Baby’s Day Off

Poor, poor sweet Gertrude. She just didn’t want to do it today. After a whirlwind week spent with Grandma, playing in the mud with Great Grandma, chasing after the dogs and eating a wide variety of snacks, she just didn’t want to go on today. Friday is her traditional play day at Diana’s; a day she usually looks forward to with the same excitement as going to the circus.

But today was different.

“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” she said. “I want Mommy and Daddy.”

She didn’t want it to be Friday. She didn’t want her regular routine. She wanted a day off.

And isn’t that fair? When kids get to school, they are afforded days off. Adults get to take days off from work. Shouldn’t toddlers be allowed to say, “You know what? I just don’t want to do the routine today. Can I stay home and just watch TV and play with my toys? I don’t want to see other people.”

I know exactly how she feels. When my wife kicked my lifeless body today I responded, “No thanks. I’m on a bed strike.” So was Gertrude. She was ready for a sofa strike to point out the inequalities that toddlers suffer. Not today, she said. Today is a lazy day.

Of course, the adults have their routine too. And though we understand her feelings, today we had responsibilities and appointments. We knew that once she got to Diana’s she’d go out and play with the kids. She’d jump headlong into the Movie Day activities and eat like a pig. Just like every Friday.

But it was difficult to ignore those plaintive moans, the little face buried in your neck, little arms clutching you, the refusal to put on her shoes. Just. Not. Today. Today, she needed her family.

Now that she’s been delivered safely to Diana’s, albeit reluctantly, I feel guilty. I should have stood up and said, “These responsibilities I have are nothing, my child. You and I shall stay home today on our bed strike. We will watch JoJo’s Circus and have popcorn for lunch. We will not have a nap today. If we get sleepy, the couch is just fine. And we’ll play only with your toys. We shall not step outside into the harsh cruel world. Instead, my little one, you and I will shun the world and just be lazy today.”

That’s what I should have said. But I didn’t.

And though I know she’s just fine at Diana’s, that she’s forgotten all about her protests, excited to wash her hands with foamy soap after a successful potty attempt, I haven’t. The more I think about it, the more regret I have regarding my decision to have her soldier on with her routine. Though I’m sure that psychologists and noted child-rearing experts would tell me that I did the right thing, I’m beginning to disagree. She’s my little girl.

Damn it, I miss her. I should go save her.

Sigh.

Discuss

Mustard

It has occurred to me that mustard is, perhaps, the most maligned, ignored and quite possibly discriminated against condiment.

Go to your refrigerator right now and tell me where the mustard is. You can’t, can you? Oh sure, you tell me that it has a special spot near the ketchup, but it doesn’t. You intend for it to have its own spot, but it routinely gets pushed to the back by the milk, the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and that half-rotting leftover spanakopita that you bought at the Greek restaurant three weeks ago and have no intention of eating because the phyllo dough has become soft and mushy instead of light, flaky and crispy.

You secretly hate your mustard. You resent that watery slurm that ejects from the spout before the real good stuff comes out. You have a general disdain for that yellow crust that forms at the tip of the spout.

All your fault, you know. Don’t blame the mustard. You could have taken the time to shake the mustard before you squeezed it on your sandwich. The mustard didn’t cause your bread to be soggy, you did. And the crust? Wipe the damn spout when you’re done. If not for you, out of courtesy for those who follow you.

But, you say, you like honey mustard. And Dijon garners much respect in your home, you say.

That’s like making a racial slur and then saying, “ but some of my best friends are . . .” It doesn’t hold water. Plus, you’re rationalizing your hatred of the yellow condiment by saying that if it’s sweetened or highly educated and rich, you’re fine with it. It’s that every day mustard you don’t like.

But have you considered that mustard is great on many things? Tastes great on hot dogs, and makes a stunning visual impact as well. Soft pretzels dipped in mustard? Sublime. And on a plain cheese sandwich, you’ve just added an element of sophistication.

Plus, mustard is an educational tool. Remember when you were a kid and out on a picnic with your parents. As you unwrapped your bologna and cheese sandwich from the plain label plastic bag that was ripped before you even touched it, you reached for the mustard. Why? To write your name on the sandwich.

