No time to edit today. WYSIWYG . . .
Apparently, my little girl is learning to play the system. She has spent the two days in the 1 year old room at day care. When I picked her up today, she put on her usual pout, lying on the floor crying. I, of course, let her cry, refusing to pick her up until she puts forth some effort on her end. While I sat a few feet away from her, her teacher asked if I was encouraging her to crawl. It set me back a moment. Why did Anna's teacher think she had need of learning to crawl. "No," I responded hesitantly, "she crawls all over the place. She's even almost walking. Isn't she crawling around in here?"
It seems she has not been. Perhaps it is the foreign room, the bigger kids and the shiny new teachers that have her clamming up, but I am not buying that one. I think the girl knows that if she doesn't move on her own, somebody will pick her up. After all, attention is truly what Anna has craved since day one.
It was time for a demonstration.
I took my phone out of my pocket, turned on the music player, then set it on the floor. After all, what self respecting child can resist the opportunity to play with Daddy's phone? My trap set, I walked away to collect her effects from her cubby.
I turned around and the game was afoot. The cat was out of the bag. (Stupid cat . . . I should have tied the bag tighter . . . er . . .um, right, keep on topic.) Her teacher had seen it too. The little girl was up on her hands and knees. "Ooh will I have a story to tell tomorrow," her teacher said.
My job there was done. I collected my effects (a.k.a. Anna) and we forged our way home.
I'm not really sure if I have a point to this story, other than my wonder at our daughter's continued insistence that she be the center of her tiny universe. As much as I would like to explore this phenomenom further, I find myself being beckoned to the car. Of course, I can expect many years of witnessing (and hopefully overcoming) this very thing.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Family Ties
This week finds our linguistic hero taking a well deserved sabbatical. In his stead, you shall have the pleasure of reading the musings of I, Jorge, Mike’s evil twin brother. Let us begin our other-worldly adventure as we . . .
Dude, Jorge, what are you doing on my blog?
Mike?!? I thought you were supposed to be, er, away for the week. I was just, um, checking to make sure . . .
“Aaaaah, get out of my chair!” (Bonus points for naming the movie.)
Sorry for all of that, folks, but Jorge is gone now. In fact, it is quite likely you shall never hear from him again. That’s right; let’s never speak of him again.
Ahem.
Did you know you can daisy-chain a three-way phone conversation? That’s right. If I call Dad and Dad calls Sister and Sister calls Brother and Brother calls Sister-in-Law, then the whole mess of us can yack it up in a non-stop interruptionfest. But why would one care to create such chaos? I’m glad you asked. But first, a story.
Have you ever played ‘I Spy?’ You know the game where you see something, but make everybody else guess what it is. My family never played ‘I Spy.’ Settling for something we could see, something tangible and all too often obvious was not enough to sate our appetite for entertainment. We played ‘First one find a . . .’
You see, when you play ‘I Spy,’ your creativity and imagination are kept on a rather short leash. In our game, however, there were no limits. Somebody came up with an idea and everybody strove to spot it first. I can still remember some of the items we sought. Many of them are seemingly mundane, with no real reason they have remained amongst my conscious streams of thought. For example, double red doors on a house. I cannot tell you who found it first, but I do remember looking for it.
As we got older, the challenges got harder. Lists were created. First to find a man walking a dog, a fire engine and a fat lady. (Please read as a list, not a sentence describing what the man is walking.) It strikes me that this game held our attention through high school and even college. Perhaps we enjoyed the challenge of creating a difficult pursuit. Perhaps we reveled in the chance to find the ever elusive ultimate ‘find a.’ I wasn’t part of the game in which it was named (I believe Melissa partook), but eventually one item became the ultimate find of our silly game. To this day, it is understood that if one of us ever finds a motorcycle pulling a port-a-potty, they shall be deemed the eternal champion!
I had toyed with the idea, when Melissa got married, of hiring some biker dude to tow a jon-on-wheels past her reception. However, the day came and went with nary a thing being hitched together (except her and her hubby, of course.) Anyways, I’m not sure they allow port-a-pottys on Coronado Island. I’m not even sure they allow a biker dudes!
About four or five years ago, I found myself missing this penultimate distraction to those encased in a moving vehicle. It struck me, why should we have to be in the same car to play? We didn’t even need to be in the same state! Thus began the first multi-state game of ‘first one find a.’
A few days ago, our family once again stepped up to their individual microphone and amidst a clamorous phone conversation, each shared their newest idea. The conversation was outstanding. In the end, we all knew exactly what we needed to find, an antique mustang driving down the road with a lady in a red coat, carrying a red bag sitting the open trunk, while a fat lady and a skinny lady on skateboards watched, but they tripped over a man who was lying on the ground because he had been hit by a kid driving one of those battery operated cars. Or something like that.
As my family begins the quest to crown its fourth champion, I invite you to participate in the first ever “I have No Idea Why I Just Said That” first one find a challenge. The rules are simple. Find the things I list below, then post that you found them in the comments section. (and/or on Facebook) It does not matter where you are when you find the item, except that you cannot find it at home. Also, you cannot create a situation in which you see a listed item. (The port-a-potty gig wouldn’t have counted anyways.)
The List
1. A dog going to the bathroom (not your own dog)
2. A red car beside a blue car (front, back or side)
3. A leaf in the act of falling off a tree (somewhere between the tree and the ground)
Happy hunting!
Dude, Jorge, what are you doing on my blog?
Mike?!? I thought you were supposed to be, er, away for the week. I was just, um, checking to make sure . . .
“Aaaaah, get out of my chair!” (Bonus points for naming the movie.)
Sorry for all of that, folks, but Jorge is gone now. In fact, it is quite likely you shall never hear from him again. That’s right; let’s never speak of him again.
Ahem.
Did you know you can daisy-chain a three-way phone conversation? That’s right. If I call Dad and Dad calls Sister and Sister calls Brother and Brother calls Sister-in-Law, then the whole mess of us can yack it up in a non-stop interruptionfest. But why would one care to create such chaos? I’m glad you asked. But first, a story.
Have you ever played ‘I Spy?’ You know the game where you see something, but make everybody else guess what it is. My family never played ‘I Spy.’ Settling for something we could see, something tangible and all too often obvious was not enough to sate our appetite for entertainment. We played ‘First one find a . . .’
You see, when you play ‘I Spy,’ your creativity and imagination are kept on a rather short leash. In our game, however, there were no limits. Somebody came up with an idea and everybody strove to spot it first. I can still remember some of the items we sought. Many of them are seemingly mundane, with no real reason they have remained amongst my conscious streams of thought. For example, double red doors on a house. I cannot tell you who found it first, but I do remember looking for it.
As we got older, the challenges got harder. Lists were created. First to find a man walking a dog, a fire engine and a fat lady. (Please read as a list, not a sentence describing what the man is walking.) It strikes me that this game held our attention through high school and even college. Perhaps we enjoyed the challenge of creating a difficult pursuit. Perhaps we reveled in the chance to find the ever elusive ultimate ‘find a.’ I wasn’t part of the game in which it was named (I believe Melissa partook), but eventually one item became the ultimate find of our silly game. To this day, it is understood that if one of us ever finds a motorcycle pulling a port-a-potty, they shall be deemed the eternal champion!
I had toyed with the idea, when Melissa got married, of hiring some biker dude to tow a jon-on-wheels past her reception. However, the day came and went with nary a thing being hitched together (except her and her hubby, of course.) Anyways, I’m not sure they allow port-a-pottys on Coronado Island. I’m not even sure they allow a biker dudes!
About four or five years ago, I found myself missing this penultimate distraction to those encased in a moving vehicle. It struck me, why should we have to be in the same car to play? We didn’t even need to be in the same state! Thus began the first multi-state game of ‘first one find a.’
A few days ago, our family once again stepped up to their individual microphone and amidst a clamorous phone conversation, each shared their newest idea. The conversation was outstanding. In the end, we all knew exactly what we needed to find, an antique mustang driving down the road with a lady in a red coat, carrying a red bag sitting the open trunk, while a fat lady and a skinny lady on skateboards watched, but they tripped over a man who was lying on the ground because he had been hit by a kid driving one of those battery operated cars. Or something like that.
As my family begins the quest to crown its fourth champion, I invite you to participate in the first ever “I have No Idea Why I Just Said That” first one find a challenge. The rules are simple. Find the things I list below, then post that you found them in the comments section. (and/or on Facebook) It does not matter where you are when you find the item, except that you cannot find it at home. Also, you cannot create a situation in which you see a listed item. (The port-a-potty gig wouldn’t have counted anyways.)
The List
1. A dog going to the bathroom (not your own dog)
2. A red car beside a blue car (front, back or side)
3. A leaf in the act of falling off a tree (somewhere between the tree and the ground)
Happy hunting!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Name's Al, Weird Al
Too long it’s been since a generous muse has set its sweet voice upon my listening ears. Those that long ago visited Sir William, C.S. and the great Mr. Larson have at whiles found greener pastures than those upon which my brain doth graze. But yet it seems, perhaps, others have taken their place, stirring my vain imagination towards its work.
Of late, inspiring words have been far and few between, as Wednesday after Wednesday I find myself staring down the barrel of a self-imposed deadline. The outpouring of my mind has taken other forms beside the written word. Thus, I have a partially completed spreadsheet, dotted with formulas, buttons and Microsoft Visual Basic language; a concoction that exists for no more grand reason than the challenge of its creation.
For those who haven’t heard, I have found employment in the good graces of the state. My quiet days spent tending a tiny flock have been exchanged for conversations about vehicle tax returns, penalties for late filing and the unending struggle with the ultimate question, “Do I have to pay tax on this?”
In case you haven’t figured the answer to that one out yet, the answer is usually a resounding ‘Yes.’ Unless, of course, you make a purchase from an out of state supplier who is not registered with Illinois and you have them ship the item to your brother’s aunt’s sister’s grandmother’s first boyfriend from high school. In that instance, Old-Romeo has to pay the tax.
But I digress . . .
No I haven’t! I never did find a true tune to which my fingers could waltz upon these keys. Instead, they have rather taken flight to an obscure Weird Al Yankovic Polka Party cut. (Editor’s note: all sense and sensibility has taken leave of Mike for the next paragraph. They may return somewhere in the final verse. Pirates, be ye warned.)
Now there’s a topic. Nothing entertains the masses like a long-haired misfit harping out overly fast music from his accordion, (Do accordions harp? If not, what do they do . . . accord??? So when an accordion plays music, does everybody get along with everybody else?) All while his squeaky voice chimes along, (So you can enjoy life as much as I, I have included a link to the song on last.fm. Just find and click the tiny black circle under ‘Top Tracks.’) ‘Yo I tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell us what you want, what you really really want . . . I wanna, I wanna I wanna zuba zuba aah . . . If you wanna be my . . . Everybody. Ye-ah. Rock your body. Yea-ah . . . might as well be walking on the sun’ . . . . accordion solo!!! . . . . ‘I get knocked down but I get up again’ . . . some song I don’t know . . . but my body keeps bouncing in my chair. There’s something about this . . . ‘semi-charmed kind of life Baby Baby’ . . . that lifts my spirits. Even though I cannot stand the original Mmm Bop by those kids who nobody know what ever became of them, I find no shame in singing it loudly when accompanied by a polka beat.
As WinAmp sings about being ‘Pretty fly for a Rabbi,’ I find it hard to continue any coherent thought. Perhaps that is for the best. After all, who among you really wants to hear about how my little girl climbed upon a walker/rider thingey at church tonight and waddled around the nursery for a while before successfully dismounting without cracking her noggin upon the hard floor? I often wonder about my still-tiny girl. She has given voice to a few words and now moves about upon unsteady feet so long as her hands find a sturdy support. But there is an ever nagging fear that her tiny size hides some deeper malady. But then she unexpectedly mounts the walker and casts a glance my way. A broad smile graces her face, boldly proclaiming, “Look at me, Daddy. I’m doing something amazing and I sure do know it!”
Of late, inspiring words have been far and few between, as Wednesday after Wednesday I find myself staring down the barrel of a self-imposed deadline. The outpouring of my mind has taken other forms beside the written word. Thus, I have a partially completed spreadsheet, dotted with formulas, buttons and Microsoft Visual Basic language; a concoction that exists for no more grand reason than the challenge of its creation.
For those who haven’t heard, I have found employment in the good graces of the state. My quiet days spent tending a tiny flock have been exchanged for conversations about vehicle tax returns, penalties for late filing and the unending struggle with the ultimate question, “Do I have to pay tax on this?”
In case you haven’t figured the answer to that one out yet, the answer is usually a resounding ‘Yes.’ Unless, of course, you make a purchase from an out of state supplier who is not registered with Illinois and you have them ship the item to your brother’s aunt’s sister’s grandmother’s first boyfriend from high school. In that instance, Old-Romeo has to pay the tax.
But I digress . . .
No I haven’t! I never did find a true tune to which my fingers could waltz upon these keys. Instead, they have rather taken flight to an obscure Weird Al Yankovic Polka Party cut. (Editor’s note: all sense and sensibility has taken leave of Mike for the next paragraph. They may return somewhere in the final verse. Pirates, be ye warned.)
Now there’s a topic. Nothing entertains the masses like a long-haired misfit harping out overly fast music from his accordion, (Do accordions harp? If not, what do they do . . . accord??? So when an accordion plays music, does everybody get along with everybody else?) All while his squeaky voice chimes along, (So you can enjoy life as much as I, I have included a link to the song on last.fm. Just find and click the tiny black circle under ‘Top Tracks.’) ‘Yo I tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell us what you want, what you really really want . . . I wanna, I wanna I wanna zuba zuba aah . . . If you wanna be my . . . Everybody. Ye-ah. Rock your body. Yea-ah . . . might as well be walking on the sun’ . . . . accordion solo!!! . . . . ‘I get knocked down but I get up again’ . . . some song I don’t know . . . but my body keeps bouncing in my chair. There’s something about this . . . ‘semi-charmed kind of life Baby Baby’ . . . that lifts my spirits. Even though I cannot stand the original Mmm Bop by those kids who nobody know what ever became of them, I find no shame in singing it loudly when accompanied by a polka beat.
As WinAmp sings about being ‘Pretty fly for a Rabbi,’ I find it hard to continue any coherent thought. Perhaps that is for the best. After all, who among you really wants to hear about how my little girl climbed upon a walker/rider thingey at church tonight and waddled around the nursery for a while before successfully dismounting without cracking her noggin upon the hard floor? I often wonder about my still-tiny girl. She has given voice to a few words and now moves about upon unsteady feet so long as her hands find a sturdy support. But there is an ever nagging fear that her tiny size hides some deeper malady. But then she unexpectedly mounts the walker and casts a glance my way. A broad smile graces her face, boldly proclaiming, “Look at me, Daddy. I’m doing something amazing and I sure do know it!”
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Five . . .
Ladies and Gentlemen, ten random facts before I go to bed.
Drum roll please . . . insert rim-shots as necessary.
Number Ten:
I just spent the last two hours making a red-yarn wig for Andrew’s Halloween costume. I do not look forward to making a second for Anna.
Number Nine:
The first three games of this year’s NFL season spoiled the remaining games for Bears fans everywhere. After all, the wise among us were fully prepared for a miserable season. Starting off 3 and 0 could not have been more damaging to our mental stability.
