Thursday, June 27, 2002
Part of my job requires that I spend a lot of time talking with university professors. Therefore, I spend time researching universities. Most of them make sense. The University of Michigan is, well the University of Michigan. And on.
However, there is an odd trend of naming universities after faraway places. I suppose that naming a univeristy after Rome, Oxford or Milan would be very interesting. However, this isn't the case. I offer these two as examples:
The Indiana University of Pennsylvania
Miami University . . . in Oxford, Ohio
Why? I ask. I'm sure there's some sort of interesting story behind each one, but that doesn't matter. Why the hell would anyone want to go to Indiana University in Pennsylvania? Why not go to Indiana?
And I feel sorry for the students who admit to going to Miami University.
"Really? Wow! It must be great to live in Miami."
"Well, no. It's in Ohio."
"No, Miami is in Florida."
"True, but not the University. It's in Ohio."
"So you do a lot of drugs, huh?"
Again, the world confuses me. Therefore I'm going to ignore it and try to solve this damn Rubick's Cube.
I've been working on it since 1983. Being red/green color blind doesn't help.
However, there is an odd trend of naming universities after faraway places. I suppose that naming a univeristy after Rome, Oxford or Milan would be very interesting. However, this isn't the case. I offer these two as examples:
The Indiana University of Pennsylvania
Miami University . . . in Oxford, Ohio
Why? I ask. I'm sure there's some sort of interesting story behind each one, but that doesn't matter. Why the hell would anyone want to go to Indiana University in Pennsylvania? Why not go to Indiana?
And I feel sorry for the students who admit to going to Miami University.
"Really? Wow! It must be great to live in Miami."
"Well, no. It's in Ohio."
"No, Miami is in Florida."
"True, but not the University. It's in Ohio."
"So you do a lot of drugs, huh?"
Again, the world confuses me. Therefore I'm going to ignore it and try to solve this damn Rubick's Cube.
I've been working on it since 1983. Being red/green color blind doesn't help.
I’ve been looking for a new lease on life, but I haven’t been able to settle on the terms. It’s easy enough to find the right attitude at a good price, however it’s the fine print that gets you. I may be able to find a lease for happiness, but the square footage is way too low.
So I began shopping around. Would my new lease include utilities? There’s nothing worse than a lease on life in which you are responsible for the water and sewer. I hate that. I once had a lease on life that didn’t allow pets. That was bad, for what’s a new lease on life without the mute companionship of a loyal pet?
Another thing to consider about a new lease on life is location. You can have a new lease on life anywhere, but what is the cost? You may be paying less per month for the lease in Des Moines, but more in Honolulu. It’s a balance. Your lease in Hawaii may cost more, and you may get less, but the quality of that lease on life would be higher. It’s all a trade off.
Now, the sticking point for me is maintenance. I don’t want to have to do my own life maintenance. It’s so tiresome. Maintaining the relationships, your job, and your health. I’d rather just call a handy man to take care of everything. Fight with the wife? Enter Guido, who puts a little emotional Spackle on the situation and leaves. Sometimes he unclogs a drain and we all cry together. Guido is a good guy, and quite helpful. He’s more an ombudsman than a handy man.
And, with your new lease on life, what’s the view? Is it of the parking lot of life, or do you have a vista view? Once, in the mid nineties, I had a lease on life that overlooked the dumpster. It was binding and the penalties for breaking that lease on life were severe. I signed a new one in 1998, shortly after a trip to Disney World. I’d like to think that the time spent on Tower of Terror helped me in the negotiations.
The other consideration is not leasing life, but actually owning it. However, to do so you have to make sure that the life has a good foundation, with no leaks or flooding. Plus, who owned this life before you? Did they treat it gently? Did they have pets? Life ownership is complicated, plus you’ll have to mow the lawn.
I’ve decided to sublet someone else’s lease on life. Perhaps Martha Stewart’s is on the market?
So I began shopping around. Would my new lease include utilities? There’s nothing worse than a lease on life in which you are responsible for the water and sewer. I hate that. I once had a lease on life that didn’t allow pets. That was bad, for what’s a new lease on life without the mute companionship of a loyal pet?
Another thing to consider about a new lease on life is location. You can have a new lease on life anywhere, but what is the cost? You may be paying less per month for the lease in Des Moines, but more in Honolulu. It’s a balance. Your lease in Hawaii may cost more, and you may get less, but the quality of that lease on life would be higher. It’s all a trade off.
Now, the sticking point for me is maintenance. I don’t want to have to do my own life maintenance. It’s so tiresome. Maintaining the relationships, your job, and your health. I’d rather just call a handy man to take care of everything. Fight with the wife? Enter Guido, who puts a little emotional Spackle on the situation and leaves. Sometimes he unclogs a drain and we all cry together. Guido is a good guy, and quite helpful. He’s more an ombudsman than a handy man.
And, with your new lease on life, what’s the view? Is it of the parking lot of life, or do you have a vista view? Once, in the mid nineties, I had a lease on life that overlooked the dumpster. It was binding and the penalties for breaking that lease on life were severe. I signed a new one in 1998, shortly after a trip to Disney World. I’d like to think that the time spent on Tower of Terror helped me in the negotiations.
The other consideration is not leasing life, but actually owning it. However, to do so you have to make sure that the life has a good foundation, with no leaks or flooding. Plus, who owned this life before you? Did they treat it gently? Did they have pets? Life ownership is complicated, plus you’ll have to mow the lawn.
I’ve decided to sublet someone else’s lease on life. Perhaps Martha Stewart’s is on the market?
Wednesday, June 26, 2002
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
Someone asked me what I'll do with the old computer. Here are my ideas:
1. Wireless network. Make this one a slave, file server and a play station for the kids.
2. Just make it a server. Maybe even host my own website from it.
3. Beat the living hell out of it.
4. Wipe it, and sell it.
5. Gut it for parts.
6. Blow it up.
7. Throw it out the window.
8. Have a party where I give every party goer a piece of the computer. Chip here, board there . . .
9. Rip out the processor and wear it on a chain.
1. Wireless network. Make this one a slave, file server and a play station for the kids.
2. Just make it a server. Maybe even host my own website from it.
3. Beat the living hell out of it.
4. Wipe it, and sell it.
5. Gut it for parts.
6. Blow it up.
7. Throw it out the window.
8. Have a party where I give every party goer a piece of the computer. Chip here, board there . . .
9. Rip out the processor and wear it on a chain.
I’m sad to say that the time has come. The war must now escalate to untold proportions and extreme measures are being taken. The carnage will be great. Blood will be spilled and tears will be shed.
I am not referring to either the strife in the Middle East or the war on terrorism. I’m discussing the tech war that has been waged in my household.
The wife and I have finally decided that we are going to retire our 18-month-old computer. I stupidly bought a Gateway. That was a mistake. HUGE mistake. Besides the fact that their components have the dependability of a Yugo, their customer service sucks ass. Big hairy, unbathed Canadian lumberjack ass. In flannel boxer shorts.
In my defense, my previous computer was a Gateway P5-166. It had a blistering processing speed of 166mhz, 16MB of RAM and an ungodly 2.1-gigabyte harddrive. “How will I ever fill that????” I was a stupid, stupid man.
However, that little piece of machinery has never broken down. It still works, humming along like a trooper. Its counterpart, with an uber-fast processor, gobs of memory and RAM out the wazoo breaks down every two months, when it isn’t blue screening me to death. It assaults me with its inability to work.
Gateway, of course, has “fixed” it real good. They fixed so that it never, ever works. When I asked them if taking a computer into the shop five times in a year is an acceptable rate of error they asked me if I wanted it fixed or not. As if they were threatening me!
Ahhh . . . customer service. Theirs sucks ass, have I mentioned that? I remember the day when companies worked with their customers to make them happy. After all, they probably told their employees in training, “A happy customer is a repeat customer!” The only thing I’ll be repeating about Gateway is how their customer service sucks . . . I’ve mentioned that, haven’t I?
So, it has officially begun. My wife and I discussed our options and have decided that, since my livelihood depends upon this machine that, I will need to replace it. The expense will hurt our house hunting but I need the equipment for work.
Our options? Go to another national retailer and see what my options are, which I have and the computer I want will cost me roughly half the national debt, or build one myself.
Yes, you heard me right. Build one myself. Me. Build something other than sandwich.
I admit that it fills me with a little fear, but I will have some good help. John is acting as my consultant, telling me what sorts of processors to look at, and things to consider. And Geekfriend will surely help me construct, if not to assist then for the entertainment value alone. Of course I’ll need a good heat sink and will have to consider the buffer in the primary bus. Not only that, but I’ll have to look at USB 2.1 as well as which PCI slots I’ll fill and if I’ll skip the dependable LPT1 for a faster data rate of Firewire. Will I get a video card with 64MB of internal memory? It will certainly help system resources, but then I don’t play games much. Of course I’ll want a killer sound card. Will I want a DVD-R or just a CD-R? I know I’ll have at least two bays of drives, probably one with a DVD-Rom and the other with a CD-RW. I could always consider an internal zip, but that would be silly.
I, of course, have very little clue what I just said. However, I know I’ll have to make these decisions soon, because eventually I’ll have to mount the drive. At that point I will ask it, “Who’s your daddy?” If it doesn’t respond with my name I will return it.
Of course that isn’t how you mount a drive. You have to buy it wine first. Every good geek knows that.
The point is, I’ve entered a new level of geekdom. I am building things. Before you know it I’ll be implanting biochips in my kids’ heads that will make them clean the house. That, of course, will make me rich. Ethics be damned.
But I’m afraid that things are already getting beyond my scope. For example, I’ve already eschewed a normal computer case for a custom case. Will they perform any better? Hell no, these are like spoilers for cars! Check these babies out! They are cooooool, daddio!
Remember the days when men would stand out on the driveway looking at their muscle cars, discussing their performance as if they were high-class call girls? “Yeah, this baby has twin cams, a ceramic carb, duel exhaust and a fiberglass body with curves that don’t quit. When I stroke her she purrs like a kitten and goes off like a rocket!”
Those days are over. Now we men sit inside (we can’t go out without a sunscreen with lower than an 85 SPF rating) discussing our computers in the same way. “Yeah, she’s got twin processors running at 2.2 gigs a piece, but overclocked for better performance, a primary heat sink with top of the line thermal grease, duel OS that boot separately and an aluminum case, with viewable lines and neon to highlight her spinning drives. When I crack her BIOS she purrs like a kitten and goes off like a rocket!”
How far we have come to become more civilized.
I am not referring to either the strife in the Middle East or the war on terrorism. I’m discussing the tech war that has been waged in my household.
The wife and I have finally decided that we are going to retire our 18-month-old computer. I stupidly bought a Gateway. That was a mistake. HUGE mistake. Besides the fact that their components have the dependability of a Yugo, their customer service sucks ass. Big hairy, unbathed Canadian lumberjack ass. In flannel boxer shorts.
In my defense, my previous computer was a Gateway P5-166. It had a blistering processing speed of 166mhz, 16MB of RAM and an ungodly 2.1-gigabyte harddrive. “How will I ever fill that????” I was a stupid, stupid man.
However, that little piece of machinery has never broken down. It still works, humming along like a trooper. Its counterpart, with an uber-fast processor, gobs of memory and RAM out the wazoo breaks down every two months, when it isn’t blue screening me to death. It assaults me with its inability to work.
Gateway, of course, has “fixed” it real good. They fixed so that it never, ever works. When I asked them if taking a computer into the shop five times in a year is an acceptable rate of error they asked me if I wanted it fixed or not. As if they were threatening me!
Ahhh . . . customer service. Theirs sucks ass, have I mentioned that? I remember the day when companies worked with their customers to make them happy. After all, they probably told their employees in training, “A happy customer is a repeat customer!” The only thing I’ll be repeating about Gateway is how their customer service sucks . . . I’ve mentioned that, haven’t I?
So, it has officially begun. My wife and I discussed our options and have decided that, since my livelihood depends upon this machine that, I will need to replace it. The expense will hurt our house hunting but I need the equipment for work.
Our options? Go to another national retailer and see what my options are, which I have and the computer I want will cost me roughly half the national debt, or build one myself.
Yes, you heard me right. Build one myself. Me. Build something other than sandwich.
I admit that it fills me with a little fear, but I will have some good help. John is acting as my consultant, telling me what sorts of processors to look at, and things to consider. And Geekfriend will surely help me construct, if not to assist then for the entertainment value alone. Of course I’ll need a good heat sink and will have to consider the buffer in the primary bus. Not only that, but I’ll have to look at USB 2.1 as well as which PCI slots I’ll fill and if I’ll skip the dependable LPT1 for a faster data rate of Firewire. Will I get a video card with 64MB of internal memory? It will certainly help system resources, but then I don’t play games much. Of course I’ll want a killer sound card. Will I want a DVD-R or just a CD-R? I know I’ll have at least two bays of drives, probably one with a DVD-Rom and the other with a CD-RW. I could always consider an internal zip, but that would be silly.
I, of course, have very little clue what I just said. However, I know I’ll have to make these decisions soon, because eventually I’ll have to mount the drive. At that point I will ask it, “Who’s your daddy?” If it doesn’t respond with my name I will return it.
Of course that isn’t how you mount a drive. You have to buy it wine first. Every good geek knows that.
The point is, I’ve entered a new level of geekdom. I am building things. Before you know it I’ll be implanting biochips in my kids’ heads that will make them clean the house. That, of course, will make me rich. Ethics be damned.
