Greg & Deb on the Web

I Really Couldn't Argue with Allie

2010-04-04T19:46:00.000-05:00

Breakfast

2010-03-21T14:48:00.000-05:00

I was sitting on the sofa when Julia walked up to me and handed me a Cheerio. I popped the Cheerio in my mouth and while I chewed I said, "Thanks, Sweetie."

"I poisoned it."

Subconscious or not. . .

2010-03-17T00:05:00.002-05:00

Allie and I went for a long walk after dinner. Instead of the usual exploration of our neighborhood we made our way toward Main St. The street was blocked by squad cars. As pedestrians, we were allowed through to watch the fire department take care of a fairly nasty car fire. No ambulances (thank goodness). Just a smoldering black hunk of late-model something or other.

As soon as the car fire was behind us we talked about a book on medical mysteries that Allie is reading. She would tell me about one of the diseases in the book and I would come back with whatever gross medical problem I knew something about. The more we talked, the more Allie wanted to hear. This meant each disease had to be more gruesome than the last. After Ebola I wasn't sure where to go so I wound up describing syphilis to my ten year-old.

She asked how syphilis is spread after I began describing how the disease could lead to lesions that would sometimes cause peoples' noses to rot off. The timing of the question was coincidental in that, as of today, Allie is learning about human sexuality in health class. So when I told her that syphilis is sexually transmitted she had all the information she needed.

As I type this I'm really not sure if my subconscious response to Allie's health class was to plant the notion that the consequences of sex can sometimes lead to your nose falling off.

Subconscious or not - I'm pretty sure it was the right thing to do.

You see, there was this dog. . .

2010-03-06T11:07:00.001-06:00

I was filling up the car when I noticed the van next to me had a dog sitting in the driver's seat. This dog looked like the dog I have in my head when I think about what kind of dog I'd like to have as a pet.

I barked at the dog and it came over to the passenger seat to check me out. I waved. I made faces. I marched around. The dog was more interested in whether or not its owner was coming out of the convenience store than it was in me. This made me try harder. All the way to the point where I was sitting in my car gesticulating wildly to try and make this dog love me.

I'm not sure why I hit the brake as I pulled away from the dog in the van. I'm going to say Jesus told me to stop because I hadn't removed the pump nozzle from the car. Half a second more and I would have ripped the hose from the pump and gas would have spewed everywhere. With my luck it would have ignited, blowing up everything that surrounded my car and the cool dog in the van.

Following my close call I thought about how I would have explained the lost lives and thousands of dollars in property damage I might have caused to Deb.

You see, there was this dog. . .

One of the Many Reasons

2010-01-03T20:12:00.005-06:00

Riding home this evening we were talking about new kids at Allie and Julia's school. One of the new kids in Julia's class is named Brook. We asked Julia if she knew what a brook might be (aside from a first grader who's new in town). We told her that a brook can also be a small stream like a creek or a tiny river.

"No. That's not what a brook is. It's one of those things," she said.

After we made a couple of weak attempts to convince her that we weren't lying she said, "A brook is what they use to make buildings."

"Um, that's a brick."

"That's what her name is - Brook."

"But you said, brick; not brook."

"I said brook, like what they use in buildings."

"A brick."

"Yeah. A brook."

This could have gone on for the entire ride home but instead Julia told us about the abalien kid at school. "He's teaching us to speak abalien," she told us.

We asked her if she meant Albanian. She said, "Yeah, abalien. He's really poor. He said that he only has a hay ball to play with."

For some reason hay ball meant I had reached some kind of tipping point and started laughing until I couldn't breathe. When this happens it's not really laughing it's just some kind of gurgling sound I make as I try to catch my breath. This time my hysterical gurgling really pissed off Julia.

"Stop laughing! It's not funny! Don't laugh at my friend!"

"I'm laughing at you, Julia"

"Stop laughing at me!"

Julia sucked all the funny out of the moment. I sat there, sullen because I'd been scolded by my six year-old. Like she knows it's not polite to laugh at little kids who only have balls of hay for toys. She doesn't know the difference between a damn brook and a brick. She's telling me I shouldn't be laughing at this poor boy's toy?

Yes. I felt guilty. That said I've stopped typing this post twice to cover my mouth so I won't laugh at thoughts of the little abalien boy unwrapping the new hay ball he got for Christmas.

This is one of the many reasons why people tell me I am a bad person.

Technical Difficulties

2009-12-27T18:26:00.002-06:00

If you poke around this site over the next few weeks you may find a number of broken links and missing content. I'll do my best to try to restore the site but the fact is I don't spend a lot of time here anymore.

Don't get me wrong - I'm no Dwayne. I'll still post from time-to-time and much of the missing media (particularly videos) will probably pop-up on Flickr and YouTube. I'm just not too keen on spending time trying to reconnect all the wires that are about to be severed.

If for some strange reason you can't get to something you access here on a regular basis (motorcycle oil changes, the post on Esteban's fingernails and the tornado video seem to get a lot of action) let me know and I'll send it to you. That said I'm supremely confident I won't be hearing from any of you regarding lost content. I just thought, for some reason, I should offer.

I'll be sure to post again soon so this message doesn't read like a farewell.

I'm not going anywhere. . .

Cold, Dead Hands Touching My Feet

2009-12-17T23:19:00.007-06:00

Allie came downstairs with a book in her hand. "I can't sleep because this book scares me," she said. I gave her a slow blink and asked her to show me the passage that freaked her out. Once she found it I read it aloud to demonstrate how silly she was being.

The part of the book that panicked Allie featured a girl who watched a scary movie about a disembodied zombie hand. The girl in the book (also named Allie) was worried the zombie hand was in her attic.

I told Allie (not the one from the book) she was being ridiculous and that there wasn't anything in her book that should scare a girl her age. She gave me a second kiss goodnight and went back upstairs to try and fall asleep.

Suffices to say I'm completely freaked out and I'm certain dozens of zombie hands are gathering under my bed as I write this. They're going to grab my feet before I can leap into bed. I'll jump, the bed will jiggle and Deb will ask, "What's your problem?"

I won't answer.

Allie's Stop Motion Theater

2009-11-28T18:51:00.004-06:00

We've been sick - too much time locked up in the house. This is what we do to keep us from torturing the cats (and each other).

It's Time for Lunch with Julia & Allie

2009-11-28T16:41:00.000-06:00

Julia was watching Julia Child on TV and said she wanted to do a cooking show. After that I just set up the camera and they did the rest.

Boo

2009-11-01T10:21:00.007-06:00

This year 278 visitors came to our doorstep begging for candy. We ran out of treats this year and had to shut down 30 minutes early.

P.S. Claudette, you can find the message you erased from your voicemail here.

She Wasn't There This Morning

2009-09-28T18:22:00.003-05:00

Once, maybe twice a week I see her watching me fill up my car. From the second story of her apartment building she sits in her brass-backed chair and watches everyone as they pump gas. I always look for her and I try to make eye contact with the woman. I never wave because I’m never sure she’s actually looking right at me. Although, it always feels as if this very old woman is ignoring everyone else while I’m there. She sees me scrub the bugs off my windshield. She watches as I try to convince the pump to dispense precisely 12 gallons of gas into my tank. She knows when I’m bad and duck inside the store for a doughnut and a chocolate milk.

On the mornings when she’s not in the window I worry about her. On Mondays, I think she has died and it makes me terribly sad. On Wednesdays I think she’s sick and too weak to sit up on her own. If it’s Friday or the weekend I think she’s sleeping in because she’s too old and too tired to bother watching. Regardless of the day, I never like it when I see the shiny brass back of her chair. I want her up there, in the window, prepared to call the cops if I get mugged or an ambulance if I spill gasoline on my pants and catch fire. I want her up there so I know she’s okay.

She wasn’t there this morning.

It’s Monday, so I’m pretty sure she’s dead.

UPDATE: Two people have asked if I've seen the old woman lately. Yes. The last time I filled-up she was sitting in the window and it appeared as if she had pen and paper. It might have been a crossword or maybe it was something more like, Dear Diary - The pudgy guy is getting gas again across the street. He is staring at me again. . .

East Si-Eeed!

2009-09-17T18:42:00.002-05:00

Deciphering the skill hierarchy of recreational badminton is simple:

The good players all congregate to the west side of the gym. The bleachers on that side of the building are where the people with serious attitudes and the best equipment rest between matches.

I sit on the east side of the gym. That’s where you’ll find the players who wear “I LOVE BEER” T-shirts and depend on the loaner racquets provided by the rec. department.

If you need more clues about which set of bleachers is for you just look at racquet manufacturers:

Yonex: The best players have not one, but two or more of these $150+ beauties packed in nice, thermal bags to preserve the integrity of the string tension.
Weird: These players can keep up with the best players, but they never quite win. Their racquets are from companies you’ve never heard of and unless you live in Malaysia; you probably never will.
Wilson: These are the decent players who have elevated their games beyond backyard barbecue proficiencies. Every now and again they have some really great games but the Yonex players make them look like they’re still at the barbecue.
Black Knight: These are okay racquets from Canada, but they’re the loaner racquets used by the program so most people with them in their hands are wearing “I LOVE BEER” T-shirts.

As for me, I’m sportin’ a $30 HEAD racquet that came all the way from a business park in Montreal. It got quite a bit of attention from the Black Knight players looking to upgrade; particularly when they found out it was only 30 bucks.

I like recreational badminton. I’ve been having fun. I depend a lot on whatever muscle memory remains from my tennis days. This actually has served me fairly well as I have been able to keep up in matches with the Yonex crowd. For the most part, though, I roll with the east side posse. We seem to smile and laugh a little more easily when we miss a shot which means there's a lot of laughing.

Thanks for the Reminder, Richard

2009-08-25T19:34:00.003-05:00

I got an email letting me know that I've been signed up for another year of Wired. The email told me the subscription was from Richard Springman.

Richard Springman. That name makes me think of a lot of things like:

Beer bread
Coats from the 70's with fur-trimmed, tunnel hoods
Weight lifting
Chili
Drill weekends
Donuts
Moving furniture
Hagen Das
One o'clock shadows
Glasses
An overrated British band with a name that rhymes with bowling cones.
Annoying Sesame Street toys
Tuxedos
School
Friends
Family
A Family who likes your friend more than they like you
Wired Magazine

Icky

2009-08-10T21:30:00.003-05:00

I wanted to complete my State Fair experience today by having a corn dog. We skipped the $6 version on the midway and settled on a stand in the carnival area that was selling them for $4.

I walked up to the window and told the guy I wanted a corn dog. As he wrapped it up for me he smiled, "Everybody loves these. Everybody wants these. I know why."

I smiled at him mainly because he didn't have any teeth and I was having a hard time understanding him so I leaned in.

