Sometimes you just have to lay back, close your eyes and admit that you are the system’s bitch.
I concede defeat to the world today and, thusly, give up on work for a day. Like a general whose troops have been slaughtered and he is the last man standing I can honestly say, “My work here is done.”
Sadly, it’ll be there again tomorrow, even dirtier, messier and smellier.
But I get a brief respite. The eye in the storm. A few hours at the beach, so to speak.
Bubbles. I get to make bubbles. The kind that are made using the surface tension created when you mix water with a soap solution. Perfect spheres.
Say it with me everyone. It’s fun. Bubble, bubble, bubble. Bubble, bubble, bubble. No other word in the English language is quite as fun. Except maybe defunct. But that’s another story.
I’m meeting with another mom (or should I say “parent”) to discuss creative ways to make bubbles for the Science Olympiad at Kaitlyn’s school next week. We’ve discussed a few options, but we’ll go in depth tomorrow. Woo hoo!
Now, I’m no expert at bubbles. Sure, I’ve blown a few in my time. I’ve even been able to make some mutant bubbles and some extra large ones. But . . . what else to do? In general, my expertise is in bubbles in the bath, without the benefit of soap.
So, how many variations on bubbles can you make? Scientifically speaking, there just isn’t much that can be done with a bubble without compromising its structural integrity.
That’s where my love of physics is going to come in. I am going to endeavor to make a bubble in extreme conditions where space and time don’t matter.
I will create a black hole in my kitchen and see what effects it has on bubbles. And to see if Teflon is still no-stick in extreme gravity.
Maybe the other parent will get sucked in to it. Because, really, I don’t give a crap about the dance studio she runs. The thought of her in a leotard frightens me, to be honest.
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
Blog . . . out of danger?
The blog? Yes. The blog is fine. Humming along and serving up pages like a happy little camper.
The blogger himself? Well, no. He's having a heart attack by being busy today. Too much to do. Being as the money that I earn while genially freelancing from beautiful downtown Creve Coeur helps feed my family, I think I'll focus on that today.
Tomorrow? I focus on bubbles.
For today, I'll send you to my wife the Weasel. She posted a rather nice piece today about fatherhood versus motherhood and the inherent inequities therein. I worry about her descriptions of scrubbing floors and wonder what my future may have in store.
I think I might buy a bigger toothbrush . . .
The blog? Yes. The blog is fine. Humming along and serving up pages like a happy little camper.
The blogger himself? Well, no. He's having a heart attack by being busy today. Too much to do. Being as the money that I earn while genially freelancing from beautiful downtown Creve Coeur helps feed my family, I think I'll focus on that today.
Tomorrow? I focus on bubbles.
For today, I'll send you to my wife the Weasel. She posted a rather nice piece today about fatherhood versus motherhood and the inherent inequities therein. I worry about her descriptions of scrubbing floors and wonder what my future may have in store.
I think I might buy a bigger toothbrush . . .
Monday, May 13, 2002
I had originally planned to tell you all about how much I loved Spider-Man. How cool I thought it was and the list of superheroes I had come up with that were destined to fail (e.g. Naked Man).
Then I saw something. Something . . . deplorable.
The wife and I took the drooler to see the doctor today. She’s officially six months old (wow, how time flies . . . more on that another time). So, the doctor looks her over, declares her a genius and bows to her plan for world domination. Then, as if the disgrace her desire for dominance, they pinned her down to inject her full of some sort of vaccination. Right . . . Government tracking serums is more like it.
There were for shots total. The first two, little Gertrude was very gracious. She took the stinging pain like a trooper. Her little lip pouted a bit, but she was okay. The third irritated her. She looked at the nurse and gave her a warning. NEVER do that again. But the nurse did and Gertrude let out a plaintive wail that was heard for blocks around. Children all over the world stopped, bowed their heads and thought silently about the poor child that had just been vaccinated.
Gertrude gave that nurse a look. A dirty look. A look that said, “I never forget a face. Woman, when I can walk and have a concept of revenge, you are first.”
But that is beside the point.
As I was loading the baby into the car to deliver her to the sitter, I noticed there were two small children in the car next to me. No parent. I had seen them when I pulled in. There was a dad of some sort in the front with them, but he was gone.
Well, I thought, maybe he’s under the car checking for leaks. Nope. Perhaps he’s hiding in the back, playing a game. Nope. Perhaps his body was flung into this ditch and is waiting to be discovered by authorities. Nope.
