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!”
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