You’re still not convinced. But ketchup, you tell me, now comes in a squeezable container and can be used as a writing implement just as easily. Besides, ketchup is much more versatile.

Right. That’s partially true. But you never complain about the watery sludge in the ketchup when you don’t shake it. Nor do you mention that red slimy crust that forms on the spout.

No, you still hate mustard. And you’ll use any chance to malign it. It’s so German, you say. It isn’t American. How can I put that on my hot dog? How can I possibly dip my fries in that?

Yeah, the hot dog is a German invention. And the burger? Brought to New York by . . . Germans. French fries? Well, that’s a dispute between France and Belgium.

And your beloved Ketchup? A fish sauce from China, perfected and Malaysia and Indonesia.

But the hole in the donut? American. And damn proud of it.

Discuss

Lack of Updates

Sorry for the lack of updates lately. Lots o'stuff going on. And lack of stuff to say. Combine both, mix and the result is a giant blank space. Like this:







See? It's very blank. And blank is what is considered an absence of something. I have plenty of blanks this week but no something. I think I'm tired. And I'm not feeling funny. And my neighbor is coveting my trash cans.

I also realize that I haven't been making monkey jokes lately. Again, I apologize. A serious lack of monkey jokes tends to make certain people disagreeable. I don't want to do that and I realize that I am shirking a very important civic duty. I'll try to rectify that in the future.

In fact, I'll try to do many things in the future. Including making a glue that acts like velcro. And a reverse microwave that freezes things instantly. I'll also be conducting experiments with a food saver and a gerbil. But I have to get around PETA first. They've been mad at me ever since that shaved monkey stunt.

See? A monkey joke. All is well.

There are many stories I haven't told you. Did you know the girls recently did my nails, hair and marched me around the house with a tiara on? They thought it was quite funny. I thought I looked rather cute. It reminded me of the time I was at a friends house (two girls) and they decided to paint my nails while we watched the X-Files. It was very relaxing. Though, admittedly, very strange when I went to the nearest gas station to pick up some beer. They lived in a very rough neighborhood and the man behind the counter seemed to have a problem with my manicure. Which was fine, because his establishment only sold really bad beer. When I started quoting David Sedaris, he seemed to get more confused.

Okay. Now I'm babbling. Time for a nap.

Quick!

Close your mouth! Cover all open sores. There's a sickness! In our house! It's a fever! Run for your lives before the germs get you! Run!

That being said, for obvious reasons, I won't be blogging for a bit. Mainly because I have to sterilize myself.

No. Not in that way. Perv.

Bleh

I meant to write more this week. I honestly did. In fact I actually had things to say.

Now I don’t. But I am listening to a really good Guided By Voices song. So I think that makes up for it, doesn’t it? Robert Pollard actually sounds sober. Most of the week I’ve been listening to Joe Henry for some reason. Probably because a) I like him; b) my brother bought his latest album and c) I’ve been discussing his finer points with a friend. We both agree that his finer points do not include his hair. I’m considering listening to Spiv later. Because, as he says, everybody is a rock star tonight. But I might listen to Britta Phillips and Dean Wareham. Right now it’s up in the air. And I can see that you’re riveted. But, what if I told you that Britta Phillips, who was in Luna was actually (drum roll) the voice of Jem?

Or maybe I’ll listen to every cover version of “How Deep is Your Love?” that I own. You’d be frightened if I told you the actual number. So I won’t.

This weekend we have things to do. Which is exciting. We’ll do these things with aplomb. Mainly because, I’d like to add, I don’t do enough things with aplomb.

Why I think I’ll type with aplomb. And I’ll do laundry with aplomb. I’ll type up this table of contents with aplomb! When I turn it over everyone will see how it was written with aplomb and decide to frame it, rather than just publish it!

Oh. And I accepted a project that will give me front cover credit. There will be a product in people’s hands that say “Gary O’Brien” under the title. Groovy.

So have a good weekend. Never mind the mess here.