No, this jerk left his two kids in the car. Alone. Looked to be about three and one. The best part was the one-year-old was not restrained in any way. He roamed about the car, trying to discover what sort of horrible act he could perform. The other kid sat there, blandly allowing himself to be neglected. I could see the pent up rage building itself up deep within him. He may not figure out how to retaliate today. Or even this decade, but you could tell by the look on his face that he would exact his revenge on his errant, moronic dad someday . . . when he least expected it.
My wife stayed to make sure the kids were okay. Eventually the dad came out and retrieved his kids. Wife didn’t say anything to the guy, but gave him a dirty look.
This guy is seriously missing two of the seven senses (Horse and Common). What kind of jerk leaves two young children in a car on a parking lot? Would it have taken so much to get the two kids out and take them in with him? Are they not important enough to him? How could anyone let their children out of their site for that long? For crying out loud, I stop the car to make sure my kid is breathing properly. I would never consider leaving her alone for a second, much less keeping her in a car alone while I go about my business.
This prick makes us all look bad.
It’s bad enough that fathers have a reputation based upon moronic stereotypes from television sit-coms. We can never catch a break. I know this for a fact based on the way my daughter’s brownie moms have treated me. I am an outsider to them. A bumbling Neanderthal bastard who shouldn’t be caring for children because I am probably afraid of changing diapers. I am not worthy to share the brownie room with them because . . . well . . . I have a penis and that makes me incapable of proper child care. I should be relegated to cleaning gutters and charring flesh over an open flame.
Heck, open any parenting magazine and look for all the articles that deal with fatherhood. Exactly . . . none? And when a father is mentioned, it’s usually in reference to him putting on a diaper backwards or trying to feed the baby chili.
But that’s beside the point. I know I’m a good Dad. I know many good dads. There are many in my family alone. And yet, jerks like this guy are the ones who give us the stereotype of stupid, uncaring, incompetent nincompoops. We’re not all that way.
To quote the movie Parenthood, “You need a license to drive a car. You need a license to own a dog. But any butt-reaming asshole can be a dad.”
This is true. But, do not judge us based on the stereotype. Look around. There are plenty of us caring fathers around.
Also, look around again. If you see this guy, who was driving a powder blue Volvo station wagon, kick him. Hard. In the crotch.
Or you can wait another ten years when he picks up his son at the police station for dealing drugs. He’ll be the one moaning about how the media has corrupted his kid. He’ll be the one completely blind to the fact that parenting actually involves paying attention to your kids.
Then I saw something. Something . . . deplorable.
The wife and I took the drooler to see the doctor today. She’s officially six months old (wow, how time flies . . . more on that another time). So, the doctor looks her over, declares her a genius and bows to her plan for world domination. Then, as if the disgrace her desire for dominance, they pinned her down to inject her full of some sort of vaccination. Right . . . Government tracking serums is more like it.
There were for shots total. The first two, little Gertrude was very gracious. She took the stinging pain like a trooper. Her little lip pouted a bit, but she was okay. The third irritated her. She looked at the nurse and gave her a warning. NEVER do that again. But the nurse did and Gertrude let out a plaintive wail that was heard for blocks around. Children all over the world stopped, bowed their heads and thought silently about the poor child that had just been vaccinated.
Gertrude gave that nurse a look. A dirty look. A look that said, “I never forget a face. Woman, when I can walk and have a concept of revenge, you are first.”
But that is beside the point.
As I was loading the baby into the car to deliver her to the sitter, I noticed there were two small children in the car next to me. No parent. I had seen them when I pulled in. There was a dad of some sort in the front with them, but he was gone.
Well, I thought, maybe he’s under the car checking for leaks. Nope. Perhaps he’s hiding in the back, playing a game. Nope. Perhaps his body was flung into this ditch and is waiting to be discovered by authorities. Nope.
No, this jerk left his two kids in the car. Alone. Looked to be about three and one. The best part was the one-year-old was not restrained in any way. He roamed about the car, trying to discover what sort of horrible act he could perform. The other kid sat there, blandly allowing himself to be neglected. I could see the pent up rage building itself up deep within him. He may not figure out how to retaliate today. Or even this decade, but you could tell by the look on his face that he would exact his revenge on his errant, moronic dad someday . . . when he least expected it.