He asked me, "Do you want to know why I know?"

I told him I wanted to know and he said, "Because I know what's in 'em!"

He had already handed my corn dog to me and I know that despite my grinning I had a look in my eyes that said, "You're going to tell me your seminal fluid is in the batter, aren't you. . ."

"I know what's in 'em because I make 'em. Do you want to know what the secret is?"

I hadn't eaten the thing yet so I was confident he wasn't going to spring anything too horrible on me so I asked, "What's in them?"

"Sprite. Half a cup of sprite. It gives the corn bread a sweeter taste."

Half prepared to hear that rat's milk or strained hydraulic fluid from the Tilt-a-Whirl was his secret the only comment I could manage was, "Awesome!"

The corn dog with Sprite in the batter was good. The chocolate covered bacon was not. It made me nauseous. I'm a huge bacon fan but I couldn't manage the chilled melange of greasy, salty, porky sweetness. It wasn't a nightmare. I can actually understand why someone in a very self-destructive mood might even enjoy this treat. But for me, on this day, it was just icky.

There are much better things out there to eat on a stick.

Julia is Six

2009-08-02T23:23:00.002-05:00

From this:
To this:
It happened suddenly.

On Thursday I picked her up and shook her and demanded to know what she did with five year-old Julia. She didn't really have a good answer for me but it's clear six year-old Julia is going to hang out with us for a bit.

I'd better spend as much time with her as I can. It seems like these Julias are switching themselves out on a fairly regular basis.

Allie's Nose

2009-08-02T22:23:00.000-05:00

Post Haircut: Ten Lines in Ten Minutes

2009-07-17T19:32:00.006-05:00

Because I've disabled comments I thought I'd beat most of you to the punch:

1) Tor Johnson called. He wants his head back.

2) The National Institute of Standards and Technology called. They want to use your head as a template for a perfect circle.

3) Where are Moe and Larry?

4) Hair grows, on average, half an inch every three months. That means Deb will be interested in Greg again around April, 2010.

5) I had no idea hair clippers came with a “serial killer” attachment.

6) Most guys go gray. You went translucent.

7) Now maybe you can devote some of that shampoo budget to dealing with your breath.

8) Well sir, we were going to this bingo parlor at the YMCA. . .

9) Don’t worry; they’re not staring at your hair. They’re staring at your brain now that they can see it beneath your scalp.

10) Daddy, would you mind if Mommy takes me to the birthday party?

Dear Kathy -

2009-06-29T23:44:00.001-05:00

The countdown has begun.

July 7, 2009.

The pain begins. . . again.

Artwork by Allie Lee

Bought a Used, Wireless Keyboard and I'm Going to Take it for a Spin Around the Block

2009-06-18T21:45:00.005-05:00

Lately I've been having these horrible flashbacks to embarrassing moments from my past. Most of them happen as I drive to work each morning. They are vivid enough to make me shriek out loud as I relive them.

It's not really a shriek. It's a more of an, AAAAGH GOD JEEZ WHUUU!

Now that I'm writing about these embarrassing moments, I can't remember any of them. There was a toga party when I danced with a really cute girl and she shoved me away from her because I kept stomping on her feet.

No. That's not one of them. I'm focusing on the ones that really meant something. The moments when I screwed up so badly that it actually altered the course of my life.

AAAAGH GOD JEEZ WHUUU!

Suddenly more than a few of these bad memories have come to mind but I'm really not going to share them with anyone; at least not right now.

I have on new underpants. They are expensive, high-tech underpants. It may seem foolish to spend money on technologically advanced skivies right now but I have a good reason for buying them. For one thing, they wick moisture away from your body.

I often wonder when I read about these space-age fabrics where the moisture goes once it's wicked away. Turns out that the moisture is transported directly to the outside of the garment. I know this because. . .

I wouldn't consider myself a fastidious person but I'm not altogether slovenly either. I'm clean. I keep myself clean. However, there are those rare occasions when I haven't tapped my wing-wang enough to insure that I have completely voided every inch (foot?) of my urinary tract of fluid. This means sometimes a few drops may make their way into my underwear.

Usually my cotton, boxer-briefs absorb the extra moisture but these new high-tech skivies sucked the pee away from the inside of my underwear and distributed it to the outside. I know this because of the curse of tan pants.

I looked down, panicked and then I silently went over the few tactics you can employ in this situation:

Find an object to hold in front of the area to hide the watermark as you make your way to safer territory.
Splash more water on yourself to make it look as if there was some plumbing accident that soaked your crotch and not your careless ding-dong manipulation.
If there's a hand dryer you can remove our pants and hold them beneath it while you pray no one else wants to use the bathroom.
You can go into a stall and get two wads of toilet paper. Place them on either side of the wet spot and rub them until the friction destroys the toilet paper. By the time the toilet paper wads have disappeared in your hands the mark of shame has probably vanished.

I chose option four. Should you find yourself in a similar situation, I strongly recommend option four.

I should go now. I've got my underpants, a stopwatch, a blow dryer and a huge glass of cranberry juice. I am prepared to devote the rest of my evening to science.

It's a Wrap. . .

2009-06-09T20:24:00.001-05:00

They had glow-in-the-dark! I'll never understand why she chose pink over glow-in-the-dark.

Spiral Fracture of the Lower Left Tibia

2009-06-06T17:45:00.002-05:00

She really isn't smiling all that much these days.

Girl on the Run

2009-05-30T17:17:00.004-05:00

She ran and ran and ran and then. . . she ran some more.

Allie's first 5K was a success. It was raining this morning and a little cold, but that made for perfect running weather.

We arrived early and walked the grounds while we waited for Girls on the Run group photos and the start of the race. Allie's coach found a break in the fence and we snuck in line to reach the start which meant we wound up toward the front of the 11,000+ racers/walkers there with us. As we jogged to the starting line Allie asked me when we were going to start. I looked at her and I noticed the start banner was well behind us and said, "We're racing, Allie!"

She did great. The majority of the race consisted of speed play where we'd pick a sign or a person and run to that point and then slow down for little up-tempo walking. I pushed her a little harder than she might have liked a couple of times, but for the most part Allie maintained our 80% running, 20% walking mix on her own.

Slapping her hand against the big mile marker signs as she ran by became small goals for her to accomplish along the course. Her biggest obstacle was a hill that everyone seemed to be walking up that Allie pushed herself on. She made it to the top running all the way as people out on their lawns, drinking their morning coffee, cheered her on.

The best part of the race? Allie says it was getting a drink of water and then being able to just drop the cup on the ground without getting into trouble.

For me it was looking to my right and seeing her grin, all rosy cheeked and panting, as she gave high fives to people along the course.

The only part that we had trouble with was finding Deb and Julia after the race. They waited for us at the finish line but didn't see us cross. We walked up and down the line and then waited for them at the Girls on the Run tent but didn't see them. No cell phones, no contact. Allie was a little disappointed and while they didn't actually see us I know Allie felt great knowing they were there.

We were very fortunate to be a part of an event that holds a great deal of significance for many people that goes far beyond a first-time fun run. I found a clip from today's race that does a far better job of illustrating this point than I could:

http://www.madison.com/video/?id=4335259

Evelyn in Three Minutes

2009-05-25T10:20:00.004-05:00

We met Evelyn at the book store. She was in a wheelchair accompanied by a man with a big growth on his neck.

Here's what Allie, Julia and I learned about Evelyn in approximately three minutes:

Evelyn was blind for four months.
Now she can see again no thanks to that dumbass doctor.
She off the medicine and feeling much better.
She's writing a book entitled, "You Think Your Life Sucks You Should Try Mine".
She's seriously going to write the book.
She grew up during the Great Depression.
When she was a girl she would stand in line for hours to get food that had to last her family an entire week.
She wasn't invited to a wedding a few years ago because a family member called her a dirty slut.
Evelyn has a tiny Green Bay Packer duffel bag filled with new $1 coins that she hands out to kids who are adorable.
Evelyn was molested by her father.
She loves her grandchildren.
She's very fond of her granddaughter who lives far away.
Evelyn has a photo mounted on a small piece of cardboard of her granddaughter sitting on a couch with four men sporting camouflage T-shirts and tattoos.
The man with the growth not only pushes Evelyn around in her wheelchair but he also softly affirms or rephrases everything Evelyn says as he looks for books.
Evelyn has two cats.
Evelyn carries around pictures of her cats mounted on small pieces of cardboard.
Evelyn punctuates many of her sentences with bad words.

母亲节快乐！(mŭ qīn jié kuài lè)

2009-05-09T23:14:00.003-05:00

Mom,

This year you asked me to get you a Mother's Day card.

So, I did.

This is what it will look like:

This is what it will look like when you open it up in a few days or so:

I know you don't speak Spanish, and neither do I, but this card seemed to capture the nuance of what I wanted to express this Mother's Day.

In any language - I love you very much, Mom. You are, indeed, una Madre tan especial.

Fascinating Flickr Photostream

2009-05-02T12:39:00.002-05:00

These days a tour of the Whitehouse requires congressional clearance. According to the Web site: Requests must be submitted through one's Member of Congress and are accepted up to six months in advance.

I've walked around the Whitehouse. I've been waved at by, then, President Clinton as his motorcade pulled away from the rear gate (you could barely see the guy through the bullet-proof glass). I've chit-chatted with a uniformed Secret Service agent at a side entrance (those aren't hand warmers beneath those leather flaps). I've even stolen a few leaves off the lawn for Allie.

I still want to get inside someday.

This will have to do for now:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/whitehouse/

The Visit

2009-04-26T12:52:00.001-05:00

Romance Walking

2009-03-29T19:42:00.004-05:00

There is a man and a woman who I often see walking together in our neighborhood. When they walk the man has his arm around the woman's waist and the woman has her arm around the man's waist.

If you've ever tried this you know it's not the easiest thing to pull off.

Whenever I see them I never think, "They must really be in love to make the effort to walk like that."

I always think, "I bet they're developmentally disabled."

Navel Intelligence

2009-03-14T18:21:00.000-05:00

Mom Doesn't Believe in Unicorns

2009-02-01T10:01:00.002-06:00

Gregory,

When I use your full name you know you are in trouble!

The family has read your last blog. We didn't like it. I have no idea where you come up with this stuff. I wish you would not write things like that. I have friends who read your blog. Remember Dan's Mother-in-Law reads your blog, too.

Just had to let you know what we think.

Love you.

The Birth of Another Unicorn

2009-01-27T21:02:00.004-06:00

I have to really go to the bathroom. The sense of urgency is overwhelming but I'm not going to allow myself a toilet break until I come up with a topic and explore it here exhaustively.