But I’m afraid that things are already getting beyond my scope. For example, I’ve already eschewed a normal computer case for a custom case. Will they perform any better? Hell no, these are like spoilers for cars! Check these babies out! They are cooooool, daddio!
Remember the days when men would stand out on the driveway looking at their muscle cars, discussing their performance as if they were high-class call girls? “Yeah, this baby has twin cams, a ceramic carb, duel exhaust and a fiberglass body with curves that don’t quit. When I stroke her she purrs like a kitten and goes off like a rocket!”
Those days are over. Now we men sit inside (we can’t go out without a sunscreen with lower than an 85 SPF rating) discussing our computers in the same way. “Yeah, she’s got twin processors running at 2.2 gigs a piece, but overclocked for better performance, a primary heat sink with top of the line thermal grease, duel OS that boot separately and an aluminum case, with viewable lines and neon to highlight her spinning drives. When I crack her BIOS she purrs like a kitten and goes off like a rocket!”
How far we have come to become more civilized.
Monday, June 24, 2002
As I mentioned earlier, yesterday was Matilda’s seventh birthday. Mom is currently roaming the house, singing Nick Cave songs and draping all the mirrors in black. Mom’s little baby has grown and is now becoming independent.
True, seven years old is not exactly emancipation age. She’s not driving, drinking or dating. However, the magical years of wide-eyed innocence are ending. Matilda figured out the truth of the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus in quick succession. Halloween is becoming a contest amongst friends. Worse, her heart is broken on a daily basis.
Our ability to protect is slowly waning. Where we were once able to shield her from unnecessary pain, we can no longer tread. From here until, well . . . death, is a learning experience. One dreadful moment to the next, pain and humiliation.
At least that’s how a parent sees it. Matilda will still have wonderful times, great memories and exciting experiences. Yet, to us, we only see the downhill turns. She has yet to be betrayed by a best friend, not invited to a party, been dumped by a boyfriend . . . it never ends.
Matilda is carving out her own personality. Her own likes and dislikes. Her own style. She’s entering the trying times of acceptance and rejection. And it’s difficult to watch.
She no longer openly cries, but now feels it necessary to fight back the tears. Bite the bullet. We see her friends treating her poorly and have to hang back and remember that she needs to learn how to handle it herself.
For the parent, bedtime is the worst moment. In the dim glow of the bathroom light, we discuss our day. We go over our highs and lows. There is something about that moment, reflecting over the day that makes us want to discuss fears.
This used to be easy. Are ghosts real? Are you going to die? Will there be an earthquake? Now . . . we have real life fears. What if no one likes me? They’re going to laugh at me. Why do my friends treat me that way?
These aren’t situations that can be chased away with a kiss to the forehead. These are fears that will stay with her. And, how she handles them now will teach her how to handle it in the future. And I CAN’T DO ANYTHING. Just support her and talk through it. Give advice. I can no longer answer the questions but, rather, guide her towards a good decision.
It’s hard to believe that the child I met when I started to date her mother is now seven. She was just a two-year-old then. We played Barnyard Bingo (and I always lost . . . and not on purpose). Now we discuss fashion and terrorist threats.
Where have the years gone? How did that stammering little girl, who morphed her “r”s into “w”s turn into this intelligent, articulate girl? Where did that little girl go?
I’d say that I long for her back, that I want her to remain a toddler forever. But that wouldn’t be the truth. To be honest, I’m proud of how she’s growing. True, it’s faster than I expected, but she’ is quite the amazing child. Intelligent, truthful, good-hearted. She’s a reader, an artist. She’s poised and polite, making us the envy of all the other parents.
And yet, part of me wishes I could freeze that moment in time so long ago when she sat on her pink princess bike and donned her Barbie helmet for the first time, tottering down the street, training wheels clattering over the seams in the pavement. She had a doll in her basket and was ringing the bell.
The training wheels are gone. So is the basket and “Princess” license plate. The doll stays inside now and the bell is hidden in a drawer. Next year, a more serious bike will replace the pink princess bike, and old pinkie will sit in storage until the day when Baby Gertrude is ready to ride.
And the training wheels will be dusted off; a new basket will be bought. And we’ll hear those wheels clattering again. Except this time, a nearly eleven-year-old Matilda will be running behind the bike imparting her wisdom and encouragement to her little sister.
And my heart will be breaking. But in a good way, because the neighborhood will be filled with children’s laughter. My children.
My girls.
True, seven years old is not exactly emancipation age. She’s not driving, drinking or dating. However, the magical years of wide-eyed innocence are ending. Matilda figured out the truth of the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus in quick succession. Halloween is becoming a contest amongst friends. Worse, her heart is broken on a daily basis.
Our ability to protect is slowly waning. Where we were once able to shield her from unnecessary pain, we can no longer tread. From here until, well . . . death, is a learning experience. One dreadful moment to the next, pain and humiliation.
At least that’s how a parent sees it. Matilda will still have wonderful times, great memories and exciting experiences. Yet, to us, we only see the downhill turns. She has yet to be betrayed by a best friend, not invited to a party, been dumped by a boyfriend . . . it never ends.
Matilda is carving out her own personality. Her own likes and dislikes. Her own style. She’s entering the trying times of acceptance and rejection. And it’s difficult to watch.
She no longer openly cries, but now feels it necessary to fight back the tears. Bite the bullet. We see her friends treating her poorly and have to hang back and remember that she needs to learn how to handle it herself.
For the parent, bedtime is the worst moment. In the dim glow of the bathroom light, we discuss our day. We go over our highs and lows. There is something about that moment, reflecting over the day that makes us want to discuss fears.
This used to be easy. Are ghosts real? Are you going to die? Will there be an earthquake? Now . . . we have real life fears. What if no one likes me? They’re going to laugh at me. Why do my friends treat me that way?
These aren’t situations that can be chased away with a kiss to the forehead. These are fears that will stay with her. And, how she handles them now will teach her how to handle it in the future. And I CAN’T DO ANYTHING. Just support her and talk through it. Give advice. I can no longer answer the questions but, rather, guide her towards a good decision.
It’s hard to believe that the child I met when I started to date her mother is now seven. She was just a two-year-old then. We played Barnyard Bingo (and I always lost . . . and not on purpose). Now we discuss fashion and terrorist threats.
Where have the years gone? How did that stammering little girl, who morphed her “r”s into “w”s turn into this intelligent, articulate girl? Where did that little girl go?
I’d say that I long for her back, that I want her to remain a toddler forever. But that wouldn’t be the truth. To be honest, I’m proud of how she’s growing. True, it’s faster than I expected, but she’ is quite the amazing child. Intelligent, truthful, good-hearted. She’s a reader, an artist. She’s poised and polite, making us the envy of all the other parents.
And yet, part of me wishes I could freeze that moment in time so long ago when she sat on her pink princess bike and donned her Barbie helmet for the first time, tottering down the street, training wheels clattering over the seams in the pavement. She had a doll in her basket and was ringing the bell.
The training wheels are gone. So is the basket and “Princess” license plate. The doll stays inside now and the bell is hidden in a drawer. Next year, a more serious bike will replace the pink princess bike, and old pinkie will sit in storage until the day when Baby Gertrude is ready to ride.
And the training wheels will be dusted off; a new basket will be bought. And we’ll hear those wheels clattering again. Except this time, a nearly eleven-year-old Matilda will be running behind the bike imparting her wisdom and encouragement to her little sister.
And my heart will be breaking. But in a good way, because the neighborhood will be filled with children’s laughter. My children.
My girls.
Happiness is:
Reading other people's comments, finding a mutual comment and summarizing them. The joy! The fun! The excitment! Who says publishing is no longer an exciting field? Why I'm just bubbling over.
Entry later. Much later. I have to finish this and then go pick up the little ones from the sitter.
Yesterday was Matilda's seventh birthday. Much fun was had by all. Except her mother and step-dad, who were at an outdoor wedding. In the 90 degree heat. Matilda was at her dad's house. Having a party and cake. And playing with her new Skip-It.
All in all, the entire family shut down for nearly three days and had a non-stop festival. It started Saturday with a pre-birthday dinner extravaganza and ends today, with a McDonalds luncheon with her friends at the sitter's.
On a higher note: She and I are nearly 200 pages through the first Harry Potter book. We're already planning to get the second book as soon as we're done. This is what makes parenting worth it. Forty five minutes a night reading a good book together.
It doesn't get much better.
Reading other people's comments, finding a mutual comment and summarizing them. The joy! The fun! The excitment! Who says publishing is no longer an exciting field? Why I'm just bubbling over.
Entry later. Much later. I have to finish this and then go pick up the little ones from the sitter.
Yesterday was Matilda's seventh birthday. Much fun was had by all. Except her mother and step-dad, who were at an outdoor wedding. In the 90 degree heat. Matilda was at her dad's house. Having a party and cake. And playing with her new Skip-It.
All in all, the entire family shut down for nearly three days and had a non-stop festival. It started Saturday with a pre-birthday dinner extravaganza and ends today, with a McDonalds luncheon with her friends at the sitter's.
On a higher note: She and I are nearly 200 pages through the first Harry Potter book. We're already planning to get the second book as soon as we're done. This is what makes parenting worth it. Forty five minutes a night reading a good book together.
It doesn't get much better.
Friday, June 21, 2002
I am not cool. Never was, never will be. In fact, I am patently uncool. No one who wears surfer shorts and Mickey Mouse t-shirts will ever risk being invited into the fold by the chosen ones. It has been my distinct honor to be giggled at by the Starbucks neo-hip.
But I’m okay with this. In order to accept hipness, to take on a hiptitude, I would have to give up what I personally feel is my greatest attribute. The mere fact that I simply do not care what other people think of me. You think I’m uncool? That’s fine with me. You know why? Because you measure your sense of coolness by what your magazines tell you, or by what Entertainment Tonight sets as criteria.
That’s not for me.
I listen to music with bands that have fruit names. I think that’s cool. Apples in Stereo, Orange Peels, Strawberry Design, Outrageous Cherry, Three Apples High. Never heard of them? Of course not, HOT 97 doesn’t play them. But it’s okay that you’ve never heard of them. You should like what strikes you.
It so happens that I enjoy what’s considered “Children’s” television. Blues Clues, Bear in the Big Blue House, Powerpuff Girls. And so on. I can use my kids as an excuse to watch them now but when I lived alone I still woke up every Saturday morning to watch cartoons. Why? Because I enjoyed it.
I don’t fear my emotions. I blatantly love my wife and take every moment I can to sing her praises. She’s a good woman and I’m lucky to have her as my spouse. I don’t hide my feelings about my kids. They are the center of my life, not career, not entertainment. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m feeling maudlin over the prospect of Geek Friend moving. He may not, but I don’t want him to. His friendship makes life more enjoyable. He’ll still be my friend whether he lives in Colorado or Budapest. But not having him around will fill me with a feeling of sadness.
I like what I like. If that includes ugly Hawaiian shirts, so be it. They make me happy. So do The Beach Boys and The Beatles. I like Talking Heads, Science Fiction and Scratch-n-Sniff Stickers. I enjoy good beer, better coffee and bad movies. I like to stay home on Friday nights and go out on Wednesdays. I like to stay up all night reading and spend the day playing. I like bike riding and running away from bugs. I like good sixties pop, and corny fifties pop. Animated movies and puppet shows. I like the zoo because I like weird animals. I like the way ice cream melts, runs down the cone and gets on my hand on a hot summer day. I may even be tempted to lick it off.
In fact, I may be so uncool that I’ve become cool by being different. I don’t think I’m a cookie cutter mold. I don’t follow any political party, as I make choices on the issues based on my own beliefs. Sometimes those stances change, based on my emotional state. My life isn’t defined by black and white. Nor grays. Sometimes I like a few reds, purples and a polka dot thrown in there.
And I seem to have lost focus of this lately. I needed to write this for myself to remind me that I’m not who I am based on what responsibilities I have. I am who I am because that’s just the way it is. The freelance work I have was given to me because of who I am. They like that I can identify movies by the font on their opening credits. My wife enjoys the fact that I can name a song within the first second or identify a movie on television within three. My kids like me because I can make monkey noises.
I have to remember what I’m good at. I have to remember what I am and be that.
And so should you. Don’t let others define you; define yourself. Don’t give up things you love just because the rest of the world doesn’t appreciate them. If that were the case with everyone, Van Gough would have opened a store and become “The Painter of Light.” Beethoven would have written elevator music and Hitchcock would have made musicals. Kermit the Frog would have married Piggy and spent the rest of his life miserable, because it was expected.
Don’t do the expected. The unexpected is so much more fun.
Just do me a favor . . . keep your clothes on in public. You still have to be mindful of public decency laws.
But I’m okay with this. In order to accept hipness, to take on a hiptitude, I would have to give up what I personally feel is my greatest attribute. The mere fact that I simply do not care what other people think of me. You think I’m uncool? That’s fine with me. You know why? Because you measure your sense of coolness by what your magazines tell you, or by what Entertainment Tonight sets as criteria.
That’s not for me.
I listen to music with bands that have fruit names. I think that’s cool. Apples in Stereo, Orange Peels, Strawberry Design, Outrageous Cherry, Three Apples High. Never heard of them? Of course not, HOT 97 doesn’t play them. But it’s okay that you’ve never heard of them. You should like what strikes you.
