Looking Up 2005 Baking Injury Statistics

I snapped this shot with the camera phone. If you look you can see the fence at the bottom of the hill. If you're on a sled the fence is what keeps you from flying into the river.

Someone was smart enough (nice enough) to place some hay bales at the bottom of the hill. I'm not so sure there was hay in those bales. They hurt when Allie and I hit them. Poor Allie was at the front of the sled on our second run and she bore the brunt of the impact.

Her leg flopped over in the snow at an unnatural angle. When I saw the tears running down her cheeks I was ready to dial 911. Half a minute later she was running around yelling, "THAT WAS AWESOME!"

She was hooked.

She wanted to go back today.

Instead she's upstairs baking bread with her mother.

See, last I heard there aren't too many ambulance calls attributed to baking.

What kind of news can I expect to get here?

I was pissed off at Debbie because she wouldn't take Allie for a walk yesterday. My ire was built of equal parts disbelief that Deb preferred to sit and shuffle through papers from work and that I had to get off my lazy ass and take my kid to the park. Either way I'm a bad guy so I got over my tizzy in a hurry.

I'm glad I did.

It was, as Allie described it, ". . . a cold and clear and beautiful day." We had the park to ourselves so there was no waiting as we slid down what seemed to be extra slippery slides. I scared the crap out of Allie by pushing her much higher than I should have on the swings. Then we went for a walk in the woods. It was chilly but having no bugs in our faces and/or sucking our blood made up for it. The pond had frozen over so I held Allie's hands and dangled her onto the ice. She freaked. Then she wanted to do it again. She begged me to get a big rock and smash through the ice. I refused. So we looked for berries and planted a few -- fully expecting that a new berry bush will sprout in the spring. On the way back home we raced across the soccer field. Allie won the first sprint to the soccer goal. I won the second. It was good to see Allie heaving crisp, fresh outdoor air in and out of her little lungs.

Julia was napping while Allie and I wandered through the woods. That's why it was just the two of us when I went shopping later that afternoon. Julia insisted ("No mama. No Ahh-ee!"). It was the first trip to the market that Julia didn't have to sit in the cart. She tore through the aisles in that peculiar half-running/half-falling jaunt that makes parents wish someone would develop Nerf floor tiles. The store was busy but Julia didn't impede others' shopping too much so I let her go. There was one incident. Julia decided to adopt a bag of multi-colored marshmallows. She squeezed the bag to her chest like a mother clutching her baby as they got on a lifeboat. I gave her the option of returning the marshmallows to the shelf on her own terms. That wasn't going to happen so I ripped the bag away from her. Julia protested but I pointed to a bottle of olive oil that was at her eye level. I gestured like Doug Henning and chanted, "Look at that, Julia. Ahhhhlive oooil!" I've never tried to make olive oil (or at least the bottle) seem so interesting. I don't plan on doing it again but it's good to know I've got the skills.

Julia moved her bowels into the big toilet upstairs. You'll probably want to check Deb's blog in the near future for details.

This is the kind of news you people should plan to get here.

Tonight Allie and I practiced piano. Allie cried because things weren't going smoothly. "I'm a bad piano player," she said. I dried her tears and assured her that she was not a bad piano player and the songs she played were lovely. Then I picked up an empty root beer bottle and told her that I was going to smash her in the head with it every time she played a wrong note.

Allie laughed. She felt better and we practiced until she played a pretty good rendition of Beethoven's Ode to Joy.

I'm still not sure why she laughed, though.

3-1-5

Before I left the house Allie read the numbers off a thermometer to her mother. "3-1-5," was what she reported. I assumed that meant it was 31.5 degrees. We wanted to know the temp because I was going out on the motorcycle.

It's not a big deal. After all in this part of the country people tear across cornfields on snowmobiles when it's much colder than 3-1-5. But I still feel like kind of an idiot. I think it's the way that Deb looks at me when I talk about riding in this weather. Confusion + pity + disbelief with a sprinkle of ". . . I wonder what I'll do with the insurance money."