My wife stayed to make sure the kids were okay. Eventually the dad came out and retrieved his kids. Wife didn’t say anything to the guy, but gave him a dirty look.
This guy is seriously missing two of the seven senses (Horse and Common). What kind of jerk leaves two young children in a car on a parking lot? Would it have taken so much to get the two kids out and take them in with him? Are they not important enough to him? How could anyone let their children out of their site for that long? For crying out loud, I stop the car to make sure my kid is breathing properly. I would never consider leaving her alone for a second, much less keeping her in a car alone while I go about my business.
This prick makes us all look bad.
It’s bad enough that fathers have a reputation based upon moronic stereotypes from television sit-coms. We can never catch a break. I know this for a fact based on the way my daughter’s brownie moms have treated me. I am an outsider to them. A bumbling Neanderthal bastard who shouldn’t be caring for children because I am probably afraid of changing diapers. I am not worthy to share the brownie room with them because . . . well . . . I have a penis and that makes me incapable of proper child care. I should be relegated to cleaning gutters and charring flesh over an open flame.
Heck, open any parenting magazine and look for all the articles that deal with fatherhood. Exactly . . . none? And when a father is mentioned, it’s usually in reference to him putting on a diaper backwards or trying to feed the baby chili.
But that’s beside the point. I know I’m a good Dad. I know many good dads. There are many in my family alone. And yet, jerks like this guy are the ones who give us the stereotype of stupid, uncaring, incompetent nincompoops. We’re not all that way.
To quote the movie Parenthood, “You need a license to drive a car. You need a license to own a dog. But any butt-reaming asshole can be a dad.”
This is true. But, do not judge us based on the stereotype. Look around. There are plenty of us caring fathers around.
Also, look around again. If you see this guy, who was driving a powder blue Volvo station wagon, kick him. Hard. In the crotch.
Or you can wait another ten years when he picks up his son at the police station for dealing drugs. He’ll be the one moaning about how the media has corrupted his kid. He’ll be the one completely blind to the fact that parenting actually involves paying attention to your kids.
Saturday, May 11, 2002
Families of 11 dead illegals to sue U.S. for Not Putting Water in the Desert.
Other things the government should do:
*Put firewood in the tundra.
*Provide swimmers with armor against sharks.
*Stop bees from stinging people.
*Get rid of cancer.
*Reduce the grease in McDonalds Burgers.
*Put safety harneses in trees in case people fall out.
*Use softer bullets because when I'm trying to rob a bank while brandishing a weapon, those hard bullets could hurt somebody.
*Put a warning on coffee because it might be hot.
No offense to the families or their tragically departed loved ones but . . .
It's the desert. There is no water. That's why they call it the desert. I wonder if we'll ever be sued by the families of people who drown for not putting enough air in the water?
Other things the government should do:
*Put firewood in the tundra.
*Provide swimmers with armor against sharks.
*Stop bees from stinging people.
*Get rid of cancer.
*Reduce the grease in McDonalds Burgers.
*Put safety harneses in trees in case people fall out.
*Use softer bullets because when I'm trying to rob a bank while brandishing a weapon, those hard bullets could hurt somebody.
*Put a warning on coffee because it might be hot.
No offense to the families or their tragically departed loved ones but . . .
It's the desert. There is no water. That's why they call it the desert. I wonder if we'll ever be sued by the families of people who drown for not putting enough air in the water?
Friday, May 10, 2002
Is it possible for a child to be obsessive-compulsive? I wonder. Is it possible that my lovely six-year-old has OCD?
It all began when she was four, when we moved into what we know refer to as Stately Pain Manor, though we could easily call it The Crack House. Our front door has some nice concrete steps that lead down to the sidewalk. Next to the stairs there is a small one by one foot area. My lovely daughter began collecting rocks and placing them in that small space.
It was cute at first. She’d find a new treasure and show it to us, describing how pretty it was and why she liked it. She named the rocks, called them her friends and used them for various states of play. She would even periodically wash them. After all, what good is a dirty rock?
After a brief stint in dealing with only rocks, she decided to diversify and add sticks to the bargain. Again, it seemed harmless. She’d arrange the rocks and sticks on the steps in patterns that only she understood. Sadly, she’d also leave them out overnight, looking to the neighbors as if the Blair Witch had paid us a visit in the night. This was only compounded by our Red Headed Family Friend (a.k.a. P Tiddy) who would be walking to his car late at night yelling, “Josh? Josh! Oh my God are those teeth????”