So far I'm drawing a blank. I always thought that I worked better under pressure, but I'm not sure this is the right kind of pressure.

I know some of you may remember one reason I bought a laptop was so I could blog from the throne. I did it. I blogged while sitting on the toilet. I wasn't thrilled by the experience. And now I hesitate to do it again because I have a feeling this episode is going to be complicated. And everyone knows you don't take a magazine into the bathroom with you and expect other people to use it afterward. The same rule applies to computers.

I did this same exercise the other day while making lunch for Allie. I had to use the bathroom but there was no way I was going to go until I had everything on the table. I was slicing an apple while trying to convince myself I could overcome whatever obstacle was in my way (or way out). Each slice required me to remove the seeds and parts of the core and as I cut through the slices I thought I was going to freaking pass out but I knew that if I could master my G.I. tract that it would be the start of a new life not just for me, but for every person who is a part of my life now and in the future. Unicorns aren't real, but something just as magical was going to become real if I could just manage to keep from crapping my pants while I made lunch for my daughter.

I did it. I removed all the seeds and bits of core and as soon as Allie began to eat I dove into the bathroom.

It was a moment I will never forget.

And now, I have reached another milestone. It's the birth of another unicorn and you're a part of the magic. It feels like all my friends and family are here with me cheering me on.

Hold on, Greg. Hold it in, buddy. You can do it. You can finish this post and prove to yourself that you are in control of your life. Some will say what you're doing is inane. Some will claim you need the help of a therapist named Joan who is really good with cases like yours. But they're wrong.

I have a topic now. I'm ready to create the post that will become the touchstone for a new generation of bloggers. It's the one I've been waiting to write for years and it's only because I waited to poop.

In this bold new age the singular most signif

Julia Gets Tormented by Item #2 from My List

2009-01-17T02:06:00.006-06:00

J: Tell me a story about when I was a baby.
G: Well, your mom and I went to the baby store and picked you. We paid for you and brought you home.
J: You got me at a baby store?
G: Yup.
J: Did I cry when you got me?
G: No. We had to activate you first. We did that after we got you home.
J: What?
G: There's a button we pressed and it kind of woke you up. You have an off button, too.
J: Where?
G: Here. Let me press it.
J: NO! DADDY NO!
G: It's no big deal. It's like you go to sleep. I promise I'll turn you right back on.
J: Daddy please don't turn me off. . . I didn't come from a baby store.
G: Duh. Remember that video you watched with those doctors pulling you out of Mommy's tummy. You were all covered with blood and stuff. There's no baby store, silly.
J: Oh yeah.
G: We had your off button installed later.

Ten Things You Didn't Know About Me

2009-01-12T20:57:00.003-06:00

I'm really getting into this list thing. Here's another one that's chock full of super interesting really groovy facts all about me.

1) I like to keep my left toenail 2mm longer than the right. I also sharpen it in case I'm kidnapped and need to cut through a rope or some type of restraint.

2) I have an "off" button. I'm told it was installed after I finished second grade.

3) I have product placement in my dreams. Last night cans of Lemon Pledge kept showing up as I tried to figure out why I went to work without my pants.

4) I wrote a letter to Mallards baseball team management suggesting that instead of "Bat Night" they have "Machete Night" and then some cops came to ask me questions.

5) I'm convinced that I can throw a javelin the length of my backyard. . . with my jaw.

6) When I was a baby if my nose was cold my mother would put me in the clothes dryer for five minutes. To this day I can't get to sleep unless someone blasts me in the face with a super hot hair dryer while simultaneously smashing a metal folding chair into various parts of my body.

7) I have secretly recreated every piece of furniture in our house by hand and then destroyed the original. Debbie always asks, "What's with you?" every time she catches me smirking as I watch her put something down on an end table.

8) I'm not as picky about toilet paper as the Principal at my daughters' school thinks I am.

9) My personal Kryptonite is. . . Whoa; wouldn't you like to know.

10) I have plans to sculpt a life-size, painstakingly realistic replica of myself in Velveeta. Then I'm going set it up at various holiday gatherings with a bunch of crackers and a sign that says, "Eat me."

Did You Know that as Soon as You Hit "Enter" Your Blog is Published?

2009-01-11T10:23:00.003-06:00

I didn't realize that.

Resolutions:

1) In the new year I will allow the nail on my pinky to grow so that people will think I'm a coke dealer (or Esteban).

2) 2009 is the year I will mess around with telemarketers more.

3) Fiber! Fiber! Fiber!

4) This year I am only going to check email on the first Tuesday of every third month. If you need something from me in a hurry the best way to get in touch will be by timing your email to coincide with this new schedule.

5) It's a great opportunity to start fresh with my sock drawer. I have to say this resolution is the one that's really making me tingle inside. I almost want to stop typing right now and get started. But we all know sometimes the anticipation is the finest part of the experience.

6) I'm going to start heckling more. Places like: movies, music venues, political speeches, business meetings, parent/teacher conferences (not our own), weddings and freshman communications classes at the UW. Really nasty, Tourette's-like outbursts.

7) I'm going to lose weight but only in a single area of my body. I'm going to try to isolate the nine inch strip that begins at the bottom of my sternum and ends at the top of my navel. I plan to purchase several, clingy Body Armor T-shirts that are a few sizes too small to accentuate whatever progress I make in this area and bolster whatever side show potential I may have.

8) Save enough money to check into an out patient program that will get Beyonce's "Single Ladies" out of my head for good.

9) I'm going to emancipate Allie and Julia and hang out with them at their apartment all the time.

10) In 2009 I will sculpt a bust of my wife from a chunk of concrete I plan to break out of the left center portion of our driveway. I will fill in the hole in our driveway with a burner that will create a natural gas fueled column of flame that reaches about four feet high that we will have to drive over really fast to get into the garage or the car will explode.

About Wolves

2008-12-30T19:40:00.001-06:00

A Story for Allie and Julia at Christmas

2008-12-24T08:44:00.005-06:00

When I was a little boy, growing up during the depression, Christmas wasn't about presents or luxuries like food. Christmas was about stealing a little extra coal from the railroad yard so we wouldn't stick to the freezing floor we slept on each night.

Christmas meant we could wear our dress up sock (we were only given one) when we were out on the streets begging. Of course a nice sock on the foot meant a little less money in our hands. People would scream at us, "Why should I give you this penny when you have such a nice sock?" We didn't really know what to say as we stood there shivering in our burlap sacks and one good sock. A penny or two less was worth the pride we felt as we limped through the ice in our treasured footwear. It was even worth the beatings we received from Nan and Papa for being a single cent below our quota.

Those Christmas beatings were the only gift Nan and Papa were able to give us and we were grateful. They were so much more special and creative than our usual, day-to-day beatings. Nan would gather some of the prettiest rocks you've ever seen to throw at us. Papa always found the time to make up new swear words just for the holiday as he helped Nan toss rocks at our heads.

Christmas was such a magical time when we were your age. We knew that giving was better than getting. There was so much joy to be found in the faces of our loved ones as they received whatever we were able to provide. Like the time we held Uncle Shannon down and he was able to give us one of his kidneys. He screamed a lot, but we could tell they were screams of joy because he knew what that kidney would mean to us at Christmas. It was the same thing for Aunt Kim when we harvested a lung, or when we took Aunt Pam's left shin bone (there's an old table leg in there now) and Aunt Shell's right cornea.

I hope letting you know a little about Christmas past helps you understand why our Christmas present is such a special time for our family. And what's more, I hope you both enjoy your wonderful, new Christmas dress up sock.

Building You a Spice Rack

2008-12-13T18:13:00.005-06:00

There was a time when this blog was all about the words. I have proof of a time when I couldn't wait to tell you about something or just remind you, in a long-winded way, that I was still around.

Lately it's all about the AV. That's not a bad thing. Pictures and videos aren't bad; but they do seem a little lazy to me. There's no need for me to attempt to provide you with the flavors of a moment. Now there's no heavy lifting involved at all. I just press a button at the right time and suddenly I have something to show you.

I don't need to write to you here anymore.

When did that happen?

I suppose I wouldn't have a problem with losing the urge if your mailbox was visited by a letter or two from me or if the journals I once kept for Deb and the kids were running out of space. But this is not the case. It's like I've sobered up and the voice in my head doesn't sound so good. It's the same melody only I realize I'm a little flat and the lyrics aren't quite as meaning charged as I once believed.

I'm not pouting. I just want to feel like getting back in the workshop and make a nice table or maybe a spice rack for you. I've got some tools and whether you think I use them to make a mean bird house or not it's a shame to let them just gather dust.

Two Things

2008-12-09T21:04:00.002-06:00

#1) Crop Circles

I run into these elaborate arrangements of toys all the time. I don't think it has anything to do with play. It's some kind of symbol or glyph that only the mother ship can interpret. When I get sucked up by the tractor beam I'll finally know what it means.

#2) Romulan Bird of Prey

Every year Debbie makes a minor fuss about putting this on the Christmas tree. She knows that it's going on no matter what. I'm pretty sure the protest is now simply something we're supposed to do. It's a part of our holiday tradition.

Snapshot

2008-11-29T19:21:00.001-06:00

Holiday Parade 2008

2008-11-29T12:53:00.001-06:00

There are No Pictures of Thanksgiving This Year

2008-11-29T11:32:00.004-06:00

I brought the camera. I left the camera's battery charging in a wall socket at the in-laws. I didn't think to use the camera in the phone. This means I missed the elaborate chicken dance choreography that Allie, Julia and their aunties worked out before the meal. I missed capturing the smiles, the obligatory shots of a beautiful turkey and plates filled with goodies. There is none of the usual video footage of my daughters gambling coins from their piggy banks and losing them to their relatives.

I was very forgetful this trip. It's the explanation for why I couldn't stay awake. After the meal I fell asleep on the floor behind a couch. See, I forgot something else essential to my well being. Left it at home on our bed.

I did remember the DS. I spent large chunks of time playing this dumb puzzle game I bought for it. So while I wasn't distracted by the game, I was drowsy and a little more disconnected than usual.

I did have a nice holiday, though. The company (when I saw them) was wonderful. There was a warm fire and a huge HD screen filled with images of the Lions getting trounced. I had my thrice yearly Old Fashions expertly crafted by my sister-in-laws. I peeled carrots and potatoes with a brand new peeler. I sat and digested huge amounts of food while I stared out a big window at snow on the ground and lights on the neighbors' lawns. I got to see bits of an old Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors match from 1977. I learned all about the new HD receivers for the Feb. 2009 conversion. I had a slumber party each night with Julia and I got to walk with a cane. I had lunch in one of the coolest grocery stores I've ever visited and used mint scented hand sanitizer after filling up the car with gas.