The jacket Deb got me for Christmas is wonderful. Not only do I look good, but I'm warm and I'm sure the padding will save my ass when I dump the bike. Everyone who rides has told me that I'll eventually end up on the pavement so the right gear is essential. I know they're telling the truth because of the number of times I fell off my motorcycle when I was younger. Of course I was falling into dirt or mud back then. Now it's going to be either concrete or asphalt and my bones are considerably more brittle than back in the day. I'll keep you posted.

This morning the four of us went out for breakfast. Sausage gravy and hash browns. I took a look back into the kitchen of the little restaurant we were at (a place we usually hit for dinner every now and again). Two cooks and one griddle about the size of a standard household stove top. It was a busy morning so there was an amazing amount of food crammed onto the cooking surface. That's the thing I most admire about people who cook for a living. Not the fact that the food is good; everyone gets lucky now and again. But when food is cooked in mass quantities and served hot and made to order the juggling act is truly a marvel.

So this morning it was sausage gravy and hash browns. Lunch was greasy, leftover tacos from last night. Later, Deb made fantastic chocolate/caramel chip cookies (I had four). Now, here I sit, typing feeling just a little nauseous at the prospect of cooking dinner for my family. I don't think Deb's hungry. We'll probably just throw a pizza into the oven for the girls. Julia won't mind. She never says no to peah dah! 85% of Julia's cellular make up is comprised of components derived from digested bits of pizza so why the hell would she ever say no.

Me? I'm 85% nervous. I've swallowed a lot of anxiety over the years.

And yes, I'm still nauseous.

Lou Rawls

My mom once had Lou Rawls sing "You'll Never Find" to her back in the seventies at a show in Ft. Lauderdale.

Now he's dead.

Coincidence?

Scrubbed & Deloused

I sat at my desk this morning and cradled my face in my hands.

My sporadic holiday was over. I had officially returned to the enormous G.I. tract I call my cubicle and awaited further digestion.

Being digested by your job is a slow process. For the most part you’re not even aware of slowly being dissolved into tiny bits used as fuel for a larger entity. It’s only when you step out of your weakly acidic (yet compellingly insular) environment that you notice the corrosion.

I’m not saying I have a bad job. I have a good job. But regardless of how good your gig is, you’re still being absorbed to one degree or another; make no mistake about it.

It was quiet at work this morning. But if you listened closely you could hear tiny gurgles.

Hopefully by tomorrow I won’t notice the gurgling.

The girls have a new look. It’s short. When I saw them this morning I was a little alarmed. It looked as if they’d been scrubbed and deloused in preparation for prison. They seem to like their haircuts, though. I have to admit after-bath hair care is now a snap. Instead of wrestling with snarls and tangles my comb just glides through what little hair they have left on their heads.

Julia looks in the mirror and says, “I piddy.”

Piddy the fool who cut off all my hair. . .

By the way, Julia is pooping on her little potty on a fairly regular basis. We’re celebrating each movement as if Alfred Jodl had just signed the unconditional surrender.

Working the Man

Julia sat back and let Allie lay all the groundwork. Allie's pitch got off to a slow start, but after a 45 minute wait to see Santa there was no way she wasn't going to make the most of it.

What did she ask for?

An end to war and hunger.

Yeah, right. . .

Define "Bad Dad"

This evening, as Allie was changing into her pajamas, I decided it would be fun to see if the kid would go outside in her undies.

The concept isn't a new one for me. A long time ago my brother and I got bored one very cold evening and decided to run around in the snow in our underwear.

It was a stupid idea then.

Stupid -- but kind of exhilarating and it certainly alleviated our ennui.

So I thought I'd make Allie's evening by betting her a dollar she wouldn't go out in the snow. She looked at me and said that I was right; she wouldn't go outside for a dollar.

Next I tried to get her to go out by letting her know I'd join her.

She still wasn't interested.

