I were a superhero I wouldn’t want to hide my identity. I’d let everyone know who I was. I’d flaunt my power and have people fear me because they’d never know when I might fly off or cling to a wall while shopping for groceries.

Which brings me to superheroes that would exist in the real world.

Naked-Man. He has no superpower. However, he has a glandular problem that causes him to sweat profusely. He catches the bad guy by putting their heads in a scissors lock. Now, really, would you want to have your head caught in the sweaty, hairy legs of a naked guy who thinks he could fight crime?

Head-Rush. Again, no superpowers. Just a stoner who thinks he has super powers. He tries to pick up cars and, every Friday night, with Techno music pounding, he thinks he can fly. His friends encourage him to try because he’s really, really annoying.

Stinky-Man. He actually exists. He rides public transportation all day long and, no matter when or where you ride, he sits next to you.

Super-Bitch. Her powers come every 28 days. And when they do, you better watch out. She’ll ask you if her butt looks fat in her tights and, if you answer wrong, you will be in a world of hurt.

Catholic-Mom. The power of guilt should never be messed with. She’ll have you give up your life of crime and mowing her lawn within 15 minutes.

Sometimes you just have to lay back, close your eyes and admit that you are the system’s bitch.

I concede defeat to the world today and, thusly, give up on work for a day. Like a general whose troops have been slaughtered and he is the last man standing I can honestly say, “My work here is done.”

Sadly, it’ll be there again tomorrow, even dirtier, messier and smellier.

But I get a brief respite. The eye in the storm. A few hours at the beach, so to speak.

Bubbles. I get to make bubbles. The kind that are made using the surface tension created when you mix water with a soap solution. Perfect spheres.

Say it with me everyone. It’s fun. Bubble, bubble, bubble. Bubble, bubble, bubble. No other word in the English language is quite as fun. Except maybe defunct. But that’s another story.

I’m meeting with another mom (or should I say “parent”) to discuss creative ways to make bubbles for the Science Olympiad at Kaitlyn’s school next week. We’ve discussed a few options, but we’ll go in depth tomorrow. Woo hoo!

Now, I’m no expert at bubbles. Sure, I’ve blown a few in my time. I’ve even been able to make some mutant bubbles and some extra large ones. But . . . what else to do? In general, my expertise is in bubbles in the bath, without the benefit of soap.

So, how many variations on bubbles can you make? Scientifically speaking, there just isn’t much that can be done with a bubble without compromising its structural integrity.

That’s where my love of physics is going to come in. I am going to endeavor to make a bubble in extreme conditions where space and time don’t matter.

I will create a black hole in my kitchen and see what effects it has on bubbles. And to see if Teflon is still no-stick in extreme gravity.

Maybe the other parent will get sucked in to it. Because, really, I don’t give a crap about the dance studio she runs. The thought of her in a leotard frightens me, to be honest.

Blog . . . out of danger?

The blog? Yes. The blog is fine. Humming along and serving up pages like a happy little camper.

The blogger himself? Well, no. He's having a heart attack by being busy today. Too much to do. Being as the money that I earn while genially freelancing from beautiful downtown Creve Coeur helps feed my family, I think I'll focus on that today.

Tomorrow? I focus on bubbles.

For today, I'll send you to my wife the Weasel. She posted a rather nice piece today about fatherhood versus motherhood and the inherent inequities therein. I worry about her descriptions of scrubbing floors and wonder what my future may have in store.

I think I might buy a bigger toothbrush . . .

I had originally planned to tell you all about how much I loved Spider-Man. How cool I thought it was and the list of superheroes I had come up with that were destined to fail (e.g. Naked Man).

Then I saw something. Something . . . deplorable.

The wife and I took the drooler to see the doctor today. She’s officially six months old (wow, how time flies . . . more on that another time). So, the doctor looks her over, declares her a genius and bows to her plan for world domination. Then, as if the disgrace her desire for dominance, they pinned her down to inject her full of some sort of vaccination. Right . . . Government tracking serums is more like it.

There were for shots total. The first two, little Gertrude was very gracious. She took the stinging pain like a trooper. Her little lip pouted a bit, but she was okay. The third irritated her. She looked at the nurse and gave her a warning. NEVER do that again. But the nurse did and Gertrude let out a plaintive wail that was heard for blocks around. Children all over the world stopped, bowed their heads and thought silently about the poor child that had just been vaccinated.

