The cat came home from the vet today and is doing just fine.
Peace
..._
12 August 2008
11 August 2008
Monday Miscellany: A Childhood Down the Drain
Today we put our eldest two children on the bus to elementary school. Then my wife took the cat to the vet; the cat is still there. The vet has to have a urine sample before he can diagnose her problem; she has a shy bladder. I asked my wife exactly how one goes about getting a urine sample from a cat, but she could not enlighten me. Our fish, Goldie II, died just a couple of weeks ago, and we hope that the same fate is not in store for our dear Kitty.
The kids, however, did come home. Both of the children had good first days. P, our eldest, had a rough year in first grade so I was surprised and pleased when he told me that it was fun and that he liked second grade. It has been entertaining and somewhat disconcerting hearing the conversations that he has had with his younger sister over the past couple of months. She is starting kindergarten and has been insatiably curious. His answers were generally negative. Fortunately, his negativity had not had too much of an impact upon her, and he has tried to be genuinely helpful to her this week.
4boydad aptly described my more melancholy sentiments concerning the first day of school in the last two paragraphs of a post that hooks you with a very funny story then gaffs you in the gut with the knowledge that you too will one day long to return to the heady days of pulling your little one's precious possessions out of an unflushed toilet.
4boydad's story reminded me of another long-ago Lego lost-at-sea disaster story:
Stephen was one of my worst enemies during my elementary years. He lived directly across the street from me. We would sit on our respective driveways and yell insults at each other. I did it because he was different and everyone else treated him that way. He did it because that must have been the way he figured people talked to each other.
Eventually, at my mom's prompting, we became best of friends. Our friendship was not without its setbacks and conflicts. Early in our friendship I called him over to play in the sprinkler. Almost as soon as I set down the phone I saw him running down his driveway to our front yard where our sprinkler put up a valiant fight against the summer's heat. Strange, I thought, he is fully clothed. He began to undress. Perhaps, I thought, his swimsuit is under his clothes. As soon as it was clear that his swimsuit was not, in fact, under his clothers, he began to frolic in the sprinkling drops with nary a stitch of clothing on his body. My father and my sister looked up slack-jawed from the planting in which they were engaged; we three witnesses were struck mute. I stood back on the driveway, unsure how to handle this unexpected turn of events. We were saved when his mother frantically swooped down the driveway with a towel, scooped him and his clothes up, and returned him to his house. I grew up a little that day; I don't think I ever played in the sprinkler again.
I digress. It was, I think, Stephen who got me interested and then addicted to collecting and building with Lego Bricks and Toys. We became obsessed with categorizing our Lego Bricks as common, rare, or extremely rare. We bartered with each other and begged our parents for the latest set with the latest rare piece. Then came Timmy.
Timmy was the neighborhood Eddie Haskell. He was several years older than Stephen and I. He is the first person I remember meeting when we moved into our new house. He was the one that got me to kiss Sarah. Sarah was his younger sister, and she was my age. He liked to watch us kiss. He told us how the French kissed and suggested that the two us give it a try. He wanted to watch. Sitting on the camping trunk in my parent's garage, we tried it. Timmy was not present. I didn't kiss another girl for many years. Later, a kid named Paul gave me a bloody lip so Sarah slugged him.
I digress. Timmy came into possession of what was, he claimed, at the time, the rarest of rare Lego bricks: a 1x1 clear tile. He talked Stephen into trading several pounds of bricks for it. When Stephen told me about it, I told him that he got ripped off, but I was secretly jealous. He let me briefly look at it, but I don't remember if he let me hold it.
That night, when Stephen went for his evening bath, he did as was his wont: he gathered his favorite Lego bricks and took them into the bath with him. He took the 1x1 clear tile with him. It went down the drain and was never seen again.
When he told me about the tragedy the next day, I grew up a little more. Never again did I take my own Lego bricks into the bath without obsessively worrying about losing one. My paranoia became so acute that I soon gave up taking any Lego into the bath. After that, bathing became just another chore.
Peace
..._
The kids, however, did come home. Both of the children had good first days. P, our eldest, had a rough year in first grade so I was surprised and pleased when he told me that it was fun and that he liked second grade. It has been entertaining and somewhat disconcerting hearing the conversations that he has had with his younger sister over the past couple of months. She is starting kindergarten and has been insatiably curious. His answers were generally negative. Fortunately, his negativity had not had too much of an impact upon her, and he has tried to be genuinely helpful to her this week.