Sadly, those rocks and sticks would also be there early in the morning when I’d go out, barefoot, to pick up the paper.
Slowly she expanded beyond rocks and added the common detritus one finds below the surface of topsoil, or hiding among grass that has long needed a good mowing. Broken toys, bottle caps . . . anything that looked interesting became part of the collection. I was thankful that her treasure never included broken syringes and used condoms. But, then, we don’t live in California . . .
The collection began to grow until it looked like the tide had come in to deposit the ocean’s refuse. It was unsightly. I informed the little one that she would have to sort out her favorite rocks and place them in a box that we’d keep just inside the door. The collection could never grow beyond that box until she came up with a reasonable system for a reasonably sized collection. Then she’d have to return her little igneous friends to their natural habitat, preferably an area that posed no danger to life, limb or vehicle.
She did sort them out. She even stopped adding to the outside collection. Well, she stopped adding rocks. Sticks were another matter. And she never did put the rocks back.
The sticks came in all sizes, from tiny twigs to actual lumber. I have no idea where she would find them. I asked her to stop that, as well, because people were beginning to mistake our steps for a compost heap. She told me that sticks were part of trees and trees were alive and you can’t throw away living things. I explained that once the stick falls from the tree, it is no longer alive. “Blasphemer,” she cried, “wait until Greenpeace hears about this!”
I thought she had . . . until I found the collection newly located under a bush. Hundreds of little sticks. At first I thought a colony of frontier Smurfs were building their settlement there.
I got lazy and stopped reminding her to get rid of the rocks. I knew it was hard for her and, to be honest, I hate living here so if it makes her happy, then so be it.
But, I realized we had a problem a few weeks ago when we were cleaning out and rearranging her room. Hidden throughout her room were enclaves of rocks. One, I kid you not, weighed at least five pounds. She admitted to carefully sneaking it up to her room one day after school when I wasn’t looking.
It was time for an intervention. I began nagging her to get rid of the rocks. I even set up times. But nature was on her side. It rained, it stormed, we always had something more important to do.
Today I was finally fed up when I found what I think may be a support beam for someone else’s home piled out there. Once that home collapses, I’ll know where to return it. At the bus stop I informed her that she couldn’t leave sticks there anymore. She’s welcome to play with them, but leave them to nature. Sticks go back into the soil and provide nutrients for the trees, I said.
The looks she gave me can only be summed up as, “Whatever.”
So, I decided that the Stone Age was over. I cleaned out the whole area. It took four full plastic shopping bags to return the rocks to their proper place. I also found roughly 214 sticks strewn about. I think one may have been a chair leg once.
I prepared my speech when I got home. I knew she’d be upset. After all, this had been her collection. But I had given her so many chances. To many. I drafted what I’d say in my head and went out the wait for the bus.
When she arrived home she exclaimed, excitedly, “Daddy!” (Uh oh. Here it comes, prepare for tears.) “You cleaned out my rock collection. Cool.” Then she ran off with her friends.
I walked inside, confident that I had done the right thing. Right? I had triumphed on the side of non-clutter. Right?
Or had I? She was outside playing while I cleaned out the dirt from beneath my fingernails.
That little weasel had beaten me. She just learned a valuable lesson. If she procrastinates long enough, with a sweet demeanor, I will eventually do the work for her.
I fear the next time I look in the mirror I will find, neatly stamped to my forehead, the word “Sucker.”
And I am. I am. But it’s comfortable wrapped around her little finger. She even gives me a sense of power now and then.
It all began when she was four, when we moved into what we know refer to as Stately Pain Manor, though we could easily call it The Crack House. Our front door has some nice concrete steps that lead down to the sidewalk. Next to the stairs there is a small one by one foot area. My lovely daughter began collecting rocks and placing them in that small space.
It was cute at first. She’d find a new treasure and show it to us, describing how pretty it was and why she liked it. She named the rocks, called them her friends and used them for various states of play. She would even periodically wash them. After all, what good is a dirty rock?
After a brief stint in dealing with only rocks, she decided to diversify and add sticks to the bargain. Again, it seemed harmless. She’d arrange the rocks and sticks on the steps in patterns that only she understood. Sadly, she’d also leave them out overnight, looking to the neighbors as if the Blair Witch had paid us a visit in the night. This was only compounded by our Red Headed Family Friend (a.k.a. P Tiddy) who would be walking to his car late at night yelling, “Josh? Josh! Oh my God are those teeth????”