Gertrude gave that nurse a look. A dirty look. A look that said, “I never forget a face. Woman, when I can walk and have a concept of revenge, you are first.”

But that is beside the point.

As I was loading the baby into the car to deliver her to the sitter, I noticed there were two small children in the car next to me. No parent. I had seen them when I pulled in. There was a dad of some sort in the front with them, but he was gone.

Well, I thought, maybe he’s under the car checking for leaks. Nope. Perhaps he’s hiding in the back, playing a game. Nope. Perhaps his body was flung into this ditch and is waiting to be discovered by authorities. Nope.

No, this jerk left his two kids in the car. Alone. Looked to be about three and one. The best part was the one-year-old was not restrained in any way. He roamed about the car, trying to discover what sort of horrible act he could perform. The other kid sat there, blandly allowing himself to be neglected. I could see the pent up rage building itself up deep within him. He may not figure out how to retaliate today. Or even this decade, but you could tell by the look on his face that he would exact his revenge on his errant, moronic dad someday . . . when he least expected it.

My wife stayed to make sure the kids were okay. Eventually the dad came out and retrieved his kids. Wife didn’t say anything to the guy, but gave him a dirty look.

This guy is seriously missing two of the seven senses (Horse and Common). What kind of jerk leaves two young children in a car on a parking lot? Would it have taken so much to get the two kids out and take them in with him? Are they not important enough to him? How could anyone let their children out of their site for that long? For crying out loud, I stop the car to make sure my kid is breathing properly. I would never consider leaving her alone for a second, much less keeping her in a car alone while I go about my business.

This prick makes us all look bad.

It’s bad enough that fathers have a reputation based upon moronic stereotypes from television sit-coms. We can never catch a break. I know this for a fact based on the way my daughter’s brownie moms have treated me. I am an outsider to them. A bumbling Neanderthal bastard who shouldn’t be caring for children because I am probably afraid of changing diapers. I am not worthy to share the brownie room with them because . . . well . . . I have a penis and that makes me incapable of proper child care. I should be relegated to cleaning gutters and charring flesh over an open flame.

Heck, open any parenting magazine and look for all the articles that deal with fatherhood. Exactly . . . none? And when a father is mentioned, it’s usually in reference to him putting on a diaper backwards or trying to feed the baby chili.

But that’s beside the point. I know I’m a good Dad. I know many good dads. There are many in my family alone. And yet, jerks like this guy are the ones who give us the stereotype of stupid, uncaring, incompetent nincompoops. We’re not all that way.

To quote the movie Parenthood, “You need a license to drive a car. You need a license to own a dog. But any butt-reaming asshole can be a dad.”

This is true. But, do not judge us based on the stereotype. Look around. There are plenty of us caring fathers around.

Also, look around again. If you see this guy, who was driving a powder blue Volvo station wagon, kick him. Hard. In the crotch.

Or you can wait another ten years when he picks up his son at the police station for dealing drugs. He’ll be the one moaning about how the media has corrupted his kid. He’ll be the one completely blind to the fact that parenting actually involves paying attention to your kids.

Families of 11 dead illegals to sue U.S. for Not Putting Water in the Desert.

Other things the government should do:

*Put firewood in the tundra.
*Provide swimmers with armor against sharks.
*Stop bees from stinging people.
*Get rid of cancer.
*Reduce the grease in McDonalds Burgers.
*Put safety harneses in trees in case people fall out.
*Use softer bullets because when I'm trying to rob a bank while brandishing a weapon, those hard bullets could hurt somebody.
*Put a warning on coffee because it might be hot.

No offense to the families or their tragically departed loved ones but . . .

It's the desert. There is no water. That's why they call it the desert. I wonder if we'll ever be sued by the families of people who drown for not putting enough air in the water?

Phrase of the day:

"I've had employees who have been 'freaked' upon."

Is it possible for a child to be obsessive-compulsive? I wonder. Is it possible that my lovely six-year-old has OCD?