4boydad aptly described my more melancholy sentiments concerning the first day of school in the last two paragraphs of a post that hooks you with a very funny story then gaffs you in the gut with the knowledge that you too will one day long to return to the heady days of pulling your little one's precious possessions out of an unflushed toilet.
4boydad's story reminded me of another long-ago Lego lost-at-sea disaster story:
Stephen was one of my worst enemies during my elementary years. He lived directly across the street from me. We would sit on our respective driveways and yell insults at each other. I did it because he was different and everyone else treated him that way. He did it because that must have been the way he figured people talked to each other.
Eventually, at my mom's prompting, we became best of friends. Our friendship was not without its setbacks and conflicts. Early in our friendship I called him over to play in the sprinkler. Almost as soon as I set down the phone I saw him running down his driveway to our front yard where our sprinkler put up a valiant fight against the summer's heat. Strange, I thought, he is fully clothed. He began to undress. Perhaps, I thought, his swimsuit is under his clothes. As soon as it was clear that his swimsuit was not, in fact, under his clothers, he began to frolic in the sprinkling drops with nary a stitch of clothing on his body. My father and my sister looked up slack-jawed from the planting in which they were engaged; we three witnesses were struck mute. I stood back on the driveway, unsure how to handle this unexpected turn of events. We were saved when his mother frantically swooped down the driveway with a towel, scooped him and his clothes up, and returned him to his house. I grew up a little that day; I don't think I ever played in the sprinkler again.
I digress. It was, I think, Stephen who got me interested and then addicted to collecting and building with Lego Bricks and Toys. We became obsessed with categorizing our Lego Bricks as common, rare, or extremely rare. We bartered with each other and begged our parents for the latest set with the latest rare piece. Then came Timmy.
Timmy was the neighborhood Eddie Haskell. He was several years older than Stephen and I. He is the first person I remember meeting when we moved into our new house. He was the one that got me to kiss Sarah. Sarah was his younger sister, and she was my age. He liked to watch us kiss. He told us how the French kissed and suggested that the two us give it a try. He wanted to watch. Sitting on the camping trunk in my parent's garage, we tried it. Timmy was not present. I didn't kiss another girl for many years. Later, a kid named Paul gave me a bloody lip so Sarah slugged him.
I digress. Timmy came into possession of what was, he claimed, at the time, the rarest of rare Lego bricks: a 1x1 clear tile. He talked Stephen into trading several pounds of bricks for it. When Stephen told me about it, I told him that he got ripped off, but I was secretly jealous. He let me briefly look at it, but I don't remember if he let me hold it.
That night, when Stephen went for his evening bath, he did as was his wont: he gathered his favorite Lego bricks and took them into the bath with him. He took the 1x1 clear tile with him. It went down the drain and was never seen again.
When he told me about the tragedy the next day, I grew up a little more. Never again did I take my own Lego bricks into the bath without obsessively worrying about losing one. My paranoia became so acute that I soon gave up taking any Lego into the bath. After that, bathing became just another chore.
Peace
..._
28 July 2008
Monday Miscellany: Like a Cheap Cigar
Each generation is destined to rise up, challenge, and ultimately prevail over the generation that gave it life, nurtured it, and offered it the world as its inheritance. Each generation finds a new way of challenging the old. It has happened or will happen to many men of my generation in a uniquely humiliating fashion.
Men of my age went to school during the heady beginnings of the digital age. Sure, I took high school keyboarding on an IBM electric typewriter, but a new computer lab was just next door. How can I ever forget the moment when my dad hooked up Pong on a spare TV in the bonus room? When I got home from school I spent much of my time on my Intellivision, my friend's Atari, or, later, a Commodore-64. I took a computer to college. As an adult, I continued playing games, but not as often nor as obsessively as before since the demands of adult living rightfully took precedence over leveling up my Diablo character or building the perfect Sim City.
With delight I introduced the joys and mysteries of gaming to my eldest boy as soon as he was able to hold a PS1 controller. This process was gratifying and ego-building as I, the master, instructed my apprentice in the many ways of defeating a slippery AI or a quick-fingered human opponent.
Two weeks ago my son invited me to play a head t0 head arena battle of Hot Wheels: Beat That! on the PS2. I walked into the room and picked up a controller, wondering, in the interest of avoiding tears, how many time I would have to let him get me before I destroyed him. Thirty seconds later, with the smell of burning flesh and twisted metal rising from my virtual Hot Wheel and my mind still trying to catch up to how in the world he got me, my son informed me that he smoked me like a cheap cigar (had he really learned that from me?). And then came the dance. The victory dance.