Numero Ocho:
Ocho means ‘eight’ in Spanish. Cinco means ‘five.’ Ocho-Cinco, however, does not translate to eighty-five. Sorry Chad . . .
Number Seven:
I seriously think I have some sort of mental deficiency related to remembering names. I spent almost thirty seconds this morning trying to remember my boss’s boss’s name. Don’t let the far-removed hierarchy fool you, I’ve used his name properly every day for the last month!
Number Five:
I also seem to have trouble counting backwards . . .
Number Six:
Mollie, Andrew and Anna are once again off gallivanting about the known universe. More specifically, they’re in Iowa. Some people quote a clever acronym regarding the residents of Iowa. I find the acronym to be three-quarters inaccurate . . . they very rarely “Out Wandering Around . . .”
Number Four:
Walter Payton, Nolan Ryan and Bo Jackson – eternal members of the uber-stud club. Did I miss anyone?
Number Three:
I have eleven bobble-head dolls in my study. When their teams play badly, they must turn and face the wall. Which reminds me, “Mr. Urlacher, about face . . . Don’t you argue with me now. I understand that you are playing well, but all your buddies up there on the shelf don’t even play for the Bears anymore and you don’t hear them complaining when I turn them around! This is a team effort. Don’t give me no lip, son.” . . . smack . . . bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble . . .
Number Two:
Yes, as my profile states, Taco is my favorite word.
(editor’s note: I double checked. My blog profile mentions tacos, but doesn’t say anything about them being my favorite. I really have no idea what online profile makes such a claim. It doesn’t make it any less true, though.)
And the number one random fact for Thursday, October 28, 2010 is:
The giddy laughter ensuing a proofread of numbers ten through two has made typing number one rather difficult. I should probably go to bed!
Drum roll please . . . insert rim-shots as necessary.
Number Ten:
I just spent the last two hours making a red-yarn wig for Andrew’s Halloween costume. I do not look forward to making a second for Anna.
Number Nine:
The first three games of this year’s NFL season spoiled the remaining games for Bears fans everywhere. After all, the wise among us were fully prepared for a miserable season. Starting off 3 and 0 could not have been more damaging to our mental stability.
Numero Ocho:
Ocho means ‘eight’ in Spanish. Cinco means ‘five.’ Ocho-Cinco, however, does not translate to eighty-five. Sorry Chad . . .
Number Seven:
I seriously think I have some sort of mental deficiency related to remembering names. I spent almost thirty seconds this morning trying to remember my boss’s boss’s name. Don’t let the far-removed hierarchy fool you, I’ve used his name properly every day for the last month!
Number Five:
I also seem to have trouble counting backwards . . .
Number Six:
Mollie, Andrew and Anna are once again off gallivanting about the known universe. More specifically, they’re in Iowa. Some people quote a clever acronym regarding the residents of Iowa. I find the acronym to be three-quarters inaccurate . . . they very rarely “Out Wandering Around . . .”
Number Four:
Walter Payton, Nolan Ryan and Bo Jackson – eternal members of the uber-stud club. Did I miss anyone?
Number Three:
I have eleven bobble-head dolls in my study. When their teams play badly, they must turn and face the wall. Which reminds me, “Mr. Urlacher, about face . . . Don’t you argue with me now. I understand that you are playing well, but all your buddies up there on the shelf don’t even play for the Bears anymore and you don’t hear them complaining when I turn them around! This is a team effort. Don’t give me no lip, son.” . . . smack . . . bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble, bobble . . .
Number Two:
Yes, as my profile states, Taco is my favorite word.
(editor’s note: I double checked. My blog profile mentions tacos, but doesn’t say anything about them being my favorite. I really have no idea what online profile makes such a claim. It doesn’t make it any less true, though.)
And the number one random fact for Thursday, October 28, 2010 is:
The giddy laughter ensuing a proofread of numbers ten through two has made typing number one rather difficult. I should probably go to bed!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I Live a Normal Life
Like any good father, I have taken some time to teach my son about the finer things in life. And so it is that occasion will find the two of us, Wii remotes in hand, stomping Goombas and hurling turtle shells our futile quest to save Princess Peach. Not that we’ve enjoyed such frivolities lately. Being a working father leaves little time for the excesses of life, such as Mario, reading for pleasure and children.
Yet on the way home from work this Monday, I was struck with a strange urge to lock the children in a closet and indulge in a munchkinless night out with my wife. Finding all the closets full, I resorted to plan B, nearly exhausting my phone list before procuring a sitter. One trip across town to pick them up and a cooked package of macaroni and cheese later, my pleasantly surprised wife and I were off.
As freedom’s wind blew through our hair, we drove off into the night. Any destination was but a wish away. Movies, dinner, there was so much to choose from. With little to no discussion, I directed our car to our first date-night destination – Menards.
That’s right, with the entire town of Springfield at our beckon call, we could find no destination more alluring than a big-box hardware store. While that may be taken as a commentary on the night life in Illinois’ capitol city, I feel it is more a tale of our life less extraordinary. For the past three months, we have watched as our general contractor has managed a mere single step per week in his painstakingly slow process of building us a porch. Two weeks ago, they poured the front steps. Last week, he got prices for the railings. This week, he’s ordering the materials. Next week, he may get the wiring done and if we’re lucky, he may even install the railings the week after that . . . . . and that’s why our first stop as an unleashed couple was to stop at Menards. After all, picking out lighting fixtures for your front door is not a task that begs to be distracted by miniature humans.
Picking the lights we both liked may have been the easiest decision we have ever made. We found our way to the lighting displays, took two steps down the aisle, when both of us simultaneously pointed and exclaimed, “I like that one!” We were courteous enough to give our due our respect for the other suitors, but it was all show. Our minds were made up and our time at Menards was quickly over.
With Menards behind us, our night took on a more standard date-night feel. We enjoyed a quiet dinner at a fancy restaurant, followed by little boy underwear shopping at ShopKo. Hey, I never claimed to live a normal life . . . ahem.
But these are the things that make up our life. With Andrew finally beginning to understand the concept of staying dry (at least from Sunday morning until about half an hour ago Wednesday evening), we needed more than five pairs to allow the laundry to sit unmolested. And with his sudden understanding of, shall we say ‘when he needs to go’, I had little desire to tempt fate by having to put him back in pull-ups.
It’s amazing how suddenly Andrew seems to have changed his habits. Over the course of one day, he went from contentedly sitting in soggy bottoms to coming out of the bathroom having already done his business before even telling us he had to go. I guess sometimes things just click.
Speaking of clicking, Andrew accompanied me through the bank drive-up the other day. On a previous trip to the Wal-Mart pharmacy, I had tried to explain how there was a tube inside a pillar that took a box from me to . . . well, if you know what I mean, he didn’t. But as I pulled up to the bank, I noticed that the tube was visible. I showed Andrew the canister and explained how I would push a button and air would suck the canister up the tube. He listened intently, then interjected, “Like Mario goes down the tube!” I had to stop short and think about it . . . It was so simple and so beautiful. I answered the only way one possibly can when faced with such crystal clear childhood perception. “Yes, it’s exactly like Mario.”
Yet on the way home from work this Monday, I was struck with a strange urge to lock the children in a closet and indulge in a munchkinless night out with my wife. Finding all the closets full, I resorted to plan B, nearly exhausting my phone list before procuring a sitter. One trip across town to pick them up and a cooked package of macaroni and cheese later, my pleasantly surprised wife and I were off.
As freedom’s wind blew through our hair, we drove off into the night. Any destination was but a wish away. Movies, dinner, there was so much to choose from. With little to no discussion, I directed our car to our first date-night destination – Menards.
That’s right, with the entire town of Springfield at our beckon call, we could find no destination more alluring than a big-box hardware store. While that may be taken as a commentary on the night life in Illinois’ capitol city, I feel it is more a tale of our life less extraordinary. For the past three months, we have watched as our general contractor has managed a mere single step per week in his painstakingly slow process of building us a porch. Two weeks ago, they poured the front steps. Last week, he got prices for the railings. This week, he’s ordering the materials. Next week, he may get the wiring done and if we’re lucky, he may even install the railings the week after that . . . . . and that’s why our first stop as an unleashed couple was to stop at Menards. After all, picking out lighting fixtures for your front door is not a task that begs to be distracted by miniature humans.
Picking the lights we both liked may have been the easiest decision we have ever made. We found our way to the lighting displays, took two steps down the aisle, when both of us simultaneously pointed and exclaimed, “I like that one!” We were courteous enough to give our due our respect for the other suitors, but it was all show. Our minds were made up and our time at Menards was quickly over.
With Menards behind us, our night took on a more standard date-night feel. We enjoyed a quiet dinner at a fancy restaurant, followed by little boy underwear shopping at ShopKo. Hey, I never claimed to live a normal life . . . ahem.
But these are the things that make up our life. With Andrew finally beginning to understand the concept of staying dry (at least from Sunday morning until about half an hour ago Wednesday evening), we needed more than five pairs to allow the laundry to sit unmolested. And with his sudden understanding of, shall we say ‘when he needs to go’, I had little desire to tempt fate by having to put him back in pull-ups.
It’s amazing how suddenly Andrew seems to have changed his habits. Over the course of one day, he went from contentedly sitting in soggy bottoms to coming out of the bathroom having already done his business before even telling us he had to go. I guess sometimes things just click.
Speaking of clicking, Andrew accompanied me through the bank drive-up the other day. On a previous trip to the Wal-Mart pharmacy, I had tried to explain how there was a tube inside a pillar that took a box from me to . . . well, if you know what I mean, he didn’t. But as I pulled up to the bank, I noticed that the tube was visible. I showed Andrew the canister and explained how I would push a button and air would suck the canister up the tube. He listened intently, then interjected, “Like Mario goes down the tube!” I had to stop short and think about it . . . It was so simple and so beautiful. I answered the only way one possibly can when faced with such crystal clear childhood perception. “Yes, it’s exactly like Mario.”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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Thursday, October 14, 2010
“Not to Go Back is Somewhat to Advance” - Alexander Pope
Efficiency has always been overrated, at least when it comes to watching a child grow up. Why else would parents long for the day their child learns to use a fork? Using one’s grubby little fingers is by far the most effective way to eat. Just ask any professional eater; you never see any of them wasting effort with time-consuming utensils. Why then do so many of us long for our children to use a spoon? No, of course it has nothing to do with the latter method being cleaner; no one has ever complained that a kid was making too much of a mess. Rather, I am firmly convinced the desire stems from an inherent understanding that efficiency is less important than a child’s ability to learn something new.
Take my little girl . . . please . . . Okay, I couldn’t resist borrowing that golden oldie, but as I type, ‘The Girl’ is upstairs in her crib, screaming as though she fears eternal internment within the confines of her crate-like prison. On a recent reprieve from her caged bed, she demonstrated a new-found ability. She cast off her antiquated form of mobility, namely army crawling about the house, and has since been moving about upon her hands and knees. I was so excited to see her ‘properly’ crawling that I got out the video camera to document this marvel. (I have even included a brief snippet for your enjoyment! You will find it beneath this post . . . but only if you read the whole thing!)
Yet this step forward, which I celebrated in the name of progress, came at a price. Her mastery of the army crawl was phenomenal; she could worm her way around the house faster than I could pick up the things she wasn’t supposed to be playing with. Her new skill, however, was a serious impediment upon her mobility. I was in awe of the flailing arms, knees, legs and elbows, all of which resulted in a painfully slow procession across the floor. There was a flurry of motion, yet very little movement. In fact, there were a couple times over then next few days when her pants were so slippery, she would flail about contentedly while failing to move even one inch! Despite my parental joy and wonder I had to ask myself, was this really a step in the right direction?
Other times, however, a child’s wisdom pushes through all the stubborn etiquettes we have engrained upon ourselves and cuts right to the chase. There is no beating about the bush, meandering of thought or lollygagging. (“You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry!” “Lollygaggers!”) While an adult might tame their tongue and hold back a snide comment, a child’s insight has no use for such censorship.
And so it was as I was introduced to a friend of a child of a friend at Andrew’s third birthday party. A brief passing of pleasantries quickly revealed we lived on opposite sides of the Chicago sports world. I invited Andrew over to show off his trained response, “We don’t like the Cubs!” It was not to be. Childhood innocence and insight prevailed as I attempted my set-up. “Andrew, this is (yeah, I’m bad at remembering names, what are you gonna do about it?). He likes the Cubs.” His answer could not have been simpler. It could not have been more to the point. It was the true essence of efficiency. He looked up at the man before him and asked in honest earnest, “Why?”
Take my little girl . . . please . . . Okay, I couldn’t resist borrowing that golden oldie, but as I type, ‘The Girl’ is upstairs in her crib, screaming as though she fears eternal internment within the confines of her crate-like prison. On a recent reprieve from her caged bed, she demonstrated a new-found ability. She cast off her antiquated form of mobility, namely army crawling about the house, and has since been moving about upon her hands and knees. I was so excited to see her ‘properly’ crawling that I got out the video camera to document this marvel. (I have even included a brief snippet for your enjoyment! You will find it beneath this post . . . but only if you read the whole thing!)
Yet this step forward, which I celebrated in the name of progress, came at a price. Her mastery of the army crawl was phenomenal; she could worm her way around the house faster than I could pick up the things she wasn’t supposed to be playing with. Her new skill, however, was a serious impediment upon her mobility. I was in awe of the flailing arms, knees, legs and elbows, all of which resulted in a painfully slow procession across the floor. There was a flurry of motion, yet very little movement. In fact, there were a couple times over then next few days when her pants were so slippery, she would flail about contentedly while failing to move even one inch! Despite my parental joy and wonder I had to ask myself, was this really a step in the right direction?
Other times, however, a child’s wisdom pushes through all the stubborn etiquettes we have engrained upon ourselves and cuts right to the chase. There is no beating about the bush, meandering of thought or lollygagging. (“You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry!” “Lollygaggers!”) While an adult might tame their tongue and hold back a snide comment, a child’s insight has no use for such censorship.
And so it was as I was introduced to a friend of a child of a friend at Andrew’s third birthday party. A brief passing of pleasantries quickly revealed we lived on opposite sides of the Chicago sports world. I invited Andrew over to show off his trained response, “We don’t like the Cubs!” It was not to be. Childhood innocence and insight prevailed as I attempted my set-up. “Andrew, this is (yeah, I’m bad at remembering names, what are you gonna do about it?). He likes the Cubs.” His answer could not have been simpler. It could not have been more to the point. It was the true essence of efficiency. He looked up at the man before him and asked in honest earnest, “Why?”
Annaliese Crawling Video
If it please the court, I would like to submit State's Evidence 'A': A video of the accussed allegedly crawling.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
P is for Puzzle
While it may not be a ‘giant leap for mankind,’ my little boy has once again surprised me with an evolutionary step forward, this time in his puzzle building skills.
I spent the last ten minutes watching just watching Andrew work. This was a puzzle that he and I had done before, but as far as I know, he’d only done it once. In fact, when I came downstairs and found him pulling the pieces out of the box, I had to suppress the urge to demand he put it away and wait until ‘I could help him with that puzzle.’ What else would a normal father think when he foresaw the impending mess? This wasn’t, after all, a small board puzzle with six to ten pieces. Twenty-four pieces was a quantity I would surely be finding scattered throughout the house over the next few months. But being the father I hope I am, I suppressed that thought and merely suggested he move to the coffee table for a flatter surface.