Sadly, those rocks and sticks would also be there early in the morning when I’d go out, barefoot, to pick up the paper.
Slowly she expanded beyond rocks and added the common detritus one finds below the surface of topsoil, or hiding among grass that has long needed a good mowing. Broken toys, bottle caps . . . anything that looked interesting became part of the collection. I was thankful that her treasure never included broken syringes and used condoms. But, then, we don’t live in California . . .
The collection began to grow until it looked like the tide had come in to deposit the ocean’s refuse. It was unsightly. I informed the little one that she would have to sort out her favorite rocks and place them in a box that we’d keep just inside the door. The collection could never grow beyond that box until she came up with a reasonable system for a reasonably sized collection. Then she’d have to return her little igneous friends to their natural habitat, preferably an area that posed no danger to life, limb or vehicle.
She did sort them out. She even stopped adding to the outside collection. Well, she stopped adding rocks. Sticks were another matter. And she never did put the rocks back.
The sticks came in all sizes, from tiny twigs to actual lumber. I have no idea where she would find them. I asked her to stop that, as well, because people were beginning to mistake our steps for a compost heap. She told me that sticks were part of trees and trees were alive and you can’t throw away living things. I explained that once the stick falls from the tree, it is no longer alive. “Blasphemer,” she cried, “wait until Greenpeace hears about this!”
I thought she had . . . until I found the collection newly located under a bush. Hundreds of little sticks. At first I thought a colony of frontier Smurfs were building their settlement there.
I got lazy and stopped reminding her to get rid of the rocks. I knew it was hard for her and, to be honest, I hate living here so if it makes her happy, then so be it.
But, I realized we had a problem a few weeks ago when we were cleaning out and rearranging her room. Hidden throughout her room were enclaves of rocks. One, I kid you not, weighed at least five pounds. She admitted to carefully sneaking it up to her room one day after school when I wasn’t looking.
It was time for an intervention. I began nagging her to get rid of the rocks. I even set up times. But nature was on her side. It rained, it stormed, we always had something more important to do.
Today I was finally fed up when I found what I think may be a support beam for someone else’s home piled out there. Once that home collapses, I’ll know where to return it. At the bus stop I informed her that she couldn’t leave sticks there anymore. She’s welcome to play with them, but leave them to nature. Sticks go back into the soil and provide nutrients for the trees, I said.
The looks she gave me can only be summed up as, “Whatever.”
So, I decided that the Stone Age was over. I cleaned out the whole area. It took four full plastic shopping bags to return the rocks to their proper place. I also found roughly 214 sticks strewn about. I think one may have been a chair leg once.
I prepared my speech when I got home. I knew she’d be upset. After all, this had been her collection. But I had given her so many chances. To many. I drafted what I’d say in my head and went out the wait for the bus.
When she arrived home she exclaimed, excitedly, “Daddy!” (Uh oh. Here it comes, prepare for tears.) “You cleaned out my rock collection. Cool.” Then she ran off with her friends.
I walked inside, confident that I had done the right thing. Right? I had triumphed on the side of non-clutter. Right?
Or had I? She was outside playing while I cleaned out the dirt from beneath my fingernails.
That little weasel had beaten me. She just learned a valuable lesson. If she procrastinates long enough, with a sweet demeanor, I will eventually do the work for her.
I fear the next time I look in the mirror I will find, neatly stamped to my forehead, the word “Sucker.”
And I am. I am. But it’s comfortable wrapped around her little finger. She even gives me a sense of power now and then.
I see you. I see you peeking in here trying to see if I've actually gotten off my lazy butt and written something today. Well I have, but it's not done yet. I have to finish today's work first. Which, when working alone, is often difficult because I get lonely. The cat has stopped speaking with me. We're all lucky I don't don spandex and proclaim myself a superhero.
Oh wait, I have that penciled in for three.
I do have an update. My complex (such an apt word for them) is sending someone out on Thursday to check my crack. I hope it's dry by then.
I'm referring to my home's foundation. What were you thinking?
Oh wait, I have that penciled in for three.
I do have an update. My complex (such an apt word for them) is sending someone out on Thursday to check my crack. I hope it's dry by then.
I'm referring to my home's foundation. What were you thinking?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)