It so happens that I enjoy what’s considered “Children’s” television. Blues Clues, Bear in the Big Blue House, Powerpuff Girls. And so on. I can use my kids as an excuse to watch them now but when I lived alone I still woke up every Saturday morning to watch cartoons. Why? Because I enjoyed it.
I don’t fear my emotions. I blatantly love my wife and take every moment I can to sing her praises. She’s a good woman and I’m lucky to have her as my spouse. I don’t hide my feelings about my kids. They are the center of my life, not career, not entertainment. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m feeling maudlin over the prospect of Geek Friend moving. He may not, but I don’t want him to. His friendship makes life more enjoyable. He’ll still be my friend whether he lives in Colorado or Budapest. But not having him around will fill me with a feeling of sadness.
I like what I like. If that includes ugly Hawaiian shirts, so be it. They make me happy. So do The Beach Boys and The Beatles. I like Talking Heads, Science Fiction and Scratch-n-Sniff Stickers. I enjoy good beer, better coffee and bad movies. I like to stay home on Friday nights and go out on Wednesdays. I like to stay up all night reading and spend the day playing. I like bike riding and running away from bugs. I like good sixties pop, and corny fifties pop. Animated movies and puppet shows. I like the zoo because I like weird animals. I like the way ice cream melts, runs down the cone and gets on my hand on a hot summer day. I may even be tempted to lick it off.
In fact, I may be so uncool that I’ve become cool by being different. I don’t think I’m a cookie cutter mold. I don’t follow any political party, as I make choices on the issues based on my own beliefs. Sometimes those stances change, based on my emotional state. My life isn’t defined by black and white. Nor grays. Sometimes I like a few reds, purples and a polka dot thrown in there.
And I seem to have lost focus of this lately. I needed to write this for myself to remind me that I’m not who I am based on what responsibilities I have. I am who I am because that’s just the way it is. The freelance work I have was given to me because of who I am. They like that I can identify movies by the font on their opening credits. My wife enjoys the fact that I can name a song within the first second or identify a movie on television within three. My kids like me because I can make monkey noises.
I have to remember what I’m good at. I have to remember what I am and be that.
And so should you. Don’t let others define you; define yourself. Don’t give up things you love just because the rest of the world doesn’t appreciate them. If that were the case with everyone, Van Gough would have opened a store and become “The Painter of Light.” Beethoven would have written elevator music and Hitchcock would have made musicals. Kermit the Frog would have married Piggy and spent the rest of his life miserable, because it was expected.
Don’t do the expected. The unexpected is so much more fun.
Just do me a favor . . . keep your clothes on in public. You still have to be mindful of public decency laws.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
I'm currently the number two result on Yahoo for "ugliest geek photos." I'm ranked right up there with Tech TV, so that ain't bad.
However, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean . . . am I an ugly geek? I've always figured I was a snobby geek. An elitist, in a sense.
Oh well, sorry to whomever searched for ugly geeks. We don't have any here. Just plain old me.
I leave you with this thought:
If a server crashes in the forest and there's no geek around, will the DNS be rerouted?
However, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean . . . am I an ugly geek? I've always figured I was a snobby geek. An elitist, in a sense.
Oh well, sorry to whomever searched for ugly geeks. We don't have any here. Just plain old me.
I leave you with this thought:
If a server crashes in the forest and there's no geek around, will the DNS be rerouted?
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
Congratulations Chris O'Brien! (She's my wife) She now adds "Award-Winning Writer" to her impressive list of qualifications.
From the Elsevier Science publishing company's internal Website:
LATEST NEWS
Fontella Bradford and Chris O'Brien, ES employees in St. Louis, USA received International Association of Business Communicators 2002 Bronze Quill Awards. Further information on ES Today.
St. Louis staff win writing awardsTwo Elsevier Science employees in St. Louis, USA, received International Association of Business Communicators 2002 Bronze Quill Awards this year in the Writing - Sales Promotion and Marketing category. Fontella Bradford, Senior Copywriter/Project Leader, received an Award of Merit; and Chris O'Brien, Copywriter/ Project Coordinator, was given an Honourable Mention. The Bronze Quill Awards recognise outstanding efforts in business communications in the St. Louis metropolitan area. Entries were evaluated on several levels of effectiveness including addressing communications issues or problems, meeting project objectives, and overall project success. For more information go to http://www.iabc.com.
Yay Lovely Wife!
From the Elsevier Science publishing company's internal Website:
LATEST NEWS
Fontella Bradford and Chris O'Brien, ES employees in St. Louis, USA received International Association of Business Communicators 2002 Bronze Quill Awards. Further information on ES Today.
St. Louis staff win writing awardsTwo Elsevier Science employees in St. Louis, USA, received International Association of Business Communicators 2002 Bronze Quill Awards this year in the Writing - Sales Promotion and Marketing category. Fontella Bradford, Senior Copywriter/Project Leader, received an Award of Merit; and Chris O'Brien, Copywriter/ Project Coordinator, was given an Honourable Mention. The Bronze Quill Awards recognise outstanding efforts in business communications in the St. Louis metropolitan area. Entries were evaluated on several levels of effectiveness including addressing communications issues or problems, meeting project objectives, and overall project success. For more information go to http://www.iabc.com.
Yay Lovely Wife!
Note: Honey, I love you! You are a wonderful wife, a great mother and a fantastic companion. You are everything I’ve ever wanted out of life and I look forward to spending the next sixty some odd years with you. That being said, I apologize for the following post. I’d also like to point out that putting arsenic in someone’s soup is illegal, not matter what he or she posts on their blog.
I have successfully survived seven months of breastfeeding a child. Not me personally, of course. My wife is doing all the work. I stand beside her and yell encouragement, do cheers, that kind of stuff. Such as:
Lactate! Lactate!
It’s the food the baby ate!
Goooooooooooo mammary!
Currently I’m not allowed in the house when the family is there. But my fingers are crossed that I’ll be allowed back after weaning. My wife says it has something to do with a loud bass hole that is near her when she’s feeding the baby. I don’t know what a bass hole is, but I hope it goes away soon because I don’t have any clean clothes.
Of course, there are amazing health benefits to breastfeeding. I learned about them in our labor classes. Things about health that I don’t remember because I was trying to tie my shoes in a Celtic knot. However, I hear they are many. I also understand that breastfed children are genetically predisposed to beating the crap out of formula babies in a bizarre class war that adults will never understand.
Plus, there’s no bottle heating. The baby’s food is on tap, which is a boon. What’s amazing is what a mother can accomplish while the baby is eating. She can run on the treadmill, read a book, cook dinner and feed the baby all at once. I have a hard enough time keeping my zipper from falling down throughout the day.
Men are ill prepared to handle the requirements of breastfeeding. Their requirement, of course, is to shut the hell up and go away until their wife is done. For some reason, tickling the baby while she’s eating is “distracting” and making jokes about Bessie the Cow are “insulting” and “annoying.” Whatever. I just know that breastfeeding includes a lot more than I ever expected.
First of all (my wife is going to kill me) are the maternity bras. They have flaps that allow easy access for the baby. If teen boys knew these existed, there would be a glut on the market.
There is also a need for a “spot” that is quiet and comfortable for her to nurse the baby. I understand this because, well, she has another human being attached to her for the time being and, well . . . that’s odd.
One thing that isn’t mentioned is the machinery that accompanies breast-feeding. Apparently, and men have no concept of this, when the baby hasn’t fed for a while (makes her sound like the undead feasting upon souls of virgins) the breasts hurt. Not just, “Ow my breast hurts” but pain that will actually cause the woman to consider hooking a vacuum cleaner up to her body and milk herself. Again, didn’t know about this.
Men would never be able to handle this. First of all, when their chest began to grow, they’d think it was cancer and try to have them removed. Secondly, they’d never put up with the pain associated with “engorgement”, a word that would frighten them to no end. No, as soon as the pain hit, they’d dump the tanks no matter where they were.
We’re talking about a gender that has no problem with public urination. Do you seriously doubt that men would dump the milk behind a tree in their neighbor’s yard?
If men breastfed, the taboo of breastfeeding in public would end. Again, I play the public urination card. They wouldn’t care. They’d whip them out right in the middle of dinner. Hell, they’d do it at church. Wouldn’t bother them a bit.
However, there is some sort of bizarre taboo against women feeding their children in public. Why? It’s quite natural. We watch our dog poop in the lawn and laugh. See a woman discretely feeding a baby in public, a blanket covering all the naughty bits, and she’s infringing on your rights. For some reason it’s okay for teen girls to walk around showing ass crack and baring cleavage that would make Lonnie Anderson faint, but breastfeeding moms have to hide.
The world makes little sense to me. But that’s okay. I don’t think it’s supposed to. If it did, then I’d probably be a woman. And I think I just made it pretty clear why I can’t be . . .
I have successfully survived seven months of breastfeeding a child. Not me personally, of course. My wife is doing all the work. I stand beside her and yell encouragement, do cheers, that kind of stuff. Such as:
Lactate! Lactate!
It’s the food the baby ate!
Goooooooooooo mammary!
Currently I’m not allowed in the house when the family is there. But my fingers are crossed that I’ll be allowed back after weaning. My wife says it has something to do with a loud bass hole that is near her when she’s feeding the baby. I don’t know what a bass hole is, but I hope it goes away soon because I don’t have any clean clothes.
Of course, there are amazing health benefits to breastfeeding. I learned about them in our labor classes. Things about health that I don’t remember because I was trying to tie my shoes in a Celtic knot. However, I hear they are many. I also understand that breastfed children are genetically predisposed to beating the crap out of formula babies in a bizarre class war that adults will never understand.
Plus, there’s no bottle heating. The baby’s food is on tap, which is a boon. What’s amazing is what a mother can accomplish while the baby is eating. She can run on the treadmill, read a book, cook dinner and feed the baby all at once. I have a hard enough time keeping my zipper from falling down throughout the day.
Men are ill prepared to handle the requirements of breastfeeding. Their requirement, of course, is to shut the hell up and go away until their wife is done. For some reason, tickling the baby while she’s eating is “distracting” and making jokes about Bessie the Cow are “insulting” and “annoying.” Whatever. I just know that breastfeeding includes a lot more than I ever expected.
First of all (my wife is going to kill me) are the maternity bras. They have flaps that allow easy access for the baby. If teen boys knew these existed, there would be a glut on the market.
There is also a need for a “spot” that is quiet and comfortable for her to nurse the baby. I understand this because, well, she has another human being attached to her for the time being and, well . . . that’s odd.
One thing that isn’t mentioned is the machinery that accompanies breast-feeding. Apparently, and men have no concept of this, when the baby hasn’t fed for a while (makes her sound like the undead feasting upon souls of virgins) the breasts hurt. Not just, “Ow my breast hurts” but pain that will actually cause the woman to consider hooking a vacuum cleaner up to her body and milk herself. Again, didn’t know about this.
Men would never be able to handle this. First of all, when their chest began to grow, they’d think it was cancer and try to have them removed. Secondly, they’d never put up with the pain associated with “engorgement”, a word that would frighten them to no end. No, as soon as the pain hit, they’d dump the tanks no matter where they were.
We’re talking about a gender that has no problem with public urination. Do you seriously doubt that men would dump the milk behind a tree in their neighbor’s yard?
If men breastfed, the taboo of breastfeeding in public would end. Again, I play the public urination card. They wouldn’t care. They’d whip them out right in the middle of dinner. Hell, they’d do it at church. Wouldn’t bother them a bit.
However, there is some sort of bizarre taboo against women feeding their children in public. Why? It’s quite natural. We watch our dog poop in the lawn and laugh. See a woman discretely feeding a baby in public, a blanket covering all the naughty bits, and she’s infringing on your rights. For some reason it’s okay for teen girls to walk around showing ass crack and baring cleavage that would make Lonnie Anderson faint, but breastfeeding moms have to hide.
The world makes little sense to me. But that’s okay. I don’t think it’s supposed to. If it did, then I’d probably be a woman. And I think I just made it pretty clear why I can’t be . . .
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
Yeah . . . remember how I was going to write something today? Well, I didn't, so get over it.
However, I leave you with this ad I came across today.
Yep, you guessed it . . . It was a pop up.
The irony is almost too much to bear. Just wait for it . . . wait for it . . . and it is now officially too ironic to bear.
Thank you ladies and gentlemen.
However, I leave you with this ad I came across today.
Yep, you guessed it . . . It was a pop up.
The irony is almost too much to bear. Just wait for it . . . wait for it . . . and it is now officially too ironic to bear.
Thank you ladies and gentlemen.
Random note before full blog:
I was notified that I was the 98,678,959th visitor to a website today and I won a glorious prize. Two problems. It was at a website that I run and I know for a fact that I've never had more than 11 visitors. All me. Two: why the hell would anyone celebrate this number? It's like getting excited over having worked at the same company for 37 days. It makes no sense.
Stupid ad companies. I woldn't mind pop up ads so much, were it not for the fact that most of them are STUPID. You are stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Great, now I have a vein throbbing in my temple. I need to find my center.
Ohm. Ohm. Hey look, there it is, just below my chest. Whew!
I was notified that I was the 98,678,959th visitor to a website today and I won a glorious prize. Two problems. It was at a website that I run and I know for a fact that I've never had more than 11 visitors. All me. Two: why the hell would anyone celebrate this number? It's like getting excited over having worked at the same company for 37 days. It makes no sense.
