Thursday, December 31, 2009
Diminishing New Year's Expectations
12/31/07 - Everything's "Great" in 2008!
12/31/08 - We'll Settle for "Fine" in 2009!
12/31/09 - Please Don't Whup Me Again, 2010!
12/31/08 - We'll Settle for "Fine" in 2009!
12/31/09 - Please Don't Whup Me Again, 2010!
Quote of the Day
"What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog."
- Dwight Eisenhower
- Dwight Eisenhower
Eleven Addresses to the Lord
by John Berryman
Sole watchman of the flying stars, guard me
against my flicker of impulse lust: teach me
to see them as sisters & daughters. Sustain
my grand endeavours: husbandship & crafting.
Forsake me not when my wild hours come;
grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;
achieve in me patience till the thing be done,
a careful view of my achievement come.
Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.
When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.
Empty my heart toward Thee.
Let me pace without fear the common path of death.
Cross am I sometimes with my little daughter:
fill her eyes with tears: Forgive me, Lord.
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
Sole watchman of the flying stars, guard me
against my flicker of impulse lust: teach me
to see them as sisters & daughters. Sustain
my grand endeavours: husbandship & crafting.
Forsake me not when my wild hours come;
grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;
achieve in me patience till the thing be done,
a careful view of my achievement come.
Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.
When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.
Empty my heart toward Thee.
Let me pace without fear the common path of death.
Cross am I sometimes with my little daughter:
fill her eyes with tears: Forgive me, Lord.
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Quote of the Day
Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.
~ Sir Winston Churchill
~ Sir Winston Churchill
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Hellooooooooo 1981 . . . . .
Rush's Moving Pictures album was a guilty pleasure from my late elementary / early Jr. High Years (as was Still Loving You by the Scorpions, all sorts of songs by Madness and Should I Stay Or Should I Go Now by the Clash) . Rush's Red Barchetta was one of my favorites.
(For the record - I much prefer James Taylor these Days . . .)
(song on the ipod in the margin)
Jeepers:
(For the record - I much prefer James Taylor these Days . . .)
Quote of the Day
The best part of being with my family is that I don’t feel like I have spina bifida all the time– I’m just me. I can be a dork, and they don’t care. (In fact, they embrace it! The dorkier, the better.)
- HOFAH
- HOFAH
Monday, December 28, 2009
Quote of the Day
Welcome to the season of the screwdriver. In the immediate post-Santa period, dads everywhere transform into assembly drones, with snips at the end of one robotic arm and a screwdrivers on the other. Squinting at indecipherable instructions printed in Thailand, dads are approached by a steady stream of supplicants bearing bulletproof blister packs. Almost every toy Santa delivered this year, must be first extricated from plastic packaging, then freed of twist ties, then pumped full of batteries, so that they may enjoy their twenty to thirty minutes of functional playtime. Overall, Santa has some quality control issues.
Once the toys have been assembled, broken, repaired and then terminally broken, Dad is then free to move on to the Ikea Phase of the holiday. Squinting at indecipherable instructions printed in Stockholm, Dad is presented by his spouse with a series of assembly projects and mop-up operations.
- DadLabs
Once the toys have been assembled, broken, repaired and then terminally broken, Dad is then free to move on to the Ikea Phase of the holiday. Squinting at indecipherable instructions printed in Stockholm, Dad is presented by his spouse with a series of assembly projects and mop-up operations.
- DadLabs
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog
by Alicia Suskin Ostriker
To be blessed
said the old woman
is to live and work
so hard
God's love
washes right through you
like milk through a cow
To be blessed
said the dark red tulip
is to knock their eyes out
with the slug of lust
implied by
your up-ended
skirt
To be blessed
said the dog
is to have a pinch
of God
inside you
and all the other dogs
can smell it
To be blessed
said the old woman
is to live and work
so hard
God's love
washes right through you
like milk through a cow
To be blessed
said the dark red tulip
is to knock their eyes out
with the slug of lust
implied by
your up-ended
skirt
To be blessed
said the dog
is to have a pinch
of God
inside you
and all the other dogs
can smell it
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Cornish Game Hens with Garlic and Rosemary
“Lemon-and rosemary-infused little game hens basted with a wine and garlic broth make any occasion special.”
