you sing do snigger
her understand do stovepipe
But comb it inaccurate
was ask to ornament epicentre
of other people's actions. Their
enhance your masculity
Not take he proposition caftan
As teach in tearoom numbskull
fiasco What's not to cherish in a fancy
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Friday, December 30, 2005
More Christmas Pics
Some pics from David and Margaret Adams' house.
Here, you can see the true nature of their cat, Ripley:
The Adams' other cat, Bob:
Dave & Coop:
Margaret & Savvi:
Everybody but me. (Pout.)
Here, you can see the true nature of their cat, Ripley:
The Adams' other cat, Bob:
Dave & Coop:
Margaret & Savvi:
Everybody but me. (Pout.)
Christmas pics
Sorry for the lack of posts over the last few days. I finally caught the cold that Kelli and Savannah had prior to Christmas. I've gotten over it now, but Cooper is taking his turn. I would rather I had stayed sick than see him feeling so poorly.
Here are some photos from Christmas:
Playing Santa:
A hug for Daddy:
Savvi with her new Leapster L-max:
Beautiful even when she blinks:
Smirking Lil' Santa:
Savannah and her Papa INSIDE her new Barbie castle:
Cooper and his Paw-paw recuperating from the big day:
Savannah and Cooper at the Curtis family Christmas party (Kelli's extended family:)
Our two beautiful children:
Megan Greer with Cooper:
Here are some photos from Christmas:
Playing Santa:
A hug for Daddy:
Savvi with her new Leapster L-max:
Beautiful even when she blinks:
Smirking Lil' Santa:
Savannah and her Papa INSIDE her new Barbie castle:
Cooper and his Paw-paw recuperating from the big day:
Savannah and Cooper at the Curtis family Christmas party (Kelli's extended family:)
Our two beautiful children:
Megan Greer with Cooper:
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
More Adventures in the Mind of a Four-Year-Old
Savannah has thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas season this year. Santa and her family loaded her up with gifts, some so large, we're going to rearrange her bedroom to get them in. On Christmas morning, she was careful to learn who had given her each gift, so that she could give them a hug before opening it.
We spent most of the 26th on the road to the sprawling metropolis of Luverne, Alabama. There we gathered with Kelli's extended family for a little feast and a round of Dirty Santa. I left with a fishing pole and Kelli with a basket of bath goodies. (She had her mitts on some Altec Lansing computer speakers and a DVD of "Cinderella Man," but lost them both. We were the mean people who contributed lame gifts -- a Waterpik flosser and a nose/ear hair trimmer. I told everyone the latter had only been used once -- on my bikini area.
Savannah had a blast playing with her cousins. She was completely exhausted by the time we hit the road for home. That, combined with no nap, made for an interesting drive. Sitting in the back, playing with her new Leapster L-Max (think PSP for the pre-school set,) she would get very frustrated with herself whenever she made a mistake. That frustration led to a round of sweeping proclamations: "this thing is making me mad, and when I get home, I'm going to right to bed with my shoes on and I'm never getting up ever again!"
While watching "March of the Penguins," she inexplicably lashed out at Morgan Freeman's narration about the pairing up of male and female Emperor penguins at the bottom of the world: "I don't like this movie. It's not for girls. It's for boys. It has males and females in it. And when I get home, I'm going to get up tomorrow and I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all my stuff because it's not good for me." Kelli and I, of course, laughed. You try not laughing at a diatribe that begins with concerns about the appropriateness of male and female penguins for viewing by little girls and ends with plans for a massive rummage sale.
Our amusement only brought on more ire: "It's not funny!"
"What's not funny, Savannah?"
"When I say I'm going to sell everything, it's not funny!"
"But the way you said it was funny."
"Well, when I get home, I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all of your stuff, because you're being mean to me!"
Kelli managed to salvage her things, but mine were apparently headed for the auction block. Soon thereafter, she finally dozed off. The key was getting her to shut her trap long enough to fall asleep -- no small feat.
Last night, Savannah and my mom were putting together puzzles on the kitchen table. My dad entered and made a comment about them not knowing what they were doing. Without missing a beat, Savannah snapped back, "I don't know how you can call yourself a Paw-Paw." I don't know how long she had been waiting to use that little gem, but am I glad she did! Now if we can just find a way to channel all this creativity and word play into a lifelong passion, we'll have gone a long way toward being the parents we've always wanted to be. The reality, of course, is that we will probably screw these kids up along the way. At least they'll get their money's worth out of their therapy.
We spent most of the 26th on the road to the sprawling metropolis of Luverne, Alabama. There we gathered with Kelli's extended family for a little feast and a round of Dirty Santa. I left with a fishing pole and Kelli with a basket of bath goodies. (She had her mitts on some Altec Lansing computer speakers and a DVD of "Cinderella Man," but lost them both. We were the mean people who contributed lame gifts -- a Waterpik flosser and a nose/ear hair trimmer. I told everyone the latter had only been used once -- on my bikini area.