Stupid ad companies. I woldn't mind pop up ads so much, were it not for the fact that most of them are STUPID. You are stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Great, now I have a vein throbbing in my temple. I need to find my center.
Ohm. Ohm. Hey look, there it is, just below my chest. Whew!
Monday, June 17, 2002
My first “official” Father’s Day has come and gone. We’ve always celebrated it in the past, but this year was different. Perhaps it’s because I have a biological child now. Or, it may be that now that there are two children, our family feels more like the traditional American ideal of . . . something.
I woke and came down to find some brightly colored wrapping paper and cards awaiting me. I grabbed a cup of coffee and some donuts (my family knows my weaknesses) and I got ready to revel in my fatherhood. Then Intercot went down. So I had to investigate that because John is out of town.
When I diagnosed the problem and decided there was nothing I could do, I went back to the festivities.
The girls gave me some CDs. The best one was Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds Live, wrapped in a real Hawaiian shirt, complete with a picture of a Woody on it. I think they thought this was a great joke, giving me the traditional ugly shirt. However, it backfired when I immediately put it on and wore it the rest of the day.
I think my lovely wife had a sudden glimpse of our retirement. Me in an ugly shirt, red shorts, sandals with sunglasses berating the kids at the local coffee shop (in Florida, of course). I really do like this ugly shirt and it will become a classic member of my wardrobe. When I get depressed, I can wear the shirt and lay in bed . . . just like Brian Wilson did.
Matilda made me a book called “Fun Stuff You Want!” It’s quite cute, filled with pictures of computers, TVs, Refrigerators(?), comfortable pants and a section in which I can add my own wants and desires. However, the best part of the book is something that betrays her wry sense of humor (something most kids her age don’t have). There is a dedication page with my name in a drawing of a computer. On the opposite page is, and I’m not kidding, “A Fun Picture Book For Children”. I love that kid. I rolled on the floor when I saw that. She has a bright future.
Baby Gertrude made me a book as well. Her mom helped. It contained pictures of herself (she’s so vain she probably thinks this blog is about her) and a cute narrative about how much she loves me. For example, under a picture of her eating the Sunday paper is this:
“Every morning I see my Daddy rustle around with this neat, brightly colored stuff. It makes really great noise, and I promised myself that as soon as I was big enough to pull up on the table, I’d rustle this stuff around just like my daddy.
“Sure enough, I got it! Daddy grinned at me and let me taste the printer ink.”
She’s a smart kid. Her Mom’s no slouch either. And all three of them are such pretty girls. I think I managed to luck out in this situation. How did I end up with such a great family?
Also, the voting came down to the last minute, but I managed to win the “Father of the Year” award from the girls. I have a signed certificate and everything. I’ll have to check into possible prize money. After all, the Nobel comes with cash. Why shouldn’t this?
I have to admit that I did lobby quite a bit for this award. I’ve stepped up my campaign with trips to the birdie hospital, shopping sprees, surprise ice cream runs, trips to the park and nightly readings of the first Harry Potter novel, complete with distinct character voices.
Since I can’t let any thing go by without reflecting over the over all significance of the day. Really, I thought about the role of a father and what that means.
We can’t really depend upon the media to show us what a father is. Turn on any television set and you’ll find a befuddled moron, mildly interested in his children and hell-bent on finding his next beer. Can’t trust magazines either. Most parenting magazines focus on the point of view of the mother, only mentioning fathers when they invariably screw up.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. I know there are plenty of involved, participating fathers who are huge parts of their children’s lives. However, there is no role model for us. We can’t look to anyone or any resource as inspiration other than our own fathers.
I am a proud father. I want to watch my kids do everything. I know my brothers are the same way. We are all more involved today than many men were in the past. We split the duties of raising the children. “Split” isn’t the right word. We share the job, work as a team with our spouses.
My wife and I are certainly a team. We work together to ensure that our children are safe, happy and living in an environment as free from hardship as possible (it’s impossible, and not recommended, to avoid).
Being a father isn’t difficult; it just takes time and dedication. And being a father is so much more than a nine to five job. Sometimes you have to act as a surrogate to other children who may find it easier to come to you for advice than their own parents. Sometimes you have to be an objective observer for the young ones.
In some ways, I’ve become the neighborhood dad. Kids come over to play not just with my daughter, but also with me. Even if I’m just sitting at the computer, they want to see what silly things I’ll say. They want me to make the baby talk. They get excited when GeekFriend (who will one day make a great father himself, even if he never has kids) arrives because he has such wonderful toys in his truck. We play together outside, go for bike rides. When the kids are at the bus stop, it’s me they come to for help with conflict resolution.
One of the local kids is a “trouble maker”, except when I’m around. He doesn’t want to disappoint me. Even his parents somehow deign to what I say, in some bizarre way. I once saw him riding his bike recklessly through the neighborhood. I asked him if he had a helmet. He said no. “Well,” I said, “You should really get one. It could save your life. And it’s local law that everyone riding a bike wears a helmet.” The very next day he came back to show me his new bike helmet.
Fathers deserve better. We’re not all bumbling morons. Just as all moms don’t leave their infants in trashcans. The bottom line is that we love just as well as we are loved. We give all we can and ask for nothing in return.
When you get the chance, take a look at your dad and think about what he’s done for you. How many dads out there never cease to surprise? How many times has a little girl wished she could learn to play piano, lamenting the fact that she didn’t have one to play, only to find a Kimball upright in the living room the next day. No explanation, no conditions.
That’s what we dads do. We usually do it quietly, without question.
Besides, we have remote controls now. It frees up time.
I woke and came down to find some brightly colored wrapping paper and cards awaiting me. I grabbed a cup of coffee and some donuts (my family knows my weaknesses) and I got ready to revel in my fatherhood. Then Intercot went down. So I had to investigate that because John is out of town.
When I diagnosed the problem and decided there was nothing I could do, I went back to the festivities.
The girls gave me some CDs. The best one was Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds Live, wrapped in a real Hawaiian shirt, complete with a picture of a Woody on it. I think they thought this was a great joke, giving me the traditional ugly shirt. However, it backfired when I immediately put it on and wore it the rest of the day.
I think my lovely wife had a sudden glimpse of our retirement. Me in an ugly shirt, red shorts, sandals with sunglasses berating the kids at the local coffee shop (in Florida, of course). I really do like this ugly shirt and it will become a classic member of my wardrobe. When I get depressed, I can wear the shirt and lay in bed . . . just like Brian Wilson did.
Matilda made me a book called “Fun Stuff You Want!” It’s quite cute, filled with pictures of computers, TVs, Refrigerators(?), comfortable pants and a section in which I can add my own wants and desires. However, the best part of the book is something that betrays her wry sense of humor (something most kids her age don’t have). There is a dedication page with my name in a drawing of a computer. On the opposite page is, and I’m not kidding, “A Fun Picture Book For Children”. I love that kid. I rolled on the floor when I saw that. She has a bright future.
Baby Gertrude made me a book as well. Her mom helped. It contained pictures of herself (she’s so vain she probably thinks this blog is about her) and a cute narrative about how much she loves me. For example, under a picture of her eating the Sunday paper is this:
“Every morning I see my Daddy rustle around with this neat, brightly colored stuff. It makes really great noise, and I promised myself that as soon as I was big enough to pull up on the table, I’d rustle this stuff around just like my daddy.
“Sure enough, I got it! Daddy grinned at me and let me taste the printer ink.”
She’s a smart kid. Her Mom’s no slouch either. And all three of them are such pretty girls. I think I managed to luck out in this situation. How did I end up with such a great family?
Also, the voting came down to the last minute, but I managed to win the “Father of the Year” award from the girls. I have a signed certificate and everything. I’ll have to check into possible prize money. After all, the Nobel comes with cash. Why shouldn’t this?
I have to admit that I did lobby quite a bit for this award. I’ve stepped up my campaign with trips to the birdie hospital, shopping sprees, surprise ice cream runs, trips to the park and nightly readings of the first Harry Potter novel, complete with distinct character voices.
Since I can’t let any thing go by without reflecting over the over all significance of the day. Really, I thought about the role of a father and what that means.
We can’t really depend upon the media to show us what a father is. Turn on any television set and you’ll find a befuddled moron, mildly interested in his children and hell-bent on finding his next beer. Can’t trust magazines either. Most parenting magazines focus on the point of view of the mother, only mentioning fathers when they invariably screw up.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. I know there are plenty of involved, participating fathers who are huge parts of their children’s lives. However, there is no role model for us. We can’t look to anyone or any resource as inspiration other than our own fathers.
I am a proud father. I want to watch my kids do everything. I know my brothers are the same way. We are all more involved today than many men were in the past. We split the duties of raising the children. “Split” isn’t the right word. We share the job, work as a team with our spouses.
My wife and I are certainly a team. We work together to ensure that our children are safe, happy and living in an environment as free from hardship as possible (it’s impossible, and not recommended, to avoid).
Being a father isn’t difficult; it just takes time and dedication. And being a father is so much more than a nine to five job. Sometimes you have to act as a surrogate to other children who may find it easier to come to you for advice than their own parents. Sometimes you have to be an objective observer for the young ones.
In some ways, I’ve become the neighborhood dad. Kids come over to play not just with my daughter, but also with me. Even if I’m just sitting at the computer, they want to see what silly things I’ll say. They want me to make the baby talk. They get excited when GeekFriend (who will one day make a great father himself, even if he never has kids) arrives because he has such wonderful toys in his truck. We play together outside, go for bike rides. When the kids are at the bus stop, it’s me they come to for help with conflict resolution.
One of the local kids is a “trouble maker”, except when I’m around. He doesn’t want to disappoint me. Even his parents somehow deign to what I say, in some bizarre way. I once saw him riding his bike recklessly through the neighborhood. I asked him if he had a helmet. He said no. “Well,” I said, “You should really get one. It could save your life. And it’s local law that everyone riding a bike wears a helmet.” The very next day he came back to show me his new bike helmet.
Fathers deserve better. We’re not all bumbling morons. Just as all moms don’t leave their infants in trashcans. The bottom line is that we love just as well as we are loved. We give all we can and ask for nothing in return.
When you get the chance, take a look at your dad and think about what he’s done for you. How many dads out there never cease to surprise? How many times has a little girl wished she could learn to play piano, lamenting the fact that she didn’t have one to play, only to find a Kimball upright in the living room the next day. No explanation, no conditions.
That’s what we dads do. We usually do it quietly, without question.
Besides, we have remote controls now. It frees up time.
Hey kids. I'm late today, and probably will be switching to night posting for a while. Matilda started summer school today (this is a good thing . . . summer school is no longer for thugs and morons) which creates a really bizarre driving schedule that will remove a couple of available hours from my day.
So, until I get a chance to talk about Father's Day, I thought I'd leave you with the Google searches that have hit my page. It's odd to think that I should be careful about what I say, and it explains why the kids are no longer named by their real names. I'm actually surprised about some of the words I've used and in what context. I certainly hope I haven't upset some of the dopes who were looking for the more lacivious stuff below:
geek feces
Secret Confessions
"have to ask you to strip"
stock analyst monkey
splodeydope
chronosynclastic
fargo snow globe
tickle torture
huffing Vicks Vapo Rub
Bet your bippee
So, until I get a chance to talk about Father's Day, I thought I'd leave you with the Google searches that have hit my page. It's odd to think that I should be careful about what I say, and it explains why the kids are no longer named by their real names. I'm actually surprised about some of the words I've used and in what context. I certainly hope I haven't upset some of the dopes who were looking for the more lacivious stuff below:
geek feces
Secret Confessions
"have to ask you to strip"
stock analyst monkey
splodeydope
chronosynclastic
fargo snow globe
tickle torture
huffing Vicks Vapo Rub
Bet your bippee
Friday, June 14, 2002
Correction to Miss Pudding's comments. They will be eating sushi. I will be eating pizza. That's an exotic international dish that has been properly homoginized by the US, broken down into its main components and allowed to become virtually the same, no matter where you get it. Added bonus? It makes you dizzy as the plaque clogs a major artery.
Biking Update
Young Matilda, fresh from her triumph from running the mile in under three days in first grade, biked three miles today. It was her first non-neighborhood trip and she performed like a trooper. She still refuses to wear her helmet properly, but that's nothing some Crazy Glue and some carpet tacks wont fix.
Biking Update
Young Matilda, fresh from her triumph from running the mile in under three days in first grade, biked three miles today. It was her first non-neighborhood trip and she performed like a trooper. She still refuses to wear her helmet properly, but that's nothing some Crazy Glue and some carpet tacks wont fix.
Since Father’s Day is right around the corner, I was going to write a diatribe about how the media portrays dads as moronic half-wits who melt baby bottles in the oven. Of course, these dads are well meaning. However, if they are so stupid that they cannot figure out how to work a diaper, should they have been allowed to reproduce?
Rather than waste my energy on how the world has a hard time accepting the concept of a competent, loving dad, I’ve decided to take the day off and spend it with my daughter.
We’re going bike riding and then maybe to the Science Center. Or the zoo. Or miniature golfing. We haven’t decided yet.
Take that mom-centric Parents magazine!
Rather than waste my energy on how the world has a hard time accepting the concept of a competent, loving dad, I’ve decided to take the day off and spend it with my daughter.
We’re going bike riding and then maybe to the Science Center. Or the zoo. Or miniature golfing. We haven’t decided yet.
Take that mom-centric Parents magazine!