It all began when she was four, when we moved into what we know refer to as Stately Pain Manor, though we could easily call it The Crack House. Our front door has some nice concrete steps that lead down to the sidewalk. Next to the stairs there is a small one by one foot area. My lovely daughter began collecting rocks and placing them in that small space.

It was cute at first. She’d find a new treasure and show it to us, describing how pretty it was and why she liked it. She named the rocks, called them her friends and used them for various states of play. She would even periodically wash them. After all, what good is a dirty rock?

After a brief stint in dealing with only rocks, she decided to diversify and add sticks to the bargain. Again, it seemed harmless. She’d arrange the rocks and sticks on the steps in patterns that only she understood. Sadly, she’d also leave them out overnight, looking to the neighbors as if the Blair Witch had paid us a visit in the night. This was only compounded by our Red Headed Family Friend (a.k.a. P Tiddy) who would be walking to his car late at night yelling, “Josh? Josh! Oh my God are those teeth????”

Sadly, those rocks and sticks would also be there early in the morning when I’d go out, barefoot, to pick up the paper.

Slowly she expanded beyond rocks and added the common detritus one finds below the surface of topsoil, or hiding among grass that has long needed a good mowing. Broken toys, bottle caps . . . anything that looked interesting became part of the collection. I was thankful that her treasure never included broken syringes and used condoms. But, then, we don’t live in California . . .

The collection began to grow until it looked like the tide had come in to deposit the ocean’s refuse. It was unsightly. I informed the little one that she would have to sort out her favorite rocks and place them in a box that we’d keep just inside the door. The collection could never grow beyond that box until she came up with a reasonable system for a reasonably sized collection. Then she’d have to return her little igneous friends to their natural habitat, preferably an area that posed no danger to life, limb or vehicle.

She did sort them out. She even stopped adding to the outside collection. Well, she stopped adding rocks. Sticks were another matter. And she never did put the rocks back.

The sticks came in all sizes, from tiny twigs to actual lumber. I have no idea where she would find them. I asked her to stop that, as well, because people were beginning to mistake our steps for a compost heap. She told me that sticks were part of trees and trees were alive and you can’t throw away living things. I explained that once the stick falls from the tree, it is no longer alive. “Blasphemer,” she cried, “wait until Greenpeace hears about this!”

I thought she had . . . until I found the collection newly located under a bush. Hundreds of little sticks. At first I thought a colony of frontier Smurfs were building their settlement there.

I got lazy and stopped reminding her to get rid of the rocks. I knew it was hard for her and, to be honest, I hate living here so if it makes her happy, then so be it.

But, I realized we had a problem a few weeks ago when we were cleaning out and rearranging her room. Hidden throughout her room were enclaves of rocks. One, I kid you not, weighed at least five pounds. She admitted to carefully sneaking it up to her room one day after school when I wasn’t looking.

It was time for an intervention. I began nagging her to get rid of the rocks. I even set up times. But nature was on her side. It rained, it stormed, we always had something more important to do.

Today I was finally fed up when I found what I think may be a support beam for someone else’s home piled out there. Once that home collapses, I’ll know where to return it. At the bus stop I informed her that she couldn’t leave sticks there anymore. She’s welcome to play with them, but leave them to nature. Sticks go back into the soil and provide nutrients for the trees, I said.

The looks she gave me can only be summed up as, “Whatever.”

So, I decided that the Stone Age was over. I cleaned out the whole area. It took four full plastic shopping bags to return the rocks to their proper place. I also found roughly 214 sticks strewn about. I think one may have been a chair leg once.

I prepared my speech when I got home. I knew she’d be upset. After all, this had been her collection. But I had given her so many chances. To many. I drafted what I’d say in my head and went out the wait for the bus.

When she arrived home she exclaimed, excitedly, “Daddy!” (Uh oh. Here it comes, prepare for tears.) “You cleaned out my rock collection. Cool.” Then she ran off with her friends.

I walked inside, confident that I had done the right thing. Right? I had triumphed on the side of non-clutter. Right?

Or had I? She was outside playing while I cleaned out the dirt from beneath my fingernails.

That little weasel had beaten me. She just learned a valuable lesson. If she procrastinates long enough, with a sweet demeanor, I will eventually do the work for her.

I fear the next time I look in the mirror I will find, neatly stamped to my forehead, the word “Sucker.”