There are no pictures of Thanksgiving this year. But that doesn't mean I'll forget it anytime soon.

This Kid is in School Now

2008-11-16T17:26:00.005-06:00

Happy Birthday, Amy! Feel better, Evan.

Freaked Out in the Toy Aisle

2008-11-15T22:56:00.001-06:00

Under the House

2008-10-20T22:54:00.005-05:00

Sharing

2008-10-19T17:21:00.001-05:00

Ladies,

2008-10-02T22:52:00.003-05:00

I was never much for poetry but I want you to know about one I like. It was one of my favorites in college. In those days I had to study the stuff so most verses weren't actually read but gulped like doses of cod liver oil.

This is one that I let hang around and got to know a little.

It was only when the three of you fell into place that I claimed this poem as my own (even though I stopped wearing Victorian nightgowns after I turned 30).

Do me a favor and read it more than once. Even if you don't like it please read it knowing that certain lines still knock me over. Ask me if you want to know which ones and we'll talk about them.

Morning Song
by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Hockey Mom in St. Louis

2008-10-02T22:39:00.002-05:00

Sarah held her own with Joe.

But let's not forget just how low the bar was set for her. Almost to the point where if she avoided drooling on the podium most Republicans would tell you she did a remarkable job.

If I was a cynic I'd wonder if the CBS interviews were tanked intentionally.

Spaghetti and Meatballs

2008-09-28T14:01:00.004-05:00

Allie, Julia. If you liked the spaghetti you had this afternoon here's how to make it:

I started by choosing a recipe that had the bare bones I needed to get started (the right types and proportions of tomatoes) and then I took it from there.

You'll need:

One big onion
Four slices of bacon
Olive oil
Four cloves of garlic (smash 'em good)
Two 28-oz. cans of whole tomatoes
One 16-oz. can of crushed tomatoes
One of those little cans of tomato paste
Some bay leaves
Finely chopped fresh herbs including:
A palm full of Italian parsley
Five big basil leaves
Thyme
Oregano
Marjoram
Onion powder
Dried red pepper flakes
A palm full of sugar
A cup of beef stock
A pat of butter
Salt and pepper

Mince the bacon and the onions (you hate onions so the finer the better). Fry the bacon bits to the point where they've given up all of their grease. Then toss in the onions and cook them until they've reduced down to almost a paste (remember, the reason you don't like onions is the texture so make sure you remove that obstacle). Hold off on the garlic until you're just about ready to add all of this to your sauce pot. Burnt garlic sucks.

Get the blender and puree the tomatoes, then throw them in a big ass pot along with the crushed tomatoes and the tomato paste. Then dump everything else I've mentioned above into the pot and bring it to a boil. Let it really boil for a few minutes and then turn it down and let it gently bubble for an hour.

I thought a little red wine might be a nice addition but maybe that's something you can add to help make this recipe your own someday.

While the sauce is cooking, time to make the MEATBALLS!

Pound of hamburger
Pound of Italian Sausage
Three large eggs
Handful of bread crumbs
Handful of Parmesan cheese
Onion powder
Garlic powder
Black pepper

Throw all the ingredients into a big bowl and scrunch them together. Then make little meatballs about the size of both your noses combined and put them on a cookie sheet (line it with foil and you'll have easy clean up). Bake them at 450 degrees until they're brown.

Take them out and throw the meatballs into the sauce and cook for another twenty minutes or so.

Boil some spaghetti and ask some people to come over for dinner because this makes a crap load of sauce. Sprinkle your pasta with some finely shredded mozzarella and Parmesan. Throw some garlic bread and a salad into the mix and I'm guessing this will be enough to easily stuff eight or nine people.

Just Right

2008-09-24T23:04:00.004-05:00

This one's too slow.

This one's too fast.

This one's just right.

So I bought it.

I know. I know. My wife doesn't have a job. Aren't you putting your children's Christmas in jeopardy?!

Hardly. . .

I sold the Bandit for what I paid for it. Well, that's not true. I came down $50 because the buyer asked and I didn't want to be a total dick. I was surprised at how sad I was when the guy loaded it up on a trailer and drove away. Julia stood on the front lawn with me and said, "Bye-bye motorcycle," which choked me up a little. I did love the bike but like many of the things we love they are just not good for us. The Twinkies Deb slipped into my lunch box today are a good example. The Bandit was like a big, creamy Twinkie and the more I indulged the more likely it was going to do me harm.

The Bandit's engine was too big. It gulped gas and the bike's small fuel tank meant I was constantly at the pumps. Plus, big engine means big power and I abused it. Every morning I'd tell myself I was going to take it easy and every morning some truck or sub-compact would do something stupid causing me to twist my wrist way more than I should. But the weight and balance of the bike always reassured me that I was in complete control. But just about everyone who rides safely will tell you that anything above 80 MPH is probably unnecessary and almost always dangerous. That said my Bandit never really seemed comfortable at any speed other than above 80.

So I sold it. My rationale was it was too much bike and now is a good time to have some extra money in the bank (plus no insurance payment). It was a very sensible plan that worked out nicely for everyone until I started poking around on Craigslist. That's where I found the V-Strom.

This new motorcycle has caused some discord in my marriage.

I'm not a good negotiator. Wait. More accurately - I'm not a polite negotiator. Part of my job is negotiating and I'm always convinced that while my terms might favor my position they are always fair and clearly the appropriate course of action. This is why I have a very hard time making concessions. This is why when any part of my argument is challenged I'm unable to offer a counterpoint and listen to a response. I just get downright aggressive. And when the negotiation is with someone I'm very familiar with, I just get downright hostile.

Don't get me wrong. I am almost always right (wink-wink). But that doesn't mean I have to be such an asshole about it. So when things do go my way often times I never know if it was a well presented argument or my unnecessary petulance that tipped the scales. If you want to know
which of the two it was in the case of this motorcycle you'll have to ask Debbie. I do know that the majority of our conversations regarding this purchase were not all that healthy and that's no way to live.

As of right now there is no acrimony between us. But I am tempering displays of enthusiasm. This bike was a bargain that did not require the involvement of much of our resources and passing it up would probably just mean paying even more for something similar at a later date.

Yes. That was a massive rationalization you just read. Even so, it still seems inappropriate to be seen grinning and giggling when I think about my new bike being parked in my garage.

Great America

2008-09-21T11:07:00.001-05:00

Lunch

2008-09-18T09:18:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite children’s books, even before I began to read it to Allie and Julia, is Bread and Jam for Frances. It’s about a little badger who refuses to eat anything for breakfast, lunch or dinner but bread and jam.

I believe this book went far in shaping my parenting style. Frances goes for days without eating anything but bread and jam while her mother makes wonderful meals for the rest of the family. This passive aggressive torture finally shatters Frances. She breaks down and cries because she’s eating bread and jam while everyone else is slurping up spaghetti and meatballs. I have used this method in my many attempts to bend and snap the will of my children. It takes a lot of endurance but once or twice it’s actually worked.

But Frances’ mother wasn’t the only one taking part in breaking down her resolve to eat nothing but bread and jam. Frances’ buddy, Albert at school brings these incredibly elaborate lunches. Here’s an excerpt I found on the Web:

Albert took two napkins from his lunch box.
He tucked one napkin under his chin.
He spread the other one on his desk like a tablecloth.
He arranged his lunch neatly on the napkin.
With his spoon he cracked the shell of the hard-boiled egg.
He peeled away the shell and bit off the end of the egg.
He sprinkled salt on the yolk and set the egg down again.
He unscrewed his thermos-bottle cup and filled it with milk.
Then he was ready to eat his lunch.
He took a bite of sandwich, a bite of pickle, a bite of hard-boiled egg, and a drink of milk.
Then he sprinkled more salt on the egg and went around again.
Albert made the sandwich; the pickle, the egg, and the milk come out even.

Holy cow! Ever since I’ve read this book I’ve wanted to have an anal retentive lunch like this. Well, I’m writing to let you know that I’ve come pretty close.
Deb has been making my lunches each day and each day I’ve been impressed with the diverse and well executed menu she has prepared for me. Here’s what was in my lunch box today:

A bag of sweet baby carrots.
An apple.
A pluot.
Soy and wasabi flavored almonds.
Two sour cream cookies Grandma Ellen sent for my birthday.
String cheese.
A bologna sandwich with ketchup on white bread.

All this is accompanied by a napkin with a small heart drawn on it with a Sharpie.

I wish I could say I ate my lunch with the same panache that Albert demonstrates in the book but I don’t. I eat the carrots in the morning (I like them but not as much as everything else so I get them out of the way). Then I usually eat a piece of fruit soon after. Everything else gets wolfed down quickly around noon. Then all the debris gets shoved into a single baggie then thrown into the trash.

I avoid using the napkin with the little heart on it. I can’t seem to bring myself to get anything on it.

Lunch these days seems to be the only bright spot in my working day. I’m very grateful that Debbie takes the time to make my day. However, I am still waiting for the ultimate lunch. It’s the menu that Frances gets once her parents and Albert have finally broken her will. She gives up the bread and jam and the book describes what her mother makes her for lunch:

The next day when the bell rang for lunch, Albert said, "What do you have today?"
"Well," said Frances, laying a paper doily on her desk and setting a tiny vase of violets in the middle of it, "let me see." She arranged her lunch on the doily.
"I have a thermos bottle with cream of tomato soup," she said. "And a lobster-salad sandwich on thin slices of white bread. I have celery, carrot sticks, and black olives, and a little cardboard shaker of salt for the celery. And two plums and a tiny basket of cherries. And vanilla pudding with chocolate sprinkles and a spoon to eat it with."
"That's a good lunch," said Albert. "I think it's nice that there are all different kinds of lunches and breakfasts and dinners and snacks. I think eating is nice."

That’s a good lunch!? What the hell, Albert? He’s a badger for crying out loud. We all know he should be happy gnawing the heads off half-rotten earthworms. But for this particular, metrosexual badger a lobster-salad sandwich makes for just a good lunch. Not incredible, or spectacular or the best lunch ever. It is good. And that’s enough to teach us all a lesson about adding more than just bread, jam and half-rotten earthworms to our diets.

So as much as I can’t wait to open my lunchbox each day I’m still waiting to experience the ultimate, Frances lunch (cardboard shaker of salt and all). Maybe I’ll make it this weekend. I can’t wait to see how Julia reacts to black olives, let alone lobster-salad. I’m guessing the paper doily is the key. It’s either that or another dose of passive aggressive torture. As for me I’m thinking paper doilies are passive aggressive torture.

Q & A

2008-09-10T19:40:00.007-05:00

Q: Why did you kick me?

A: I didn’t kick you.

Q: You didn’t kick me?