RECIPE HERE
Quote of the Day
If a small thing has the power to make you angry, does that not indicate something about your size?
~ Sidney Harris
~ Sidney Harris
So Proud She Was to Die
Emily Dickinson
So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed.
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be,
Immediately, that anguish stooped
Almost to jealousy.
So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed.
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be,
Immediately, that anguish stooped
Almost to jealousy.
Friday, December 25, 2009
December
by Gary Johnson
A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels singing overhead? Hark.
A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here—and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels singing overhead? Hark.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
At the University College of North Wales at Bangor
by Gerald Locklin
Most of my students here are very poor.
I seldom see them in the pubs: they
Cannot really afford the prices.
As winter hits they have to decide whether
To spend their shillings on the coin-operated heaters
Or on food.
I suspect that heat often wins—you can
Freeze to death quicker than you will starve.
Their incentive is that they will presumably
Have more comfortable lives if they survive
The minimalist conditions of college.
The government gives them a small grant
From which to buy books.
We are encouraged to require
Very few books.
A book is a valued art object here.
I never hear a complaint here
And no one misses a tutorial
Without the most profuse and formal
Of apologies.
In California my students and I and everyone else,
Also including the movie stars and politicians and
Pro-athletes,
Seldom stop for breath
In the midst of a constant bitching.
Most of my students here are very poor.
I seldom see them in the pubs: they
Cannot really afford the prices.
As winter hits they have to decide whether
To spend their shillings on the coin-operated heaters
Or on food.
I suspect that heat often wins—you can
Freeze to death quicker than you will starve.
Their incentive is that they will presumably
Have more comfortable lives if they survive
The minimalist conditions of college.
The government gives them a small grant
From which to buy books.
We are encouraged to require
Very few books.
A book is a valued art object here.
I never hear a complaint here
And no one misses a tutorial
Without the most profuse and formal
Of apologies.
In California my students and I and everyone else,
Also including the movie stars and politicians and
Pro-athletes,
Seldom stop for breath
In the midst of a constant bitching.
She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms
Emily Dickinson
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars --
And then I come away.
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars --
And then I come away.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Quote of the Day
"All the things I really like are either immoral, illegal or fattening."
- Alexander Woollcott
- Alexander Woollcott
Stille Nacht, Heilege Nacht
by Peter Meinke
At Christmas, my sisters and I
learned to sing carols in German:
Grandpa would give us a quarter
apiece for performing, though
only Carol could carry a tune.
After the start of the War
Father forbade us to practice,
and when Grandpa asked for his songs
we told him they weren't allowed.
You are German, he shouted. Sing!
Singt, mein kinder, für mich!
We stood mute, unhappy, ashamed,
between father and son locking eyes
while the U-boats were nosing the currents
and propellers coughed in the skies
like angels clearing their throats.
At Christmas, my sisters and I
learned to sing carols in German:
Grandpa would give us a quarter
apiece for performing, though
only Carol could carry a tune.
After the start of the War
Father forbade us to practice,
and when Grandpa asked for his songs
we told him they weren't allowed.
You are German, he shouted. Sing!
Singt, mein kinder, für mich!
We stood mute, unhappy, ashamed,
between father and son locking eyes
while the U-boats were nosing the currents
and propellers coughed in the skies
like angels clearing their throats.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Going to Bed
by George Bilgere
I check the locks on the front door
and the side door,
make sure the windows are closed
and the heat dialed down.
I switch off the computer,
turn off the living room lights.
I let in the cats.
Reverently, I unplug the Christmas tree,
leaving Christ and the little animals
in the dark.
The last thing I do
is step out to the back yard
for a quick look at the Milky Way.
The stars are halogen-blue.