Which leads me off track for a short jaunt. What kind of father am I? Good or bad aside, I’m the guy who has no qualms about sending his three year old to daycare carrying an egg for ‘E’ show and tell. To my credit, though, I was smart enough to boil the egg before entrusting it to my, um, sure handed son. (My efforts were well rewarded a few days later when the egg’s younger brother filled the need of a quick breakfast.)
Back in the living room, Andrew had heeded my suggested relocation. During the few minutes I was gone, he had put two or three pieces together, having matched some of the more distinguishable features of the puzzle. While Boost and DJ had taken shape (anybody here think they’ve seen the movie ‘Cars’ more than Andrew?), the subtle connections between the remaining pieces seemed too tall a task for a three year old. I smugly perched myself on the couch, determined to let the upcoming struggle play out unimpeded.
As Andrew picked up and explored the pieces, he treated many of them as he has always done, taking a piece and trying every possible angle to make it fit before repeating the process with the next piece. But not every piece was managed with such brute force. Every once in a while, he would pick up a piece and try the right place and the right direction the first time. One such success was followed by a victorious exclamation, “The green matched!”
As I watched, I tried to follow the pieces he was moving about. Looking at the puzzle from an up-side-down point of view, I often found myself trying to mentally place the piece he was working with. More than once, I was still turning the piece in my mind as he was snapping it into place.
Having started with individual cars, Andrew soon found himself with two or three large sections. As is often the case for any puzzle maker, he had the left side of the puzzle on the right and the right side on the left. I knew this, but would he notice? I was still wondering about this when he started pushing all the remaining pieces to the far side of the table. A few moments later, he had managed to slide the two largest pieces around each other. He correctly tried to connect them, but one section fell apart as he tried to lift it. Undaunted, he patiently pieced them back together one by one until he proudly exclaimed, “Look what I did!” His puzzle was but a few pieces from being complete!
The last six pieces of the puzzle were probably the toughest. The bottom three were merely shades of gray and the other three were background pieces that didn’t have much to visually tie them to the rest of the puzzle. Understandably, the brute force method was again in use, that is, until he had fit two pieces into the bottom corner. He picked up a piece that I instantly knew belonged up top, and moved it towards the bottom section. Halfway there, he stopped and looked at it for a moment. He then put it down and grabbed the lone remaining gray piece to fit into the empty space.
The last three pieces went together with little hassle and my little boy, still staring at his work, raised his hands behind his head as a broad smile spread across his face. I cannot say that I’ve never been more proud of him, but I did find infinite delight in watching him accomplish something I thought was well beyond his capabilities.
Natural curiosity won over and I eventually checked the suggested ages for this 24 piece puzzle. Andrew just fit the bill, having crossed into the ages 3-7 category just one week earlier. That knowledge, though it did temporarily dash my hopes of retiring early in the wake of a prodigious offspring, did not dampen my spirits. I had witnessed my son using puzzle skills that went beyond the basic plug and chug, skills I and others had been attempting to teach him and up until now, he had failed to master.
This small success amongst the many achievements I have been privilege to witness gives me continuing hope that other lessons may someday find their way home. I anxiously await the first time I see him holding his crayon ‘the right way.’ I look forward to the day he responds to something with a logic that makes me stop and think. But right now, I am most looking forward to the day he again decides baths are something that should be taken without throwing a fit. Oh well. One small achievement at a time . . .
I spent the last ten minutes watching just watching Andrew work. This was a puzzle that he and I had done before, but as far as I know, he’d only done it once. In fact, when I came downstairs and found him pulling the pieces out of the box, I had to suppress the urge to demand he put it away and wait until ‘I could help him with that puzzle.’ What else would a normal father think when he foresaw the impending mess? This wasn’t, after all, a small board puzzle with six to ten pieces. Twenty-four pieces was a quantity I would surely be finding scattered throughout the house over the next few months. But being the father I hope I am, I suppressed that thought and merely suggested he move to the coffee table for a flatter surface.
Which leads me off track for a short jaunt. What kind of father am I? Good or bad aside, I’m the guy who has no qualms about sending his three year old to daycare carrying an egg for ‘E’ show and tell. To my credit, though, I was smart enough to boil the egg before entrusting it to my, um, sure handed son. (My efforts were well rewarded a few days later when the egg’s younger brother filled the need of a quick breakfast.)
Back in the living room, Andrew had heeded my suggested relocation. During the few minutes I was gone, he had put two or three pieces together, having matched some of the more distinguishable features of the puzzle. While Boost and DJ had taken shape (anybody here think they’ve seen the movie ‘Cars’ more than Andrew?), the subtle connections between the remaining pieces seemed too tall a task for a three year old. I smugly perched myself on the couch, determined to let the upcoming struggle play out unimpeded.
As Andrew picked up and explored the pieces, he treated many of them as he has always done, taking a piece and trying every possible angle to make it fit before repeating the process with the next piece. But not every piece was managed with such brute force. Every once in a while, he would pick up a piece and try the right place and the right direction the first time. One such success was followed by a victorious exclamation, “The green matched!”
As I watched, I tried to follow the pieces he was moving about. Looking at the puzzle from an up-side-down point of view, I often found myself trying to mentally place the piece he was working with. More than once, I was still turning the piece in my mind as he was snapping it into place.
Having started with individual cars, Andrew soon found himself with two or three large sections. As is often the case for any puzzle maker, he had the left side of the puzzle on the right and the right side on the left. I knew this, but would he notice? I was still wondering about this when he started pushing all the remaining pieces to the far side of the table. A few moments later, he had managed to slide the two largest pieces around each other. He correctly tried to connect them, but one section fell apart as he tried to lift it. Undaunted, he patiently pieced them back together one by one until he proudly exclaimed, “Look what I did!” His puzzle was but a few pieces from being complete!
The last six pieces of the puzzle were probably the toughest. The bottom three were merely shades of gray and the other three were background pieces that didn’t have much to visually tie them to the rest of the puzzle. Understandably, the brute force method was again in use, that is, until he had fit two pieces into the bottom corner. He picked up a piece that I instantly knew belonged up top, and moved it towards the bottom section. Halfway there, he stopped and looked at it for a moment. He then put it down and grabbed the lone remaining gray piece to fit into the empty space.
The last three pieces went together with little hassle and my little boy, still staring at his work, raised his hands behind his head as a broad smile spread across his face. I cannot say that I’ve never been more proud of him, but I did find infinite delight in watching him accomplish something I thought was well beyond his capabilities.
Natural curiosity won over and I eventually checked the suggested ages for this 24 piece puzzle. Andrew just fit the bill, having crossed into the ages 3-7 category just one week earlier. That knowledge, though it did temporarily dash my hopes of retiring early in the wake of a prodigious offspring, did not dampen my spirits. I had witnessed my son using puzzle skills that went beyond the basic plug and chug, skills I and others had been attempting to teach him and up until now, he had failed to master.
This small success amongst the many achievements I have been privilege to witness gives me continuing hope that other lessons may someday find their way home. I anxiously await the first time I see him holding his crayon ‘the right way.’ I look forward to the day he responds to something with a logic that makes me stop and think. But right now, I am most looking forward to the day he again decides baths are something that should be taken without throwing a fit. Oh well. One small achievement at a time . . .
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Andrew's Third Birthday
I could not in good conscience post this week's Sunday Best without little background information. Last Saturday, we celebrated Andrew's third birthday at a The Pizza Machine. Why we might choose to have a party for 25 people there should be apparent when you consider this first picture. I call it "Wait until you see the pizza for my fourth birthday!"
The second photo is really the one that needs the explanation. You see, I have established a household policy that my children are free to choose their own favorite sports player. While the Blackhawks were busy winning last year's Stanley Cup, when I asked who his favorite hockey player was, he would turn the question back on me. I refused to answer until he chose one for himself. When he eventually chose Antti Niemi as his favorite, I let him in on mine, Jonathan Toews.
Andrew's decision on a favorite football player was a bit of a traumatic family experience. Part of the policy I created comes with the understanding that while favorite player is a free choice, my children’s favorite team is genetically passed from father to son (or daughter). So when a recently two year old Andrew chose Brett Favre as his favorite, the struggle began to distinguish between favorite player and favorite team. (I've received surprisingly little help in this endeavor from Mollie's Minnesota relatives.)
The rule has since been amended to allow a second favorite team, but Andrew is slowly learning that genetics will always win out in a head to head battle. We went to a Braves game while we were in Atlanta. About a month later, we caught a Sox vs. Braves game up in Chicago. Andrew was properly taught that he could like the Braves, but we wanted them to lose when ever they played the White Sox.
As Andrew's third birthday approached, Mollie decided he had enough toys and that clothing was what she wanted to get him. She looked for a miniature Blackhawks jersey, but couldn't find one. The second piece of clothing she sought caused a bit of a stir. I had to bring myself to terms with my own rulings; Mollie wanted to get Andrew a Brett Favre jersey. After much debate, I decided that the jersey was allowed under the household ruling because denying it based on the team logo would negate the freedom of choice I had willed to Andrew. In writing this, I think I've come to the understanding that I might allow an Atlanta Braves jersey, but in the case of team rivals, only a favorite player's number will be allowed under my roof. (It goes without saying that Andrew is unequivocally banned from choosing or wearing anything related to the Chicago Cubs.)
Now that I feel I have fully explained myself, I will share the picture. The jersey is actually an ancillary part of the photo; my sister requested a picture of the birthday cake!
The second photo is really the one that needs the explanation. You see, I have established a household policy that my children are free to choose their own favorite sports player. While the Blackhawks were busy winning last year's Stanley Cup, when I asked who his favorite hockey player was, he would turn the question back on me. I refused to answer until he chose one for himself. When he eventually chose Antti Niemi as his favorite, I let him in on mine, Jonathan Toews.
Andrew's decision on a favorite football player was a bit of a traumatic family experience. Part of the policy I created comes with the understanding that while favorite player is a free choice, my children’s favorite team is genetically passed from father to son (or daughter). So when a recently two year old Andrew chose Brett Favre as his favorite, the struggle began to distinguish between favorite player and favorite team. (I've received surprisingly little help in this endeavor from Mollie's Minnesota relatives.)
The rule has since been amended to allow a second favorite team, but Andrew is slowly learning that genetics will always win out in a head to head battle. We went to a Braves game while we were in Atlanta. About a month later, we caught a Sox vs. Braves game up in Chicago. Andrew was properly taught that he could like the Braves, but we wanted them to lose when ever they played the White Sox.
As Andrew's third birthday approached, Mollie decided he had enough toys and that clothing was what she wanted to get him. She looked for a miniature Blackhawks jersey, but couldn't find one. The second piece of clothing she sought caused a bit of a stir. I had to bring myself to terms with my own rulings; Mollie wanted to get Andrew a Brett Favre jersey. After much debate, I decided that the jersey was allowed under the household ruling because denying it based on the team logo would negate the freedom of choice I had willed to Andrew. In writing this, I think I've come to the understanding that I might allow an Atlanta Braves jersey, but in the case of team rivals, only a favorite player's number will be allowed under my roof. (It goes without saying that Andrew is unequivocally banned from choosing or wearing anything related to the Chicago Cubs.)
Now that I feel I have fully explained myself, I will share the picture. The jersey is actually an ancillary part of the photo; my sister requested a picture of the birthday cake!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Da Bums?
A little over a year ago, I found myself bemoaning the Bears future after an abysmal loss to the insufferable Green Bay Packers. (see Da Bums.) As this season drew ever closer, I had desired to attempt a similar ‘Bottom Ten’ list concerning my outlook for the two-aught-ten season. I mulled over the few ideas I had, but each successive week I found something more interesting to rave about. With time, the pre-season had come and gone and my list remained unpublished, even unwritten. It was but a half-thought in my mind, something to the effect of:
Top Ten Reasons to be Excited about the Bears this year
1) Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh . . . . . Ummmmm . . . . . . . . there’s . . . no . . . . well, there’s always . . . . not that either . . . . . . uuuuummaaaahhhhhhhhhh . . . . .
2 -10) See number 1.
Three weeks later, three games have come and gone. None of them have quite silenced the little man inside my head, you know the one, the guy wearing the black shirt with white letters across the chest reading ‘doubter.’ But despite my still unanswered questions about my favorite team, all three games have been eternally etched in the record book as wins.
Now I’m not one to rashly paint my face orange, jump on the next passing wagon and scream loudly about my team’s destiny, indestructibility and inevitable Super Bowl win, I’m a Southside Bears fan after all. And if there’s anything we Bears/Sox fans know, it’s how to temper our excitement amid unexplained success. Even during the 2010 White Sox spectacular 25 and 5 midseason run, I wasn’t anticipating our World Series berth, I was quietly enjoying the ride while wondering if we’d even make the playoffs.
While I’m on the baseball tangent, I’d like to congratulate a certain National League Central team whose logo is a red ‘C’ on their first pennant in fifteen years. You all know the team I’m talking about . . . and if you don’t, you probably know who I’m not talking about!
Three and 0. The only undefeated team in the NFC. There isn’t much more an early season football fan can ask for. History shows that most teams who start the season with three wins will make the playoffs. Call me jaded, but I’m not spending my waking hours anticipating our deep playoff run. I’m enjoying each game’s success. I’m looking forward to next week’s game, anxiously wondering if or when the ball will drop. Will Martz’s high power offense be spectacular once more, or did I catch a glimpse of the ‘Old Cutler’ in the last game (and how many picks did he throw last year)? Will the defense again bend but not break, or will they simply break? Uncertainty amidst success is an anticipation I can revel in.
It was the final game of the 2005 baseball playoffs. With three wins under their belt, the White Sox were winning game 5 of the World Series 1-0 and there were two out in the ninth inning. Even in that euphoric state, Mr. Doubter still held sway. My mind was swarmed with a thousand ways it could all fall apart. One bad pitch, one bad throw. Doubt and fear mingled uneasily with tempered joy until the very - last - moment.
So it is, though with a rationed zeal, that I will watch this week’s game. I will revel in the uncertainty of a team I’m not quite sure about. My muscles will tense with each snap. I will hold my breath as every lofted pass follows its perilous path back towards the Earth. Every play could be spectacular. Every play could spell our doom! There can be no greater way to watch a game!
Top Ten Reasons to be Excited about the Bears this year
1) Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh . . . . . Ummmmm . . . . . . . . there’s . . . no . . . . well, there’s always . . . . not that either . . . . . . uuuuummaaaahhhhhhhhhh . . . . .
2 -10) See number 1.
Three weeks later, three games have come and gone. None of them have quite silenced the little man inside my head, you know the one, the guy wearing the black shirt with white letters across the chest reading ‘doubter.’ But despite my still unanswered questions about my favorite team, all three games have been eternally etched in the record book as wins.
Now I’m not one to rashly paint my face orange, jump on the next passing wagon and scream loudly about my team’s destiny, indestructibility and inevitable Super Bowl win, I’m a Southside Bears fan after all. And if there’s anything we Bears/Sox fans know, it’s how to temper our excitement amid unexplained success. Even during the 2010 White Sox spectacular 25 and 5 midseason run, I wasn’t anticipating our World Series berth, I was quietly enjoying the ride while wondering if we’d even make the playoffs.
While I’m on the baseball tangent, I’d like to congratulate a certain National League Central team whose logo is a red ‘C’ on their first pennant in fifteen years. You all know the team I’m talking about . . . and if you don’t, you probably know who I’m not talking about!