A: No. As I walked down the stairs you smashed your face into my shin then the forward momentum of my foot slammed you into the wall.

Q: So why did you kick me?

A: Because you’re an idiot.

Q: What’s an idiot?

A: An idiot is an animal that hurls itself against something and then slinks around for an hour as if it was attacked. You should Google it.

Q: I can type?

Can't Buy Me Love?

2008-09-06T21:13:00.004-05:00

It started this morning when Allie brought down her piggy bank. She wanted to see how much she had inside the thing. I told her that if I cracked open the little door in the bottom of her pig that all the dough inside was going into her bank account.

She agreed.

If Allie had her bank downstairs, that meant Julia had to have hers. When I explained the same deal to Julia she burst into tears and screamed that she didn't want anyone touching her money. Fortunately Deb found the girls' passbooks. I explained to Ebenezer that this deal was going to make the number recorded inside grow. Next I pointed out that it was indeed her name on the account and suddenly she was cool with handing everything over to the bank.

For a while now both girls have been walking around with a fairly big wad of cash that they've collected from holidays and gifts from family. A great deal of Allie's stash came from her lemonade stand sales. I told the girls that because they made substantial contributions to their savings accounts that it would be okay to spend their non-piggy bank funds on whatever they wanted.

HOORAY!

We took Julia to the Mattel outlet store which allowed her money would go a lot further than it normally would. She brought home an enormous Polly Pocket jumbo jet. This thing is pretty cool and Julia had a difficult time doing anything but play with it this evening. In fact, we had more than one blow up over this jet and so I'd really like to just move on from here if that's okay. . .

As for Allie, she had her heart set on an iPod Shuffle. I put a kink in her plans by letting her know she had accumulated enough money to buy a bike.

If you have ever witnessed my daughter endlessly riding around our cul-de-sac you would know that she loves her bike. She has spent hours riding up and down our street only to stop for a drink of water or to pee. No change of scenery is required for her. All she needs is a strong pair of legs, a decent sense of balance and, of course, her bike.

Maybe I'll get an iPod for Christmas.

Deb said they had bikes at Toys-R-Us. I really didn't believe her and if she was right I was certain the selection would be anemic.

Toys-R-Us has a shitload of bikes.

After about 15 or 20 minutes of deliberation Allie chose "Belle". Sea foam green Belle has hand brakes (a minor issue), six gears and shock absorbers on the front forks. We went 70 (Allie)/30 (us) on the purchase which in my mind means Allie bought her own bike.

We were glad that no one was behind us as we counted out quarters at the register.

As I type this, Allie would have her new bike in her bed next to her if she could. But it's parked in the garage for now; waiting for Allie to wake up and go for a ride.

Marlene

2008-08-30T08:56:00.002-05:00

When I was around six or seven there was a commercial that used to crack me up to the point where I couldn't breathe.

An Entire Bottle of Pinot Noir and Two Beers

2008-08-23T23:09:00.004-05:00

I'm celebrating/lamenting the end of my two weeks vacation from work. Just a few days ago I was sitting in my driveway etching "Two Weeks Wasted" on to the concrete with sidewalk chalk. I'm not sure why. Particularly because it's not true. It wasn't two weeks wasted.

I have to confess I thought two weeks away from the job would provide some major insight(s). So far I haven't figured out anything but this:

Bacon rocks.

There's that. And this:

I sent my kids to daycare to find out what would happen when left to my own devices and discovered my own devices aren't at all what I though they'd be.
I know Julia is evil.
Her sister is, too.
I'm pretty sure they've trained the cats to be evil.

Wha?

It's late; I've had a bottle of wine and I really should not be blogging.

I should be getting back to work.

Deb is so Old. . .

2008-08-16T21:19:00.003-05:00

She can't even walk without a little help these days.

Hope the 15th was a happy birthday. I love you, Deb.

Happy Birthday

2008-08-03T16:12:00.000-05:00

This went fast. . .

First Ride

2008-07-20T13:53:00.002-05:00

Thanks to everyone who provided tips on how to get Allie riding without training wheels. I almost went with Donna's suggestion of Pedal Magic but I spent the $20 on a Balance Buddy instead. Donna's tip probably would have saved me some jogging up and down the street but obviously a little running will do me no harm.

Dear Kim,

2008-06-30T22:07:00.002-05:00

I was thinking about you and cars.

You put me behind the wheel of a some very powerful machinery at a young age. I remember one day heading down country roads with you trusting me not to kill us. I'd jerk the wheel toward the ditch then slam on the brakes every time a big truck came our way. There seemed to be a lot of trucks. Fortunately you laughed each time and just let me keep driving until I figured out there was enough road for everyone.

And when I wasn't driving, you were on the prowl. "Let's look for some cops to run from," you'd say. My heart would jump because I knew there was a fairly large percentage of your brain that would allow this to actually happen. Then you'd turn up the radio and search for empty parking lots.

The perfect doughnut.

The car would spin and gravity knew just what to do to exhilarate me.

Now I think about the prospect of my kids riding around in 400 horsepower automobile looking for the perfect parking lot and maybe a cop or two to run from.

I think about that scenario and I wonder if, as I was grounding them for life, they'd be able to tell I was jealous.

Thanks for the rides.

A Major Weather Event

2008-06-12T18:31:00.003-05:00

Downstairs it sounds like a cocktail party. Allie is talking to herself. Julia is talking to herself. The weatherman is talking to all of us. I'm thinking of starting a conversation with myself.

Tornadoes are being sighted all over the place. I'm glad I put a toilet in down here.

All conversation has suddenly stopped. Power flickered.

Allie says to Julia, "We're not going to get out a game. We're about to have a major weather event and there's no time for it."

Embedded tornadoes in the rain shaft or hell shaft.

What the hell is the hell shaft? Maybe I heard it wrong.

In the middle of all of this there's an escaped convict running around near us.

Wait a second. Gotta run. Doorbell is ringing.

One Bad Chomp is All it Takes

2008-06-09T22:09:00.003-05:00

The table on the deck is covered with cherry pits.

As hard as she tries, Allie isn't able to propel a pit more than a few feet away from her body. Come to think of it, I wasn't able to launch them much more than ten feet or so. I seem to remember being able to make them fly great distances. I don't know if it's diminished lung capacity or rusty technique. It doesn't matter, I've got a whole bag of these suckers to practice with.

Allie needs to practice even more. She likes cherries a lot but just doesn't have the knack for eating them. She does as much damage as you could imagine to each piece of fruit and comes out looking like a gunshot victim after eating four or five. This evening I couldn't stand the carnage so I took the bowl away from her. I reverted back to when she was very little and I had to bite the cherry in half and remove the stone for her. It's kind of gross when you think about it but she seems to prefer these half-eaten cherries. It's not just the convenience. She reads my face to see if she should pass on the sour ones.

After cherries we made smoothies.

It must have been fruit night or something.

How the hell are your supposed to eat a mango? Do you use a peeler and then just cut into the thing until you can't cut into it anymore? It seems like you waste a lot of the mango because the dense interior makes up so much of the fruit (although it is kind of fun to gnaw on).

Where was Julia?

I don't know. I think I made her afraid of cherries.

"One bad chomp and they'll shatter your teeth like glass."

Julia stayed inside.

Anyway, this was another memory I want to keep here.

More Batteries for the Weather Radio

2008-06-08T08:38:00.003-05:00

Deb and the girls went to see the in-laws this weekend so I took the time alone to get some things done. The thing is, after I mowed the lawn yesterday the humidity suck out all of my ambition. I wound up in the basement playing Verbosity.

While I was down there I guess my neighborhood was being roughed up by winds high enough that some of my neighbors claimed it was a tornado.

I did hear the weather radio going off upstairs, but I was too busy describing a cow as a "mooing thing".

Later I came upstairs and the power went off. That left me without much to do so I started moving things around out in the garage. I wasn't accomplishing much when Larry and Karina pulled up in the driveway and asked me if I wanted to go with them to survey the damage.

I didn't know what they were talking about. I had noticed some trees in the park looked damaged and I saw some kids picking up pieces of siding. I knew there had been some high winds but. . . duh.

We drove around in the truck and I was on the cell phone describing the damage to Debbie. A block away I saw a few trees uprooted, some swing sets trashed, siding gone, even a roof blown away. It wasn't the total devastation of the tornadoes we saw three years ago but it was as close to the house as you can get. I'm amazed and grateful that we didn't at least lose a tree and a shingle or two.

Later I came home and sat in the dark and played with the girls' Leapster. I totally trounced Allie's high score on I-Spy. Heh.

Now the weather radio keeps going off telling me watch out for flash floods. The basement had 65% humidity last night. I'm going downstairs to see if the walls have caved like the National Weather Service keeps telling me they might.

Summer

2008-06-04T17:49:00.004-05:00

I want to make Strawberry ice cream from scratch.

Allie & Julia's Stop Motion Video Clinic

2008-05-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

Curing Cancer with Lottery Winnings

2008-05-23T22:16:00.003-05:00

Yes. Yes. The entire house is sick. We all have blood running out of our eyes. And while I've sequestered myself upstairs with my new Neti Pot I'm still feeling pretty good.

As far as I know I don't have pancreatic cancer.

Randy Pausch does.

I realize that the perspective Pausch's Last Lecture has provided probably won't last much longer than 11:30 p.m. tonight when I go to bed. But for now I feel moved enough by it to mention it to you.

Pausch talks about dreams. I keep thinking about my childhood dreams. I never had any; really. I remember day dreaming a lot about taking a pet lion to school. I also spent a lot of class time on a spacecraft that had unlimited range and maneuverability yet was small enough for me to park near the bicycle racks. Then there was my bubble city. That was a major project.

So I suppose had dreams but never the kind that translate well to anything attainable in my adult life. Sure, I could have been a lion tamer or aeronautical engineer but as elaborate as my fantasies may have been, they really weren't rooted in anything my unambitious adult-self could hope to make come true.

I'm not pouting. I just hear this dying guy tell me about the importance of making your dreams come true and I'm not really sure if I have any beyond the oh so very pedestrian rock star kind of stuff.

So what do I dream of now?

If I think about it I suppose I waste a lot of time on spending imaginary lottery winnings. I also save a lot of important people (or people significant to me) from things like minor harassments all the way up to certain doom. Every now and again I find myself autographing slips of paper on my desk. Best wishes, Ted. Thanks, Carol. Greg Lee. Not really sure who Ted and Carol are and why they would want my signature, but it's somehow gratifying to go through the motions.

But these aren't the kind of "dreams" that make a difference. There will be no cancer cures stemming from me imagining how I'm going to save the entire fourth floor of my office building from terrorists. And that's too bad because maybe I could have saved someone like Randy Pausch. A guy who has the kind of dreams that eventually make a difference in someone else's life.