The constellations, whose names
I have long since forgotten,
look down anonymously,
and the whole galaxy
is cartwheeling in silence through the night.
Everything seems to be ok.
I check the locks on the front door
and the side door,
make sure the windows are closed
and the heat dialed down.
I switch off the computer,
turn off the living room lights.
I let in the cats.
Reverently, I unplug the Christmas tree,
leaving Christ and the little animals
in the dark.
The last thing I do
is step out to the back yard
for a quick look at the Milky Way.
The stars are halogen-blue.
The constellations, whose names
I have long since forgotten,
look down anonymously,
and the whole galaxy
is cartwheeling in silence through the night.
Everything seems to be ok.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Seven Ages of Man
William Shakespeare
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
When I First Saw Snow
by Gregory Djanikian
Bing Crosby was singing "White Christmas"
on the radio, we were staying at my aunt's house
waiting for papers, my father was looking for a job.
We had trimmed the tree the night before,
sap had run on my fingers and for the first time
I was smelling pine wherever I went.
Anais, my cousin, was upstairs in her room
listening to Danny and the Juniors.
Haigo was playing Monopoly with Lucy, his sister,
Buzzy, the boy next door, had eyes for her
and there was a rattle of dice, a shuffling
of Boardwalk, Park Place, Marvin Gardens.
There were red bows on the Christmas tree.
It had snowed all night.
My boot buckles were clinking like small bells
as I thumped to the door and out
onto the grey planks of the porch dusted with snow.
The world was immaculate, new,
even the trees had changed color,
and when I touched the snow on the railing
I didn't know what I had touched, ice or fire.
I heard, ''I'm dreaming ..."
I heard, "At the hop, hop, hop ... oh, baby."
I heard "B & 0" and the train in my imagination
was whistling through the great plains.
And I was stepping off,
I was falling deeply into America.
Bing Crosby was singing "White Christmas"
on the radio, we were staying at my aunt's house
waiting for papers, my father was looking for a job.
We had trimmed the tree the night before,
sap had run on my fingers and for the first time
I was smelling pine wherever I went.
Anais, my cousin, was upstairs in her room
listening to Danny and the Juniors.
Haigo was playing Monopoly with Lucy, his sister,
Buzzy, the boy next door, had eyes for her
and there was a rattle of dice, a shuffling
of Boardwalk, Park Place, Marvin Gardens.
There were red bows on the Christmas tree.
It had snowed all night.
My boot buckles were clinking like small bells
as I thumped to the door and out
onto the grey planks of the porch dusted with snow.
The world was immaculate, new,
even the trees had changed color,
and when I touched the snow on the railing
I didn't know what I had touched, ice or fire.
I heard, ''I'm dreaming ..."
I heard, "At the hop, hop, hop ... oh, baby."
I heard "B & 0" and the train in my imagination
was whistling through the great plains.
And I was stepping off,
I was falling deeply into America.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Quote of the Day
They say time will
Make all this go away
But it's time that has taken my tomorrows
And turned them into yesterdays
And once again that rising sun
Is droppin' on down
And once again you my friend
Are nowhere to be found
And it's so hard to do
And so easy to say
But sometimes
Sometimes you just have to walk away
Walk away
And head for the door
You just walk away
Walk away
- Ben Harper from Walk Away
Make all this go away
But it's time that has taken my tomorrows
And turned them into yesterdays
And once again that rising sun
Is droppin' on down
And once again you my friend
Are nowhere to be found
And it's so hard to do
And so easy to say
But sometimes
Sometimes you just have to walk away
Walk away
And head for the door
You just walk away
Walk away
- Ben Harper from Walk Away
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Quote of the Day
"But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?"
- Mark Twain
- Mark Twain
Sunday, December 13, 2009
"Ungabe *Nclock* *Nclock*!"
Annabelle knows the dawg's name. If you say, "Where's Buckley?", she will swivel her head on cue and look directly at him. She also knows Where's "Mommy?", "Daddy?" and "the Christmas Tree?" She cannot, however, say any of these words herself.