Three and 0. The only undefeated team in the NFC. There isn’t much more an early season football fan can ask for. History shows that most teams who start the season with three wins will make the playoffs. Call me jaded, but I’m not spending my waking hours anticipating our deep playoff run. I’m enjoying each game’s success. I’m looking forward to next week’s game, anxiously wondering if or when the ball will drop. Will Martz’s high power offense be spectacular once more, or did I catch a glimpse of the ‘Old Cutler’ in the last game (and how many picks did he throw last year)? Will the defense again bend but not break, or will they simply break? Uncertainty amidst success is an anticipation I can revel in.
It was the final game of the 2005 baseball playoffs. With three wins under their belt, the White Sox were winning game 5 of the World Series 1-0 and there were two out in the ninth inning. Even in that euphoric state, Mr. Doubter still held sway. My mind was swarmed with a thousand ways it could all fall apart. One bad pitch, one bad throw. Doubt and fear mingled uneasily with tempered joy until the very - last - moment.
So it is, though with a rationed zeal, that I will watch this week’s game. I will revel in the uncertainty of a team I’m not quite sure about. My muscles will tense with each snap. I will hold my breath as every lofted pass follows its perilous path back towards the Earth. Every play could be spectacular. Every play could spell our doom! There can be no greater way to watch a game!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Childhood Fears
My parents may be the most devious, conniving, manipulative parents that ever graced God’s green Earth. Perhaps that is a little too harsh an opening statement, but if you only knew what they have put me through. If there were some way for me to recount the “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,” all of which they set loose upon my young mind. If only there was a way . . .
Yes, I do suppose there is a way to share my sordid tale, for the medium before me lends itself to such recounts.
Imagine a young Mike enjoying the early morning glow given off by Sesame Street. The colors, the characters, it is truly bliss for one such youth. The hours would pass, for back in my day Sesame Street seemed to broadcast unending mirth. One episode would end and another would quickly follow.
Yet for me, the gentle tranquility of Big Bird’s back yard was broken for that short time between shows. For in my mind, my parents had planted a seed of unrest. There was this show that would follow the last Sesame Street episode of the day; it was a bad show. It was not the kind of show a little boy wanted to watch. It was bad. I had been told as much and I believed it whole heartedly!
Sesame Street would end and the giant, floppy dog would trod off down the street. But before the last credit rolled across the screen, my joy had been replaced by a state of anticipatory fear. What was coming on next? Was it another Sesame Street? Or was it that horrible show that I wasn’t allowed to watch? I never knew, I couldn’t even tell time. I would run out of the room and hide. With my fingers dug deeply into my ears, I would cautiously peer around the corner, trying to shield my self of the verbal onslaught I so feared. I didn’t know the show, but I definitely knew how it started. The show’s vile cast would scream, a scream filled with hatred and terror, “Hey you Guyysss!”
It was less than three years ago that I finally learned the name of that dreaded show, ‘The Electric Company.’ The opening caught me by surprise and I had to watch. What was this show that had once filled my mind with such wretched abhorrence? To my surprise (as if I should have expected something different from PBS), the show was fairly entertaining and educational.
Which brings me back to my scheming parents. Not too long ago, I broached the subject in their presence. I was taken aback by my mother’s response. “Oh, that was how we got you away from the TV for nap time.”
Nap Time?!? Was she kidding me? The horrible, disreputable, lying, torturing, . . . , of all the no good, filthy, . . . . . . rather inventive and ingenious thing a parent could do to their child.
Looking back through the lens of someone who now has their own child to pry away from life’s excitement for a much needed nap, the permanent mental scarring I have to endure was probably a reasonable trade-off for my parents. Plus, I can now hope that I am old enough and intelligent enough to have moved beyond such silly fears. If I lacked the required sophistication and mental capacity, how then would you explain my genius plan to make chocolate chip cookie dough, roll it into balls and freeze them for later baking and consumption? I mean, someone who is intelligent enough to have ‘cookies on demand’ (TM, Patent Pending, et. al.) has to be mature enough to watch a children’s show without fear, right?
Saturday morning, my convictions were put to the test. For the first time in over 25 years, I caught the beginning of “The Electric Company” while already knowing it was the show I once feared. While I didn’t run crying out of the room, a tiny angst returned to haunt my mind. When was it coming? I tried to act uninterested, diverting my attention to the computer instead. But I couldn’t keep away. I found myself nervously glancing over at the television, wondering when that once terrible shout would come. There was a girl who had lost a contest. A guy was being hypnotized. Now he thought he was a dog. This was kind of funny. He was barking and scratching at his ear. I laughed to myself and relaxed. Perhaps they didn’t use that opening anymore. The dog-man responded to a question, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I remember a watch . . . and a man . . . and . . . it was that girl’s uncle. He must have hypnotized me . . .” He tipped his head back as if though his canine urges were prompting him to howl at the moon. “HEY YOU GUYYSSS!”
I honestly don’t remember anything after that moment. I thought I had taken it rather well, but thinking back, I’m pretty sure the TV was off a few seconds later.
I find it strange that something so minor, from so long ago, can still evoke emotion. I’m not saying that I was facing the same juvenile fears, but there was definitely an edge there, an underlying tension that taunted my mind. Was it really as bad as I remember? My mind was steeling itself against what I knew was coming, all the while trying to figure out how it would react to something it once feared, but now knew to be benign. That was the true edge, the knowledge that something that had once evoked powerful reactions was coming, but being unsure how a more reasoned mind would react.
That should suffice for this week’s story time. However, there are a few administrative loose ends that must be tied up. Nobody was able to earn the full bonus points from last week’s question, though two people did request and receive a couple points because they claimed they knew ‘the person in question’ before the final line.
“Is that all the points a dog can give? No. What time is it? Bonus points!!”
This week, there are two opportunities to earn yourself some bonus points. First, you can place the quote from the a few lines up. What show is it from? The second query is a little more sophisticated than last bit of early morning PBS trivia. Five bonus points to the first person to tell the source of the ‘thousand natural shocks’ quote from paragraph one.
Oh, and as for my mom and dad? Unnecessarily torturing, scaring and scarring their child aside, they did a pretty good job raising me! Thanks.
Yes, I do suppose there is a way to share my sordid tale, for the medium before me lends itself to such recounts.
Imagine a young Mike enjoying the early morning glow given off by Sesame Street. The colors, the characters, it is truly bliss for one such youth. The hours would pass, for back in my day Sesame Street seemed to broadcast unending mirth. One episode would end and another would quickly follow.
Yet for me, the gentle tranquility of Big Bird’s back yard was broken for that short time between shows. For in my mind, my parents had planted a seed of unrest. There was this show that would follow the last Sesame Street episode of the day; it was a bad show. It was not the kind of show a little boy wanted to watch. It was bad. I had been told as much and I believed it whole heartedly!
Sesame Street would end and the giant, floppy dog would trod off down the street. But before the last credit rolled across the screen, my joy had been replaced by a state of anticipatory fear. What was coming on next? Was it another Sesame Street? Or was it that horrible show that I wasn’t allowed to watch? I never knew, I couldn’t even tell time. I would run out of the room and hide. With my fingers dug deeply into my ears, I would cautiously peer around the corner, trying to shield my self of the verbal onslaught I so feared. I didn’t know the show, but I definitely knew how it started. The show’s vile cast would scream, a scream filled with hatred and terror, “Hey you Guyysss!”
It was less than three years ago that I finally learned the name of that dreaded show, ‘The Electric Company.’ The opening caught me by surprise and I had to watch. What was this show that had once filled my mind with such wretched abhorrence? To my surprise (as if I should have expected something different from PBS), the show was fairly entertaining and educational.
Which brings me back to my scheming parents. Not too long ago, I broached the subject in their presence. I was taken aback by my mother’s response. “Oh, that was how we got you away from the TV for nap time.”
Nap Time?!? Was she kidding me? The horrible, disreputable, lying, torturing, . . . , of all the no good, filthy, . . . . . . rather inventive and ingenious thing a parent could do to their child.
Looking back through the lens of someone who now has their own child to pry away from life’s excitement for a much needed nap, the permanent mental scarring I have to endure was probably a reasonable trade-off for my parents. Plus, I can now hope that I am old enough and intelligent enough to have moved beyond such silly fears. If I lacked the required sophistication and mental capacity, how then would you explain my genius plan to make chocolate chip cookie dough, roll it into balls and freeze them for later baking and consumption? I mean, someone who is intelligent enough to have ‘cookies on demand’ (TM, Patent Pending, et. al.) has to be mature enough to watch a children’s show without fear, right?
Saturday morning, my convictions were put to the test. For the first time in over 25 years, I caught the beginning of “The Electric Company” while already knowing it was the show I once feared. While I didn’t run crying out of the room, a tiny angst returned to haunt my mind. When was it coming? I tried to act uninterested, diverting my attention to the computer instead. But I couldn’t keep away. I found myself nervously glancing over at the television, wondering when that once terrible shout would come. There was a girl who had lost a contest. A guy was being hypnotized. Now he thought he was a dog. This was kind of funny. He was barking and scratching at his ear. I laughed to myself and relaxed. Perhaps they didn’t use that opening anymore. The dog-man responded to a question, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I remember a watch . . . and a man . . . and . . . it was that girl’s uncle. He must have hypnotized me . . .” He tipped his head back as if though his canine urges were prompting him to howl at the moon. “HEY YOU GUYYSSS!”
I honestly don’t remember anything after that moment. I thought I had taken it rather well, but thinking back, I’m pretty sure the TV was off a few seconds later.
I find it strange that something so minor, from so long ago, can still evoke emotion. I’m not saying that I was facing the same juvenile fears, but there was definitely an edge there, an underlying tension that taunted my mind. Was it really as bad as I remember? My mind was steeling itself against what I knew was coming, all the while trying to figure out how it would react to something it once feared, but now knew to be benign. That was the true edge, the knowledge that something that had once evoked powerful reactions was coming, but being unsure how a more reasoned mind would react.
That should suffice for this week’s story time. However, there are a few administrative loose ends that must be tied up. Nobody was able to earn the full bonus points from last week’s question, though two people did request and receive a couple points because they claimed they knew ‘the person in question’ before the final line.
“Is that all the points a dog can give? No. What time is it? Bonus points!!”
This week, there are two opportunities to earn yourself some bonus points. First, you can place the quote from the a few lines up. What show is it from? The second query is a little more sophisticated than last bit of early morning PBS trivia. Five bonus points to the first person to tell the source of the ‘thousand natural shocks’ quote from paragraph one.
Oh, and as for my mom and dad? Unnecessarily torturing, scaring and scarring their child aside, they did a pretty good job raising me! Thanks.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho . . .
Tomorrow is the big day! Well, I guess from your perspective of reading this one day into my future, today is the big day!!!
Those who have spent part of the last year spying on my family through the lens of my blog know that I haven’t had much work of late. Between staying home to raise two children and the spotty work provided by substitute teaching, I’ve had a lot of time to sit at home doing nothing.
That life is coming to an end. At 8:30 Thursday morning, I will reclaim my place among America’s working elite as a Revenue Tax Specialist Trainee for the State of Illinois.
I have not yet decided exactly how early I intend to awake tomorrow. There is a slight possibility I will be up before six with every intention of putting my treadmill to good use before dressing the kids and myself. It is a lofty goal, to take a short jog every morning before work, but all too often I keep the snooze button too close. I had short success running mid-mornings while successfully winning a ‘biggest loser’ competition, but like most workout regiments I’ve undertaken, a few missed days leads to total collapse of the will.
Tuesday, I saved one of those install-a-pull-up-bar-in-your-doorway thingeys from certain the certain doom of a trash pile. While it is still hiding in the trunk of my car, I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging it in the hallway with the goal of doing 3-5 pull-ups every time I pass that way. After my weight loss successes, it should be a much easier task; these day’s I’m pulling-up about 35 less pounds as compared to a year ago. But once again there is the matter of a consistent will. I can foresee myself holding to the task the first few passes, but once a three minute span takes me to my study to check e-mail, to the kitchen for a drink, into Andrew’s room to put a book away, into the living room to watch a little TV, back into the bedroom to put a away toy I just stepped on, then finally back into the living room, the ‘every time’ mantra may find itself quickly discarded. Of course, I might as well hang it up. (On the wall, not quit entirely – I had to clarify because I read it the wrong way twice!) It’s not doing me any good in the trunk. (It’s not quite heavy enough to aid with traction during the upcoming icy winter, so I’m out of excuses.)
Of course, with real employment fast approaching, I will be spending much less time wandering aimlessly about the house. That means less passes under the looming pull-up bar. It also means I should be faced with some sort of a mental challenge every day.
Sitting around the house can be fairly monotonous. I cannot count the number of times I’ve finished a task on one computer, only to flitter about briefly before alighting in front of the other computer. I do not know exactly what to expect from my new job, but I anticipate it will exercise my mental capacities, at least a little. The first two weeks should be a fairly intensive lesson in retaining a majority of the Illinois tax code. After that, I believe I will be answering questions from inquiring minds via a newfangled device that is known as a ‘telephone.’
Another blogging milestone has just been reached, and with it a fading dream seems even more unreachable. Since day one, I’ve been keeping all my writings in a Word document. The thought of losing every shared thought to a website’s demise was too much; I needed my own back-up. I had hoped to someday print a hard copy of these ramblings, but it quickly added up to an overwhelming stack of to-be-printed paper. Today’s milestone sets my printing need at exactly 1/5 of a ream. That’s right, I just crossed onto my 100th page of the written word. (I am quick to wonder, has anyone actually read every posting?)
With that random divergence into irrelevant blogosphere factoids, I shall wrap it up for this week. I suppose I shall end where today’s title left off.
. . . it’s off to work I go.
Those who have spent part of the last year spying on my family through the lens of my blog know that I haven’t had much work of late. Between staying home to raise two children and the spotty work provided by substitute teaching, I’ve had a lot of time to sit at home doing nothing.
That life is coming to an end. At 8:30 Thursday morning, I will reclaim my place among America’s working elite as a Revenue Tax Specialist Trainee for the State of Illinois.
I have not yet decided exactly how early I intend to awake tomorrow. There is a slight possibility I will be up before six with every intention of putting my treadmill to good use before dressing the kids and myself. It is a lofty goal, to take a short jog every morning before work, but all too often I keep the snooze button too close. I had short success running mid-mornings while successfully winning a ‘biggest loser’ competition, but like most workout regiments I’ve undertaken, a few missed days leads to total collapse of the will.
Tuesday, I saved one of those install-a-pull-up-bar-in-your-doorway thingeys from certain the certain doom of a trash pile. While it is still hiding in the trunk of my car, I’ve toyed with the idea of hanging it in the hallway with the goal of doing 3-5 pull-ups every time I pass that way. After my weight loss successes, it should be a much easier task; these day’s I’m pulling-up about 35 less pounds as compared to a year ago. But once again there is the matter of a consistent will. I can foresee myself holding to the task the first few passes, but once a three minute span takes me to my study to check e-mail, to the kitchen for a drink, into Andrew’s room to put a book away, into the living room to watch a little TV, back into the bedroom to put a away toy I just stepped on, then finally back into the living room, the ‘every time’ mantra may find itself quickly discarded. Of course, I might as well hang it up. (On the wall, not quit entirely – I had to clarify because I read it the wrong way twice!) It’s not doing me any good in the trunk. (It’s not quite heavy enough to aid with traction during the upcoming icy winter, so I’m out of excuses.)