Discuss

Boohbah: An Analysis

Unless you are a parent of a child under the age of four, you are unaware of Boohbah. This is a new television show, designed for the potty-training set, by the makers of The Teletubbies. Instead of four moronic trolls with electronic displays cruelly implanted in their abdomens and bowing down to a baby sun god, Boohbahs are, according to their creators, “five magical atoms of power, light and fun [who] travel in their Boohball around the world, from child to child.”

But, after watching the show a few times with my transfixed daughter, I’ve come to a different conclusion. It’s indoctrination into a strange, genetically altered, alien culture. It’s religion, mysticism and dominant psychology bent upon dulling the minds of children with the aim of control and implanting ideas, under the guise of entertainment.

Don’t believe me? Let me explain a typical show to you.

It opens with a glowing ball erupting across the sea (a foreign, far off land) and streaking across the sky. In its travels through the world, the “Boohball” comes into contact with innocent children from many different cultures. The ball visits Lichtenstein, an African savannah, Central park and more. All the while a gaggle of giggling children chants the indoctrination theme of “Boohbah” (said like Nico on a heroin binge) until the ball of light crashes into the Earth, contaminating the soil with its alien molecules.

The chemical and physical reaction of the impact gives rise to five giant beings called “Boohbah”. Each Boohbah has a name: Humbah, Zumbah, Zing Zing Zingbah, Jumbah and Jingbah. It is unclear which one is the mission leader. As the children chant each Boohbah’s name, the Boohbah awaken from their self-inflicted stasis until they come together in a harmonic convergence that results in an explosion of light and sound, thereby creating their own Boohbah reality; a dangerous rip in the space-time continuum.

Thus begins their ritual mating dances. Because, you see, each Boohbah looks like a swollen, uncircumcised penis attached to a swollen, furry ovum. They are asexual creatures, they can fertilize themselves. But in order to do so, they need the cooperation and energy of innocent souls. The innocents (children) call forth each Boohbah who dances solo to show off their fertility.

Once each Boohbah has made their case, they deliver a gift to the children of the world. A giant, sparkly, glowing box. The children open the box and release a single, ordinary object and a strangely utopian, multi-cultural family with names like “Brother”, “Sister”, “Grandpapa”, “Grandmamma”, “Mr. Man” and “Mrs. Lady”.

The Boohbah then cruelly place one member of the family in a foreign, inhospitable land with the ordinary object and force them to figure out not only the purpose of the object, but also how the Boohbah expect them to use it. I suspect that all of this takes place in an observation tank on their alien world. To confound the issue, the Boohbah frequently throw in unexpected obstacles to torture the family member. Once they are tortured sufficiently and the Boohbah are amused, the Boohbah return to their rip in the space-time continuum and continue their fertility rights.

Once they have worked themselves into fervor, the innocents call them and the Boohbah fly back into the Boohball and slide down the fallopian tubes into their fuzzy little receptacles. At this point they draw their phallic little heads into their ovum bodies and fertilize themselves.

The Boohball, sufficiently fertilized, now spins madly and continues its travels around the world. When it finds a secluded spot, it crashes to the ground leaving behind lobotomized clones of human children who are willing to do moronic, repetitive tasks until their little bodies no longer have the energy to survive. But the Boohbah know that this will take a very long time. Eventually the clones will be adopted by a human family, allowed to grow and eventually breed, thereby, over time, creating an easily placated and therefore conquerable race of mindless, repetitive idiots. The Boohbah, essentially, are using Earth as a seeding ground for their slave population that awaits the moment their masters’ return so they can do their bidding.

After they have dropped off many clones, the Boohball returns across the sea to recharge and return again the next day. But, more importantly, they have left behind their seeds.

Now, I could be off base here. But I don’t think I am. Boohbah is trying to take over Earth and we are allowing them. Don’t believe me? Their past, failed experiments are currently working as singing “dolls” at It’s a Small World in California, Florida, Japan and France.

If you see a giant, sparkly ball floating around your neighborhood, don’t let it hit the ground! The future of our species could depend upon it.

Valentime’s Day

Yes. Valentime’s Day. It’s tomorrow. Sure, I know that most people celebrate Valentine’s Day. Not in our house. Nope. It’s Valentime’s. Just ask Gertrude.