And I am. I am. But it’s comfortable wrapped around her little finger. She even gives me a sense of power now and then.

I see you. I see you peeking in here trying to see if I've actually gotten off my lazy butt and written something today. Well I have, but it's not done yet. I have to finish today's work first. Which, when working alone, is often difficult because I get lonely. The cat has stopped speaking with me. We're all lucky I don't don spandex and proclaim myself a superhero.

Oh wait, I have that penciled in for three.

I do have an update. My complex (such an apt word for them) is sending someone out on Thursday to check my crack. I hope it's dry by then.

I'm referring to my home's foundation. What were you thinking?

Removed Bloglet. That sucker rarely worked. Didn't want to waste anyone's time.

The guys came to suck the water out of the carpet. After playing with my model Monorail (which speaks), the guy looked at the wet spot, the quickly expanding crack and said, "I swear, this place is going to put my kids through college."

Yet another person who sees that the people who run this joint are morons.

There is water in my basement. It’s coming from a crack in the foundation. Hmm. No one seems to care.

I’m a renter, which, in the social hierarchy of the world, places me just above the level of a syphilitic leper with a social disease contracted from a used car salesman from Jersey. For the past six months, I’ve been going back and forth with the management about how many maintenance requests I’ve submitted that have been lost. Each time I finally get action, they do something ludicrous like put a piece of plastic under gravel outside. That should stop it!

That’s like putting a Teletubbies Band-Aid on an arterial laceration and saying, “Just rest up. You’ll feel better.”

It’s rained a lot in the last few days. Guess what? We have friggin’ water in our carpet. Water in a basement plus carpet plus padding plus not having it taken care of equals mold and mildew. Yum!

I’ve done everything I can to take care of it, but now I’m washing my hands of it. These moronic ass-monkey bastards need to take care of it.

“We have five hundred units. We can’t possibly keep track of all of our residents.”

Yes you can! It’s your JOB. Quit writing the requests on post-it notes and use those stupid circa 1990 386 computers to make a damn spreadsheet. IT will tell you all you need to know. And guess what? You can make changes to it. Gasp!

Doesn’t matter. This isn’t the first problem we’ve had, isn’t the first problem that doesn’t get fixed and it probably won’t be the last. We have a neighbor whose floor is rotting out. The complex acknowledges this but has done nothing. Have I mentioned that I live in a rather high-end suburb? Have I mentioned that the houses surrounding this rattrap are expensive?

When I spoke with Christy, the dim-witted assistant property manager today, I unloaded. I told her how this was bad business, their record with the BBB, the fact that losing or ignoring requests is endemic across the company and has nothing to do with 500 units. I told her that the behavior of their staff was bad business. Her response.

“Yeah. Do you want me to check on the status of your request now?”

“Sure,” I said. “And I’ll check the status of my complaint with your parent company.”

Sigh. All this rage and aggression towards a bunch of morons who spend most of their time baking cookies to eat in the office and worrying about a goose that laid eggs near the pool.

And when they finally take care of my issue, they’ll send one of the toothless, in-bred, backward moron “Dirty Brothers.” These guys don’t know squat about maintenance. They couldn’t fix a sandwich, or bathe, for that matter, much less know how to install a damn doorknob that actually opens the door.

So what’s my recourse? What do I do? I don’t know. Lodge a complaint? Alert the Chamber of Commerce? Alert the BBB? Picket? These Neanderthals are so dense none of that would work.

I’ll tell you what I may do. I may eat that friggin’ goose with a nice orange glaze. Heck, we may make it a block party. I know my neighbors would love to imbibe.

Gertrude’s on the cusp of crawling. She’ll get up on all fours, rock back and forth until one of her limbs is compelled to move. She’ll thrust and arm forward and . . . fall flat on her face.

Watching a child gain mobility is an odd experience. When she was a newborn, I’d watch her as she began to notice that things like hands and feet were actually attached. It was like watching Jell-O learn to jiggle itself. Well, that Jell-O can move around a room now. It’s fast, it’s unpredictable and it’s dangerous. It’s the Blob.

I imagine being a baby must become extremely frustrating at times. We often look at a child and think, “Oh, if it were only that simple again.”