Of course, with real employment fast approaching, I will be spending much less time wandering aimlessly about the house. That means less passes under the looming pull-up bar. It also means I should be faced with some sort of a mental challenge every day.
Sitting around the house can be fairly monotonous. I cannot count the number of times I’ve finished a task on one computer, only to flitter about briefly before alighting in front of the other computer. I do not know exactly what to expect from my new job, but I anticipate it will exercise my mental capacities, at least a little. The first two weeks should be a fairly intensive lesson in retaining a majority of the Illinois tax code. After that, I believe I will be answering questions from inquiring minds via a newfangled device that is known as a ‘telephone.’
Another blogging milestone has just been reached, and with it a fading dream seems even more unreachable. Since day one, I’ve been keeping all my writings in a Word document. The thought of losing every shared thought to a website’s demise was too much; I needed my own back-up. I had hoped to someday print a hard copy of these ramblings, but it quickly added up to an overwhelming stack of to-be-printed paper. Today’s milestone sets my printing need at exactly 1/5 of a ream. That’s right, I just crossed onto my 100th page of the written word. (I am quick to wonder, has anyone actually read every posting?)
With that random divergence into irrelevant blogosphere factoids, I shall wrap it up for this week. I suppose I shall end where today’s title left off.
. . . it’s off to work I go.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
. . . Is Hard to Find
In this high pressure world of the insignificant creator of specks upon the World Wide Web that is the personal blog, time is the bailiff, ideas are innocent until proven guilty and the fast approaching deadline is judge and jury. If that were so, this week I’d be found in contempt and guilty on all charges.
As I watch the imaginary second hand on my digital clock give expression to the passage of time, I find myself at the end of a week that has been filled with inspiration. There have been countless times over the last seven days that I’ve thought to myself, “I should blog about that,” only to quickly realize an interesting recounting of the event might hardly fill a paragraph. And in an effort to keep my blog from reading like a modern car commercial (i.e. quick, change the shot before we lose the viewer’s attention – watch one, you’ll see what I mean), I have done my best to avoid giving you a ‘weekly minutes’ version of a blog.
I spoke with an old friend today. Not old in the sense of aged and decrepit, but rather old as in ‘gee, I’ve known him for quite some time now.’ At the end of a random and roving conversation, my phone clock (oddly devoid of an imaginary second hand) had counted off thirty-some minutes. We had covered all the basics: family, work, Monty Python and I had even squeezed in the ever necessary Billy Cosby quote.
I’ve never been quick to open up to people. Perhaps it stems from a childhood in which most of my friends moved away from our small town (often to a smaller one), or perhaps I hold myself close on account of years spent scraping by at the bottom of the social food chain. Yes, I managed to find the occasional less-awkward social activity, what with scouts, sports and Godparents (high school youth group), but most of my life has been a losing struggle to fit in.
It took a concerted effort to open up in college. Early on, perhaps week one, I decided I was going to talk to everybody. It was a task I managed with fair success. I can recall sitting in the cafeteria, boisterously making an inane comment to the table (something about ‘not saying anything legible.’) It was enough to get me temporarily and playfully banished. I took my lumps and another seat at the table behind me. If memory serves, I had a short conversation with the Coe College golf team, before returning to my rightful place as table comedian.
Amongst the banter of my half-hour phone call, it was mentioned that this friend didn’t “follow blogs during the school year.” He cited a lack of time as his excuse and I will accept his statement as permission to freely talk about him.
I mentioned the call to Mollie at dinner tonight (a true dining adventure, what with ‘the boy’ yacking not once, but twice). Somehow, it came to mind how rare good friends have been in my life. I made the statement that apart from her, he was the only friend with whom I’ve had a truly deep and meaningful conversation. I find that sharing a room with someone for four years or a house with another for just short of a decade gives ample time to partake in such discussions. I’ve talked about God, life, movies, love, hate, food, most everything I can imagine with both this friend and my wife. There was even an all too short time in life when these conversations were shared by the three of us; sort of a joint commission to discover the secrets of the universe, to work through life and faith or to challenge the limits of the English language in its efficacy at communicating nonsense.
Like with most my friends, time has moved us to different parts of the known world. College could not last forever and I, at least, had no desire to weld strange letters before or after my name. But unlike others who have moved and often been easily dismissed as ‘not here anymore,’ this is a friendship I cannot shake. If you ask my wife, she will confirm that I find myself missing his company. Today’s phone call was a rare treat. It is nice to be able to pick up in the same (often silly) place we last parted ways. (I believe it is a small town called ‘North Brebenheimer.’ – Uber bonus points if you can place that one!!!)
I’ve often found the middle of the night to be a pleasant muse. She seems to bring forth ideas that elude my sun-clad self. As I have often basked in her pale-moon glow, what I write seems more honest, more lucid and occasionally more unfit for the world’s consumption. But she carries with her a double edged sword; illuminating my thoughts, all the while clouding my mind as the night wanes and my eyes grow heavy. How many stories have I made such a start upon, only to lose the muse ere the end? How then shall I finish this outpouring as I slowly fade past the two hour mark? Am I too far gone, have I faded too fast? Perhaps not. This should suffice.
If you ever happen to read this, Mr. Guffey, thanks for the call!
As I watch the imaginary second hand on my digital clock give expression to the passage of time, I find myself at the end of a week that has been filled with inspiration. There have been countless times over the last seven days that I’ve thought to myself, “I should blog about that,” only to quickly realize an interesting recounting of the event might hardly fill a paragraph. And in an effort to keep my blog from reading like a modern car commercial (i.e. quick, change the shot before we lose the viewer’s attention – watch one, you’ll see what I mean), I have done my best to avoid giving you a ‘weekly minutes’ version of a blog.
I spoke with an old friend today. Not old in the sense of aged and decrepit, but rather old as in ‘gee, I’ve known him for quite some time now.’ At the end of a random and roving conversation, my phone clock (oddly devoid of an imaginary second hand) had counted off thirty-some minutes. We had covered all the basics: family, work, Monty Python and I had even squeezed in the ever necessary Billy Cosby quote.
I’ve never been quick to open up to people. Perhaps it stems from a childhood in which most of my friends moved away from our small town (often to a smaller one), or perhaps I hold myself close on account of years spent scraping by at the bottom of the social food chain. Yes, I managed to find the occasional less-awkward social activity, what with scouts, sports and Godparents (high school youth group), but most of my life has been a losing struggle to fit in.
It took a concerted effort to open up in college. Early on, perhaps week one, I decided I was going to talk to everybody. It was a task I managed with fair success. I can recall sitting in the cafeteria, boisterously making an inane comment to the table (something about ‘not saying anything legible.’) It was enough to get me temporarily and playfully banished. I took my lumps and another seat at the table behind me. If memory serves, I had a short conversation with the Coe College golf team, before returning to my rightful place as table comedian.
Amongst the banter of my half-hour phone call, it was mentioned that this friend didn’t “follow blogs during the school year.” He cited a lack of time as his excuse and I will accept his statement as permission to freely talk about him.
I mentioned the call to Mollie at dinner tonight (a true dining adventure, what with ‘the boy’ yacking not once, but twice). Somehow, it came to mind how rare good friends have been in my life. I made the statement that apart from her, he was the only friend with whom I’ve had a truly deep and meaningful conversation. I find that sharing a room with someone for four years or a house with another for just short of a decade gives ample time to partake in such discussions. I’ve talked about God, life, movies, love, hate, food, most everything I can imagine with both this friend and my wife. There was even an all too short time in life when these conversations were shared by the three of us; sort of a joint commission to discover the secrets of the universe, to work through life and faith or to challenge the limits of the English language in its efficacy at communicating nonsense.
Like with most my friends, time has moved us to different parts of the known world. College could not last forever and I, at least, had no desire to weld strange letters before or after my name. But unlike others who have moved and often been easily dismissed as ‘not here anymore,’ this is a friendship I cannot shake. If you ask my wife, she will confirm that I find myself missing his company. Today’s phone call was a rare treat. It is nice to be able to pick up in the same (often silly) place we last parted ways. (I believe it is a small town called ‘North Brebenheimer.’ – Uber bonus points if you can place that one!!!)
I’ve often found the middle of the night to be a pleasant muse. She seems to bring forth ideas that elude my sun-clad self. As I have often basked in her pale-moon glow, what I write seems more honest, more lucid and occasionally more unfit for the world’s consumption. But she carries with her a double edged sword; illuminating my thoughts, all the while clouding my mind as the night wanes and my eyes grow heavy. How many stories have I made such a start upon, only to lose the muse ere the end? How then shall I finish this outpouring as I slowly fade past the two hour mark? Am I too far gone, have I faded too fast? Perhaps not. This should suffice.
If you ever happen to read this, Mr. Guffey, thanks for the call!
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
So What Are You Good At?
Have you ever had the opportunity to feel you were really good at something? Not just a ‘Meh, I’m pretty good.’ kind of good. I mean a ‘Hey, if you put me out there with the best of them, I can hold my own!’ kind of good!
I’ve been there. I’ve felt that way.
I think most who know me would expect me to say that I felt that way about wrestling. While it’s true that by the end of my high school wrestling career I did not approach a known adversary with fear or intrepidation, I knew I had a limited skill set. I practiced with all intensity and pushed myself to that limit, but I understood that despite my best effort, there were people out there who were simply better than me. (To my credit, opportunities to face such challengers became a welcome occurrence!)
I feel (at least in retrospect) that I was truly good at Ultimate Frisbee. There wasn’t a throw I couldn’t make. There wasn’t an opponent I couldn’t guard. If a disc was in the air, I was going to get to it before you.
So what have you felt you were especially good at? A sport? Art? Cooking?
Now imagine taking a ten year break. Ten years without picking up a ball, handling a brush or stirring a boiling pot. How do you think you would fare the day you decided to pick it up again? Would your work someday hang in a museum, or would your cake fall flat and your buns burn? (You can take that last statement in reference to cooking or to your sport, whichever is appropriate.) Picking up where I left off is a task I attempted last Thursday.
I’ve done a little running here and there, but the maximum exercise my body has gotten in recent months (or years) is rapid finger movement across a set of labeled keys. Yet, despite my aged body, I mostly held up under the strains of running, diving and throwing. I’m not as fast as I once was and my legs often fail me when I attempt to launch myself after a disc, but everything worked, if in a diminished fashion.
The mental part was the toughest to accept. Every time I held the disc, my brain told my arm, “You can make that throw!” My arm would willingly accept my brain’s encouragement and with an agile flick of my wrist, send the disc sailing straight into the ground . . . or well over my target’s head . . . or nowhere near the vicinity of where I had hoped the disc would go.
For the first twenty minutes of the game, ‘hoped’ was an appropriately descriptive word. As the game progressed, it gradually turned to ‘anticipated,’ with wild misses being replaced by discs glancing off my target’s fingertips. I can remember a teammate cutting towards the corner of the end zone as I released the disc. I can see him dragging his toes along the boundary line, stretching his long arms to their fullest, only to have my throw tease his flesh before flittering away. A few short minutes later, I was again holding the disc in the same place with the same player making the same cut. In my mind, I knew the throw, a low, rising, outside backhand with a slight outside-in curve that would lead its target within inches of the line, all while avoiding the swat of the trailing defender. It was just like I’d made it a hundred times before. It was just like I had intended to do only minutes earlier. And as my teammate’s toes planted themselves back upon terra firma, disc in hand, my mind couldn’t help but chiming in. “That’s how I can make the throw!”
Now a few throws from an aging man have not reinstilled any illusions of grandeur that are quite obviously lurking within my mind. And while I did have fleeting visions of myself somehow competing at the national level, I am content with the mere opportunity to compete again. Now if only I didn’t hurt so much . . .
I’ve been there. I’ve felt that way.
I think most who know me would expect me to say that I felt that way about wrestling. While it’s true that by the end of my high school wrestling career I did not approach a known adversary with fear or intrepidation, I knew I had a limited skill set. I practiced with all intensity and pushed myself to that limit, but I understood that despite my best effort, there were people out there who were simply better than me. (To my credit, opportunities to face such challengers became a welcome occurrence!)
I feel (at least in retrospect) that I was truly good at Ultimate Frisbee. There wasn’t a throw I couldn’t make. There wasn’t an opponent I couldn’t guard. If a disc was in the air, I was going to get to it before you.
So what have you felt you were especially good at? A sport? Art? Cooking?
Now imagine taking a ten year break. Ten years without picking up a ball, handling a brush or stirring a boiling pot. How do you think you would fare the day you decided to pick it up again? Would your work someday hang in a museum, or would your cake fall flat and your buns burn? (You can take that last statement in reference to cooking or to your sport, whichever is appropriate.) Picking up where I left off is a task I attempted last Thursday.
I’ve done a little running here and there, but the maximum exercise my body has gotten in recent months (or years) is rapid finger movement across a set of labeled keys. Yet, despite my aged body, I mostly held up under the strains of running, diving and throwing. I’m not as fast as I once was and my legs often fail me when I attempt to launch myself after a disc, but everything worked, if in a diminished fashion.
The mental part was the toughest to accept. Every time I held the disc, my brain told my arm, “You can make that throw!” My arm would willingly accept my brain’s encouragement and with an agile flick of my wrist, send the disc sailing straight into the ground . . . or well over my target’s head . . . or nowhere near the vicinity of where I had hoped the disc would go.
For the first twenty minutes of the game, ‘hoped’ was an appropriately descriptive word. As the game progressed, it gradually turned to ‘anticipated,’ with wild misses being replaced by discs glancing off my target’s fingertips. I can remember a teammate cutting towards the corner of the end zone as I released the disc. I can see him dragging his toes along the boundary line, stretching his long arms to their fullest, only to have my throw tease his flesh before flittering away. A few short minutes later, I was again holding the disc in the same place with the same player making the same cut. In my mind, I knew the throw, a low, rising, outside backhand with a slight outside-in curve that would lead its target within inches of the line, all while avoiding the swat of the trailing defender. It was just like I’d made it a hundred times before. It was just like I had intended to do only minutes earlier. And as my teammate’s toes planted themselves back upon terra firma, disc in hand, my mind couldn’t help but chiming in. “That’s how I can make the throw!”
Now a few throws from an aging man have not reinstilled any illusions of grandeur that are quite obviously lurking within my mind. And while I did have fleeting visions of myself somehow competing at the national level, I am content with the mere opportunity to compete again. Now if only I didn’t hurt so much . . .
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Annaliese is One
I had planned to spend this week discussing the effect of social disorder on communist Russia, but I have instead succumbed to the pleas of my ‘fans,’ who screaming loudly through their fingertips, demanded a recounting of Annaliese’s first birthday party.
Signs of a massive fiesta still litter our house. Leftovers fill our refrigerator, odd toy packaging is strewn about the living room and all the chairs have yet to find their original homes. Thus, I sit upon my steadfast friend, Pedro – succor to my need – and tell the tale of this weekend past.
It’s not everyday your little girl turns one. And it’s not every day the Springfield Hofners throw a party. So when we do (or she does), we do our best to go all out. My best count lists 28 friends and family crammed into our little house, perhaps 1-2 short of our record which was set at Mollie’s 30th birthday party. They came from all over, Springfield, Chicago, Iowa, just to partake of the spectacular fare that they knew would be set before them. I hope they were not disappointed by the hand-pattied ‘scramburgers,’ Mollie’s homemade baked beans (a very plain name for a very decadent recipe) and lastly, the laboriously decorated cake!