Shoes

2008-05-11T19:14:00.003-05:00

Happy Mother's Day, Marcia.
Happy Mother's Day, Judy.

Judy was in bed with pneumonia when Deb tried to call her this morning. I'm guessing this isn't the best Mother's Day ever for her. I hope she's feeling better soon.

I got a hold of Marcia.

I wonder if she realizes how much I've learned about what it means to be a parent now that I am one. I wonder if she knows how grateful I am. I wonder if she knows that I understand why she still buys me shoes. I bet she knows that when I'm her age I'll be sending Allie and Julia shoes (or something like them).

By the way, turns out I am hip enough to Twitter.

I have a link now over there; to the left.

See it?

Can't see it? Click here. [sigh]

Meanest Thing I Said Tonight

2008-05-07T23:18:00.002-05:00

Julia: There's a bug in my room.

Me: I hate to tell you this, but there's probably a lot more than just one bug in your room. But if you lie still and go to sleep they're probably not going to bother you.

Julia: [Blink-Blink]

Me: Love you. 'night, 'night.

Not Hip Enough to Twitter

2008-05-06T23:02:00.003-05:00

Since it takes me three days to text anything and I haven't signed up for a Twitter account here's what's going on in 140 character or less tidbits:

-Mom ran into Matt Damon at the mall today. No kidding. She says he's a cutie. Pictures? Maybe soon.

-Motorcycle didn't run. Took it apart; big time. Replaced some things. Now it runs. I only have two parts left over. Shocked and amazed I pulled it off.

-Allie had a bad day today. Fought with friend. Left coat at school. Didn't have swimsuit. Dropped ice cream. She was a mess. Ate some noodles. Took a bath. Life not so bad.

-Julia is fine. That's all I have to say about Julia.

-Deb needs to get new contacts and was supposed to email her Dr. this evening. I bet she didn't.

-Glenn and Judy got sick during their visit. Judy is coughing. Glenn is doing something else.

-Doctor prescribed cough medicine with codeine. It has made me really loopy, forgetful and unable to think clearly. In other words, the narcotic has had little or no impact.

Allie's Blog

2008-04-28T20:27:00.003-05:00

Recently a friend of Allie’s came over to play. It wasn’t long into the visit when they announced they were bored. That’s when I said if they wanted to make a movie I’d tape them. Later Allie’s friend’s Mom came over to pick her up and was told, “Allie’s Daddy made a video of us!"

I’m sure she was completely freaked.

She probably was further freaked when after she viewed the raw footage I asked if it would be okay if we posted an edited version of the video on Allie’s blog.

The next day the Mom said something to Deb about a friend of theirs who is a Sherriff’s Deputy. The Deputy told them that no eight year-old should have any sort of presence on the Internet.

Deb and I are not naïve about the dangers of the Internet. We’ve read the statistics and we’ve heard the horror stories. And while I hesitate to compare Allie’s Web page to a newspaper story or some other media exposure that would probably reveal the town she lives in and the school she attends I still am predisposed to view the Internet as presenting a greater threat.

Our girls have never had unsupervised access to the Web. As far as Allie’s blog goes I filter all comments and watch her page stats carefully to see if she is receiving undue attention from anyone I don’t know. But here’s the thing; I allowed Allie to have a blog so that she can create, brag, complain, praise, share and do anything she’d like. That said a great deal of what she’s going to want to share is going to feature her friends.

Our level of comfort with Allie’s blog has no bearing whatsoever on other parents' feelings or attitudes. Speaking for myself, I do want some modicum of control over where Allie’s name is mentioned and/or her image displayed. If someone is posting images of my kid on the Internet, I’d want to be able to make sure I knew everything there is to know about who, what and how those images will be used. This is why Allie’s blog has become by invitation only.

If you want to see what Allie is up to, drop me an email at gbgone@aol.com. You may need to have a Blogger log-in or a gmail address. I know many of you already have those but if you want to view the blog you’ll have to let me know so I can add your email address to the “approved” list. Jeannette, I know Allie really likes to read your comments so please write soon and I’m taking care of the Grandmas.

You should know Allie posts about once a month and with summer almost here I’m pretty sure this frequency will diminish. But if you like to read about hairdos, playdates and eye boogers Allie’s blog might be worth jumping through a few security hoops.

Easter 2008

2008-04-26T01:12:00.001-05:00

Hollywood Minute

2008-04-25T11:29:00.007-05:00

Donna is going to be in a Johnny Depp movie. That’s great and I’m really excited but her news pales in comparison to what I found out last night.

My Mom called to let me know their old Mercedes is going to be in a Matt Damon movie.

That’s right. A car I rode in - a car I’ve driven on more than one occasion will have (what I imagine to be) an extremely prominent role in a new Steven Soderburgh production starring Matt Damon. Of course my parents don't actually own the car anymore so they won't get the $270 a day payment from the production company but that's not really the point.

It’s not my intention to steal anyone’s thunder by sharing this information. But there’s no denying this announcement is far more exciting than any other Hollywood related news you may have recently read.

Go Spartans!

2008-04-17T16:59:00.007-05:00

Michigan State University used to be just a T-shirt that my Grandma Ellen bought me when I was a teenager. I loved that shirt; mainly because it was green and it was from a university that was out of state which automatically made it cool.

This week I finally got a chance to make MSU something more than just a shirt by spending a few days on campus. It's a nice place. I had a good time walking around making snap judgments about the futures of all the students I saw. It was hard for me not to smile when I saw the girl in the trench coat and beret (semester in Europe) or the guy wearing a floor length skirt with a save the planet T-shirt (when he graduates he'll probably continue to wear Birkenstock's and white socks with his sleeves and tie - at least until his first promotion).

I knew these people. I used to walk around as one of them. It was cool to get a glimpse of these works in progress. It was energizing.

They all walk very fast.

After work I walked to the strip and found a Chipotle restaurant. I'd heard good things about these places and I don't get a chance to eat burritos very often so I decided to have dinner there. It was a beautiful evening so I made my way to a small courtyard in back and ate outside.

While I was finishing up my dinner I heard, "HEY!" I looked up and a man was standing in front of me. He had two emerald green deposits of snot beneath each of his nostrils and each of his words were slurred even before they left his mouth.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, loudly.

I looked around at the six empty tables in the courtyard and I said, "Yes. I do mind. You need to keep walking."

I have an uneasy relationship with panhandlers. But I'm usually very courteous and, for the most part, an easy mark worth at least a buck or two. This evening I was tired and just wanted to be left alone.

"I hear ya." he said and just stood there looking at me.

I was getting pissed. "You didn't hear me well enough. You need to keep walking." As soon as I locked eyes with him he decided I wasn't worth the hassle and left.

I felt bad. I started poking at my dinner and then dumped the rest of my burrito in the trash (the thing was huge and I was almost done with it anyway). I started walking in the direction I saw him go. A block or two later I caught up to him. He was wandering around a bus stop full of people and suddenly I felt really self-conscious and almost walked away. But it was too late and I got his attention.

"I'm sorry I was rude back there but you startled me." He just stared at me. "You scared me. . . a little."

"Sorry."

"Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?" I asked.

"SURE! Let's have a seat." He pointed to an area on the ground off the sidewalk.

I wasn't in the mood for a street side pow-wow so I cut to the chase. "Are you hungry?"

"Nah! I'm fine. Well. I don't know."

"I'll buy you dinner."

"Okay! Eatin' is better than drinkin'!"

We were standing near a Chinese restaurant and a Taco Bell. I asked him to choose a place. "Beggars can't be choosers," he told me but he kept walking toward the Taco Bell and so we went in.

When we walked in the restaurant he took off past the counter. I asked him where he was going. "I gotta get HYDROED!" he said and disappeared into a bathroom. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about and wondered just how long it would take a person to get hydroed. It didn't take long. I had hoped that during the hydroing process the big green boogers under his nose would have gone away but they were still there; gleaming.

We got up the counter and he asked the girl for a milkshake. She informed him that Taco Bell didn't serve milkshakes. "What's the biggest meal you got?" he asked her. She smiled and pointed at a sign over our heads that read, THE BIG MEAL. That's what he ordered. Then he turned to me and apologized for ordering the biggest thing on the menu.

It didn't take long for the girl to deliver THE BIG MEAL. I hadn't planned to give the guy any money but the bills that were left were just about enough for another fast food dinner and not much more so I felt okay about leaving him with the change. I knew just how sanctimonious I was in limiting the amount of money I gave him but still I slid the money over while simultaneously saying, "Take care."

I almost made it out the door when I heard, "WAIT!" He was being loud again. He walked over to me and wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him back. While this was happening, I couldn't help but note the angle of his head in relation to my shoulder and attempting to calculate the probability of a portion of his great, green boogers winding up somewhere on my shirt.

And while he may not have left any boogers he must have made some kind of a mark because I can't stop thinking about this guy. When he first approached me I was ready to deck him and now. . . now I just hope he's found a place to get regularly hydroed, have enough BIG MEALS and clean out his nose.

THUNDERSNOW!

2008-04-12T21:44:00.006-05:00

I wouldn't call myself an addict. The most I'll claim is that I am dependent to a certain extent. I use heroin mainly for my children. You see, without it, I think I would be a less effective parent.

I won't bore you with a grocery list of all the things my kids do to drive me to take narcotics. You've seen the list. Many of you have lived the list. Heroin helps make the things on the list bearable. With Heroin, something from the list happens (like a kid refusing to eat a meal they requested and that you spent hours preparing simply because it looks retarded) and it's okay because you know that needle is waiting to soothe and calm you.

It's always waiting just for me.

I don't have a special brand of heroin. I buy most of my stuff from the senior center on Main St. You might think revealing my source is kind of silly. I don't mind telling you because A) I'm pretty sure these individuals have a solid relationship with local law enforcement and B) I promised Mrs. Deetle that I'd provide her with a plug in exchange for a dime bag.

By the way, a dime bag refers to $10 worth of heroin. A gram of heroin here in the U.S. will cost you around $300. So a dime bag is around 3.33 mg of heroin. This relatively small amount of the drug is usually enough to take care of most everything your kids throw your way. However, when your child drops your digital camera and converts it to paper weight status you're probably going to need to consider something like 24.5 to 25 mg.

I'm happy to share this information with you so that you can become a better parent. Sure, you may not be the loudest, or most coherent in the cheering section at your kids' next sporting events. You may not bathe them as much. You might not be able to respond to their pleas to get you to stop using their toybox as a urinal. But you will be calm and you will not yell. The list will disappear and with it will go all the tension, empathy and awareness that was making you feel like a bad mom or dad.

So head over to your local senior center and get on the path to better parenting today.