For the last few evenings, the girls were in the den working on Valentimes. Matilda’s were flowery, glittery and ornate (in the way a mobster’s moll would decorate her home with gold-leaf). Mommy’s were artistic, different and eclectic. Gertrude’s . . . well.

She’s only two, but she threw herself into Valentime’s Day with a vengeance. She made about thirty two cards for “Grampy”, nineteen for Meemee and roughly 832 random Valentimes.

Let me explain the process according to Gertrude. First you take a large piece of construction paper, preferably the ugliest color we have, such as “Warm Urine” or “Blood in the Stool”. So, you take this large piece of paper and take some glitter glue and glob it on in liberal amounts, making sure the globs will take eight hours to dry.

But you don’t have eight hours. You’re two. Bed time is in half an hour. It’s time to take your plastic scissors that can’t cut to the chase, much less a piece of construction paper.

INTERLUDE:

Gertrude’s Instructions on how to cut with Scissors
1. Pick up the scissors. They will be safety scissors because Mommy is mean and won’t let you use the real scissors. Screw danger Mom. This is ART.
2. Put your thumb and index finger in the respective scissor handles. Practice the cutting motion.
3. Pick up the piece of paper and hold it limp.
4. Now, carefully, turn the scissors sideways so that they are parallel with the paper and slide the paper in between the gap of the scissors.
5. Pump those scissors like there’s no tomorrow so they slide on the paper, causing no damage.
6. Look at paper. It has no cuts. Hmmm.
7. Get frustrated and cry. This might convince mom to give you something that is actually sharp.
8. Give up. Tear the sucker.

End INTERLUDE

Now, you have a globby, glittery piece of paper that has been shredded into many pieces, of many different shapes and sizes. Excellent.

Grab a crayon. Don’t worry about the dripping glitter glue. Start coloring on each separate piece. Smear the glue around, making sure to get it in your hair, on the table, etc.

The card is now done and is allowed to dry. Thirty seconds should be enough. Now it is time to write who it is to and sign your name. Gert, not being able to write yet, takes the Jackson Pollack route for writing. It is very ornate and beautiful.

Repeat.

This morning she was preparing to go to her sitters’ house. She was standing at the door in her little pink coat with the fuzz around the hood looking oh so cute. In her little hand was a paper bag filled with her Valentimes. She was proud of her work, as well she should be. She put my blood, Mom’s sweat and her tears into them.

My last image of her today is walking out the door clutching her bag, trying so hard to be much older than she is.

I’ll put that one in my back pocket.

When I asked her about Valentime’s day today she was very chatty. I asked her if she wanted a surprise from me. Did she want a card? No. A surprise? No. Candy? No. A present? No.

“I making Daddy a present,” she said. “It’s a surprise!” With that her thin little eyebrows shot up and her eyes got bright. Then she looked back down at her cereal with a look of concern. You could almost hear her saying, “Drat, I’ve said too much.”

Matilda went off to school with a load of Lizzie Valentines. Those were for the girls. The boys are getting Lord of the Rings. Except for me. I got a Lizzie card with a Friendship bracelet in it.

My girls. They defy all explanation.

And to my wife, this pre-Valentine’s Day message from Mr. Newman:

A window breaks, down a long, dark street
And a siren wails in the night
But I'm alright, 'cause I have you here with me
And I can almost see, through the dark there is light

Well, if you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
And if you knew how happy you are making me
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much

It feels like home to me

Discuss Valentime's

Wild

This is pretty cool. But I have to ask:

Does it do anything else? Seems if it can stop hail from forming, it could also cause problems.

Not that it would stop me from wanting one . . .

Don’t Tug on Superman’s Cape

Sometimes I think about things that no one else really cares about. This is one of those occasions.

What’s on my mind? Well, it occurred to me this morning (probably because I’m wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Superman’s crest) that humanity is really lucky that Superman has a generally good disposition.

I’m not talking about him being good versus evil. That’s trite. I’m talking about the fact that we’re lucky he doesn’t have hissy fits.

Think about it. Here’s a man who is virtually indestructible, can fly, shoot heat out of his eyes, see through walls, crush things with his bare hands, and, generally, can do things I can’t do but wish I could. Especially in a meeting.