Thursday, June 13, 2002
I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I have enough irrational fears. I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept going over in my head, “do the Smiths have more irrational fears than I do? Does that make them a better modern person? Is that a spider on my leg? Get it off! Get it off!”
Once there was a time when people were supposed to be fearless. Enter a dark, scary cave, search out a bear, kill it, eat its liver, skin it and wear the hide back to camp? No problem! Why I’m sturdy pioneer folk. I eat rotten meat! I can do anything!
Not me. I’m a slovenly, fat suburbanite. There might be trilobites in that cave. Or meaner, now extinct arthropods hell-bent on trying to take over my brain and turn me into a member of the Reform Party supporting Jessie “The Mind” Ventura’s bid for Uber-Sexy Bald Guy Leader Person. Besides, I’ll get my Haggar slacks dirty. Seriously, they are nice pants.
And, to be honest, being brave takes so much . . . work. If it weren’t for the work, I’d be willing to do it. Besides, I’m a very delicate person. I don’t agree with wildlife.
To survive in suburbia, you have to be a little effete. You have to be a member of the semi-pseudo-elite. Otherwise they eat you alive. Dig in your garden without gloves?
My god! You’ll get dirt under your fingernails. Gasp! Do you drive a truck for a living?
No, of course not. I’m a writer and editor.
Gasp! Are you a heathen artsy type hell-bent on sodomizing my azaleas?
No, probably not. The Kings have a much nicer azalea bush with a truly bodacious, sweet stem that really gets me going.
The Kings do NOT have nicer azaleas. Mine are raised by professionals in the Appalachian Mountains. One of them is even named Zephaniah! The Kings buy theirs from a local nursery. Anyone knows if you want truly beautiful azaleas you have to buy straight from the source.
Crap. You see? That was a subversive little joke I made there. How can I possibly survive this jungle?
Which brings me back to my irrational fears. I need more. I’m positive the neighbors are out-fearing me by at least two to one. Currently I’m afraid of the following:
· Guys named “Joe”
· Platinum blonde hair
· Puerto Rican Cleaning Men
· Spider eggs
· Romanian Chickens
· Tofu dogs (actually gets me two points off)
· Dogs larger than a Bichon Friese
· A Bichon Friese who hasn’t been groomed in at least a week
· Lesbians with pitch forks
· Domestic cars
· Bottled water from the Eastern US.
· Rabid Marmosets
· The Gap
I have more, but it’s not enough. Just the other day I was talking to the Smiths and they told me that they just invested in an alarm that indicates when there is only 80% potpourri saturation in their living room air. “After all,” Mrs. Smith told me, “one never wants your house to smell, well . . . plain.”
Does my house smell plain? What are houses supposed to smell like? I don’t have potpourri at all. I need to invest in something that will make my house smell less plain. I wonder what flavor my house is? Good! I have a new irrational fear! That my house has not been properly matched to this season’s in fragrances. I need to come up with a master fragrancy plan.
I don’t think frangrancy is a word. I’ll bet the Smiths wouldn’t use a word that isn’t documented in the Oxford English Dictionary.
Still, I worry. I hope I can sleep tonight. I tend to toss and turn when I’m worried. I’m concerned that all this worrying is going to give me insomnia. That’s just what I need!
Once there was a time when people were supposed to be fearless. Enter a dark, scary cave, search out a bear, kill it, eat its liver, skin it and wear the hide back to camp? No problem! Why I’m sturdy pioneer folk. I eat rotten meat! I can do anything!
Not me. I’m a slovenly, fat suburbanite. There might be trilobites in that cave. Or meaner, now extinct arthropods hell-bent on trying to take over my brain and turn me into a member of the Reform Party supporting Jessie “The Mind” Ventura’s bid for Uber-Sexy Bald Guy Leader Person. Besides, I’ll get my Haggar slacks dirty. Seriously, they are nice pants.
And, to be honest, being brave takes so much . . . work. If it weren’t for the work, I’d be willing to do it. Besides, I’m a very delicate person. I don’t agree with wildlife.
To survive in suburbia, you have to be a little effete. You have to be a member of the semi-pseudo-elite. Otherwise they eat you alive. Dig in your garden without gloves?
My god! You’ll get dirt under your fingernails. Gasp! Do you drive a truck for a living?
No, of course not. I’m a writer and editor.
Gasp! Are you a heathen artsy type hell-bent on sodomizing my azaleas?
No, probably not. The Kings have a much nicer azalea bush with a truly bodacious, sweet stem that really gets me going.
The Kings do NOT have nicer azaleas. Mine are raised by professionals in the Appalachian Mountains. One of them is even named Zephaniah! The Kings buy theirs from a local nursery. Anyone knows if you want truly beautiful azaleas you have to buy straight from the source.
Crap. You see? That was a subversive little joke I made there. How can I possibly survive this jungle?
Which brings me back to my irrational fears. I need more. I’m positive the neighbors are out-fearing me by at least two to one. Currently I’m afraid of the following:
· Guys named “Joe”
· Platinum blonde hair
· Puerto Rican Cleaning Men
· Spider eggs
· Romanian Chickens
· Tofu dogs (actually gets me two points off)
· Dogs larger than a Bichon Friese
· A Bichon Friese who hasn’t been groomed in at least a week
· Lesbians with pitch forks
· Domestic cars
· Bottled water from the Eastern US.
· Rabid Marmosets
· The Gap
I have more, but it’s not enough. Just the other day I was talking to the Smiths and they told me that they just invested in an alarm that indicates when there is only 80% potpourri saturation in their living room air. “After all,” Mrs. Smith told me, “one never wants your house to smell, well . . . plain.”
Does my house smell plain? What are houses supposed to smell like? I don’t have potpourri at all. I need to invest in something that will make my house smell less plain. I wonder what flavor my house is? Good! I have a new irrational fear! That my house has not been properly matched to this season’s in fragrances. I need to come up with a master fragrancy plan.
I don’t think frangrancy is a word. I’ll bet the Smiths wouldn’t use a word that isn’t documented in the Oxford English Dictionary.
Still, I worry. I hope I can sleep tonight. I tend to toss and turn when I’m worried. I’m concerned that all this worrying is going to give me insomnia. That’s just what I need!
Tuesday, June 11, 2002
Matilda stays home with me three days a week. I work; she plays like a normal kid. It’s a pretty good deal for both of us. I get to have her home to talk to and watch over, while she gets to have play with her friends and go swimming, when I get a modest amount of work done.
I’ve been working extra hours four days a week so that we can spend Friday together going to the zoo, science center or various other types of fun stuff.
Today, she dropped a bomb on me and let me know why parenting is a tough job.
It was humid today, with a threat of thunderstorm. Dark clouds hung low in the sky like, in an effort to show us who was in charge.
I was sitting at the computer, typing up information on one of the books we had worked on. We were fresh from the triumph of booking her birthday party at a local waterpark.
Matilda and her friend were sitting on the couch loading odd things into a small child’s purse. Important things like an inflatable frog, pop rocks, two small plastic watches and a small plastic whistle with the jingling ball missing.
Matilda went to close the purse, pinched her skin and, with the confidence of a forty year old, trampy woman exclaimed, “damn it!”
Immediately I flashed forward to the future. There she was, my beautiful daughter, in neon orange hot pants, a skintight Hooters shirt, smoking a cigarette, careful not to inflame the two cold sores on her lip nor ignite her carefully hair sprayed coif.
“See, Daddy,” she was telling me, “I got me a good job at the Hooters. It ain’t whorin’ myself. And just because Cletus is a carnie with not past don’t mean that we can’t get married.”
Snapping myself back into reality, I quickly ran down every instance where I used an expletive. They were many. I was guilty. Here it was, the moment of truth and I, the father of ill repute, had led my own daughter to this exact spot. How could I tell her she was wrong when I knew she’d just say, “You said it yourself!”
I was in a tight spot. I had to carefully move myself into a more comfortable position. But how? I had to admit my own guilt and tell her that I just wished her to have a better life.
A life free of the profane! A life free of expletives. A life without fear of being in a heady situation and saying to her schoolteacher, “You bet your ass two and two are four.”
The words hung in the air. There was a gasp from the friend, then silence. I turned towards the kids. Matilda had the same look as a condemned man who had just finished his last meal. I put on my Ward Cleaver face. Stern, but loving.
I called her to me and she came, slowly. She didn’t give me the teary doe eyes; I commend her for that. She knew she had done something wrong.
I explained to her that it was a bad word. I told her I knew that she probably heard it on TV, and from some of the older kids. “And,” I said, “I’ll bet you’ve even heard me say. Maybe even Grandpa or one of your uncles.” She nodded.
I told her that bad words were a sign that you couldn’t think of something smarter to say. I also explained that it was a very bad habit to get into and that if she ever caught me saying a bad word that he should remind me to find a better way to express myself.
She accepted that. I promised her I wouldn’t tell mom. I’ll let her find out for herself that when one of your kids does something like this that the first thing you do is to share it with everyone you know. Kids don’t understand that things like this are cute in an odd way.
To her, she has betrayed her parents and spoken the unspeakable. But it’s no big deal. She’ll say much worse to me in the future, including “Cletus and I are engaged.”
But, for now, I think she’s learned a lesson. And so have I. The boundaries are changing. And she, at the ripe old age of nearly seven, is going to begin to push them in different ways. She’s moved past the stage of jumping off the stairs because she isn’t supposed to. She’s investigating the taboo.
Though I’m disappointed, both in her, and myself I’m also a little proud. She’s growing up. And she’s exerting her independence. She’s trying new things. Granted, this time it was the wrong thing. But, your mistakes are what make you grow. If we never fail, if we never make a mistake, then we just aren’t trying hard enough.
Failure is the first step to success. I’m sure Einstein screwed up the Theory of Relativity a few times. I’m sure Shakespeare said to his mother “Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!”
It’s okay to screw up once in a while. I do. And damn it, I’m okay.
I’ve been working extra hours four days a week so that we can spend Friday together going to the zoo, science center or various other types of fun stuff.
Today, she dropped a bomb on me and let me know why parenting is a tough job.
It was humid today, with a threat of thunderstorm. Dark clouds hung low in the sky like, in an effort to show us who was in charge.
I was sitting at the computer, typing up information on one of the books we had worked on. We were fresh from the triumph of booking her birthday party at a local waterpark.
Matilda and her friend were sitting on the couch loading odd things into a small child’s purse. Important things like an inflatable frog, pop rocks, two small plastic watches and a small plastic whistle with the jingling ball missing.
Matilda went to close the purse, pinched her skin and, with the confidence of a forty year old, trampy woman exclaimed, “damn it!”
Immediately I flashed forward to the future. There she was, my beautiful daughter, in neon orange hot pants, a skintight Hooters shirt, smoking a cigarette, careful not to inflame the two cold sores on her lip nor ignite her carefully hair sprayed coif.
“See, Daddy,” she was telling me, “I got me a good job at the Hooters. It ain’t whorin’ myself. And just because Cletus is a carnie with not past don’t mean that we can’t get married.”
Snapping myself back into reality, I quickly ran down every instance where I used an expletive. They were many. I was guilty. Here it was, the moment of truth and I, the father of ill repute, had led my own daughter to this exact spot. How could I tell her she was wrong when I knew she’d just say, “You said it yourself!”
I was in a tight spot. I had to carefully move myself into a more comfortable position. But how? I had to admit my own guilt and tell her that I just wished her to have a better life.
A life free of the profane! A life free of expletives. A life without fear of being in a heady situation and saying to her schoolteacher, “You bet your ass two and two are four.”
The words hung in the air. There was a gasp from the friend, then silence. I turned towards the kids. Matilda had the same look as a condemned man who had just finished his last meal. I put on my Ward Cleaver face. Stern, but loving.
I called her to me and she came, slowly. She didn’t give me the teary doe eyes; I commend her for that. She knew she had done something wrong.
I explained to her that it was a bad word. I told her I knew that she probably heard it on TV, and from some of the older kids. “And,” I said, “I’ll bet you’ve even heard me say. Maybe even Grandpa or one of your uncles.” She nodded.
I told her that bad words were a sign that you couldn’t think of something smarter to say. I also explained that it was a very bad habit to get into and that if she ever caught me saying a bad word that he should remind me to find a better way to express myself.
She accepted that. I promised her I wouldn’t tell mom. I’ll let her find out for herself that when one of your kids does something like this that the first thing you do is to share it with everyone you know. Kids don’t understand that things like this are cute in an odd way.
To her, she has betrayed her parents and spoken the unspeakable. But it’s no big deal. She’ll say much worse to me in the future, including “Cletus and I are engaged.”
But, for now, I think she’s learned a lesson. And so have I. The boundaries are changing. And she, at the ripe old age of nearly seven, is going to begin to push them in different ways. She’s moved past the stage of jumping off the stairs because she isn’t supposed to. She’s investigating the taboo.
Though I’m disappointed, both in her, and myself I’m also a little proud. She’s growing up. And she’s exerting her independence. She’s trying new things. Granted, this time it was the wrong thing. But, your mistakes are what make you grow. If we never fail, if we never make a mistake, then we just aren’t trying hard enough.
Failure is the first step to success. I’m sure Einstein screwed up the Theory of Relativity a few times. I’m sure Shakespeare said to his mother “Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!”
It’s okay to screw up once in a while. I do. And damn it, I’m okay.
The baby woke me up at five a.m. this morning. Nothing too pressing. She was either lonely, hungry or suddenly stricken with a sense of dread borne out of what she considered poor handling of complex international matters by the last five presidential administrations which means that her generation will be saddled with a horrible responsibility that she didn’t feel it would be ready to handle.