THUNDERSNOW!

2008-04-09T20:52:00.001-05:00

Apparently that's the headline you use when you have (for the most part) parked your blog.

I'll get rid of mine when he gets rid of his.

Recent Reports of Pharmaceuticals in Our Water Supply are Apparently Bogus

2008-03-18T21:44:00.004-05:00

Chives

2008-03-09T21:18:00.001-05:00

Allie Oop

2008-03-01T20:16:00.003-06:00

Allie now has her own blog:

http://allieoop2000.blogspot.com

She's writing the thing on her own. She had a little help from me with some typing for her first entry but the content is 100% Allie.

If spring isn't here soon. . .

2008-02-24T12:39:00.004-06:00

Go Sledding You Little Asshole!

2008-02-16T19:12:00.006-06:00

Somewhere in the U.S. tonight there's an eight year-old kid named Austin. He's sitting in his bedroom, holding his Nintendo DS and laughing his ass off at me.

This is just a guess. For all I know Austin could be another gadget obsessed, 41 year-old geek wasting valuable moments of his life repeatedly killing strangers via Metroid and a WiFi link. To be honest I would prefer this scenario to some little eight year-old mother f$^%@r blasting me over and over and over again.

HE'S KILLED ME 15 GODDAMN TIMES! This little freak has the hand-eye coordination of a flippin' Olympic ping-pong gold medalist. Where ever he is I'm sure he'll be tracked down, recruited and ultimately dissected by the Pentagon.

Serves him right. If he was standing in front of me I would kick his little ass. I don't care if he's eight. He has a fighting chance. I get winded very easily and he'll probably have plenty of energy despite spending way too much time playing video games.

Who are his parents? I want a word with them. Austin needs some fresh air for crying out loud. I mean get the kid a snowsuit and make him go sledding or something. If he continues down this path and refuses to develop his mind and body he probably won't get laid until well after grad school.

That's not healthy. That's no way to live.

Dammit Austin.

Stop killing me.

Ting

2008-02-14T17:43:00.005-06:00

I was listening to a man on the radio tell everyone that he and his wife don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. In fact, his wife’s unwillingness to participate in the tradition was one of the things that made him fall in love with her. The man, by the way, was discussing his new anthology of love stories. It’s no surprise that the love stories in this new book were more about disappointment and dysfunction rather than the more pedestrian love conquers all variety.

The guy said Valentine’s Day commoditized something that is better expressed spontaneously and in a more private way.

There was a small part of my brain that agreed with him. But the majority of my head and heart told me that his view is deeply flawed. After all, when asked if he is romantic he said he thought he was “too old” for it. He mentioned something about being a husband and a father and that he evolved into a “familial romantic”.

What the heck does that mean?

I thought I should feel sorry for him but I didn’t; I don’t. He’s smart enough to know that any chance to remind your sweetheart he or she is the apple of your eye is a good thing. If you don’t take advantage of it simply because you feel commercially goaded into it then you’re way too self-conscious for your own good. You’re missing out.

I’ve always looked at Valentine’s Day as being like a wedding reception when people clink on their stemware until the bride and groom kiss. The newlyweds always make a face like oh brother, not again but they kiss. And everyone in the room knows the chance to demonstrate their love for each other is always something magical. This it true regardless of how many times it may be someone else’s idea to cue them to do it.

Every February 14 I hear glasses clinking.

So screw “familial romanticism”. One day, after the kids are gone I know I’ll still want to celebrate the fact that I have the hots for my wife. And if I don’t, I’ll figure out why and work very hard to fix it. And while we’re at it; screw eschewing Valentine’s Day.

This morning my wife and I exchanged gifts. We held our breath while we kissed (I hadn’t brushed yet). We honeyed our voices and wished each other a happy Valentine’s Day.

It may have not been the peak of our shared romantic experience but however commercialized or pre-packaged it may have seemed - it was still another chance to remind Debbie that I love her.

I wouldn’t miss that for anything.

Can you hear it?

ting-ting-ting-ting-ting

By Request

2008-02-10T22:25:00.000-06:00

Click here. This link to the multimedia page takes you to some pictures from Disney World. We'll show you the rest next time we see you.

While Surfing One Day I Found a List of Songs Like This and Discovered a Bunch of New Music That I Really Enjoy So I Thought I'd Make One Too

2008-02-09T11:21:00.000-06:00

The Way I Am 2:13 Ingrid Michaelson - Misery Business 3:32 Paramore - Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop 4:30 Landon Pigg - Remind Me 3:39 Royksopp - Blueside 3:17 Rooney - Hoppípolla 4:29 Sigur Rós - Spaceship 3:30 Angie Aparo - Wouldn't It Be Nice 2:25 The Beach Boys - Julia 2:54 The Beatles - Gepetto 3:25 Belly - Big blue sea 4:04 Bob Schneider - Let the Day Begin 3:51 The Call - Sunray 3:47 Brenda Weiler - Cloud Cult Advice from the Happy Hippopotamus - Bubbly 3:17 Colbie Caillat - Fresh Feeling 3:37 Eels - Fugitive Motel 5:11 Elbow - Feist 1234 - Beautiful Life 3:06 Fisher - Hey Julie 2:37 Fountains of Wayne - Mad World 3:10 Gary Jules - Perfect Day 3:30 Hoku - Hide and Seek 4:16 Imogen Heap - Are You Gonna Be My Girl 3:34 Jet - Cover Me 4:33 Mae - C-C-C-Cinnamon Lips 3:29 OK Go - Die In Terror 1:03 The Residents - The Real End 5:04 Rickie Lee Jones - Love Song 4:21 Sara Bareilles - Six Feet Under 3:54 Sneaker Pimps - Pig 2:23 Sparklehorse - You Are The Sunshine of my Life 2:55 Stevie Wonder - The Book Of My Life (Feat. Anoushka Shankar) 6:16 Sting - Chicago 6:05 Sufjan Stevens Sufjan Stevens: Illinois - Schism 6:48 Tool Lateralus - Jaan Pehechaan Ho...Mohammed Rafi 5:29 - Teenage Dirtbag 4:16 Wheatus - Rump Shaker 5:13 Wreckx n Effect - Unaccompanied Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: I. Prélude 2:21 Yo-Yo Ma

Larry's Polar Express

2008-02-09T09:50:00.000-06:00

Pictures of People

2008-01-19T16:02:00.000-06:00

Most of our plants are named Dennis.

Dennis is a friend of the family. When I was little, I got to hang out with him every now and again. I remember riding around in his cool, loud, fast car with Alice Cooper blaring from the stereo. One time Dennis let me play touch football with a bunch of his friends. I'm sure the reality was that me on the line looked a lot like Billy Barty trying to block Franco Harris. But in my delusionally enhanced memory, I was representin'. Although, I do remember getting the wind knocked out of me and trying very hard (and unsuccessfully) not to cry in front of every one. That part didn't matter. Dennis thought I was hip enough and big enough to hang with him and his friends and that easily placed him among the coolest people in my world.

That's why after that game almost every pet, action figure or anything that required naming was dubbed Dennis. Even now whenever I need to name something, the first name that pops into my head is Dennis. It's ingrained. If Debbie sends me a plant the card sometimes reads, "Say hello to, Dennis," or "Meet your new Dennis".

After all of these years, I finally had the chance to get a picture for my family of the man for whom the majority of our house plants are named. It's not the greatest quality, but at least they'll know I he's a real person.

He looks nothing like a phyladendrum.

Julia says, “We’re having girls over to our house tonight.” She looks at the high school girl bagging our groceries and says, “They’re gonna be our slaves!”

The grocery bagger looks over at me and probably sees that my face has gone from red to really red. I said, “They’re our guests, Julia. And that means we have to do whatever they’d like to do. They’re not our slaves.”

Julia gave the grocery bagger a shrug. I can’t say that I blame Julia for being confused. After all, I did tell her that these girls were going to be our slaves. The truth is the women were from a Millikin University Choral group and they were looking for a place to stay after a performance. The alumni association has my address so because I live in the area I got a call.

Debbie did this sort of thing when she was in college so I concluded it was time to “pay it forward”. I imagine it must be difficult to find places for 65 college kids but from what I understand it wasn’t a problem.

I almost got off the hook because I told the coordinator that we have two cats. He said the last two students had allergies and thanked us but said he’d find someone else. I looked at Debbie and told her that the phone was going to ring in about two minutes. Sure enough the phone rang and he said he was going to switch some kids around. So we came close to getting out of the deal.

Anyway, the women from Millikin stayed in our basement over the weekend. Allie and Deb caught their performance. Deb and Allie were blown away. When Natalie and Lexie arrived they were polite, fun and Julia didn’t make them clean her bedroom like she had planned.

As much as I like fiberglass members. . .

2008-01-11T19:45:00.000-06:00

I got an envelope today. It was from New York and there was a USTA logo on the return address. I belong to the USTA so I thought it was another offer for discount tickets to the U.S. Open or a list of local ladders.

Inside was this:

*Gasp* Holy shit!

That's what slipped out as I sat on the couch with the girls.

I couldn't believe it. I'd been a fan of Alex Robinson's since Dan sent me a copy of Box Office Poison. Dan had mentioned that he and Alex corresponded a few years back, but. . .

I have to say that this is the most horrible thing one person could do to another. Not only does Dan send me something so cool that it could never be reciprocated but he involves really talented, famous people in the process.

How am I supposed to top this? Dan has set forth a fundamental karmic imbalance in the universe and I don't know how to set it right.

I suppose I could say, Thank you to both individuals.

Yeah, right.

Now I have to go find a pair of white, cotton gloves and find some place that can handle a $400 archival framing job.

Unbelievable.

No, really - unbelievable. Thank you so much, Dan and Alex.

Dear Dan, Your lens came today. . .

2008-01-02T19:55:00.000-06:00

Explanation for Springsteen Bootlegs Found in Fisher Price CD Player

2007-12-31T14:31:00.000-06:00

Allie, Julia and I were down in the basement. I was busy putting something together and the girls were playing quietly when the computer began to play Born to Run.

"Now THAT'S rock and roll," Julia says.

Allie and I stop what we're doing for a second to look at Julia then we all returned to what we were doing.

The next song was Burt Bacharach's Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.

No reaction from the four year-old.

Go home. Eat ham.

2007-12-26T10:15:00.000-06:00

During the benediction at church on Monday Julia was standing in front of me making faces at the little girl turned around in the pew ahead of us. The pastor began his prayer and I whispered to Julia, “Tilt your head.” She tilted her head back far enough to make eye contact with me. I looked at her and said, “The other way.”

Julia turned her head to the left.

“Julia, look at your tummy,” I said.

Her head dropped and she looked down. “Why do we have to do this?” she spat.