“Gary, what do you think about this plan?”

“I can melt the table with my eyes.”

“Great. Okay, everyone agreed that Gary is a moron?”

Now, nothing stops Superman except beings from other dimensions or planets. Given the improbability that Superman could have these amazing powers in the first place, and the imporobility that another being with equally great powers could harm him, or a tiny rock from his home planet, we’re pretty screwed.

So, let’s just say that the dust in our atmosphere wreaks havoc with Supe’s Kryptonian sinuses. It’s going to put him in a bad mood. One sneeze alone could wipe out a whole city. But, he soldiers on.

But what if he didn’t? What if he just decided, “screw these puny humans” and just went nutso? What if, one day, Lois Lane dumped him and he got drunk? I’ve seen normal humans do some crazy things while drunk and heartbroken. But someone with super powers? Oh hell, we’re screwed.

One false move and Superman fries your cat, spies on your wife getting dressed and crushes your car. One day he’s your friend, welding your leaky pipe with his eyes and the next day your house is a smoldering ruin.

And really, it’s naïve to think his loyalties can’t be bought and sold. Give him a shot an American Idol and he’ll probably become as cut throat as the next guy. In fact, I’m surprised the guy doesn’t have a prima Dona complex.

“I saved the world. Give me all the Eddy’s Ice Cream I desire! And I want the runners up from the Bachelor as my harem.”

In fact, why did we trust this guy in the first place? Screw the bastard. He’s dangerous. I don’t want him around. He may be unbalanced. I may be unbalanced. We’re all unbalanced. Why have we never considered that he defies the laws of physics? What about his physiology? Why can he breathe in space? Underwater? Maybe he’s a plant designed to get our trust and then just lay waste to all of us.

Go away Superman. You’re not welcome here. We’ll take our chances with Batman. At least he has a cool cowl and a better cape.

Ahhhhhh. The medication just kicked in. Take me away Thorozine!

Discuss

Yub Nub!

It was an innocent comment . . .

I may have started a tiny little war on a discussion board. We were innocently discussing the impending announcement by Jabba the Lucas that the original Star Wars trilogy was going to be released on DVD. I expressed dismay that they would probably be the lesser, Special Editions that were released and not the original cuts. The reason I was upset by this is that the original cuts of those films are part of the tapestry of my childhood. I have no visceral connection with the Special Editions. I’m a Han shoots first kind of guy.

Someone countered that Lucas was trying to clean up the films, correcting some of the mistakes he made. I agreed and felt that was fine. But that Lucas took it way too far by shooting new scenes and changing the overall tone of several sequences, most notably the aforementioned Han/Greedo moment and some moments in Empire. However, I contended that Lucas saved all of us some trouble by getting rid of the horrid Ewok celebratory song that marred the ending of the trilogy. You know the song.

This site has a recording of how it originally sounded. It’s a big file, and it’s not worth listening to. But if you must . . . You must.

Well, I hit a nerve when I knocked the Yub Nub song. Apparently people liked it. Really, actually liked it. True, the new agey crap that Williams rescored for the Special Edition wasn’t exactly his greatest work. In fact, it wouldn’t even be considered some of John Tesch’s greatest work but . . . well . . . here’s what I told them:

“Okay, I was not knocking the Ewoks themselves. I was knocking the Yub Nub song. I do not have, nor have I ever had, a problem with the Ewoks, either as a plot device or as a species.

”But think about it. You just defeated an evil Galactic Empire, deposed a dictator and turned his most lethal henchman away from the dark side, while also releasing your father from the grips of a decades long, painful internal struggle. One that physically took most of his body and nearly cost him his soul. Billions of people are now free of an oppressive, murderous regime. How do you celebrate?

“Yub Nub.

“Not quite the emotional release we were looking for. I mean, Lando is gently clapping along. Gently. He just took part in destroying a planet smashing weapon. And he's quietly grooving in the corner to Yub Nub?

“John Williams is the master of the heroic theme and all he could come up with was that?”

No one has responded yet. I think I’m being shunned.