I have two recipes that I have spent the last few years attempting to improve. Almost a year ago, I recounted my Adventures in Chili-making. The other recipe upon which I hang my chef’s pride is my burger recipe. This year, a few guests were subjected to experimental burgers, ones with apple added to the exceedingly long ingredient list. The reviews were mixed, but at least good enough to necessitate a second study.
Where food was concerned, the cake was the talk of the party. When Annaliese was (let’s say, for humor’s sake) young, the nurses in the NICU gave her a knitted ladybug hat. As year one neared its conclusion, Mollie chose this as the inspiration for Anna’s birthday decorations. The cake was a grass-green sheet with a large red and black ladybug . . . words do not seem to do it justice. If you promise not to skip reading the rest of the blog, I’ll promise to include a picture at the end.
I’m having a very difficult time deciding which parts of the party really need description and how to express them. It seems, at this moment, that much of what I have to say is best reserved for pictures. What better way to show the smile that appeared on Anna’s face when she opened a furry monkey, or how the monkey held her affection until she was presented with a baby doll tiny enough for her to hold.
So I will spend the rest of my allotted ‘blog time’ giving my fingertips a rest. Instead, I will devote my brainpower to finding and sharing a few pictures (and perhaps a video!??!) to effectively and efficiently share my daughter’s first birthday with the world.
(An exceedingly bright flash fills your room.)
I hope you enjoyed that time traveling adventure, for what seemed to you as just a short glance between two paragraphs, was in fact a three hour jump into the future. In this new time and space, the pictures and videos have been posted. If you continue down the page, you shall find them patiently awaiting.
And I patiently await the return of my family. In a house so recently filled to bursting, I now sit alone, its sole human occupant. Yes, I have Samwise and Pedro to keep me company, but the giggles and cries of my last homebound daughter are now mingled with the sounds of other children at her new daycare. So while I anticipate news of possible future employment, I am left to fill my silent house with the incessant pecking of fingers upon keys. So long as it keeps me company, so long as it keeps you entertained, I shall persist.
And now, on with the show!
Signs of a massive fiesta still litter our house. Leftovers fill our refrigerator, odd toy packaging is strewn about the living room and all the chairs have yet to find their original homes. Thus, I sit upon my steadfast friend, Pedro – succor to my need – and tell the tale of this weekend past.
It’s not everyday your little girl turns one. And it’s not every day the Springfield Hofners throw a party. So when we do (or she does), we do our best to go all out. My best count lists 28 friends and family crammed into our little house, perhaps 1-2 short of our record which was set at Mollie’s 30th birthday party. They came from all over, Springfield, Chicago, Iowa, just to partake of the spectacular fare that they knew would be set before them. I hope they were not disappointed by the hand-pattied ‘scramburgers,’ Mollie’s homemade baked beans (a very plain name for a very decadent recipe) and lastly, the laboriously decorated cake!
I have two recipes that I have spent the last few years attempting to improve. Almost a year ago, I recounted my Adventures in Chili-making. The other recipe upon which I hang my chef’s pride is my burger recipe. This year, a few guests were subjected to experimental burgers, ones with apple added to the exceedingly long ingredient list. The reviews were mixed, but at least good enough to necessitate a second study.
Where food was concerned, the cake was the talk of the party. When Annaliese was (let’s say, for humor’s sake) young, the nurses in the NICU gave her a knitted ladybug hat. As year one neared its conclusion, Mollie chose this as the inspiration for Anna’s birthday decorations. The cake was a grass-green sheet with a large red and black ladybug . . . words do not seem to do it justice. If you promise not to skip reading the rest of the blog, I’ll promise to include a picture at the end.
I’m having a very difficult time deciding which parts of the party really need description and how to express them. It seems, at this moment, that much of what I have to say is best reserved for pictures. What better way to show the smile that appeared on Anna’s face when she opened a furry monkey, or how the monkey held her affection until she was presented with a baby doll tiny enough for her to hold.
So I will spend the rest of my allotted ‘blog time’ giving my fingertips a rest. Instead, I will devote my brainpower to finding and sharing a few pictures (and perhaps a video!??!) to effectively and efficiently share my daughter’s first birthday with the world.
(An exceedingly bright flash fills your room.)
I hope you enjoyed that time traveling adventure, for what seemed to you as just a short glance between two paragraphs, was in fact a three hour jump into the future. In this new time and space, the pictures and videos have been posted. If you continue down the page, you shall find them patiently awaiting.
And I patiently await the return of my family. In a house so recently filled to bursting, I now sit alone, its sole human occupant. Yes, I have Samwise and Pedro to keep me company, but the giggles and cries of my last homebound daughter are now mingled with the sounds of other children at her new daycare. So while I anticipate news of possible future employment, I am left to fill my silent house with the incessant pecking of fingers upon keys. So long as it keeps me company, so long as it keeps you entertained, I shall persist.
And now, on with the show!
Anna's First Birthday Video
Here is my first attempt at uploading video to my blog. If it works, it may prove useful in the future (like, for instance, when I expect a part of my blog to be read in a specific voice . . . !!!)
Please enjoy (and please let me know if you have problems! - No, not those problems. Problems with the videos!)
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
When Life Gives You Lemons . . . Give Them to Your Kids
From behind me, there came a low, painful cry. I turned around to see Andrew standing in the middle of the living room, his hands were covered in bright red, his chin and half open mouth were dripping with crimson. I calmly stood up and reached my fingers into his sticky mouth, saving his burning tongue from the Fireball I had heard Mollie giving to him a few moments earlier.
I laughed, asked him if it tasted good, then offered it back to him. He accepted. A few seconds later, the fire alarm rang and I was again pulling the goopy sphere from his mouth. One alarm later, all that remained was the sweet interior of the diabolical treat. We washed his hands and ‘The Boy’ continued on his merry way, repeating to Mollie my warning that ‘we don’t bite Fireballs.’
Until he began to cry again. I listened from downstairs as he explained to Mommy that “fireball got dirty.” I can only assume it fell on the carpet at the top of the stairs. Then, as though lessons learned were for lesser men, he asked for another.
I don’t yet have a moral to my story, nor a direction in which I intend to head, but this whole episode struck me as something that needed to be shared. Perhaps I am amused by the reckless abandon (of course with all heed paid to the child’s safety) with which a parent can allow their child to explore and experience the world. It would have been easy enough to take the hot candy from Andrew, throw it away, and wonder aloud why Mollie would have given him such a treat. But that’s not any fun. It doesn’t promote an acceptance and enjoyment of things that may be uncomfortable, yet surprisingly satisfying at the same time.
Lemons. How many of you parents have been sitting down to dinner at your favorite restaurant when your infant child reaches for the bright yellow atop your glass of water? What did you do? For both of our children, Mollie and I have granted their wish, allowing them to taste the lemon. The end result is always amazing. The child pulls away from the sour taste, scrunching their face into a sour pucker. A moment later, they recover and lean forward for another taste.
With Andrew, this would continue until Mollie or I remembered that the lemon, mixed with milk, seemed to accelerate his all too common practice of reverse-eating. With Anna, there has never been a reason to stop. She will munch on a lemon until the cows come home . . . a very strange site in a Chili’s . . . or until it is time to give her some ‘real food’ to eat.
A child’s exploration and discovering of their world is amazing to watch. This thing rattles, that thing makes a loud noise when I bang it on the floor, the other thing growls and yelps when I grab onto it. As they continue their learning adventures, they develop favorites and the occasional aversion. Annaliese loves to play with the TV remotes. I cannot figure out why. Andrew, having received and finished a much more succulent treat from his mother, just went running into the kitchen yelling, “I want another one!”
They were probably a good buy. Aldi had a bag of some 50 ‘freezer pops’ for sale . . . you know the kind, long, plastic sleeves you can never quite open as you struggle to tear into them with your teeth? The funny thing about them is Mollie probably likes them as much as Andrew; she is the one who usually suggests they partake of them. ‘The Boy’ is just a happy tag-a-long.
My little tag-a-long is about to start daycare. This Monday, Annaliese will wander alone into the vast world. And I will be left home, without a child to tease, teach or treat. It is somewhat unsettling to think that for much of the next twenty one years, she (and Andrew) will be reliant upon others to raise and teach them throughout the daylight hours. Not that I have any plans to abandon my part, but so much of the rest of their youth will be spent away from home. Will those I entrust them to give them the same freedom of curiosity, encouraging them to take adventurous risks as they learn and grow? Or will they . . . I must stop. This is getting depressing.
I do know of one great adventure of exploratory significance that is soon approaching. Anna is turning one. As is tradition, she will be allowed the opportunity to excavate a large concoction of flour and chocolate that will be laid before her. Andrew made such a mess. I can only imagine my rebel-daughter making an even bigger one.
Which reminds me . . . I need to make a cake!
I laughed, asked him if it tasted good, then offered it back to him. He accepted. A few seconds later, the fire alarm rang and I was again pulling the goopy sphere from his mouth. One alarm later, all that remained was the sweet interior of the diabolical treat. We washed his hands and ‘The Boy’ continued on his merry way, repeating to Mollie my warning that ‘we don’t bite Fireballs.’
Until he began to cry again. I listened from downstairs as he explained to Mommy that “fireball got dirty.” I can only assume it fell on the carpet at the top of the stairs. Then, as though lessons learned were for lesser men, he asked for another.
I don’t yet have a moral to my story, nor a direction in which I intend to head, but this whole episode struck me as something that needed to be shared. Perhaps I am amused by the reckless abandon (of course with all heed paid to the child’s safety) with which a parent can allow their child to explore and experience the world. It would have been easy enough to take the hot candy from Andrew, throw it away, and wonder aloud why Mollie would have given him such a treat. But that’s not any fun. It doesn’t promote an acceptance and enjoyment of things that may be uncomfortable, yet surprisingly satisfying at the same time.
Lemons. How many of you parents have been sitting down to dinner at your favorite restaurant when your infant child reaches for the bright yellow atop your glass of water? What did you do? For both of our children, Mollie and I have granted their wish, allowing them to taste the lemon. The end result is always amazing. The child pulls away from the sour taste, scrunching their face into a sour pucker. A moment later, they recover and lean forward for another taste.
With Andrew, this would continue until Mollie or I remembered that the lemon, mixed with milk, seemed to accelerate his all too common practice of reverse-eating. With Anna, there has never been a reason to stop. She will munch on a lemon until the cows come home . . . a very strange site in a Chili’s . . . or until it is time to give her some ‘real food’ to eat.
A child’s exploration and discovering of their world is amazing to watch. This thing rattles, that thing makes a loud noise when I bang it on the floor, the other thing growls and yelps when I grab onto it. As they continue their learning adventures, they develop favorites and the occasional aversion. Annaliese loves to play with the TV remotes. I cannot figure out why. Andrew, having received and finished a much more succulent treat from his mother, just went running into the kitchen yelling, “I want another one!”
They were probably a good buy. Aldi had a bag of some 50 ‘freezer pops’ for sale . . . you know the kind, long, plastic sleeves you can never quite open as you struggle to tear into them with your teeth? The funny thing about them is Mollie probably likes them as much as Andrew; she is the one who usually suggests they partake of them. ‘The Boy’ is just a happy tag-a-long.
My little tag-a-long is about to start daycare. This Monday, Annaliese will wander alone into the vast world. And I will be left home, without a child to tease, teach or treat. It is somewhat unsettling to think that for much of the next twenty one years, she (and Andrew) will be reliant upon others to raise and teach them throughout the daylight hours. Not that I have any plans to abandon my part, but so much of the rest of their youth will be spent away from home. Will those I entrust them to give them the same freedom of curiosity, encouraging them to take adventurous risks as they learn and grow? Or will they . . . I must stop. This is getting depressing.
I do know of one great adventure of exploratory significance that is soon approaching. Anna is turning one. As is tradition, she will be allowed the opportunity to excavate a large concoction of flour and chocolate that will be laid before her. Andrew made such a mess. I can only imagine my rebel-daughter making an even bigger one.
Which reminds me . . . I need to make a cake!
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Success
What is success?
I was brave enough to look through my old tax returns to see if I could measure success by what I’ve made. Being my father’s nerd, I have my W-2s dating back to 2002, the first year I was let loose upon the real world. The numbers have been rounded off to protect the innocent:
2002 – $33k
2003 – $44k (a good start!!!)
2004 - $38k
2005 - $32k
2006 - $29k
2007 - $11k
2008 - $9k
2009 - $21k (more on that later)
2010 – approximately $3k to date
The way I see it, the way the world sees it, those numbers seem to be going in the wrong direction. (Please excuse me for one moment, I have to go change a poopy butt.)
So I am forced to sit and consider why this downward trend exists. Firstly, there is location, location, location. 2002 was in St. Louis and 2003 and part of 2004 was in Chicago. After that, the local cost of living, and thus salary, dropped significantly when we moved to central Illinois. The second culprit, beginning in 2007, is a little more difficult to discover by only staring at the numbers. (Please excuse me again, I have to keep my little girl from pulling all the books off my shelf.)
Why was there such a significant drop from 2006 to 2007. We all know I am a teacher (or those of you who don’t, you do now.) The school year runs through half of two consecutive years. The number from 2007 looks almost as if I only worked half the year.
That’s it! In 2007 . . . (Please excuse me once more, I don’t know what she has now, but it sounds bad . . .) . . . in 2007, Andrew was born. Mollie and I decided we wanted one of us to raise our child, at least for his infant years. So I spent much of the next year and a half at home or working part time as a substitute.
But what about 2009? Why the sudden jump? That was the year I began working at St. Patrick Catholic School. I started as a part-timer, but about 1 month into the year, I was ‘promoted’ to part-time teacher / part time fill-in-principal. That was the year Andrew went to daycare full time. That was before . . . (I’m sorry for the near constant interruption, but Annaliese just pulled my chain mail shirt (see Picture or Post) off the chair and onto her leg.)
Where was I? Right! The Declaration of Independence is important to the basic structure of the American way of life because . . .what? Not where I was? Oops, sorry . . .
That was before Annaliese was born. Like with Andrew, I was again given the task of raising her throughout her infant years, before we all too soon have to relinquish her to daycare. (Allow me a quick break to make sure the paper shredder is off . . . baby fingers are so small!)
So where in all of this mess I call my life is my success? The numbers don’t show it. Is there any? Please afford me the opportunity to tell a little story.
Almost three weeks ago, I tried and teach Anna to stand up. She had been army crawling around the house for the last couple month and more recently, she had begun to pull herself up to a kneeling position. I made a corporate decision that it was time for her to stand. So, like any good father would do, I got her fully interested in a toy, then put it up on our bed, in sight but out of reach. She was quickly kneeling beside the bed, trying to reach the small hedgehog, but it was still too far. With a little help from Daddy, we managed to get her feet beneath her and she was up, smiling broadly as she held the hedgehog close.
I laid her down and, again like any loving father would, I took the toy away and put it back on the bed. She once more made it to about the same place, her tiny legs not yet able to find the right leverage to stand. Daddy helped her once more and the day’s lessons were through.