I went and picked her up and handed her to her mother, who proceeded to provide the sweet nectar of life. Or something. They dozed of in content, sated slumber until the alarm went off.
For me, it was too late. Somewhere in the last few weeks the seeds of a bout with insomnia has been laid. Which is particularly biting because after the baby was born, my insomnia went out the door.
It’s not that I’m physically incapable of sleep in these instances. My brain simply won’t allow it. Imagine if you injected a gallon of coffee straight into your brain. That’s how this felt. My mind went from one connection to another at the blinding speed of light.
There’s a crack in the ceiling. What if that crack opens up and swallows us and takes to the depths of Hell? What if Hell is actually a place here on Earth, like Detroit under a methane cloud? Can gastrointestinal gas kill you? Did they name it gas because of the word gastro? Or did they call it gastro because of gas? Will the price of gas keep rising? Look the sun is coming up. What generation of my relatives will be on Earth when the sun goes super nova? Would they know that the end of the world was coming? What would happen to civilization if we knew that the world would end at a certain point? Would we devolve into anarchy? Or would we become a group of hedonists? Speaking of hedonism, why is Mick Jagger being knighted? What did he do? I never like the Stones that much. Sure, they wrote some good music but are they truly classics? In the beginning they were pretty much a white boy blues band. Lennon and McCartney were much better. Macca’s getting married today. To a one-legged-activist-model. Why can’t I be something hyphenated? Maybe I should take on a cause. What would my cause be? Americans for the Reduction of Pamela Lee? Concerned Citizens for the Destruction of Creed? I don’t have a cause. Maybe I should get a cause. Maybe I should worry about social issues like violence or drug abuse. Yeah, I could work with crack addicts. Look. There’s a crack on the ceiling. What if that crack opens . . .
And on and on. The alarm would go off and I’d hit snooze. I’d hit it with a certain vitriol that one (who doesn’t HAVE to get up at any particular time) would feel when they (who always falls asleep later) has been designated the snooze guy.
My wife finally went off to take a shower and I was left alone with the baby. She was sleeping like a . . . . well . . . baby. I was wide awake.
I suppose I could have gotten up. It was useless sitting there. But, the baby was all snuggly and cute. Why ruin it?
Ten minutes before I was supposed to get up I was sound asleep. My wife woke me up and I think I either a) asked her if I could sleep for another five minutes or b) told her that if she valued her life she would go back downstairs and not consider waking me up again.
Considering how I usually am in the morning (grumpy) I’m betting that I wasn’t polite in the least. My wife is a saint. She genially accepts that I’m not a morning person. She also accepts that I’m grumpy on Tuesdays, the third Wednesday of any month with an R in it, during Republican administrations, after drinking cheap coffee, near any state with less than three right angles, 1000 feet or more above sea level and when listening to the local “Modern” rock station. I should do more to show my appreciation. Maybe she’d like a nice ham.
Ten minutes later my wife came in to get the sweet, cuddly, snoring baby to get her ready for the sitter. She started stroking the baby’s hair (more like fuzz, but it smells good) and the little monster stirred. And reared up in a growl like a lion who had just been poked in the rectum with a flaming, pointed stick. She grunted, rolled angrily and moaned as if being picked up to have her diaper changed in the morning was a capital crime.
Poor baby didn’t want to wake up. I could see the look in her eyes that said, “Woman, when I can walk, talk and have more refined motor skills if you ever wake me again there will be hell to pay.”
She’s daddy’s little girl.
I went and picked her up and handed her to her mother, who proceeded to provide the sweet nectar of life. Or something. They dozed of in content, sated slumber until the alarm went off.
For me, it was too late. Somewhere in the last few weeks the seeds of a bout with insomnia has been laid. Which is particularly biting because after the baby was born, my insomnia went out the door.
It’s not that I’m physically incapable of sleep in these instances. My brain simply won’t allow it. Imagine if you injected a gallon of coffee straight into your brain. That’s how this felt. My mind went from one connection to another at the blinding speed of light.
There’s a crack in the ceiling. What if that crack opens up and swallows us and takes to the depths of Hell? What if Hell is actually a place here on Earth, like Detroit under a methane cloud? Can gastrointestinal gas kill you? Did they name it gas because of the word gastro? Or did they call it gastro because of gas? Will the price of gas keep rising? Look the sun is coming up. What generation of my relatives will be on Earth when the sun goes super nova? Would they know that the end of the world was coming? What would happen to civilization if we knew that the world would end at a certain point? Would we devolve into anarchy? Or would we become a group of hedonists? Speaking of hedonism, why is Mick Jagger being knighted? What did he do? I never like the Stones that much. Sure, they wrote some good music but are they truly classics? In the beginning they were pretty much a white boy blues band. Lennon and McCartney were much better. Macca’s getting married today. To a one-legged-activist-model. Why can’t I be something hyphenated? Maybe I should take on a cause. What would my cause be? Americans for the Reduction of Pamela Lee? Concerned Citizens for the Destruction of Creed? I don’t have a cause. Maybe I should get a cause. Maybe I should worry about social issues like violence or drug abuse. Yeah, I could work with crack addicts. Look. There’s a crack on the ceiling. What if that crack opens . . .
And on and on. The alarm would go off and I’d hit snooze. I’d hit it with a certain vitriol that one (who doesn’t HAVE to get up at any particular time) would feel when they (who always falls asleep later) has been designated the snooze guy.
My wife finally went off to take a shower and I was left alone with the baby. She was sleeping like a . . . . well . . . baby. I was wide awake.
I suppose I could have gotten up. It was useless sitting there. But, the baby was all snuggly and cute. Why ruin it?
Ten minutes before I was supposed to get up I was sound asleep. My wife woke me up and I think I either a) asked her if I could sleep for another five minutes or b) told her that if she valued her life she would go back downstairs and not consider waking me up again.
Considering how I usually am in the morning (grumpy) I’m betting that I wasn’t polite in the least. My wife is a saint. She genially accepts that I’m not a morning person. She also accepts that I’m grumpy on Tuesdays, the third Wednesday of any month with an R in it, during Republican administrations, after drinking cheap coffee, near any state with less than three right angles, 1000 feet or more above sea level and when listening to the local “Modern” rock station. I should do more to show my appreciation. Maybe she’d like a nice ham.
Ten minutes later my wife came in to get the sweet, cuddly, snoring baby to get her ready for the sitter. She started stroking the baby’s hair (more like fuzz, but it smells good) and the little monster stirred. And reared up in a growl like a lion who had just been poked in the rectum with a flaming, pointed stick. She grunted, rolled angrily and moaned as if being picked up to have her diaper changed in the morning was a capital crime.
Poor baby didn’t want to wake up. I could see the look in her eyes that said, “Woman, when I can walk, talk and have more refined motor skills if you ever wake me again there will be hell to pay.”
She’s daddy’s little girl.
Monday, June 10, 2002
I was sitting quietly at my computer typing a letter to some of my authors on Friday afternoon when Matilda and her friend came bursting through the door.
“There’s a hurt bird” they cried, nearly hysterical.
I walked outside with them and, surely enough; there was a little bird on the sidewalk with a broken wing. In fact, it looked as if the wing was nearly severed. The bird was surprisingly calm and allowed us to approach it.
I talked it over with the friend’s mom and we tried to figure out what to do. We didn’t know.
The girls were quickly getting more and more upset. They were devising plans. They’d nurse it back to health. They’d build it a home outside and allow it to recover.
To a six-year-old, these are reasonable responses. To a weathered adult, I knew that none would work. This bird would either die on the sidewalk or we’d have to get it professional help.
Matilda offered several options. Call 911. No, I’m afraid they only do humans. Call Kismet’s (our cat) vet. Well, as great as he is, I’m sure he has to draw the line at wild animals.
I left them to tend to the bird while I did some impromptu research. Which was like dealing with the seventeen layers of the FBI.
I called the Humane Society. They suggested the Missouri Conservation Department. The Missouri Conservation Department suggested a wildlife refuge, which was an hour and a half away. The wildlife refuge suggested the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center, which was relatively close by. I called, they told me how to capture the bird and how to get there. We were on the case.
The girls rounded up an old towel and a shoebox. They promptly poked holes in the box and we set out to get the bird.
We placed the towel over the bird and allowed it to calm down. We were then supposed to pick up the bird and place it in the box. But, how to do this without further hurting its already injured wing?
Matilda’s friend’s mom tried. I tried. To no avail. We just couldn’t do it because we were afraid of crushing that delicate wing. Finally I just placed the box next to the bird. I’ll be damned if he didn’t hop right in.
The girls and I rushed to the car and hit the road. To be stopped by rush hour traffic. They opened the windows and started yelling that this was an emergency. However, I didn’t want to be pulled over under suspicion of kidnapped two girls. So I nixed that.
They took turns holding the box, cooing and talking to the bird. For most of the drive, we wondered if the poor thing was alive. Finally, after hitting a bump, he stirred. There was a huge sigh of relief from the backseat.
We arrived at the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center. It was a tiny hole in the wall on the outskirts of civilized suburbia. It’s a volunteer organization, which seems to garner quite a bit of support.
I filled out the forms while the girls explained the situation to the woman behind the counter. Where he was found, what they think happened, etc. The woman told us that our little friend was a Chimney Swift. It looked like a car had clipped him. (She confirmed that it was a “he”.)
I gave a small donation for his care and inquired about what would happen.
This woman clearly understood the psyche of children. She looked straight at the girls and said, “We’ll look him over and see how badly he’s hurt and treat his injury. If he’s able to fly again, we’ll release him. If not, he’ll live here with us or with one of our volunteers. Because he’s an adult, we’ll release him in your neighborhood.”
She went on to tell us that we could watch his release when that day comes.
Walking back to the car, the girls talked of heroes. They felt that, without a doubt, they were heroes. And, to that bird, perhaps they were.
I was proud of them. They really stood up under pressure. They were insistent that we help the little guy. They pushed for us to find out how to help him. They dropped everything to go on our emergency run to the birdie hospital.
Most kids probably would have sat there feeling helpless, watching the poor bird die. Not my daughter. She helped. And I’m proud of her.
We celebrated their heroism with a cold soda on the drive home. A well-deserved treat for two young heroes of the aviary world.
“There’s a hurt bird” they cried, nearly hysterical.
I walked outside with them and, surely enough; there was a little bird on the sidewalk with a broken wing. In fact, it looked as if the wing was nearly severed. The bird was surprisingly calm and allowed us to approach it.
I talked it over with the friend’s mom and we tried to figure out what to do. We didn’t know.
The girls were quickly getting more and more upset. They were devising plans. They’d nurse it back to health. They’d build it a home outside and allow it to recover.
To a six-year-old, these are reasonable responses. To a weathered adult, I knew that none would work. This bird would either die on the sidewalk or we’d have to get it professional help.
Matilda offered several options. Call 911. No, I’m afraid they only do humans. Call Kismet’s (our cat) vet. Well, as great as he is, I’m sure he has to draw the line at wild animals.
I left them to tend to the bird while I did some impromptu research. Which was like dealing with the seventeen layers of the FBI.
I called the Humane Society. They suggested the Missouri Conservation Department. The Missouri Conservation Department suggested a wildlife refuge, which was an hour and a half away. The wildlife refuge suggested the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center, which was relatively close by. I called, they told me how to capture the bird and how to get there. We were on the case.
The girls rounded up an old towel and a shoebox. They promptly poked holes in the box and we set out to get the bird.
We placed the towel over the bird and allowed it to calm down. We were then supposed to pick up the bird and place it in the box. But, how to do this without further hurting its already injured wing?
Matilda’s friend’s mom tried. I tried. To no avail. We just couldn’t do it because we were afraid of crushing that delicate wing. Finally I just placed the box next to the bird. I’ll be damned if he didn’t hop right in.
The girls and I rushed to the car and hit the road. To be stopped by rush hour traffic. They opened the windows and started yelling that this was an emergency. However, I didn’t want to be pulled over under suspicion of kidnapped two girls. So I nixed that.
They took turns holding the box, cooing and talking to the bird. For most of the drive, we wondered if the poor thing was alive. Finally, after hitting a bump, he stirred. There was a huge sigh of relief from the backseat.
We arrived at the Wild Bird Rehabilitation Center. It was a tiny hole in the wall on the outskirts of civilized suburbia. It’s a volunteer organization, which seems to garner quite a bit of support.
I filled out the forms while the girls explained the situation to the woman behind the counter. Where he was found, what they think happened, etc. The woman told us that our little friend was a Chimney Swift. It looked like a car had clipped him. (She confirmed that it was a “he”.)
I gave a small donation for his care and inquired about what would happen.
This woman clearly understood the psyche of children. She looked straight at the girls and said, “We’ll look him over and see how badly he’s hurt and treat his injury. If he’s able to fly again, we’ll release him. If not, he’ll live here with us or with one of our volunteers. Because he’s an adult, we’ll release him in your neighborhood.”
She went on to tell us that we could watch his release when that day comes.
Walking back to the car, the girls talked of heroes. They felt that, without a doubt, they were heroes. And, to that bird, perhaps they were.
I was proud of them. They really stood up under pressure. They were insistent that we help the little guy. They pushed for us to find out how to help him. They dropped everything to go on our emergency run to the birdie hospital.
Most kids probably would have sat there feeling helpless, watching the poor bird die. Not my daughter. She helped. And I’m proud of her.