It’s almost as if George told John that the little teddy bears won the war and they needed a good teddy bear march. Even Disney in the 1980s would have vomited over the sugary tripe in this song. The people who made the move Savannah Smiles would have said, “Jesus, isn’t that a bit much? Don’t you think you’re going a bit far at the old cutesy cutesy? I mean, sure, we exploited the cuteness of a little girl for the box office good, but . . . Yub Nub?”

It gets worse. After the blockbuster success of Return of the Jedi, Lucas did a wretched TV movie based on the Ewoks. I’ll spare you the details, but it involved orphans on Endor and a diabetic coma. The diabetic coma wasn’t in the movie itself. The movie induced the diabetic coma.

Well, the song was featured there as well. But this time they released the lyrics. That’s like printing the lyrics to the Steam classic “Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye)”.

But they did, and here they are. With a translation. I believe that this translation vindicates my above rant. Look at how pathetic this celebratory chant is.

Yub nub, eee chop yub nub,
Freedom, we got freedom [Feel inspired yet?],

toe meet toe pee chee keene, g'noop dock fling oh ah.
and now that we can be free, c'mon and celebrate [Kool and the Gang should sue.]

Yah wah, eee chop yah wah,
Power, we got power [Clearly the little rodents didn’t learn anything from the Galactic Empire and are now obsessed with power. Will this power lust lead to an Ewok regime? Lucas was never clear on this.]

toe meet toe pee chee keene, g'noop dock fling oh ah
and now that we can be free, c'mon and celebrate [Repetition is the key to any great pop song. Even Ewok pop.]

Coat ee chah tu yub nub,
Celebrate the freedom [Be thankful our forefathers didn’t have their song writers, otherwise we may be singing this crap on the Fourth of July.]

Coat ee chah tu yah wah,
Celebrate the power [Oh yes. I feel the power. And it feels good. Let’s eviscerate Skywalker.]

Coat ee chah tu glo wah.
Celebrate the glory [For thine is the power and the glory . . . yep. Stole this from a Catholic mass.]

allay loo ta nuv
celebrate the love [Oh dear God, no.]

Glo wah, eee chop glo wah, ya glo wah pee chu nee foam,
Power, we got power, and now that we can be free [I think we got the point.]

ah toot dee awe goon daa.
it's time to celebrate [Celebrate Good Times, C’mon!]

Coat ee cha tu goo (Yub nub!)
Celebrate the light (Freedom!) [No, reading this in the original Ewok, I’m pretty sure that it told me to celebrate the goo.]

coat ee cha tu doo (Yah wah!)
celebrate the might (Power!) [Again with the power. What was the Ewoks’ true motivation here?]

coat ee cha tu too (ya chaa!)
celebrate the fight (Glory!) [Now we’re learning something. Celebrate the fight. The Ewoks truly were a warlike culture. They weren’t cute and cuddly at all. Don’t turn your back on them, they may hack you off at the knees.]

allay loo tu nuv (3 times)
celebrate the love [Three times? Wasn’t once enough?]

Glo wah, eee chop glo wah.
Glory, we found glory

Ya glow wah pee chu nee foam,
The power showed us the light [The power showed us the light. Really. They’re starting to worry me. They started off cute and now they’re going all Lord of the Flies on us. And, honestly, no matter what language you speak, “Wah pee chu nee foam” is a sexual fetish.]

ah toot dee awe goon daa
and now we all live free [Except, of course, those of us who actually have to hear this song]

allay loo tu nuv.
celebrate the love [Insert waka chaka music here.]

I rest my case. I don’t care how big of a Star Wars fan you are, this song is crap and deserved to be purged from human thought.

But it won’t. Millennia from now, when the alien anthropologists arrive to study our long dead race, they’ll find a CD of this song and somehow deduce that this was the basis of our culture.

“No wonder they died,” one of them will conclude. “With music like this they probably longed for the great silence of death.”

Discuss Yub Nub

I Have Seen Paradise

And it looks something like this. Oh, I've seen fancier, more expensive coffee makers before.

But this. This has a beauty in its simplicity. An elegance in its form and function.

Genius. Pure genius.

I must have one.Discuss on the other thread that appears below because I'm too lazy to start a new one.