The dawg is still something of a mystery to her but every now and then, when she wants his attention, she will reach out her hand and make a high-pitched squeal.
The dawg, loves Annabelle. He is allowed to eat anything she drops, but not to touch anything on her tray. He is allowed to lick her within reason as one full swipe of his tongue could cover her chin to forehead and ear to ear. As a consequence, we are constantly telling him to "leave it" when it comes to food on her tray but allowing him to eat the same food off the floor. We say "how nice" when he gently touches the tip of his tongue to her hands or forehead but "Whoa, whoa, leave it!" when he goes into full tongue-bath mode. All of this makes the baby still something of a mystery to the dawg.
This morning, Annabelle REALLY wanted Buckley's attention and she was reaching and squealing, but the dawg was locked in "leave it" mode as Annie had just finished a snack.
So there is Annie squealing and reaching, me telling her to "Say Buckley", which of course she is no where near saying - all the while I am trying to get the dawg to "Give kisses" to her outstretched hand while he nervously paces the room in circles not understanding anything that is happening . . .
*Squeal!* *Squeal!*
"Buckley, give kisses!"
"Annie, say 'Buckley'!"
*Pace* *Pace* *Pace*
I felt like a missionary trying to converse to two different tribes who had never seen a white man before . . .
We never did bridge the divide this morning - and now it's time to get ready for church . . .
It was one of those moments when you ask yourself, "Is this insanity? or just fatherhood?"
Cousin David's Slow Cooker Brisket
"This is a family recipe passed along by my late cousin David. It is so simple...just four ingredients thrown in the slow cooker! Not only is it great to come home to a hot delicious meal...your home will smell wonderful too! It is great with the extra gravy spooned over egg noodles or mashed potatoes."RECIPE HERE
UPDATE:
We actually made this one with garlic mashed potatoes (red) and it was a HIT! And SO easy!
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Listen
I wasn't going to write about this but then I stumbled onto a short film this morning and thought, well maybe I should (video at the end).
Yesterday the wife apologetically asked if I could run by the supermarket for baby food. Seems she had been running errands all day herself but Annabelle was finished before the errands were. "No prob", I said and headed for the market near my office.
As I walked in one end of the store, I couldn't help but notice an extraordinarily good looking woman dressed all in skintight black. The market near my office is one of the closest to the university as well so it is not uncommon for it to be bustling with good looking, in shape men and women but this caught my eye. She was talking to 3 other gals all dressed in skintight black as well, they all had some sort of white writing down the sides of their spandex pants. That's when one of the gals noticed me and said in a perky voice, "Would you like to try Activa?" or some such thing. Turns out that they were shilling for the latest flavored water product.
It occurred to me these gals all had to try out for this job, that they were chosen, in part, because of their appearance and here they were decked out in spandex from head to toe hawking their wares in the supermarket. They weren't friends, they were co-workers - thrown together in skin tight costumes to bat their eyes and woo customers. I wondered if any of them were standing there thinking, "How did I end up here?" I wonder what the story is there . . .
I completed my treasure hunt for all the right jars in the baby food aisle and passed by the meat counter. There was a tall good looking man chatting with the butcher while his order was being wrapped up. The butcher wanted to know; "Do you have kids?"
"Three", the man said.
"Boys or girls?"
"Two girls and a boy"
"Wife?"
"She died".
"Oh, I'm sorry," the butcher stammered.
The good-looking man had a far-off gaze and he said flatly, "She died this past September", as if he was delivering the news to himself.
Jeepers, I thought to myself. This is their first Christmas without her . . . You would never know just passing him in the checkout line . . .
I paid for my groceries and headed out the other end of the store and there was a fresh-faced coed in a red Salvation Army apron so new it still had the creases. She was ringing the bell next to her Kettle and on the apron it said something to the effect, "Become a bell-ringer, Ask me how". Here was a college gal, ringing a Salvation Army bell on a Friday night in the rain. There must be a story there . . . I thought . . .