Finally I got down to my skivies and grabbed her. I threw open the door. I lifted her up by her hands and we ran down the front walk to the driveway. Then I let her go and she sprinted back to the warmth and safety of our foyer.

That's when I noticed she was crying.

Turns out she wasn't crying because she was cold. Instead she was crying because, oh - I don't know, I might have told her the police will arrest little girls who venture outside in their underwear (or something like that, I'm not sure). What's more, she saw a car go by as we ran around our front yard, in our undies, in the icy breeze. By then Allie was convinced she needed to prepare for whatever a five year-old imagines prison to be.

Now here's the kicker: She asked, "Will Santa come if he finds out I went outside in my underwear?"

Not only did I traumatized the poor girl, but I had jeopardized her good standing with the big guy in the red suit. Suddenly I was the bad dad who ruined Christmas.

It didn't take Deb long to console Allie. During the quick process of calming her down Allie looked at her mom and emphatically declared, "Daddy's weird!"

Can't argue.

But she wasn't bored. No doubt about that.

Licked

This came to me at work the other day.

At first it was all the stamps that got my attention.

But then I couldn't help thinking about the disturbing amount of dried, human saliva I probably was holding in my hands.

Merry Christmas - I can't feel my fingers.

Want to know how your guarantee yourself a shitty Christmas tree this season? Go shopping for one in three degree weather.

I cold.

Julia chanted this forty or fifty times as we walked to catch up to Deb and Allie. They were ahead of us checking out the selection of $12 trees that this particular lot uses to lure in holiday bargain hunters. Occasionally, if you’re willing to look long and hard, you can find a decent tree here. Unfortunately three degrees means none of us were willing to sort through the freeze-dried, dyed-green, tumbleweeds.

The girls looked miserable. Deb’s nose was beyond rosy and Allie and Julia’s cheeks looked as if they had been rubbed raw then shellacked. “Isn’t this fun?” I asked. All three quickly replied, “No.”

As we got deeper into the lot Deb found a little frazier fir for $25. It was short and narrow. “How about this one?” she begged. As soon as she designated her choice Deb whined a little and fled with Julia into a building where they make wreaths and take your money.

I asked Allie if she liked the tree. She said she didn’t. “Well, let’s go look over here for a better one,” I said and started walking away from Deb’s choice.

“Daddy, I’m freezing.” Allie said.

“Come on, don’t be a baby.”

“I don’t want to look anymore.”

“Do you like this tree?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go find a good one.”

I left Allie standing there and took about twenty steps away from her to look for another tree. It only took twenty steps to realize I no longer cared what tree we got as the three degree weather was frosting my nuts. So I walked back and grabbed the little tree without saying a word to Allie and she didn’t say a word to me.

While Deb paid $25 I threw the frozen fir into the trunk of the Mazda. I used bungee cords to secure the trunk lid. As I pulled one of the cords to attach it to the car’s bumper it snapped back and thunked me in the forehead. Fuckin’ cocksucker motherfucker! The other people in the lot looked my way as I held my forehead and grimaced at them. “I could’ve lost my damn eye,” I said out loud as I tried to reattach the cord. I really don’t think anyone who heard all this cared; but I thought they should know.

So Christmas has officially begun despite the fact our tree hasn’t made it to the living room yet. It’s in the garage. It might stay there for a while. At least until the bump on my forehead goes away.

Dear Abby,

My body hates me.

It doesn’t want me in it and isn’t just quietly suffering any longer. Things are getting bad.

It craves salt and fat. It loathes exercise. Its skin absorbs heat and UV radiation so readily that it turns candy apple red when exposed to a 75 watt bulb for more than 30 seconds. It has been exposed to a host of chemicals which await release from fatty tissues in order to cause disruption, corruption and mutation at the cellular level.

The evidence that my body desires a long term separation is overwhelming. I find bumps, scales and strangely colored patches on my body’s skin. There’s a knee that makes strange popping noises in the morning. There are ankles that feel as if they’re ready to cave with the least bit of provocation. It demands a surplus of air after lifting small children up just two flights of stairs. There is constant belching, farting and the excretory experience is only consistent in that it is never consistent. Plus, it’s fat.