Yay Todd!

Thank you for the CQ soundtrack. It's mighty good. Tres groovy.

Now all of you should go get it.

Of course, if anyone else wants to send me a CD . . . I won't complain. In fact, I'll be your friend forever.

Discuss

Problems with an Articulate Two-Year-Old

Two-year-old’s generally just scream or throw a tantrum when they want something, don’t want something or, in general, just want to bug the hell out of you.

Not our two-year-old. No. She had to become particularly adept at language. She had to pick up words and sentences faster than most kids. We don’t have the luxury of a wailing, kicking child. Sure, she does that when the mood strikes. And with a toddler, predicting that mood is akin to predicting when the Boston Red Sox will win the World Series. Impossible. You never know what will set it off, how it will manifest itself, or what sort of destruction will rain down upon the house.

But Gertrude generally eschews the screaming fits unless it involves her least-preferred parent of the moment giving her a bath. Instead, she bargains, manipulates, cajoles and rationalizes.

“Gertrude, it’s time for bed.”

“Ten minutes!”

“No, it’s bed time now.”

“In two minutes.”

“No, now.”

“What time is it?”

“Huh? You can’t tell time.”

“Ten more minutes.”

Where did she learn this? I don’t understand. But it doesn’t stop there. No, bargaining for time isn’t her only talent. Righteous indignation is another.

“Daddy, I want Wiggle nocks (Wiggle snacks).”

“Not right now honey. It’s almost dinner time.”

“But Daddy it’s not fair!”

Fair? She’s already discussing fairness with me? She’s wailing about the injustice of time?

But she also has her moments of diversion.

“Gertrude, it’s time to put your shoes on.”

“Not right now.”

“Yes, right now. We have to go pick up Matilda.”

“I do it later.”

“We have to do it now.”

“I make a surprise!” (She hands me a picture.)

“That’s very nice. But we have to put your shoes on.”

“Mommy do it.”

“But mommy isn’t home.”

“Oh. Mommy do it when she get home?”

“Well, no. Matilda needs to come home now.”

“I wait for mommy.”

How do you argue with the logic of a two-year old? I’d get angry with her if her responses weren’t so undeniably cute.

For example, last night we had ice cream after dinner. But Gertrude didn’t get her own bowl because she didn’t finish her dinner and she ran out of the room before dinner was done. For some reason, she understood this and was happy to snag a random spoonful from mom.

“I have a bite?” Sure. And she ran out of the room. Two minutes later.

“I need more ice cream,” and she opens her mouth like a baby bird waiting to be fed.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please.” She gets the pay off. Runs out of the room. Two minutes later she’s back.

“I have more ice cream?” And we start the please debate. She’s hesitating, not saying it. So mommy eats the dripping spoonful of ice cream.

“Hey! That my bite!” There’s that righteous indignation again.

So, the question is, did she get her ice cream eventually?

Well, when she woke up this morning she announced, “My tummy is full of ice cream!” When I asked her if I had a tummy full of ice cream she said, “No. You can have medicine.”

I am doomed.

Discuss

"Evil Eye"

Cool!

A Family Affair

I just had a very nice lunch with my big brother. I’d say it was a lovely lunch, but I think he’d object to that. So it was splendiferous.

Through the course of our conversation, we were talking about how our entertainment dollar is spent. Where does the money go when we spend it on entertaining ourselves? For me, it’s satellite, Netflix and coffee, coffee, coffee. I also scrape quarters for CDs. He was pretty much the same, except he doesn’t drink coffee and he goes to football games instead of getting movies. Either way, we both realized that we don’t go out much. We don’t get sitters and we don’t meet our buddies out for a beer.

We spend our time at home. With our kids. And our spouses. What time we spend outside of the home is usually with the family. And we don’t feel like we’re missing out on anything. In fact, sometimes when I settle down at the end of the day, ready to watch something I’m looking forward to, or even just sitting and talking to my wife, I think, “Damn, I’m happy.”