Simple? This kid is stuck on the floor and she sees a toy a mere four feet away. This pisses her off. She wants that toy. She wants it bad. But she can’t get it. She can’t!

So, she hops up on all fours and start to rock. You can almost hear Mission Control ticking off it’s checklist.

“Baby’s body, this is the Cortex. Are we go or no go for launch? Left leg?”

“Go brain!”

“Right leg?”

“Go brain!”

“Left arm?”

“Go!”

“Right arm?”

“We’re go brain!”

“Tummy padding?”

“Go!”

“Face braking?”

“Reluctantly go brain.”

The countdown begins. Rocking faster now. She’s ready for launch. This isn’t a test; she’s really going to do it. 5. Arms twitching. 4. The legs are beginning to shuffle. 3. The toes are wiggling. 2. Look of stern determination. 1. Launch.

The entire body lunges forward. The arms know what to do, but the legs are pushing off with too much uncontrolled power. Abort! Abort! Ready the face brake!

And she slides on her face. But she won’t give up. She’ll try one or two more times. Either each lunge will get her close enough that eventually she’ll be able to reach it, or she’ll investigate alternate routes.

She has two alternate forms of mobility. The first is to roll in a great circle until she eventually reaches the toy. This takes a long time. The other is to plant her face on the floor, arching her butt straight up in the air and, using her forehead as a fulcrum, rotating her body into position and then backing in.

I encourage her mobility. I look forward to it. I sit on the sidelines rooting for her to go, as if she’s in the pole position for the Baby 500.

She’s going to get it soon. Perhaps within the next few days. And when she does, I’ll cheer. I’ll pick her up, hug her, kiss her and make her do it again.

Then I’ll show my friends. The neighbors. And strangers.

And Gertrude’s confidence will be sapped. She’ll wonder if she’s nothing more than a novelty. She’ll begin to wonder if there’s more to life than crawling. She’ll look around her and notice that, minus her arch-nemesis The Cat, everyone is a biped.

Walking!

And then we’re all screwed . . .

I’m sitting here with the rain pounding the windows. The clouds rolled in, dark and ominous. When the rain finally broke free, it was like a release and the darkness subsided, giving way to the usual dingy gray that accompanies a spring rainstorm.

As I sit here, waiting for questions regarding work to be answered, I can’t help but think of my Uncle Jim Deasey. Jim has been diagnosed with cancer. A word no one wants to hear. It’s a word that has weight and a sense of doom attached to it. No matter the outcome, since people these days can come out with minimal scars, cancer leaves scars that can’t be seen.

We don’t yet know the prognosis. He’ll be going through more tests, getting second opinions and generally putting all his hopes in the hands of strangers.

I remember this. I remember all of this so clearly.

Perhaps this is hitting me harder than it may hit my other siblings (except one). Maybe it’s my perspective. But, knowing that Uncle Jim is ill gives me this feeling of helplessness.

After my dad died, most of us wondered what we’d do. Of course my mom had to figure out how to raise seven kids (one was married and living on his own), get kids through college and on and on. Most of my brothers and sisters were in high school and college. They were beginning to forge their own lives and discover themselves.

Then there was my brother Bob and me. We’d all been hit hard by Dad’s death but, to the two of us, we had yet to discover that the mythical hero we called Dad was human. To us he could still leap buildings in a single bound. He was the man who was a Cowboy Soldier and could beat Tarzan in a swimming race through a river infested with crocodiles.

Imagine someone told you there was the most amazing sight behind a really tall fence. They give you a ladder and you climb up and get a glimpse of some of the most amazing things you’ve ever seen. You can’t describe them, you don’t understand them. Just as you are about to ask about them the ladder is kicked out from beneath you and you tumble to the ground.

That’s how it felt to me to lose Dad. Except it wasn’t a ladder I was perched on. I was sitting on his shoulders. Now I’d have to figure out another way to learn about all those things.

The summers after Dad died, we spent on vacation with Uncle Jim, his wife Trudy, who was my Dad’s sister and my Mom’s best friend, and some of their kids. We went to this little trailer park in the Ozarks off Table Rock Lake called Lazy Lee’s. It was magical. Green fields, pools, shimmering lakes and a clubhouse with a rickety player piano. Tradition stated that I fall in the lake at least once a trip. I never missed that tradition.