We celebrated their heroism with a cold soda on the drive home. A well-deserved treat for two young heroes of the aviary world.
Friday, June 07, 2002
There's a new rant up. It involves Mister Rogers and references Bill Clinton's cigar. Hey, it surprised me too.
“ya'll don't know what it's like
being male, middle class and white”
--Ben Folds
I was watching the MTV Movie Awards last night and listening to the gentle hiss of my intellect slowly escaping. I could actually feel myself lowering to another demographic. I had a sudden urge to watch wrestling, play video games and eat Skittles while I wore a hat all cock-eyed.
Some guy had won an award for something (lost my short-term memory right about the time Eminem hit the stage) and referred to his boyz.
Then it hit me. I don’t have any boyz. I don’t have a posse, a crew or a gang. I’ve never been in a clique, a klatch or even a crunch.
No one is helping me keep it real. I’ve never spoken to anyone on the down low and I’ve never shared my bidness with anyone. No one has even referred to me as “Yo.” Well, not as a proper name. Usually “Yo” is followed by an expletive and a beer thrown at me.
How does one get a crew? Where are my boyz? Am I keeping it real?
I could ask my male friends, but they would laugh at me and go back to watching Tech TV or listening to obscure contemporary classical music (yes, it exists but it is being suppressed by an elitist minority of music fans who resist change). In fact, if I ever have the opportunity to win an award and I thanked “ma boyz for keepin’ it real” my friends would probably ask me who the hell I was talking about.
Then they’d make fun of me for weeks by calling me “Kool Mo G” or “G-Train.” (You can thank Mr. Downing for “G-Train.”)
But it goes further than that. What would I win an award for?
I’ll certainly never make it as a musician, actor or filmmaker. Lack of talent holds me back. But I have the passion for it (perhaps that is keeping it real? Hell, no one who says “perhaps” is even allowed to have boyz, are they?)
Maybe I can make it as a writer. I’m certainly going to try. Someday. Before I die. Even then, I doubt I’ll be writing anything that will win me awards outside of the “Duluth Women’s Club Certificate of Merit”.
Who am I kidding? I wish?
Even the reviews I envision won’t be that exciting. Maybe I could crank up the heat on my views so that I can become “the voice of the disgruntled middle class stay-at-home dad and freelancer.” Or, “a rousing new voice of anger and rage hidden beneath the seamy underside of suburbia.”
No, it won’t happen. I don’t really have rage directed at anyone. I grew up in a pretty comfortable home environment. I was never abused, never a drug addict and have never been a Don Juan. I’m not gay, republican, democrat, green, libertarian or any other “ist” or “an.” I do what I do. Don’t know what exactly that is, but I think I’m good at it. In fact, I’m good at many nebulous, non-defined things. Including that one thing I do with a fork and that whatdoyacallit trick thing with the whoozie on the whatzit.
Even if I ever do write a book, my dust jacket will probably contain the words “touching”, “heart-warming”, “goofy”, “silly” and “portly”. I swear, though, if I ever see the word “cute” associated with anything I write I will personally track down that person and show him pictures of my children until he throws up. (I don’t like violence. It musses my hair so.)
Of course, it’ll never happen. All that will become of life will be the fact that I become renowned for keeping track of my slutty neighbor, whom I suspect of being a suburban hooker.
Hmm. Maybe I’ll write that. “Divine Secrets of the Who's Your Daddy Sisterhood or Twenty Minutes in the Dark for a Small Fee.”
being male, middle class and white”
--Ben Folds
I was watching the MTV Movie Awards last night and listening to the gentle hiss of my intellect slowly escaping. I could actually feel myself lowering to another demographic. I had a sudden urge to watch wrestling, play video games and eat Skittles while I wore a hat all cock-eyed.
Some guy had won an award for something (lost my short-term memory right about the time Eminem hit the stage) and referred to his boyz.
Then it hit me. I don’t have any boyz. I don’t have a posse, a crew or a gang. I’ve never been in a clique, a klatch or even a crunch.
No one is helping me keep it real. I’ve never spoken to anyone on the down low and I’ve never shared my bidness with anyone. No one has even referred to me as “Yo.” Well, not as a proper name. Usually “Yo” is followed by an expletive and a beer thrown at me.
How does one get a crew? Where are my boyz? Am I keeping it real?
I could ask my male friends, but they would laugh at me and go back to watching Tech TV or listening to obscure contemporary classical music (yes, it exists but it is being suppressed by an elitist minority of music fans who resist change). In fact, if I ever have the opportunity to win an award and I thanked “ma boyz for keepin’ it real” my friends would probably ask me who the hell I was talking about.
Then they’d make fun of me for weeks by calling me “Kool Mo G” or “G-Train.” (You can thank Mr. Downing for “G-Train.”)
But it goes further than that. What would I win an award for?
I’ll certainly never make it as a musician, actor or filmmaker. Lack of talent holds me back. But I have the passion for it (perhaps that is keeping it real? Hell, no one who says “perhaps” is even allowed to have boyz, are they?)
Maybe I can make it as a writer. I’m certainly going to try. Someday. Before I die. Even then, I doubt I’ll be writing anything that will win me awards outside of the “Duluth Women’s Club Certificate of Merit”.
Who am I kidding? I wish?
Even the reviews I envision won’t be that exciting. Maybe I could crank up the heat on my views so that I can become “the voice of the disgruntled middle class stay-at-home dad and freelancer.” Or, “a rousing new voice of anger and rage hidden beneath the seamy underside of suburbia.”
No, it won’t happen. I don’t really have rage directed at anyone. I grew up in a pretty comfortable home environment. I was never abused, never a drug addict and have never been a Don Juan. I’m not gay, republican, democrat, green, libertarian or any other “ist” or “an.” I do what I do. Don’t know what exactly that is, but I think I’m good at it. In fact, I’m good at many nebulous, non-defined things. Including that one thing I do with a fork and that whatdoyacallit trick thing with the whoozie on the whatzit.
Even if I ever do write a book, my dust jacket will probably contain the words “touching”, “heart-warming”, “goofy”, “silly” and “portly”. I swear, though, if I ever see the word “cute” associated with anything I write I will personally track down that person and show him pictures of my children until he throws up. (I don’t like violence. It musses my hair so.)
Of course, it’ll never happen. All that will become of life will be the fact that I become renowned for keeping track of my slutty neighbor, whom I suspect of being a suburban hooker.
Hmm. Maybe I’ll write that. “Divine Secrets of the Who's Your Daddy Sisterhood or Twenty Minutes in the Dark for a Small Fee.”
Thursday, June 06, 2002
Wednesday, June 05, 2002
Over the past few days, Matilda and I watched “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” It’s a kid’s movie but . . . it was longer than hell. This is the “Dances With Wolves” of Children’s films. Add to that the fact that it’s a two DVD set, which contains 84 hours of outtakes, bloopers and publicity reels then you have a tome that’s nearly as large as the original source material.
I don’t find anything wrong with Harry Potter. In fact, I enjoyed the film and I look forward to reading the book with Matilida when she’s ready to tackle it.
But the author, JK Rowling has Steven King syndrome. What can be done in an easy 300 pages takes 800. Why? Who the hell knows? Perhaps she needed an editor. Someone to say, “Hey JK, why don’t we split this sucker up into two books?”
But, hell, this thing made a buttload of money and that’s all that matters, right? It doesn’t matter that there was a quality story that captured the imaginations of children. It doesn’t matter that kids who may have never read a book in their lives were clamoring to read these books. And it certainly doesn’t matter that, instead of focusing on who has the best Pokemon card, kids were competing to see who could read the most pages.
Back to the movie. Matilida and I enjoyed it. It was scary at times, but she closed her eyes and clutched my arms until it was over.
When it was over she told me that she would have nightmares. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said. “Everything on the screen was fake. It was imagined by someone else. There’s no trolls or evil wizards around.”
She went to be and slept soundly.
I didn’t, though. Because I know there really are monsters out there. But they look just like us. The bastards who don’t care if kids go to sleep feeling safe at night. Neighbors who take kids from their house in the middle of the night and do horrific things to them.
Those monsters won’t go away with a push of the stop button. Sadly, this world isn’t a safe place. But, I suppose, the best we can do is love our kids and make them feel safe. It’s their world soon. Perhaps they’ll do a little better with it.
But, then, that’s the battle cry of every generation, isn’t it? “Kids, just don’t fuck up like we did, okay? Find a way to stop blowing each other up and focus on the real problems, okay?”
I don’t find anything wrong with Harry Potter. In fact, I enjoyed the film and I look forward to reading the book with Matilida when she’s ready to tackle it.
But the author, JK Rowling has Steven King syndrome. What can be done in an easy 300 pages takes 800. Why? Who the hell knows? Perhaps she needed an editor. Someone to say, “Hey JK, why don’t we split this sucker up into two books?”
But, hell, this thing made a buttload of money and that’s all that matters, right? It doesn’t matter that there was a quality story that captured the imaginations of children. It doesn’t matter that kids who may have never read a book in their lives were clamoring to read these books. And it certainly doesn’t matter that, instead of focusing on who has the best Pokemon card, kids were competing to see who could read the most pages.
Back to the movie. Matilida and I enjoyed it. It was scary at times, but she closed her eyes and clutched my arms until it was over.
When it was over she told me that she would have nightmares. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said. “Everything on the screen was fake. It was imagined by someone else. There’s no trolls or evil wizards around.”
She went to be and slept soundly.
I didn’t, though. Because I know there really are monsters out there. But they look just like us. The bastards who don’t care if kids go to sleep feeling safe at night. Neighbors who take kids from their house in the middle of the night and do horrific things to them.
Those monsters won’t go away with a push of the stop button. Sadly, this world isn’t a safe place. But, I suppose, the best we can do is love our kids and make them feel safe. It’s their world soon. Perhaps they’ll do a little better with it.
But, then, that’s the battle cry of every generation, isn’t it? “Kids, just don’t fuck up like we did, okay? Find a way to stop blowing each other up and focus on the real problems, okay?”
Tuesday, June 04, 2002
Note to sisters: I’m not intending to make you cry, but please get tissues ready. I promised I’d warn you.
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." – Kurt Vonnegut
Yesterday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 72. It’s hard to think of your mother as a 72-year-old. In your mind she’s always the youthful woman of your childhood, stirring a giant pot of soup while keeping a thousand kids at bay.
I’m sure everyone who is familiar with me, my relationship with my mother and the trouble I had with her death was wondering why I didn’t post about it yesterday. And there was a good reason.
I decided to do what my mom would have done. I spent the day with my kids. Princess Matilda had an event at school in the evening and the whole family went to partake in the festivities. Matilda buzzed around like a socialite and baby Gertrude melted in the summer heat into a lump of chubby, sweaty flesh. When we got home, they were both bouncing off the walls and had to be tranquilized with blowguns to get them in bed. The wife and I then collapsed in bed, dehydrated and exhausted.
But I thought about my mom all day. I thought about all the things I haven’t been able to share with her, all the thing she missed. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t say, “If only my mom was around . . .”
I had an odd relationship with my mother. When my father died I was five. My siblings had already begun leaving home, going to college, getting married . . . I was the baby. But our relationship blossomed into a deep friendship that went beyond your traditional mother-son relationship. Sure, as a teen I didn’t show the respect I should have, but she expected it. She let me make, and learn from, my own mistakes.
She was the best critic I’ve ever had. The comments she made on my short stories and other writings were so insightful and well thought out that sometimes I wonder if the accolades I garnered for their creation were due to her comments. She was my “audience of one.” I wrote for her. As long as she was pleased, I felt I had succeeded.
I didn’t do any creative writing for nearly five years after her death. It was when I discovered my new audience of one that I started again. It wasn’t until last August that I really began in earnest, thanks to my new audience. But, mom’s opinion still matters and I often wonder how she would react to what I’m writing. Her influence is still pervasive in my work. I rarely use profanity. That’s because of her. She always told me that it was a cheap way of expressing myself and that I could find a much better way of saying what I wanted to say without using expletives.
But, most of all, we talked. I always had an outlet and a sympathetic ear. She’d tell me when I was wrong. She’d tell me my options. And, I hope at least, I was able to provide her with the same comfort.
When she came home and told us she had cancer . . . I was numb. I remember clearly that I was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning out the filter for my fish tank. She told us, with an odd smile. Inside, I felt as if the foundation of a building had just collapsed. On the outside I just went back to cleaning the filter. I went down to my room and just sat on the steps, deflated. There was nothing else I could do. My best friend just told me that she had cancer. What could I do?
My brother-in-law came over, as he did every afternoon because my mom watched his kids. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found out. He was able to display the emotion that I had bottled up inside. I envy that.
We went through a series of surgeries, treatments, alternatives and drugs. To no avail. When our biggest hope, major surgery, failed . . . my heart sunk. When we saw my mother being wheeled from recovery to her room she looked small and frail. The woman who, in my mind, was an indestructible giant looked fragile. It was more than I could take. I immediately burst into tears.
Had it not been for my brother, who took my by the shoulders and walked me away so we could cry alone . . . I’m not sure what would have happened.
When I finally went home, the rage that I had bottled in me since that first announcement just boiled over.
Each of the siblings had a little lucky charm that we had found in my mother’s belongings. I had been carrying it in my jeans ever since we found it. That day I took it down to the basement, placed it on the floor and smashed the hell out of it. Whatever faith I had, everything I had believed in had been torn apart. I felt more alone at that moment than I have ever felt before, or since. To this day I fear experiencing that sort of pain again.