It was no longer raining as I walked to my car but the parking lot was glistening wet - like all the roadways in movies. I thought to myself, "This looks like one of those movie sets and, in a way, all of us are actors playing our parts. My character interacts with their characters - all the while we miss the story of real life lying just under the surface."
Here's the link to the film: Part 1
Improv Everywhere
I was reminded this weekend of Improve Everywhere which is the brainchild of Charlie Todd. Their whole purpose is to act out improvisational "gags" in New York City (in public) in an effort to bring joy to those who witness them.
Check out their "Where is Rob" Mission (minor language warning):
Check out their "Where is Rob" Mission (minor language warning):
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
108 Years Ago Today
First Nobel Prizes awarded
The first Nobel Prizes are awarded in Stockholm, Sweden, in the fields of physics, chemistry, medicine, literature, and peace. The ceremony came on the fifth anniversary of the death of Alfred Nobel, the Swedish inventor of dynamite and other high explosives. In his will, Nobel directed that the bulk of his vast fortune be placed in a fund in which the interest would be "annually distributed in the form of prizes to those who, during the preceding year, shall have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind." Although Nobel offered no public reason for his creation of the prizes, it is widely believed that he did so out of moral regret over the increasingly lethal uses of his inventions in war.
The first Nobel Prizes are awarded in Stockholm, Sweden, in the fields of physics, chemistry, medicine, literature, and peace. The ceremony came on the fifth anniversary of the death of Alfred Nobel, the Swedish inventor of dynamite and other high explosives. In his will, Nobel directed that the bulk of his vast fortune be placed in a fund in which the interest would be "annually distributed in the form of prizes to those who, during the preceding year, shall have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind." Although Nobel offered no public reason for his creation of the prizes, it is widely believed that he did so out of moral regret over the increasingly lethal uses of his inventions in war.
Spicy Candied Bacon
Nothing trumps the bacon I had at Café Pasqual's in Santa Fe. Sticky, spicy and sugary, this was a step into bacon heaven. And it's easy to create at home.
RECIPE HERE
Quote of the Day
The nearest shortest way to glory is to strive do your best to be become what you wish to be thought to be.
~ Socrates
~ Socrates
Monday, December 7, 2009
Proving Once Again That Small=Mean
The world's most aggressive dog breeds.
Give me big and dumb any day.
I guess I like my dogs like I . . . . . err . . . . uhh . . . . myself .
Give me big and dumb any day.
I guess I like my dogs like I . . . . . err . . . . uhh . . . . myself .
Have You Got The Time?
This is an art instillation - them image on the clock is a video of the artist redrawing the time every minute.
More info here.
Veggie Roast
Okay, so this is not technically a recipe but it sounds like a good idea (and the photo included bacon).
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Oh baby, I am so sorry . . .
What's missing from this photo?
If you answered "Vomit" you are correct!
Annie has this habit of jamming her fingers so far into her mouth that she gags and pukes. She doesn't do it often but this past week has been one for the record books. I showed up at the sitter's Wednesday evening to discover Annie had gagged and spewed in her car seat. The whole thing got dismantled and thrown in the wash once we got home.
Thursday: Rinse. Repeat. As the saying goes.
If you answered "Vomit" you are correct!
Annie has this habit of jamming her fingers so far into her mouth that she gags and pukes. She doesn't do it often but this past week has been one for the record books. I showed up at the sitter's Wednesday evening to discover Annie had gagged and spewed in her car seat. The whole thing got dismantled and thrown in the wash once we got home.
Thursday: Rinse. Repeat. As the saying goes.
I think she is doing it to get attention from the three boys. She starts to put her fingers in her mouth, they start to tell her "No". She giggles and, well, mom and dad ( and Wendy ) do extra laundry that night.
But that was not the cause of the spewage in the high chair last night - it was just one of those spontaneous eruptions - perhaps brought on by eating too much dinner. So the whole thing got dismantled and washed. I am now an expert on how plastic chairs and nylon straps fit together.