I didn’t answer; it wasn’t a good time for a conversation. I was just thankful that despite plenty of squirming she was being good. She occupied herself by writing her name in the Christmas program and circling key passages that she would point out to me and then nod her head as if she had discovered a cipher.

Allie and her mom doodled trees, Santa heads, candy canes, etc. in their programs.

I realize it sounds as if we weren’t paying attention but that’s not the case.

I sang. Deb sang. She sounds better plus she knows all the words. Allie tried to sing. She asked me to point out the words in her program so she could make an attempt. I’d hear her blurt out a word here and there. It was more than Julia did. I looked over at Glenn. His lips were moving, but I didn’t hear anything coming out. He was singing even if he wasn’t singing. I looked down the row to see if the rest of the family was singing. I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The vibe was there. It was the night before Christmas and as Julia squirmed and Allie blurted; while Debbie doodled and Glenn lip-synced we all felt it and it was good.

Julia asked, “What are we doing after this?

“We go home and eat ham,” I said. I pointed in her program and said, “See, it says right here to stop singing, go home and eat ham."

She can’t read.

I hope she looks for that line in next year’s program.

My Oven - My Enemy

2007-12-17T19:10:00.000-06:00

Why can't I cook?

It’s not a matter of taste; it’s a matter of temperature.

I don’t seem to be able to properly heat food so that it not only tastes good but it’s not a threat to anyone’s health.

See - Deb gets a free turkey from work each year. Usually this bird sits in our freezer like a lost WWII airman waiting to be discovered by a forensic anthropologist. [I’m sorry. That one was really stretching it – but I’m trying to be light-hearted while facing my handicap.]

Rather than let the turkey take up space in our small freezer all year long I decided to cook the thing right away. On Sunday I inserted a thermometer into the deepest part of the breast and plopped the turkey in the oven. When the thermometer told me the meat had reached 161 degrees Fahrenheit I took the thing out of the oven and let it rest until its temperature continued to rise to around 165.

I carved the bird.

It was pink inside.

Deb said, “That’s a pretty pink bird.”

I glared at her with an electric knife in my hand and she immediately said, “I mean that’s a pretty . . . pink bird."

The deeper I carved the more raw meat I discovered. Thankfully the outside of the breast was done and seemed palatable so I was able to serve food to my family that wouldn’t turn them into root beer dispensers. But there was still a lot of turkey sashimi to deal with. Sliced thin I served myself a nice e-coli carpaccio. For some reason I felt it was my duty to eat the rarest bits. It was my penance.

Is this really that difficult? Hell, even the Shepard’s Pie I made on Saturday was undercooked (the mashed potatoes on top needed to brown more). And if you eat at my house on a regular basis then you know yourself that at some point I will serve you undercooked steaks, fish, prime rib and lamb.

It might be my lack of patience. Maybe I have a crap thermometer (although I doubt it). Regardless, eventually I’m going to hurt someone and I must be stopped.

This time, with the turkey, I’m waiting to pay. I’m reacting to every twinge in my stomach and every fart as if it’s a signal for the flood gates to open. And I deserve whatever I get. For I’m the king of raw and from my throne of porcelain I will reign.

Tonight’s menu includes PB&J, raw carrots, cheese and crackers with a side of cottage cheese.

I wonder if the girls would like gazpacho?

Cold-Hearted Skeptics Will Say. . .

2007-12-14T22:50:00.000-06:00

It's no coincidence he made this before Debbie finished Christmas shopping.

A Cheap, Violent Ride

2007-12-09T21:05:00.000-06:00

Allie got on the perfect attendance roll at school. We decided to celebrate by taking her out to dinner.

Choice is something that confounds my daughter. I told her we'd take her to any restaurant she wanted. You'd have thought I had strapped down a fuzzy bunny and a cuddly hamster, picked up a hammer and said, "Choose." She made these funny, constipated noises until I began to offer some suggestions. One was Ella's Deli.

She jumped at the chance to go Ella's.

I won't bother describing Ella's to you. There is a Web site:

http://www.ellas-deli.com

So we went to Ella's and the girls ran around like honyoks and looked at all the displays while we waited for our food. Once it arrived I ate more pickles during this meal than I ever have before. I even tried deep fried pickles. Had celery soda, too. They're both pretty good.

The food is always good at Ella's but what I wanted to write about was the mechanical horse they have. One glance at this thing and I was immediately transported back to my childhood. The horse was cast from metal. No plastic here. The paint is worn and the saddle looks as if has entertained the butts of generations of kids.

It still only cost a dime to ride. We put Julia on the thing and dropped our dime in the slot. I was shocked by how violently this thing jerked Julia back and forth. Judging from the look on her face Julia was surprised, too.

My children have grown up with plastic riding horses that charge at least 50 cents to gently sway their riders to and fro.

I find this sad.

I like my mechanical horses violent. If I was four, I'd want a cheap ride that feels as if I might fall off and impale myself on one of the horse's sharp metal ears. This is also what I want for my children.

Fortunately they can still find it at Ella's Deli.

And pickles - a shitload of pickles.

Marsh Vader

2007-12-04T18:55:00.001-06:00

Simon Sleeps

2007-12-02T13:11:00.000-06:00

There are times when I wake up and feel the cat, Simon, wrapped around my leg. He burrows under the covers, forces his paw under my calf or thigh and holds on to my leg. I imagine it looks something like this:A few nights ago, I woke up as Simon was adjusting his position under the covers. I could feel his head move and I knew he had his face buried in my butt. Normally that would be enough to get me to reach under the covers and throw the cat on to the floor.

But I had to fart.

This was wrong. This was deranged. Man or beast; taking pleasure in blasting one of God's creatures with your flatulence is damaged thinking.

I cut loose with a big one.

Simon didn't move.

What the hell.

He didn't even twitch.

So I waited and hit him again.

No reaction.

I couldn't have killed him. He was still warm.

I started to get a little freaked out. After all, I'm already baffled by how the cat can breathe under all of those covers. Now there had to be massive amounts of methane and bacterial gas trapped like a diving bell around his furry little head.

It was a miracle. My cat has developed some kind of gills. . . or is a fetishist.

I start to laugh. I try to stop myself from laughing because there's no way in hell I want Debbie to wake up and ask me to explain why I'm laughing.

I'm farting on the cat's head, honey. Go back to sleep.

I couldn't take it. I grabbed Simon and (on the off chance I really did knock him out) I placed him gently on the floor.

So far I haven't been able to look the cat straight in the eye. That's going to take some time.

Attention Arcade Shoppers: I'm FOUR!

2007-11-23T18:20:00.000-06:00

Who Does This Look Like?

2007-11-23T18:08:00.001-06:00

See You on the Other Side

2007-11-08T21:34:00.000-06:00

The average human can run 11 miles per hour. That’s the average human; not the 28 MPH, steroid enhanced, Olympian models.

I can run 12 MPH.

This means in a fight or flight scenario - I’ll be the one fighting. Unless I’m being attacked by a land locked manatee. Then I’d probably make a break for it.

Allie can run 8 MPH. We know this because of the radar speed sign the police department has temporarily placed outside of our house. It’s a big, battery operated display on wheels that reminds drivers of their speed. Last night Allie and I wondered if it would clock our speed.

It did. It does.

Daylight Saving Time has ended so these days we’re forced to play outside in the cold and the dark, running full-tilt sprints down the middle of the road. Allie and I would wait for the cars to go by and as soon as their numbers would clear we’d start running toward the machine.

Later, around midnight, I woke myself up because I thought that my heart had stopped. I’m not sure if I was dreaming or if I had indigestion but I was fairly certain I died for a second or two. In my sleep-addled brain I blamed my imaginary coronary on all that sprinting down the middle of the road as fast as I could over and over again.

I’m going to face the radar speed sign again tonight. I’m a little sore, but I’m pretty sure I can improve my numbers. That said, just in case I wasn’t imagining my heart stopping last night, I wanted you know how and why I murdered myself.

Hopefully I’ll reach at least 15 MPH before they remove the sign . . . or I die.

Sometimes, I think I'd rather fold laundry. . .

2007-10-27T00:18:00.000-05:00

I don't blog much these days.

Dan and I have had a few conversations about why I don't post as often as I once did. Mainly it boils down to me being lazy and more than a little bored. I've been doing this for a while now. I've had a Web page since (as I am so fond of reminding everyone) 1996. In fact, I ran across these relics this evening:

http://web.mac.com/gnureg/iWeb/22799/index.html

http://web.mac.com/gnureg/iWeb/2403/index.html

I wish I could find the older stuff but - the thing is, I love sharing portions of my life with you guys. And, more importantly, I love it when you share your lives and talents with me (and everyone else who visits you on the Web). And as much I might be sick of staring at this screen, there is absolutely no denying that my life has been enriched by exposing some of my parts on the Internet.

I'm sorry, there's no point here. There probably won't even be a punch line. I just wanted an excuse to post some of the older stuff I found and encourage everyone on my links page to keep on being so incredibly entertaining. I'm addicted to everything you do.

And no, Dwayne; I haven't been drinking.

Abuse

2007-10-21T21:39:00.001-05:00

In a Nutshell

2007-10-09T21:03:00.000-05:00

I should write something about our trip to Ireland.

If we came home with a long list of people to thank it would definitely include Glenn and Judy for taking care of the kids and Dan and Kerry for taking care of us. Then there's Jeannette and Archie who so graciously invited us into their home and Paul for putting up with us leaking out on him so early. Plus everyone else who helped make this a wonderful vacation.

I should write something about all of that but you know how lazy I am. I think I'll just post a video instead:

For Dan and Kerry:

2007-10-03T11:18:00.001-05:00

Manchester airport security agent quote: Someone certainly is fond of mustard.

More later. . .

Kenmare

2007-09-27T14:20:00.000-05:00

After a little too much driving we made it to Kenmare. Deb and I just got back from walking through a cow pasture to get a closer look at the bay that our room overlooks. This was our second try. The first time the cattle started to mosey toward me and I didn't have the courage to continue until I had some reassurance. The inn's owner, Owen told me they would be cool with the intrusion. So Deb and I made our way to the bay.

It was beautiful. We sat on a rock and watched as the sun set on the Caha mountains. The sun set. That means we walked back in the dark. We walked back in the dark through a cow pasture. I walked ahead of Deb in order to throw myself on a landmine if need be. All I heard from behind me was, I can't see shit. This is a lot of crap. . . and assorted other poo jokes.

Our first day didn't go quite so smoothly, but for every bad thing that happened, Deb reminded us both about something good to trump it. In other words, we're very happy to be here.

Happy birthday, Kerry!

Deb is calling me from the other room to show me something. Better go check it out.