Boy; is it fat.

It’s never been larger or heavier.

I’ve tried to force my body to accept our relationship by attempting some improvements. In fact, last week I fired my first salvo by doing the breakfast thing, choosing the right foods, limiting my portions.

I gained three pounds.

Granted, I didn’t keep it up over the weekend and ate crap what wasn’t good for me. But that’s what I do every weekend. One would think that if I behaved during the week and then continued with my regular habits for just a couple of days that I could at least maintain.

So, it’s clear my body hates me.

I know; I need to get my body to love me once again. But how do you rescue a relationship after it has gone so badly for so many years? Anything I do garners a nasty reaction. A trip to the treadmill therapist winds up becoming a massive, sweaty struggle that leaves me exhausted and convinced that I should never return for a repeat session. If I attempt to romance my body with gifts of cruciferous vegetables and fruit it pushes them away and whines for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. I’ve read books, magazines, scoured the internet and looked to others who have overcome these types of problems for inspiration. Nothing seems to work.

My body is angry, resentful and wants an attorney. And what makes these relationship problems all the worse is the fact that there are children in the mix.

I know my story isn’t uncommon, but I’m coming to the end of my rope (and at this weight, it’s really freakin’ difficult to hold on).

Signed,
Beyond Husky

Violet

Last year I wrote about this photo I saw at my Grandma's house.

If you'd like to get a better look at the photo and revisit the post click here.

Want to see what Grandma looks like today?

Click multimedia and watch the video called Gertrude.

Ambien Cookies

Today Deb started making Christmas cookies with the girls. If you go to the Flickr! photostream there are a few pictures.

It doesn't end there.

If you know the password click password please. There you can see this year's Thanksgiving in glorious 2 inch wide QuickTime.

If you don't know the password and are really bored (and I'm not joking here; you've got to be really bored) click multimedia. Deb shot some video of me getting ready to go for a ride on Gus.

Gus is the new motorcycle.

Podcasting Woes

I’m sorry some of you are experiencing difficulties listening to our Podcasts. I'm sure it's because I don't know what I'm doing. Despite this some people have been able to download these files.

If you can play MP3s on your computer, then you shouldn’t have any trouble listening. If you’re getting a screen full of indecipherable symbols then you might need to download or update your media player.

I think all computers should have QuickTime but Windows Media Player will do.

Once you have installed these players you shouldn’t have any problems hearing the Podcast. And once you’ve listened, you will wonder why you went to any trouble.

For example, here's me trying to get the girls to go to bed.

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Can you read this in 30 seconds?

Lately I’ve found myself skimming The Bleat. That’s never really happened before. I’ve always gobbled up every word James Lileks metes out to us on his Web site. Now I find myself quickly searching his paragraphs for word combos like Jasper & run over or Gnat & therapy or Target & Apple & bankruptcy court that might pique my waning interest.

I’m surprised. Particularly when James seems to have eliminated (or at least relegated to another blog) all the not-too-keen political screeds that once peppered his Bleats. He now provides a pipeline of 98% pure saccharine in the form of tales about peddling his latest book or raising his daughter or hours spent watching film noir or digging through his endless collection of ephemera.

It’s everything I could ask for from the man.

And yet I skim.

I feel guilty but more significantly I feel a little suspicious of you.

You’re skimming me. I can sense it. Unless you see words like vomit or dead hamster you’re slamming your browser into second gear and heading over to Gawker to read about Tara Reid’s new breasts. I can’t say that I blame you but DAMMIT - I’ve put a little effort into this crap. What does it take to hold on to you for 30 seconds? [And, by the way, that’s how long it takes to read this post, up to this point. I timed it.]

Blogger has a featured blog called Bored Housewife. She keeps you reading her posts by showing you her cleavage (okay I didn’t actually read her posts). I have cleavage, but there’s hair all over it.

That’s not good for anyone.