I expected to revisit the lesson in the next few days, but there wasn’t a need. The seed had been planted and the amazing machine of learning and exploration that is my daughter was on her feet less than 24 hours later.
So there it was, one tiny success amidst my muddled life. I had taught my daughter to stand. Of course, there are a hundred-thousand more successes I’ve seen, experienced and taught over the last three years. As the time nears for both children to spend their waking hours at daycare and as I begin my attempt to re-enter the working world, I only hope that I will not be missing out on all that has made the last three years so great. Now if you’ll excuse me one last time, “Anna, take my phone out of your mouth!”
(Editor's Note: It's come to my attention that the links in recent posts have not been working . . . something about MS Word having an argument with the blogspot website. Both sides have been visiting a counselor and while I cannot promise compete future cooperation, they seem to be working out their differences!)
(Blogspot.com's Note: MS Word thinks it's SO fancy when it makes quotation notes look all crooked, but I don't recognize them as quotation marks. Therefore, I add 'real' quotation marks so the browsers know what Mike is talking about, but your stupid squiggly quotation marks mess everything up! So Mr. Fancypantsdotdoccreator, if you want to . . . (Mike breaks back in) Hey, cut that out! You're not making things any better by berating Mr. Word! Say you're sorry and give him a hug. Now play nice!)
I was brave enough to look through my old tax returns to see if I could measure success by what I’ve made. Being my father’s nerd, I have my W-2s dating back to 2002, the first year I was let loose upon the real world. The numbers have been rounded off to protect the innocent:
2002 – $33k
2003 – $44k (a good start!!!)
2004 - $38k
2005 - $32k
2006 - $29k
2007 - $11k
2008 - $9k
2009 - $21k (more on that later)
2010 – approximately $3k to date
The way I see it, the way the world sees it, those numbers seem to be going in the wrong direction. (Please excuse me for one moment, I have to go change a poopy butt.)
So I am forced to sit and consider why this downward trend exists. Firstly, there is location, location, location. 2002 was in St. Louis and 2003 and part of 2004 was in Chicago. After that, the local cost of living, and thus salary, dropped significantly when we moved to central Illinois. The second culprit, beginning in 2007, is a little more difficult to discover by only staring at the numbers. (Please excuse me again, I have to keep my little girl from pulling all the books off my shelf.)
Why was there such a significant drop from 2006 to 2007. We all know I am a teacher (or those of you who don’t, you do now.) The school year runs through half of two consecutive years. The number from 2007 looks almost as if I only worked half the year.
That’s it! In 2007 . . . (Please excuse me once more, I don’t know what she has now, but it sounds bad . . .) . . . in 2007, Andrew was born. Mollie and I decided we wanted one of us to raise our child, at least for his infant years. So I spent much of the next year and a half at home or working part time as a substitute.
But what about 2009? Why the sudden jump? That was the year I began working at St. Patrick Catholic School. I started as a part-timer, but about 1 month into the year, I was ‘promoted’ to part-time teacher / part time fill-in-principal. That was the year Andrew went to daycare full time. That was before . . . (I’m sorry for the near constant interruption, but Annaliese just pulled my chain mail shirt (see Picture or Post) off the chair and onto her leg.)
Where was I? Right! The Declaration of Independence is important to the basic structure of the American way of life because . . .what? Not where I was? Oops, sorry . . .
That was before Annaliese was born. Like with Andrew, I was again given the task of raising her throughout her infant years, before we all too soon have to relinquish her to daycare. (Allow me a quick break to make sure the paper shredder is off . . . baby fingers are so small!)
So where in all of this mess I call my life is my success? The numbers don’t show it. Is there any? Please afford me the opportunity to tell a little story.
Almost three weeks ago, I tried and teach Anna to stand up. She had been army crawling around the house for the last couple month and more recently, she had begun to pull herself up to a kneeling position. I made a corporate decision that it was time for her to stand. So, like any good father would do, I got her fully interested in a toy, then put it up on our bed, in sight but out of reach. She was quickly kneeling beside the bed, trying to reach the small hedgehog, but it was still too far. With a little help from Daddy, we managed to get her feet beneath her and she was up, smiling broadly as she held the hedgehog close.
I laid her down and, again like any loving father would, I took the toy away and put it back on the bed. She once more made it to about the same place, her tiny legs not yet able to find the right leverage to stand. Daddy helped her once more and the day’s lessons were through.
I expected to revisit the lesson in the next few days, but there wasn’t a need. The seed had been planted and the amazing machine of learning and exploration that is my daughter was on her feet less than 24 hours later.
So there it was, one tiny success amidst my muddled life. I had taught my daughter to stand. Of course, there are a hundred-thousand more successes I’ve seen, experienced and taught over the last three years. As the time nears for both children to spend their waking hours at daycare and as I begin my attempt to re-enter the working world, I only hope that I will not be missing out on all that has made the last three years so great. Now if you’ll excuse me one last time, “Anna, take my phone out of your mouth!”
(Editor's Note: It's come to my attention that the links in recent posts have not been working . . . something about MS Word having an argument with the blogspot website. Both sides have been visiting a counselor and while I cannot promise compete future cooperation, they seem to be working out their differences!)
(Blogspot.com's Note: MS Word thinks it's SO fancy when it makes quotation notes look all crooked, but I don't recognize them as quotation marks. Therefore, I add 'real' quotation marks so the browsers know what Mike is talking about, but your stupid squiggly quotation marks mess everything up! So Mr. Fancypantsdotdoccreator, if you want to . . . (Mike breaks back in) Hey, cut that out! You're not making things any better by berating Mr. Word! Say you're sorry and give him a hug. Now play nice!)
Sunday, August 8, 2010
What is Sunday Best?
In another show of my concerted effort to organize my blogging life, I have decided to create a feature I am tenatively calling 'Sunday Best.' What is 'Sunday Best,' you ask? Please allow me to explain.
Way back in the day, when I was blogging each and every, I was also including a daily photograph that I'd taken. This, of course, required more time, work, committment, etc. When I was reinstated to my blogging duties, that task fell by the wayside.
Which leads me back to 'Sunday Best.' It is my current plan, though I have not yet set a weekly alarm in my phone, to resurrect the hobby of posting photos. Some will be artsy-fartsy stuff (like this week's), while others will be family pictures displaying the Springfield Hofner's in all their glory (cough).
Quite conveniently and name appropriately, I hope to have your weekly dose of photographic exploration ready for you by 12:01 AM each and every Sunday.
The first installation of 'Sunday Best' is below! Enjoy! (and feel free to comment.)
Way back in the day, when I was blogging each and every, I was also including a daily photograph that I'd taken. This, of course, required more time, work, committment, etc. When I was reinstated to my blogging duties, that task fell by the wayside.
Which leads me back to 'Sunday Best.' It is my current plan, though I have not yet set a weekly alarm in my phone, to resurrect the hobby of posting photos. Some will be artsy-fartsy stuff (like this week's), while others will be family pictures displaying the Springfield Hofner's in all their glory (cough).
Quite conveniently and name appropriately, I hope to have your weekly dose of photographic exploration ready for you by 12:01 AM each and every Sunday.
The first installation of 'Sunday Best' is below! Enjoy! (and feel free to comment.)
Reflecting Pool 1
Reflecting Pool 1
at First Church of Christ, Scientist
(and definitely not Scientology)
Boston, MA
Thursday, August 5, 2010
What does three up and three down mean to you? – End of an Era
As I found myself ranting aloud to an uninterested crowd at Buffalo Wild Wings, I realized it was probably time to get this off my chest. I have long been a Yankee hater, but these days I’m dishing out my ire a little more carefully.
When I think of the Yankees, two modern players instantly come to mind. Perhaps the same two have miraculously popped into your head, one standing solemnly in a long line of Yankee greats, the other daintily bobbing his inflated head alongside Barry, Sammy and all that crowd.
From what I’ve seen, Derek Jeeter is a true baseball legend. Even a hater like me has to stop and appreciate his baseball prowess and apparent integrity. But he’s not why I’m writing today. It’s the other guy I can’t stand. Actually, it’s not so much him, but how he and his roid enhanced career is continually lauded by baseball’s media elite (if there truly is such a thing).
Tonight was the last straw. As A-Roid disappointed all onlookers by merely lacing a double into the right field corner instead of hitting his 600th career homerun, the MLB talking head couldn’t help himself. Out of his vacuous mind came something to the effect of, “Rodriguez does not yet take his place as the greatest ever . . .” It was too much. I was half screaming aloud in a crowded restaurant, all guise of sanity lost to the obvious truth that I was berating an unknown announcer through an aging television set. “He’s a cheater!!! There’s a reason he’s going to be the youngest player to reach 600 home runs . . . It’s because he was pumped full of roids!”
I cannot understand how the aforementioned media elite can continually view the ballooned statistics of this era’s equally ballooned players and somehow raise them upon a pedestal equaling or surpassing those who were truly great! Why is it that the goofballs at ESPN or MLB network can’t subdue their feigned ignorance and tell their audience some semblance of truth. Here’s a suggestion:
“With that double, A-Rod falls short of his next great achievement, what we all are waiting for, his 600th career homerun. Even in an era of inflated statistics, reaching the 600 homerun plateau is an astounding feat and deserves mention among baseball’s truly great.”
Is that minor admittance of wrongdoing too much to ask for? I find it much more reasonable than what I would truly like to hear:
“As A-Rod doubles down the right field line, he misses out on this opportunity to hit his 600th career homerun. Of course, we all know his statistics are ‘enhanced’ and although he would be a great ball player regardless, in a fair world we would be equally anticipating his 400th career homerun.”
So how does the average fan filter out all the garbage of the last 25 years? Who can we look at and say, “Wow, he was a great ball player, and he did it right!”? With the widespread impropriety, I find it hard to answer that. I am not naive enough to simply peruse the White Sox roster and declare them all decent, upstanding human beings. I take a look at players’ performances in years past and pass my judgment – so and so may have been a user. Yet among all the disappointment, I can still name a few players I hope and/or believe did it right. If Derek Jeeter truly has the respect for the game that he is lauded for, then I hope he’s done it right. Ken Griffey Junior is another player I hope did it right. With the most beautiful home run swing I have ever witnessed in my semi-young life, I cannot help but believe it was naught but God-given talent.
There is only one modern player that I have heard to be above reproach when performance enhancers are concerned. I have been told this player was disgusted enough to speak out against their use long before it was popular and that he was one of the few in MLB who willingly spoke to Congress. I was also lucky enough to grow up watching this player earn his place in history as he set new standards for White Sox prowess – Frank Thomas.
I can only hope that the next twenty five years bring with it an era of purity in the game of baseball. It’s not that I don’t want to see exceptional athletes performing amazing feats. It’s just that when my son sees the next player approaching his 600th career homerun, I hope he can celebrate the fact that the player is not some man-made behemoth, but rather a naturally occurring phenomenon of baseball beauty and grace.
When I think of the Yankees, two modern players instantly come to mind. Perhaps the same two have miraculously popped into your head, one standing solemnly in a long line of Yankee greats, the other daintily bobbing his inflated head alongside Barry, Sammy and all that crowd.
From what I’ve seen, Derek Jeeter is a true baseball legend. Even a hater like me has to stop and appreciate his baseball prowess and apparent integrity. But he’s not why I’m writing today. It’s the other guy I can’t stand. Actually, it’s not so much him, but how he and his roid enhanced career is continually lauded by baseball’s media elite (if there truly is such a thing).
Tonight was the last straw. As A-Roid disappointed all onlookers by merely lacing a double into the right field corner instead of hitting his 600th career homerun, the MLB talking head couldn’t help himself. Out of his vacuous mind came something to the effect of, “Rodriguez does not yet take his place as the greatest ever . . .” It was too much. I was half screaming aloud in a crowded restaurant, all guise of sanity lost to the obvious truth that I was berating an unknown announcer through an aging television set. “He’s a cheater!!! There’s a reason he’s going to be the youngest player to reach 600 home runs . . . It’s because he was pumped full of roids!”
I cannot understand how the aforementioned media elite can continually view the ballooned statistics of this era’s equally ballooned players and somehow raise them upon a pedestal equaling or surpassing those who were truly great! Why is it that the goofballs at ESPN or MLB network can’t subdue their feigned ignorance and tell their audience some semblance of truth. Here’s a suggestion:
“With that double, A-Rod falls short of his next great achievement, what we all are waiting for, his 600th career homerun. Even in an era of inflated statistics, reaching the 600 homerun plateau is an astounding feat and deserves mention among baseball’s truly great.”
Is that minor admittance of wrongdoing too much to ask for? I find it much more reasonable than what I would truly like to hear:
“As A-Rod doubles down the right field line, he misses out on this opportunity to hit his 600th career homerun. Of course, we all know his statistics are ‘enhanced’ and although he would be a great ball player regardless, in a fair world we would be equally anticipating his 400th career homerun.”
So how does the average fan filter out all the garbage of the last 25 years? Who can we look at and say, “Wow, he was a great ball player, and he did it right!”? With the widespread impropriety, I find it hard to answer that. I am not naive enough to simply peruse the White Sox roster and declare them all decent, upstanding human beings. I take a look at players’ performances in years past and pass my judgment – so and so may have been a user. Yet among all the disappointment, I can still name a few players I hope and/or believe did it right. If Derek Jeeter truly has the respect for the game that he is lauded for, then I hope he’s done it right. Ken Griffey Junior is another player I hope did it right. With the most beautiful home run swing I have ever witnessed in my semi-young life, I cannot help but believe it was naught but God-given talent.
There is only one modern player that I have heard to be above reproach when performance enhancers are concerned. I have been told this player was disgusted enough to speak out against their use long before it was popular and that he was one of the few in MLB who willingly spoke to Congress. I was also lucky enough to grow up watching this player earn his place in history as he set new standards for White Sox prowess – Frank Thomas.
I can only hope that the next twenty five years bring with it an era of purity in the game of baseball. It’s not that I don’t want to see exceptional athletes performing amazing feats. It’s just that when my son sees the next player approaching his 600th career homerun, I hope he can celebrate the fact that the player is not some man-made behemoth, but rather a naturally occurring phenomenon of baseball beauty and grace.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Go North, Young Man
“Daddy, we don’t eat poop. We don’t suck on dog poop!”
It was with this pearl of childhood wisdom that Andrew wrapped up our ten day tour of Minnesota. I’ve been scouring my brain for the last few days, trying to glean together an idea of where he may have heard that advice. Perhaps he was remembering our previous trip North, when a tenant of the Brookfield gorilla house entertained his audience by consuming that which should not be consumed. Perhaps it was something he heard while exploring Uncle Denny’s farm. Or perhaps this is just one piece of wisdom that every child eventually realizes . . . their little brain piecing together information. For your entertainment pleasure, I have recreated the thoughts leading up to this gem. I imagine it went something like this . . . I like suckers . . . suckers are from Chuck E. Cheese . . . I get to go there when I poo poo in the potty . . . there’s a big gorilla at Chuck E. Cheese . . . I saw a gorilla eat his poo poo . . . I like suckers . . . I like gorilla’s . . . . I like . . wait a minute . . . “Daddy, we don’t eat poop!!!”
It would be all too easy for that to be the only thing I remember from our trip. Fifteen years from now, it may be all that is left, but only two days removed I still recall enough to perhaps make an interesting blog.