Annie has also come down with a cold. We elevated the head of her crib mattress but could still hear her periodically hacking and coughing throughout the night.
This morning I drew breakfast duty and Annie sat in her (now clean) high chair gacking on phlegm and coughing, with big booger bubbles inflating and deflating from her nostrils with every breath. Every now and then a sneeze was thrown in for good measure sending crud everywhere.
But that was not the cause of the spewage in the high chair last night - it was just one of those spontaneous eruptions - perhaps brought on by eating too much dinner. So the whole thing got dismantled and washed. I am now an expert on how plastic chairs and nylon straps fit together.
Annie has also come down with a cold. We elevated the head of her crib mattress but could still hear her periodically hacking and coughing throughout the night.
This morning I drew breakfast duty and Annie sat in her (now clean) high chair gacking on phlegm and coughing, with big booger bubbles inflating and deflating from her nostrils with every breath. Every now and then a sneeze was thrown in for good measure sending crud everywhere.
Annabelle feeds herself dry cereal in the mornings and more than once she curled her little tongue like babies do when they cough and there would be a piece of cereal on her tongue "locked and loaded" which would go flying across the room to the waiting dawg who, as always, was on floor cleanup duty. The whole thing was a pitifully disgusting affair.
As I stood at the sink doing dishes and Annie sat in her highchair playing and bleching and sneezing and coughing, I had one of those first-time-father-firsts: I smiled at the wee one and said, "Oh baby, I am so sorry you don't feel well". But even as I consoled her, I knew this wasn't serious. I knew it would only last for a time, that colds are inevitable but they, too, shall pass.
I am able to smile and console with a calm assurance because I, of course, have been down this road many many times myself, even if she hasn't. It reminded me of all the times as a child when I was so miserably sick and yet my parents exuded such a calm, quiet strength; changing the bedding and fixing soup and doling out spoonfuls of remedy all the while convinced that I would be just fine in time (even though I was convinced I was dieing).
I think about other trials and difficulties in my adult life that are of far more significance than head colds and it causes me to pause. I hope that 30 years from now I am able to calmly soothe Annabelle in the face of her far more significant fears and stresses and heartaches which seem to be inevitable in this life; to calmly reassure her with as much grace and ease as cleaning upchuck for the third time this week.
I hope I am able to smile and say, "Oh, baby, I am so sorry you don't feel well" and have her look into my eyes and know that somehow it will all be okay - even if she is not sure how.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Perfect Tree
The tree is up!
The wife and I have a tradition of sorts. On "Tree day" we pick up some tasty seasonal snacks (nogg and what not), dress up generally festively, put the Christmas tunes on in the car and head to the tree lot. Every year it is the same, we pick a tree in under 15 min. (many years we just buy the first one we lay hands on - what's the big deal?) We con someone into taking our photo, we pay, we lug that sucker home.
I saw the bottom off the tree in the yard, jam it in the stand and drag it into the living room. I run the electrical cord up the trunk (the one with plugs all along it) and the wife takes it from there.
Its not that I don't enjoy decorating the tree - I love it. But what I love is the decorating - I don't concern myself too much with the finished product. In my bachelor years, my roommates and I would load up on the nogg, blare the Christmas tunes and try to finish the tree before we were finished ourselves - singing the whole way through. One December morning we roused to find a beautifully decorated tree with a fistful of tinsel just globbed in the middle - apparently the last man standing hucked it at the tree from across the room before calling it a night. When I admire a tree I have decorated, I don't necessarily look at it and say, "That's beautiful", I usually look at it and say, "Man, that was fun".
The wife wants it to be fun and beautiful. I don't have as much patience for beautiful as the wife does.
So the wife decorates the tree while I haul the boxes and cook the meal and generally try to stay out of the way. And darn it all if it isn't the most beautifullest tree I have ever seen - every year.
Our first year of marriage, we had a Christmas budget of exactly $75. The wife took 32.50 and I took the other half. We split up at the mall. All the gifts fit in our stockings. Amongst a handful (literally) of other items, the wife gave me an ornament. And a tradition was born.