I know the stigma that is associated with having a family. I’m a “breeder”. I’m patently “uncool”. My life is boring. Every creative, interesting fiber of my being has been compromised, homogenized and synthesized until I have become “one of them”. You know them. People with families. People who don’t care that they are wearing a sweatshirt that says, “Best Dad in the World” just because his kids gave it to him. People who, even if they are interested, skip going to see Stereolab and go see “Confessions of a Drama Queen” with their daughter. People who are unabashedly happy being a parent.

That’s me. Am I cool? No. At least, not in a conventional sense. Do you consider listening to a stream of music that runs from George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass” to John Lee Hooker’s “Grinder Man” to Yo La Tengo’s “Little Eyes” cool? I do enjoy watching eclectic movies. Or shall I say “film”. And currently I’m splitting my reading time between Mark Twain and Cervantes with a little physics mixed in. That’s what I’m interested in these days.

So, I’m not cool. I can handle that. But am I creative?

Well, I’m working on a movie script. And a book. And I feel that I’ve made progress on both. So, I can’t say that I’m not creative. I’m not the next David Lynch or David Eggers (whom I feel is vastly overrated) or any other David for that matter.

Ah, but have I lost my identity? My sense of self? Probably, right? Because I’ve given up so much of my life to raise these kids. Surely I must be ignoring an essential part of myself.

Well . . . no, actually. In fact, in all honesty, I think I’ve discovered more of myself, more of my individuality since I’ve become a parent. I’d say I’m even less a member of the masses than I was before I “bred”.

True, at the end of the day my wife and I have maybe an hour alone together. Sure, I’d love more time alone with her. But what would the cost be? Not spending time with the kids and, to be honest, I don’t want to give that up. Otherwise, I might miss Gertrude’s impromptu performances during American Idol. Or I might miss a great discussion about The Hobbit with Matilda. Plus, they make me things. Clay fish, drawings, messes. I actually like that. And when they piss me off, and believe me they do, the after tantrum hug is always sweeter than anything I could find outside of the house.

Coolness, life enjoyment and individuality are all such objective things based on observations that are immensely internalized. When you look at me and think I’m so uncool, you’re doing so based on your filters. You base that decision on what you think is cool. And I’m not it. Guess what? That’s okay. Really, I don’t mind not having your approval.

Why? Because I’m comfortable with myself. All my dorky attributes and interests.

As I’ve grown older I’ve learned something. I’ve learned that I have more fun in my own head than I can outside it. I can take my body to a thousand places, but if my mind isn’t engaged, I’ll be bored.

Parenting and marriage isn’t a curse that confines one to years of loneliness, isolation and uncoolness. It’s a choice, a path you embark upon. A new adventure. I’m a parent and a husband and I’m happy to define myself as such.

I’m not going to try and convince someone to be anything they aren’t and I’m not going to say, “Oh you’ll understand when you’re a parent”. Because either you understand or you don’t. And if you don’t, I’m certainly interested in what makes you not understand. I’d love to debate it.

Decide who you are and be that. Don’t worry about other people. If chasing greased pigs makes you happy, go for it! If drinking coffee makes you happy, then by all means, do it! Just as long as you find that one thing, the thing that makes it all worthwhile.

I know I finally have. It was a long, tough road to get here, but finally for one of the first times in my bitter, little life, I’m here. I’m happy.

Weird, ain’t it?

Discuss

We're Back

The server is now chomping down on some good high bandwidth energy. It's very happy, though it thinks everything is going straight to it's parallel port.

That being said, now I have nothing to say nor do I have the energy to work on the template.

So, I leave it to you. Here is your chance to take over the blog. Post your thoughts about any topic you want right here.

It's your blog today. I told you I have nothing to say, but I'm willing to listen.

The doctor is in.

It's Slow, I Know

My host's ISP is having issues with their pipe. So things are slow today. Ignore all the template issues, as I stupidly tried to make changes when the ISP is hosed. Duh.

Please Be Patient

I'm working on my template. Everything is in line, except the fonts. Old posts are what I want, but new posts aren't. Hello? Blogger? Do my bidding!

I'm Glad That's Settled

Can we get on with our lives now? I think this horrible debate has gone on long enough. Let's just handle the change and get on with our lives. (Link via Boing Boing). Boing is a really strange word.