We had two major events to go to in Minnesota; Mollie’s friend was getting married one Saturday in Eastern MN and her great-grandmother’s 90th birthday party was the next weekend in Southwestern MN (editor's remark: Mollie reminds me it was her grandmother and our children's great). With the road North being the longest part, there was only one logical thing to do . . . spend the included week perusing the rest of the state.
I have just decided that a play by play recount would likely bore even myself, so here’s the Cliff’s notes. Went to wedding – Congrats Shari, avoided tornados, went to Duluth, saw some guy jump out of a 60 foot tree into a small lake, went to a Twins game, saw a big salt-water fish tank, ate too many cookies at great-grandma’s, spent a night in South Dakota, again avoided tornados, went to birthday party, drove back to Illinois for another b-day party and to pick up Samwise Fingolfin 3 (the beagle dog), then home to Springfield.
While you are busy thanking me for not turning all that into six paragraphs, I shall continue with a few notables. Our trip home was kind of a play-it-by-ear adventure. We had thoughts of either meeting my parents on the road to pick up The Dog, or driving to their house and catching my cousin’s 12th(?) birthday party. Leaving Southwestern Minnesota at 8 PM, both options likely included stopping at a hotel along the way when the drive outlasted our eyes. But nine hours and over two liters of caffeine later, I was still driving and we were pulling into my parent’s driveway.
Apart from all that what to eat and what not to eat nonsense from earlier, I’m having a difficult time keeping this blog from sounding like an entry in my diary (not that I have a diary, but this is how I imagine people write in a diary – Dear diary, today I got my first tooth. Momma told me to . . . why am I writing from the point of view of someone who is writing as they get their first tooth . . . infants can’t keep a diary . . . . back to reality, please.) I was considering listing all the people we saw on our journey, the number is rather astonishing what with two birthday parties that served more like family reunions, but I think I have enough boring information crammed into this week’s blog. I mean, can you imagine reading what would essentially be a list of people you don’t know?
I guess that’s it for this week. Being only Tuesday, I have a slight hope that I’ll sit down tomorrow and revise what I wrote. However, if you currently find yourself bored and not even the slightest bit confused, then I found no further inspiration and you’ve been stuck with what I wrote today. Of course, you always have next week’s blog to look forward to. Next week’s topic promises to thrill and excite. The title will be based on a valuable life lesson I plan on teaching Andrew this week . . . “Don’t eat yellow snow.”
It was with this pearl of childhood wisdom that Andrew wrapped up our ten day tour of Minnesota. I’ve been scouring my brain for the last few days, trying to glean together an idea of where he may have heard that advice. Perhaps he was remembering our previous trip North, when a tenant of the Brookfield gorilla house entertained his audience by consuming that which should not be consumed. Perhaps it was something he heard while exploring Uncle Denny’s farm. Or perhaps this is just one piece of wisdom that every child eventually realizes . . . their little brain piecing together information. For your entertainment pleasure, I have recreated the thoughts leading up to this gem. I imagine it went something like this . . . I like suckers . . . suckers are from Chuck E. Cheese . . . I get to go there when I poo poo in the potty . . . there’s a big gorilla at Chuck E. Cheese . . . I saw a gorilla eat his poo poo . . . I like suckers . . . I like gorilla’s . . . . I like . . wait a minute . . . “Daddy, we don’t eat poop!!!”
It would be all too easy for that to be the only thing I remember from our trip. Fifteen years from now, it may be all that is left, but only two days removed I still recall enough to perhaps make an interesting blog.
We had two major events to go to in Minnesota; Mollie’s friend was getting married one Saturday in Eastern MN and her great-grandmother’s 90th birthday party was the next weekend in Southwestern MN (editor's remark: Mollie reminds me it was her grandmother and our children's great). With the road North being the longest part, there was only one logical thing to do . . . spend the included week perusing the rest of the state.
I have just decided that a play by play recount would likely bore even myself, so here’s the Cliff’s notes. Went to wedding – Congrats Shari, avoided tornados, went to Duluth, saw some guy jump out of a 60 foot tree into a small lake, went to a Twins game, saw a big salt-water fish tank, ate too many cookies at great-grandma’s, spent a night in South Dakota, again avoided tornados, went to birthday party, drove back to Illinois for another b-day party and to pick up Samwise Fingolfin 3 (the beagle dog), then home to Springfield.
While you are busy thanking me for not turning all that into six paragraphs, I shall continue with a few notables. Our trip home was kind of a play-it-by-ear adventure. We had thoughts of either meeting my parents on the road to pick up The Dog, or driving to their house and catching my cousin’s 12th(?) birthday party. Leaving Southwestern Minnesota at 8 PM, both options likely included stopping at a hotel along the way when the drive outlasted our eyes. But nine hours and over two liters of caffeine later, I was still driving and we were pulling into my parent’s driveway.
Apart from all that what to eat and what not to eat nonsense from earlier, I’m having a difficult time keeping this blog from sounding like an entry in my diary (not that I have a diary, but this is how I imagine people write in a diary – Dear diary, today I got my first tooth. Momma told me to . . . why am I writing from the point of view of someone who is writing as they get their first tooth . . . infants can’t keep a diary . . . . back to reality, please.) I was considering listing all the people we saw on our journey, the number is rather astonishing what with two birthday parties that served more like family reunions, but I think I have enough boring information crammed into this week’s blog. I mean, can you imagine reading what would essentially be a list of people you don’t know?
I guess that’s it for this week. Being only Tuesday, I have a slight hope that I’ll sit down tomorrow and revise what I wrote. However, if you currently find yourself bored and not even the slightest bit confused, then I found no further inspiration and you’ve been stuck with what I wrote today. Of course, you always have next week’s blog to look forward to. Next week’s topic promises to thrill and excite. The title will be based on a valuable life lesson I plan on teaching Andrew this week . . . “Don’t eat yellow snow.”
Thursday, July 22, 2010
It All Ads Up
Does anybody else hear that high, sharp whistling sound? That, and the steam pouring from my ears, signifies that an idea which has long been percolating in my brain is finally ready.
I like to think of myself as an educated man, one who is unruled by the powers that be. I feel I can separate myself from what the mainstream media demands of me and find my own way amongst the muddle of talking heads, TV shows and especially commercials.
You may remember one of my favorite blog postings in which I regaled my audience of the only documented case of me choosing to purchase a product I would otherwise be completely uninterested in merely out of respect for the content and delivery of the commercial itself. If it would please the court, I would like to submit another example, please let it be marked as State’s Evidence B.
This second case of a commercial finding use in my life was more a case of the commercials properly directing me to the product. Unlike most entertaining commercials, of which I tend to remember only the comedy, but not the content, I was able to find the website I sought only after I could call to mind the company’s recently used pitch. I sat staring blankly at my computer, my fingers resting undirected upon the keys. What address did I want? I could not remember. I knew the content I so desired, but the location was a wash. Then I remembered it, that one actor guy saying something about them being aliens and wanting to eat my brain . . . of course, I could watch old Simpsons episodes on Hulu!
All of this is a rather winded tie in to an idea that dates back to prehistoric times (i.e. before my 8 month writing hiatus). As I sed, I thunk I be edumacated. I believe I understand the purpose and often the hook, line and sinker that advertisements use. I watched my wife participate as host in a (whatever the new version of a Tupperware party is – the names have been changed to protect the innocent – and because I cannot currently remember) party. I read through some of the media that was provided to her and was not surprised, but rather amazed at the hooks they used to reel ‘em in . . .
Directions for a host.
Step 1: Make a list of some of the items you may be interested in, items you can ‘earn’ if your party sales are high enough!!!
Step 2: Now make a list of the people you think might be interested in the event.
Just like a car salesman, who allows you to personally take ownership of the car before committing any money through what they call a ‘test drive,’ the brochure encourages the host to begin filling their kitchen with goods before filling the seats. Having done this, many people can’t help but invite everybody they ever met – “Oh, I can ask them even though we only bumped into each other once on the subway . . . I really need that one thingey, why else would I have written it down.”
The biggest host hook of all was the final sinker:
Step 3: (I paraphrase) Now that your party was a success, you get a few things free . . . but wait, there’s more . . . you did so well that you can now have 2, no, 3 things at half price!!! What a great deal for you.
Who could resist such an offer? Half price is great. Of course, one will want to get the most benefit for such a great offer . . . I wonder what half of $538 is . . .
So here I finally pour out one last commercial insight, the one that first sparked my imagination. Again, I do not find myself surprised by the content, but rather marveling at the difference I have noticed.
Generic brands: they’re cheaper because they don’t advertise. I get it. That gives me two reasons to like them. But in the case of cereal, I have a third. ( I now find that all but one of the cereal boxes Pedro had been watching for me for the last 10+ months has since disappeared – hi-ho hi-ho it’s off to Google I go.) Take for example this Wheaties Box. What is the back of the box used for? Reminding you how great Wheaties is, of course . . . it’s an advertisement for itself. Take a look for yourself some day. Every major brand seems to use the back of its box as a way to advertise the product you’ve already bought. It seems they fear you might forget them!
But not the generic store brands. Those, especially the Aldi brands we buy, do not use their morning billboard to self-promote. Instead, they often use their tableside pulpit to simply entertain or even educate. The two boxes I have in front of me are of the educational variety. (I said only 1 survives, but I had a ‘spare’ in the cupboard. The best part of that one . . . computer-side snacks inside!) The first, a yellow box of Crispy Oats, a.k.a, poor man’s Cheerio’s (wow, Cheerio’s is in spell check. That’s a successful brand!), has a map of the world on it. Some of the countries are numbered and the reader is afforded the chance to match the countries to the images of flags pictured below the map.
The second box, an Aldi brand Honey Crunch ‘n Oats, has an even more impressive back. The effort spent in the creation appears to rival that of a well done high school poster-board report, though it likely took much less planning than the advertisement on the back of the Wheaties box. (By the by, Wheaties is not in spell check! What do you think of that?) The back of this box recounts the adventures of Lewis and Clark as they explored and mapped the Louisiana Territory. Did you know that “Lewis kept a daily journal in which he collected and preserved hundreds of plants, flowers, seeds and cuttings, which became an important contribution to the scientific community for years to come?” The box even goes on to suggest starting your own ‘nature journal.’
So there it is, the oldest remaining, previously unblogged about idea I have. Do you find it odd that I should write about such a trivial concept, or do others find entertainment in similarly mundane parts of their world? I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have to go. I have to finish reading about Sacagawea and see how many country flags I remember.
By the by, I was wrong. The map is matching the country flag and name to the map. I got 26 out of 30 correct, having mixed up Columbia and Venezuela as well as Chad and Algeria. I also mislabeled Spain as France, but quickly caught my mistake. (Yikes, I just crossed into page 2 . . . you still here??? If so, thanks!)
I like to think of myself as an educated man, one who is unruled by the powers that be. I feel I can separate myself from what the mainstream media demands of me and find my own way amongst the muddle of talking heads, TV shows and especially commercials.
You may remember one of my favorite blog postings in which I regaled my audience of the only documented case of me choosing to purchase a product I would otherwise be completely uninterested in merely out of respect for the content and delivery of the commercial itself. If it would please the court, I would like to submit another example, please let it be marked as State’s Evidence B.
This second case of a commercial finding use in my life was more a case of the commercials properly directing me to the product. Unlike most entertaining commercials, of which I tend to remember only the comedy, but not the content, I was able to find the website I sought only after I could call to mind the company’s recently used pitch. I sat staring blankly at my computer, my fingers resting undirected upon the keys. What address did I want? I could not remember. I knew the content I so desired, but the location was a wash. Then I remembered it, that one actor guy saying something about them being aliens and wanting to eat my brain . . . of course, I could watch old Simpsons episodes on Hulu!
All of this is a rather winded tie in to an idea that dates back to prehistoric times (i.e. before my 8 month writing hiatus). As I sed, I thunk I be edumacated. I believe I understand the purpose and often the hook, line and sinker that advertisements use. I watched my wife participate as host in a (whatever the new version of a Tupperware party is – the names have been changed to protect the innocent – and because I cannot currently remember) party. I read through some of the media that was provided to her and was not surprised, but rather amazed at the hooks they used to reel ‘em in . . .
Directions for a host.
Step 1: Make a list of some of the items you may be interested in, items you can ‘earn’ if your party sales are high enough!!!
Step 2: Now make a list of the people you think might be interested in the event.
Just like a car salesman, who allows you to personally take ownership of the car before committing any money through what they call a ‘test drive,’ the brochure encourages the host to begin filling their kitchen with goods before filling the seats. Having done this, many people can’t help but invite everybody they ever met – “Oh, I can ask them even though we only bumped into each other once on the subway . . . I really need that one thingey, why else would I have written it down.”
The biggest host hook of all was the final sinker:
Step 3: (I paraphrase) Now that your party was a success, you get a few things free . . . but wait, there’s more . . . you did so well that you can now have 2, no, 3 things at half price!!! What a great deal for you.
Who could resist such an offer? Half price is great. Of course, one will want to get the most benefit for such a great offer . . . I wonder what half of $538 is . . .
So here I finally pour out one last commercial insight, the one that first sparked my imagination. Again, I do not find myself surprised by the content, but rather marveling at the difference I have noticed.
Generic brands: they’re cheaper because they don’t advertise. I get it. That gives me two reasons to like them. But in the case of cereal, I have a third. ( I now find that all but one of the cereal boxes Pedro had been watching for me for the last 10+ months has since disappeared – hi-ho hi-ho it’s off to Google I go.) Take for example this Wheaties Box. What is the back of the box used for? Reminding you how great Wheaties is, of course . . . it’s an advertisement for itself. Take a look for yourself some day. Every major brand seems to use the back of its box as a way to advertise the product you’ve already bought. It seems they fear you might forget them!
But not the generic store brands. Those, especially the Aldi brands we buy, do not use their morning billboard to self-promote. Instead, they often use their tableside pulpit to simply entertain or even educate. The two boxes I have in front of me are of the educational variety. (I said only 1 survives, but I had a ‘spare’ in the cupboard. The best part of that one . . . computer-side snacks inside!) The first, a yellow box of Crispy Oats, a.k.a, poor man’s Cheerio’s (wow, Cheerio’s is in spell check. That’s a successful brand!), has a map of the world on it. Some of the countries are numbered and the reader is afforded the chance to match the countries to the images of flags pictured below the map.
The second box, an Aldi brand Honey Crunch ‘n Oats, has an even more impressive back. The effort spent in the creation appears to rival that of a well done high school poster-board report, though it likely took much less planning than the advertisement on the back of the Wheaties box. (By the by, Wheaties is not in spell check! What do you think of that?) The back of this box recounts the adventures of Lewis and Clark as they explored and mapped the Louisiana Territory. Did you know that “Lewis kept a daily journal in which he collected and preserved hundreds of plants, flowers, seeds and cuttings, which became an important contribution to the scientific community for years to come?” The box even goes on to suggest starting your own ‘nature journal.’
So there it is, the oldest remaining, previously unblogged about idea I have. Do you find it odd that I should write about such a trivial concept, or do others find entertainment in similarly mundane parts of their world? I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have to go. I have to finish reading about Sacagawea and see how many country flags I remember.
By the by, I was wrong. The map is matching the country flag and name to the map. I got 26 out of 30 correct, having mixed up Columbia and Venezuela as well as Chad and Algeria. I also mislabeled Spain as France, but quickly caught my mistake. (Yikes, I just crossed into page 2 . . . you still here??? If so, thanks!)
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