Two arena battles later brought no better results. Indeed, after feeling the tell-tale vibration in my controller and seeing my Hot Wheel burst into flame for the fifteenth time, victory was becoming routine for my son. I congratulated him, told him that I was impressed with him, and left the room.
He hasn't said anything to me since then, but I think he knows how big of a moment he just had. Sure, I have let him win past contests, but those victories had always been tempered with the drubbings I gave him before and after his wins. On this day, he had tasted only victory and I, only defeat.
I apologize that I must cut this miscellany short at one item as the kids are in bed and I need to play a few rounds of Hot Wheels Beat That! to figure out how he got me.
Peace
..._
Men of my age went to school during the heady beginnings of the digital age. Sure, I took high school keyboarding on an IBM electric typewriter, but a new computer lab was just next door. How can I ever forget the moment when my dad hooked up Pong on a spare TV in the bonus room? When I got home from school I spent much of my time on my Intellivision, my friend's Atari, or, later, a Commodore-64. I took a computer to college. As an adult, I continued playing games, but not as often nor as obsessively as before since the demands of adult living rightfully took precedence over leveling up my Diablo character or building the perfect Sim City.
With delight I introduced the joys and mysteries of gaming to my eldest boy as soon as he was able to hold a PS1 controller. This process was gratifying and ego-building as I, the master, instructed my apprentice in the many ways of defeating a slippery AI or a quick-fingered human opponent.
Two weeks ago my son invited me to play a head t0 head arena battle of Hot Wheels: Beat That! on the PS2. I walked into the room and picked up a controller, wondering, in the interest of avoiding tears, how many time I would have to let him get me before I destroyed him. Thirty seconds later, with the smell of burning flesh and twisted metal rising from my virtual Hot Wheel and my mind still trying to catch up to how in the world he got me, my son informed me that he smoked me like a cheap cigar (had he really learned that from me?). And then came the dance. The victory dance.
Two arena battles later brought no better results. Indeed, after feeling the tell-tale vibration in my controller and seeing my Hot Wheel burst into flame for the fifteenth time, victory was becoming routine for my son. I congratulated him, told him that I was impressed with him, and left the room.
He hasn't said anything to me since then, but I think he knows how big of a moment he just had. Sure, I have let him win past contests, but those victories had always been tempered with the drubbings I gave him before and after his wins. On this day, he had tasted only victory and I, only defeat.
I apologize that I must cut this miscellany short at one item as the kids are in bed and I need to play a few rounds of Hot Wheels Beat That! to figure out how he got me.
Peace
..._
21 July 2008
Monday Miscellany: Made in China
I took the seven year old boy and the five year old girl camping last month. On the way to the campground we listened loudly to a children's CD by They Might Be Giants. One of the songs, titled "Where Do They Make Balloons?" runs through a catalog of origins for famous products/items and asks:
Marmalade's from Scotland
Rugs from Pakistan
Mexico has jumping beans
And cars are from Japan
Clowns are from the circus
Barking comes from dogs
Eggs come from a chicken
And log cabins come from logs
But where, where do they make balloons? (where)
My son looked over at his sister and said, "I think they are probably made in a factory in China."
My father, the incarnation of preparation and planning, taught me through his example to check your camping equipment before taking it camping. After last year's camping trip left our tent as a worthless pile of broken fiberglass and sodden canvas, he gave us his old one. Two days before we left, I carefully took out the tent and assembled it in the back yard to make sure that I could assembly it by myself and to seal the seams with seam sealer. The next day, I took it down, bagged it, and put it in my trunk, safe in the knowledge that the tent was in good shape, easily assembled, and relatively waterproof.
Once at the camp site, we began the process of setting up the tent only to find that the two fiberglass support members, without which the tent is merely an elaborate, zippered tarp, were still in the backyard, a hundred miles away. At this point a series of errors in judgement on my part resulted in an excursion to North Carolina, a drive down every road in Blairsville, Georgia, and the three of us sleeping in my Corolla.
The next morning my son vomited. We were home by noon.
Because no one signed up to take summer school for history, I have been watching the entire run of Arrested Development at Hulu and trying to keep the kids from killing each other. I have been more successful at the former than the latter.
Today, my five-year-old daughter lost another tooth. Tomorrow we register her for kindergarten. I don't know what to say about that.
Peace
..._
Marmalade's from Scotland
Rugs from Pakistan
Mexico has jumping beans
And cars are from Japan
Clowns are from the circus
Barking comes from dogs
Eggs come from a chicken
And log cabins come from logs
But where, where do they make balloons? (where)
My son looked over at his sister and said, "I think they are probably made in a factory in China."