Uncle Jim taught me how to fish with a real fishing pole. Not the bamboo-training pole I had been using. He was patient as I sat bleary-eyed in the boat, trying to ignore the early morning sun. He never complained that I was terrified of worms and baited my hook for me. Jim, Bob and I would sit and that boat and wait for the fish to bite.

Once I caught a Bluegill. Probably the only worthwhile fish I had ever caught. But, it was small. Way too small. Jim explained that we couldn’t possibly eat the fish I had caught and that we should let the little guy go back to his family. So we released it from the boat dock. Then he taught me how to clean the other fish we’d caught.

Later that night, my brother Bob ate fish. He hates fish. They told him it was chicken. He still hates fish.

I learned the delights of toasting marshmallows over the orange-blue glow of a gas stove with my cousin Trina. We’d laugh and giggle and act like fools.

We’d spend the days going fishing, swimming, or at an amusement park. Once, while Bob was riding the classic Fire in the Hole, the braking system broke down. He waved as he passed us, getting an extra ride. I thought he was going to die in a fiery wreck of coaster cars and themed props. He didn’t.

In the evenings we’d go to dinner shows, hillbilly shows or the old Shepard of the Hills show. Once, Bob got to help put the fire in the barn out. That was a true honor.

Other nights, we’d sit outside in lawn chairs enjoying the crisp summer nights. The adults would “look for ‘em.” We didn’t know what that meant. “You’ll know when you see one.” I was twenty before I figured out what they were talking about. I never got the chance to properly look for ‘em with the gang.

One year my mom went to visit Trudy and Jim in Chicago. Our dog Freckles had died at the ripe age of 16. Mom came home with an extra carry-on. It was a little beagle/pointer mix puppy. Trudy and Jim couldn’t fathom “the boys” not having a dog. Their neighbor’s dog had recently had puppies. They made Mom bring one home. We named him TJ, after his surrogate parents. TJ was with us until he died twelve years later. I don’t want to brag, but he was the best dog that ever lived.

Years later, Trudy and Jim bought a lake house in northern Illinois. We spent several summers with them up there as well. This time we were older. Bob was in college. I was a brooding, lonely pre-teen obsessed with Van Halen. But Uncle Jim still had that mythical quality of a rugged teacher. He still took us out on the boat to fish. He taught me to water ski. He let me sharpen anything made of metal with his sharpening wheel in the garage. I loved sitting in the front seat of his car and watching the dashboard compass tell us which direction we were heading.

These summers, Bob was able to look for ‘em with Jim. I thought I saw one that year, but wasn’t sure. Trudy and Jim took us to a brewery for a tour (it smelled), introduced me to all you can eat cottage potatoes and what life was like in the smallest town I’ve ever seen, Durand, Illinois. It has a town square, which is, literally, a square. That’s it. They were having a lockjaw epidemic one particular summer.

We visited the homes of their friends. We biked around the lake. We wandered around and just did “stuff.” Never once, in any of these summers, was I bored.

When my Mom was sick, she had already lost her husband, Trudy had passed on . . . but Jim was eternal. As soon as he heard she was ill, he and his new wife Estelle were in a car and in St. Louis immediately to be by her side. Though nothing particular was ever said between us, his strong hand squeezing my shoulder was the comfort I needed.

My mom went to visit them that summer . . . her last summer. Though she was sick and weak, she played and swam and had a good time, just like it was any other summer.

The last time I saw Jim was at my wedding. His face lighting up with glee as our combined families acted like a bunch of little kids, dancing, talking and laughing.

I’m an adult now. I have children of my own. I haven’t been back to Lazy Lee’s. I probably never will. I’d hate to see that the memories of my youth are wrong. To me, it will always be the perfect place to take a vacation. Why ruin that?

I probably won’t ever teach my girls to clean fish. I doubt they’ll have an interest. But I’ll certainly pick up a sharpening stone for my garage. They’re welcome to sharpen whatever they find.

I don’t know how I’ll ever tell Jim what those summers meant to my brother and me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell him what he means to me. We never felt like outsiders, we never felt like we were just nephews. We were part of the family. There were no lines drawn.