For the past 17 Christmases we have given each other 33 ornaments - last year we gave Annie her first three. It is getting to the point that every single ornament on our tree is imbued with the meanings of the years. When the day comes for Annie to trim her own tree in some apartment somewhere, she will have her own set of 40-some-odd ornaments to get her started.
Where was I going with this? . . . . oh, yeah, This got me started. Then this and then This
Merry Christmas.
The wife and I have a tradition of sorts. On "Tree day" we pick up some tasty seasonal snacks (nogg and what not), dress up generally festively, put the Christmas tunes on in the car and head to the tree lot. Every year it is the same, we pick a tree in under 15 min. (many years we just buy the first one we lay hands on - what's the big deal?) We con someone into taking our photo, we pay, we lug that sucker home.
I saw the bottom off the tree in the yard, jam it in the stand and drag it into the living room. I run the electrical cord up the trunk (the one with plugs all along it) and the wife takes it from there.
Its not that I don't enjoy decorating the tree - I love it. But what I love is the decorating - I don't concern myself too much with the finished product. In my bachelor years, my roommates and I would load up on the nogg, blare the Christmas tunes and try to finish the tree before we were finished ourselves - singing the whole way through. One December morning we roused to find a beautifully decorated tree with a fistful of tinsel just globbed in the middle - apparently the last man standing hucked it at the tree from across the room before calling it a night. When I admire a tree I have decorated, I don't necessarily look at it and say, "That's beautiful", I usually look at it and say, "Man, that was fun".The wife wants it to be fun and beautiful. I don't have as much patience for beautiful as the wife does.
So the wife decorates the tree while I haul the boxes and cook the meal and generally try to stay out of the way. And darn it all if it isn't the most beautifullest tree I have ever seen - every year.
Our first year of marriage, we had a Christmas budget of exactly $75. The wife took 32.50 and I took the other half. We split up at the mall. All the gifts fit in our stockings. Amongst a handful (literally) of other items, the wife gave me an ornament. And a tradition was born.For the past 17 Christmases we have given each other 33 ornaments - last year we gave Annie her first three. It is getting to the point that every single ornament on our tree is imbued with the meanings of the years. When the day comes for Annie to trim her own tree in some apartment somewhere, she will have her own set of 40-some-odd ornaments to get her started.
Where was I going with this? . . . . oh, yeah, This got me started. Then this and then ThisMerry Christmas.
Quote of the Day
In the realm of ideas everything depends on enthusiasm.. in the real world all rests on perseverance.
~ J.W. von Goethe
~ J.W. von Goethe
Friday, December 4, 2009
Quote of the Day
Story In Snow: Rabbit tracks. Coyote tracks. Rabbit running. Coyote tracks on rabbit tracks. Disturbed area in snow. No more rabbit tracks.
- Daily Coyote
- Daily Coyote
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Rock House
The wife and I lived three blocks from the beach in Orange County for a year. Many nights we would pour ourselves glasses of wine and walk to the sand to watch the sun fade.
Some days I came home so whipped that I didn't say a word to anyone, changed into a swimsuit and walked to/into the water without so much as a towel to dry-off with.
For some reason this video brings it all back . . .
Some days I came home so whipped that I didn't say a word to anyone, changed into a swimsuit and walked to/into the water without so much as a towel to dry-off with.
For some reason this video brings it all back . . .
Quote of the Day
"It is a good thing that we do not get as much government as we pay for."
- Will Rogers
- Will Rogers
One Need Not Be a Chamber to Be Haunted
Emily Dickinson
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Quote of the Day
Went to work with a song in my heart - unfortunately, it was one of those Fleetwood Mac tunes where Lindsay Buckingham just grinds his teeth and his guitar, because it’s a dull song he’s obliged to play.
- Lileks
- Lileks
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Quote of the Day
The way to gain a good reputation, is to endeavor to be what you desire to appear.
~ Socrates
~ Socrates
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