My father, the incarnation of preparation and planning, taught me through his example to check your camping equipment before taking it camping. After last year's camping trip left our tent as a worthless pile of broken fiberglass and sodden canvas, he gave us his old one. Two days before we left, I carefully took out the tent and assembled it in the back yard to make sure that I could assembly it by myself and to seal the seams with seam sealer. The next day, I took it down, bagged it, and put it in my trunk, safe in the knowledge that the tent was in good shape, easily assembled, and relatively waterproof.
Once at the camp site, we began the process of setting up the tent only to find that the two fiberglass support members, without which the tent is merely an elaborate, zippered tarp, were still in the backyard, a hundred miles away. At this point a series of errors in judgement on my part resulted in an excursion to North Carolina, a drive down every road in Blairsville, Georgia, and the three of us sleeping in my Corolla.
The next morning my son vomited. We were home by noon.
Because no one signed up to take summer school for history, I have been watching the entire run of Arrested Development at Hulu and trying to keep the kids from killing each other. I have been more successful at the former than the latter.
Today, my five-year-old daughter lost another tooth. Tomorrow we register her for kindergarten. I don't know what to say about that.
Peace
..._
29 April 2008
Monday Miscellany on a Tuesday
The doorbell rang on Sunday afternoon. In many households, the sound of a ringing doorbell is a cause for joy or hope; perhaps a friend has dropped by unexpectedly or a neighbor wants to chat. In our household, the sound is an ominous death knell. The two "adults" of the house come up with any excuse to make the other adult answer the door: "Could you get it? I'm in the middle of changing the kitty litter." "Oh, I can't get it right now; I'm juggling a chainsaw, three eggs, a butcher knife, and a neutron bomb." "I'm changing a diaper" (this excuse has the added benefit of having a high probability of being true). "I can't come to the door; I'm deep frying a hot dog." This door answering reluctance most likely originates in the first few months after we purchased our "Handyman's Special" home when we were forced to conclude that our house had lived its previous life as a crack house. We came to this conclusion based upon the steady stream of seedy visitors to our front door, apparently unaware that CrackMart had relocated. That and the bag of tiny Ziploc baggies that I found in the attic over the garage, but that is a story for another day.
The doorbell rang on Sunday afternoon, and I, being slow in coming up with an excuse, was forced to greet the unexpected guest. Fulling expected to be handed a copy of the Watchtower, I took a deep breath and opened the door. Two of the neighborhood girls, with expectant and hopeful faces, held out a tray of wares for sale. It was clear they had rehearsed as one of them began, "Could we interest in you in the purchase of some rocks? They are good for display or collecting." I looked down at the tray of rocks. I was pretty sure I recognized some of the rocks that one of them had collected in my own back yard during my garden work. Most of the rocks appeared to be common quartz crusted with Georgia red clay. I stammered a bit before I finally got out, "Well, I don't think we can use any rocks right now, but I wish you the best of luck in your sale." Yes, I know...I am cold-hearted Scrooge and that kind of entrepreneurial pluck should be rewarded, but there would have been something not quite right about buying my own rocks.
Some quotes from my seniors:
Yesterday: "I don't see cheating as wrong; it is just a way to get ahead."
Today: "College is just about having fun."
From a junior US history test concerning Truman:
"He didn't get a lot done in civil rights, but he did demilitarize the army."
Peace
..._
The doorbell rang on Sunday afternoon, and I, being slow in coming up with an excuse, was forced to greet the unexpected guest. Fulling expected to be handed a copy of the Watchtower, I took a deep breath and opened the door. Two of the neighborhood girls, with expectant and hopeful faces, held out a tray of wares for sale. It was clear they had rehearsed as one of them began, "Could we interest in you in the purchase of some rocks? They are good for display or collecting." I looked down at the tray of rocks. I was pretty sure I recognized some of the rocks that one of them had collected in my own back yard during my garden work. Most of the rocks appeared to be common quartz crusted with Georgia red clay. I stammered a bit before I finally got out, "Well, I don't think we can use any rocks right now, but I wish you the best of luck in your sale." Yes, I know...I am cold-hearted Scrooge and that kind of entrepreneurial pluck should be rewarded, but there would have been something not quite right about buying my own rocks.
Some quotes from my seniors:
Yesterday: "I don't see cheating as wrong; it is just a way to get ahead."
Today: "College is just about having fun."
From a junior US history test concerning Truman:
"He didn't get a lot done in civil rights, but he did demilitarize the army."
Peace
..._
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