I then smashed everything I could find (that wouldn’t be missed). Hockey sticks were reduced to splinters. The day’s mail was torn to shreds. Walls were punched.
And none of it made me feel any better. I had learned nothing except that it is impossible to “rage against the dying of the night.” Darkness always comes.
The next few months were tough, but mom and I slowly got used to her prognosis together. I spent as much time with her as possible, and what I spent away was riddled with guilt. I had a deadline.
Mom and I spoke about her impending death. To my surprise she wasn’t scared for herself. She was worried about her single, twenty-two-year-old diabetic son being alone. Even in her time of need, she thought of others. That’s the way she was. There wasn’t a selfish bone in her body. Even when she should have been crying “Why? WHY!” she was making plans for me.
She died on December 5, 1995. Less than three weeks after I had started an internship, thrusting myself into the “real world.” I was there when she died. When I saw it coming, I left the room. She and I had started my life together. I had no interest in ending hers together. I knew it was happening. I could feel it, but I didn’t want to participate. I couldn’t. I watched a hockey game in the waiting room instead.
She had done all my Christmas shopping prior to her death. What she hadn’t gotten for me, she sent people out to buy. I don’t remember what was in many of those packages. The one thing I do remember was a wide screen set of the original Star Wars films. My last gift from my mother proved how well she knew me. She knew me well enough to get the letterbox versions. Stupidly, I lent them to my (now) ex-girlfriend’s brother. I haven’t seen them since. Every Christmas I kick myself for doing that.
I think of my mom constantly. But I no longer mourn her loss. I miss her. A lot. She was an incredible woman. I wish she had been around to meet my wife and stepdaughter. I think she’d like them a lot. I wish she’d been around to meet my baby. But, part of me thinks she already has. But I would have liked to share that moment in my life with her.
I think she’d be proud of me, though. I think she’d be proud of this little family I’ve built. I think she would be proud of the fact that I turned my back on the work-a-day lifestyle to carve out my own path as a writer and editor. I think she’d smile if she knew that I was going to drop everything this afternoon and go to Matilda’s school to see the end of the year assembly. Because I was invited. I think she’d smile when I go have lunch with Matilda at school. And she’d love the fact that this summer I’m working my schedule so that I can have Fridays off to spend with the girls doing “daddy” things, like riding merry-go-rounds and playing in the dirt while watching the trains in Kirkwood.
As I said, I often say “if only my mom were still around . . .” but she is. I owe her everything. She taught me everything that I know. My values and my priorities are hers. My talents and interests were nurtured by her. Both my cautiousness and my yearning to grasp life by the short hairs and live it to it’s fullest are hers.
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." – Kurt Vonnegut
Yesterday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 72. It’s hard to think of your mother as a 72-year-old. In your mind she’s always the youthful woman of your childhood, stirring a giant pot of soup while keeping a thousand kids at bay.
I’m sure everyone who is familiar with me, my relationship with my mother and the trouble I had with her death was wondering why I didn’t post about it yesterday. And there was a good reason.
I decided to do what my mom would have done. I spent the day with my kids. Princess Matilda had an event at school in the evening and the whole family went to partake in the festivities. Matilda buzzed around like a socialite and baby Gertrude melted in the summer heat into a lump of chubby, sweaty flesh. When we got home, they were both bouncing off the walls and had to be tranquilized with blowguns to get them in bed. The wife and I then collapsed in bed, dehydrated and exhausted.
But I thought about my mom all day. I thought about all the things I haven’t been able to share with her, all the thing she missed. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t say, “If only my mom was around . . .”
I had an odd relationship with my mother. When my father died I was five. My siblings had already begun leaving home, going to college, getting married . . . I was the baby. But our relationship blossomed into a deep friendship that went beyond your traditional mother-son relationship. Sure, as a teen I didn’t show the respect I should have, but she expected it. She let me make, and learn from, my own mistakes.
She was the best critic I’ve ever had. The comments she made on my short stories and other writings were so insightful and well thought out that sometimes I wonder if the accolades I garnered for their creation were due to her comments. She was my “audience of one.” I wrote for her. As long as she was pleased, I felt I had succeeded.
I didn’t do any creative writing for nearly five years after her death. It was when I discovered my new audience of one that I started again. It wasn’t until last August that I really began in earnest, thanks to my new audience. But, mom’s opinion still matters and I often wonder how she would react to what I’m writing. Her influence is still pervasive in my work. I rarely use profanity. That’s because of her. She always told me that it was a cheap way of expressing myself and that I could find a much better way of saying what I wanted to say without using expletives.
But, most of all, we talked. I always had an outlet and a sympathetic ear. She’d tell me when I was wrong. She’d tell me my options. And, I hope at least, I was able to provide her with the same comfort.
When she came home and told us she had cancer . . . I was numb. I remember clearly that I was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning out the filter for my fish tank. She told us, with an odd smile. Inside, I felt as if the foundation of a building had just collapsed. On the outside I just went back to cleaning the filter. I went down to my room and just sat on the steps, deflated. There was nothing else I could do. My best friend just told me that she had cancer. What could I do?
My brother-in-law came over, as he did every afternoon because my mom watched his kids. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found out. He was able to display the emotion that I had bottled up inside. I envy that.
We went through a series of surgeries, treatments, alternatives and drugs. To no avail. When our biggest hope, major surgery, failed . . . my heart sunk. When we saw my mother being wheeled from recovery to her room she looked small and frail. The woman who, in my mind, was an indestructible giant looked fragile. It was more than I could take. I immediately burst into tears.
Had it not been for my brother, who took my by the shoulders and walked me away so we could cry alone . . . I’m not sure what would have happened.
When I finally went home, the rage that I had bottled in me since that first announcement just boiled over.
Each of the siblings had a little lucky charm that we had found in my mother’s belongings. I had been carrying it in my jeans ever since we found it. That day I took it down to the basement, placed it on the floor and smashed the hell out of it. Whatever faith I had, everything I had believed in had been torn apart. I felt more alone at that moment than I have ever felt before, or since. To this day I fear experiencing that sort of pain again.
I then smashed everything I could find (that wouldn’t be missed). Hockey sticks were reduced to splinters. The day’s mail was torn to shreds. Walls were punched.
And none of it made me feel any better. I had learned nothing except that it is impossible to “rage against the dying of the night.” Darkness always comes.
The next few months were tough, but mom and I slowly got used to her prognosis together. I spent as much time with her as possible, and what I spent away was riddled with guilt. I had a deadline.
Mom and I spoke about her impending death. To my surprise she wasn’t scared for herself. She was worried about her single, twenty-two-year-old diabetic son being alone. Even in her time of need, she thought of others. That’s the way she was. There wasn’t a selfish bone in her body. Even when she should have been crying “Why? WHY!” she was making plans for me.
She died on December 5, 1995. Less than three weeks after I had started an internship, thrusting myself into the “real world.” I was there when she died. When I saw it coming, I left the room. She and I had started my life together. I had no interest in ending hers together. I knew it was happening. I could feel it, but I didn’t want to participate. I couldn’t. I watched a hockey game in the waiting room instead.
She had done all my Christmas shopping prior to her death. What she hadn’t gotten for me, she sent people out to buy. I don’t remember what was in many of those packages. The one thing I do remember was a wide screen set of the original Star Wars films. My last gift from my mother proved how well she knew me. She knew me well enough to get the letterbox versions. Stupidly, I lent them to my (now) ex-girlfriend’s brother. I haven’t seen them since. Every Christmas I kick myself for doing that.
I think of my mom constantly. But I no longer mourn her loss. I miss her. A lot. She was an incredible woman. I wish she had been around to meet my wife and stepdaughter. I think she’d like them a lot. I wish she’d been around to meet my baby. But, part of me thinks she already has. But I would have liked to share that moment in my life with her.
I think she’d be proud of me, though. I think she’d be proud of this little family I’ve built. I think she would be proud of the fact that I turned my back on the work-a-day lifestyle to carve out my own path as a writer and editor. I think she’d smile if she knew that I was going to drop everything this afternoon and go to Matilda’s school to see the end of the year assembly. Because I was invited. I think she’d smile when I go have lunch with Matilda at school. And she’d love the fact that this summer I’m working my schedule so that I can have Fridays off to spend with the girls doing “daddy” things, like riding merry-go-rounds and playing in the dirt while watching the trains in Kirkwood.
As I said, I often say “if only my mom were still around . . .” but she is. I owe her everything. She taught me everything that I know. My values and my priorities are hers. My talents and interests were nurtured by her. Both my cautiousness and my yearning to grasp life by the short hairs and live it to it’s fullest are hers.
Monday, June 03, 2002
This weekend was hot. Damn hot. Too friggin’ hot.
We’ve had this set of furniture sitting at my sister’s house, that she so graciously donated to my daughter. We’ve been trying to pick it up since April 21. The world has conspired against us every weekend until finally, on a horrid, still, sticky, painfully hot day we were able to go pick it up.
This should have been a ten-minute job. Throw everything in the truck. Go home. Put everything in the room. Done. Enjoy the day.
Not so. Geekfriend arrived at 2:30 with his truck and we went to my sisters to get the furniture. By 2:31 the temperature outside was somewhere around the same temperature as the core of the sun. Except with 300% humidity. Simply opening the door of the truck exhausted me.
This will take an hour, I said. Ten minutes to pick up, twenty of driving, ten of moving upstairs and then set up. No biggie.
Wrong. It took us an hour to load the truck because we had to keep stopping. It was hot! Then my sister took pity upon us and gave us a drink. God love her. She didn’t want dead geeks in the driveway. It would bring down property values.
For the record, Diet Dr. Pepper does taste like real Dr. Pepper. Damn fine stuff. There should be more of it.
Then we dragged all this stuff up to the girls’ room. And put it together. And went to the grocery store to replenish bodily fluids with specially engineered sports drinks.
But it didn’t end there. We had to drive out to the in-laws to pick up a new crib. You see, I had been trying to lower the bed in the previous crib and . . . broke one of the rails.
It wasn’t my fault. Granted, I was cussing and yelling because this piece of junk wouldn’t cooperate. But, it was a cheap piece of plastic that snapped because of poor design. For the record, I did want to throw it out the window, but I didn’t. I feel I deserve credit for that.
More importantly, the girls now have bedroom sets that make them look like proper princesses. Matilda’s daybed provides her with plenty of options. So far, she has yet to pick a direction in which to sleep.
Baby Gertrude’s new crib is cavernous. And she loves it. When I last saw her, she was doing laps around the edges, giggling happily.
I’m hooked up to IVs, hoping that this whole summer isn’t like this. Damn heat and humidity.
Worse, Geekfriend is going on vacation for three weeks to parts of the US that aren’t crushed by heat and humidity. And he’s considering remaining in these parts.
Alas, I suppose if it makes him happy. But, the wife and I so rarely make friends . . . I guess we can hope against hope that he’ll remain in town and pursue his artistic endeavors with us as his cheering section. If not . . .
It was probably this weekend that caused him to go . . .
We’ve had this set of furniture sitting at my sister’s house, that she so graciously donated to my daughter. We’ve been trying to pick it up since April 21. The world has conspired against us every weekend until finally, on a horrid, still, sticky, painfully hot day we were able to go pick it up.
This should have been a ten-minute job. Throw everything in the truck. Go home. Put everything in the room. Done. Enjoy the day.
Not so. Geekfriend arrived at 2:30 with his truck and we went to my sisters to get the furniture. By 2:31 the temperature outside was somewhere around the same temperature as the core of the sun. Except with 300% humidity. Simply opening the door of the truck exhausted me.
This will take an hour, I said. Ten minutes to pick up, twenty of driving, ten of moving upstairs and then set up. No biggie.
Wrong. It took us an hour to load the truck because we had to keep stopping. It was hot! Then my sister took pity upon us and gave us a drink. God love her. She didn’t want dead geeks in the driveway. It would bring down property values.
For the record, Diet Dr. Pepper does taste like real Dr. Pepper. Damn fine stuff. There should be more of it.
Then we dragged all this stuff up to the girls’ room. And put it together. And went to the grocery store to replenish bodily fluids with specially engineered sports drinks.
But it didn’t end there. We had to drive out to the in-laws to pick up a new crib. You see, I had been trying to lower the bed in the previous crib and . . . broke one of the rails.
It wasn’t my fault. Granted, I was cussing and yelling because this piece of junk wouldn’t cooperate. But, it was a cheap piece of plastic that snapped because of poor design. For the record, I did want to throw it out the window, but I didn’t. I feel I deserve credit for that.
More importantly, the girls now have bedroom sets that make them look like proper princesses. Matilda’s daybed provides her with plenty of options. So far, she has yet to pick a direction in which to sleep.
Baby Gertrude’s new crib is cavernous. And she loves it. When I last saw her, she was doing laps around the edges, giggling happily.
I’m hooked up to IVs, hoping that this whole summer isn’t like this. Damn heat and humidity.
Worse, Geekfriend is going on vacation for three weeks to parts of the US that aren’t crushed by heat and humidity. And he’s considering remaining in these parts.
Alas, I suppose if it makes him happy. But, the wife and I so rarely make friends . . . I guess we can hope against hope that he’ll remain in town and pursue his artistic endeavors with us as his cheering section. If not . . .
It was probably this weekend that caused him to go . . .
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