Maybe Jim knew what he was doing for us those summers. Perhaps he knew that it was going to be particularly difficult for Bob and me to grow up without a father because he had been our hero.

All I know is that someone put me on their shoulders and I was looking over that fence again. I was seeing things I had never seen, doing things I had never done and learning things that only an experienced dad could teach you.

My Dad may not have been able to show me these things. But his life-long friend, my uncle, was happy to take the time to help out. Maybe he knew what he was doing. Maybe he was just being Jim. But those summers, and that time spent with him, the stories of his youth . . . and my father’s youth . . . certainly eased the pain a little.

I know I’ll never be able to find the words to express my feelings and gratefulness for Uncle Jim. Perhaps not. All I can offer are my best thoughts and wishes for his health and recovery. I just hope he knows that no matter what he’s going through, he has a family 350 miles away, hoping and praying for the best.

I hope to visit him soon. And when I do, I doubt I’ll be able to even voice ¼ of all the things I’ve said here. I don’t even know if they’d make sense to him.

But I will say this to him, as soon as I see him:

“Thank you.”

And the next time I’m out looking for ‘em, I’ll know who it was that showed me.

Yeah. See, I was going to blog today but then I forgot and now I forgot what I was going to blog. Now it sounds like I have a health problem. "Oh yeah, uh . . . I got the blog."

So, go visit my buddy Ed at Ramblings of a Depleted Mind. I can vouch for Ed. He's a good guy.

But, in all honesty . . . there's something seriously wrong with that boy.

Purple Fuzz Monkey!

Ah hell.

Robo-Rat!

Until you work for yourself and depend upon the hours you log, you won’t understand the concept of billable time.

I know I didn’t. Until now.

When I was salaried, I took getting paid for granted. I showed up, they gave me a check. It didn’t matter if I didn’t have anything to do (and at the last job, this was true 90% of the time). It didn’t matter if I didn’t do anything all day but stare at the computer trying to will it to work for me. They would still pay me.

In fact, this sort of behavior is accepted workplace behavior. To an extent. If you go to the soda machine thirty times a day, people will figure you’re thirsty. If you wander around chatting most people don’t care, as long as you’re not obvious. Go to the bathroom at least once an hour, spend ten minutes away from your desk, come back and blame it on bad chicken? That works too.

The best way, however, to avoid work is to be a smoker. They get away with everything. If things get rough? Go out for a smoke! Meeting lasted too long? Smoke! Get chewed out for spending too much time in the bathroom? Smoke! It’s the perfect excuse to go and think about something other than work.

But, sit at your desk and zone out for five minutes to take a mental break . . . you’re a slacker. You can’t do it. Put a cigarette in your mouth and you’re exonerated.

Back to billable time. My livelihood now depends upon how many hours I work in a day. To the exact minute. If I work fewer than X hours a week, we cannot pay the gas bill. So, I’m constantly staying ahead of X. Not that it’s hard to find the work. . .

Working freelance, at home, takes discipline. There are hundreds of distractions around me. From television to neighbor spying to cleaning. These are worthwhile activities.

But I am disciplined. I divide my day by work I get paid for and work I hope to get paid for someday.

It’s the way time works that’s the problem.

I have morals. I admit that. I like to offend people, but I don’t like to screw them. So, billable time becomes tricky.

For example, on any given day I’ll receive thirty emails. Some are work related, others aren’t. But they all come to the same address. Now, if it takes me thirty minutes to read my mail, I can only charge for the ones that are work related. Otherwise, I’d feel unethical.

Time it takes to make coffee? Can’t charge for that. If I worked at the office, I’d get paid to do it, but otherwise . . . no. It’s wrong.

The thirty minutes it took me to find the right CD to write letters to authors to? While work related . . . not a necessary task. Isn’t billed.

Brother calls me while I’m in the middle of putting together material for reviewers? Can’t charge it. We talked way too long.

You see, life is all about how you measure things. Mine’s measured in billable time. How’s yours measured? Everyone has a measure. Whether it’s counting the days to your next vacation or tracking how much time you spend online. A good day to you can be summed up somehow. What is it?

The important thing is to know what your life is measured by, but not to be ruled by it. It’s all about balance. These days I’m thankful for billable time. I now know when I’m work Gary and when I’m not. There’s something satisfying in that.