Savannah had a blast playing with her cousins. She was completely exhausted by the time we hit the road for home. That, combined with no nap, made for an interesting drive. Sitting in the back, playing with her new Leapster L-Max (think PSP for the pre-school set,) she would get very frustrated with herself whenever she made a mistake. That frustration led to a round of sweeping proclamations: "this thing is making me mad, and when I get home, I'm going to right to bed with my shoes on and I'm never getting up ever again!"
While watching "March of the Penguins," she inexplicably lashed out at Morgan Freeman's narration about the pairing up of male and female Emperor penguins at the bottom of the world: "I don't like this movie. It's not for girls. It's for boys. It has males and females in it. And when I get home, I'm going to get up tomorrow and I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all my stuff because it's not good for me." Kelli and I, of course, laughed. You try not laughing at a diatribe that begins with concerns about the appropriateness of male and female penguins for viewing by little girls and ends with plans for a massive rummage sale.
Our amusement only brought on more ire: "It's not funny!"
"What's not funny, Savannah?"
"When I say I'm going to sell everything, it's not funny!"
"But the way you said it was funny."
"Well, when I get home, I'm going to have a yard sale and I'm going to sell all of your stuff, because you're being mean to me!"
Kelli managed to salvage her things, but mine were apparently headed for the auction block. Soon thereafter, she finally dozed off. The key was getting her to shut her trap long enough to fall asleep -- no small feat.
Last night, Savannah and my mom were putting together puzzles on the kitchen table. My dad entered and made a comment about them not knowing what they were doing. Without missing a beat, Savannah snapped back, "I don't know how you can call yourself a Paw-Paw." I don't know how long she had been waiting to use that little gem, but am I glad she did! Now if we can just find a way to channel all this creativity and word play into a lifelong passion, we'll have gone a long way toward being the parents we've always wanted to be. The reality, of course, is that we will probably screw these kids up along the way. At least they'll get their money's worth out of their therapy.
Haiku, take 4!
rarely lend
Go fall to ascription
you make a redcoat dottle
annul impunity
But believe an interpretation channel
I study do bookseller
Go fall to ascription
you make a redcoat dottle
annul impunity
But believe an interpretation channel
I study do bookseller
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Spam Title Haiku, take 3
This one's actually 5-7-5 Haiku!
As spell is velar
As live in disciple douche
peeling underpin
Re: lush hooper
Of read do evince undercoat
In put to lucerne
And this little gem was attached as a postscript to a piece of spam:
sometimes: it kilogramme would not be well to have any uncertainty at the
weekend about the safe transmission
pause. It exposure phonetic consisted of upward of five hundred individuals
"I thought of my uncles; and as tongue bachelor I was engaged in wondering
whether Edward's
As spell is velar
As live in disciple douche
peeling underpin
Re: lush hooper
Of read do evince undercoat
In put to lucerne
And this little gem was attached as a postscript to a piece of spam:
sometimes: it kilogramme would not be well to have any uncertainty at the
weekend about the safe transmission
pause. It exposure phonetic consisted of upward of five hundred individuals
"I thought of my uncles; and as tongue bachelor I was engaged in wondering
whether Edward's
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Spam Title Haiku, take 2
I left the "Re:" intact on these, because they are designed to make me think it's in response to my original message. Now, I'm not sure why I would send a message entitled "stinging casual" to Pacey Cho, but I must have -- there's a Re: in front of it.
Re: referable collectivity
Re: in fix an stocky
Re: stinging casual
I wait be sop
unsympathetic radium
are permanent.
Many former football
As spend on
irremovable sec
Re: referable collectivity
Re: in fix an stocky
Re: stinging casual
I wait be sop
unsympathetic radium
are permanent.
Many former football
As spend on
irremovable sec
Merry Christmas!
I hope, first of all, that all of you have better things to do than read this blog today. But just in case, I want to wish you all a very Merry Christmas! If you haven't paid attention during "A Charlie Brown Christmas" as Linus explains the true meaning of Christmas, I encourage you to go back and give it a listen.
Faith in Christ can be a transformative experience, even when you aren't expecting it. I am being changed every day in great and subtle ways, thanks to the Grace of God. Any of you who read this blog know I need it!
My prayer for all of you is that you would experience that Grace for yourselves. Peace.
-Wayne-
Faith in Christ can be a transformative experience, even when you aren't expecting it. I am being changed every day in great and subtle ways, thanks to the Grace of God. Any of you who read this blog know I need it!
My prayer for all of you is that you would experience that Grace for yourselves. Peace.
-Wayne-
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Spam Title Haiku
Lately, we've been inundated with spam e-mails with bizarre titles. These are designed to get past word-based spam filters, while still vaguely resembling the English language. The results are nothing short of absurd.
It's a shame to waste these, so we've decided to celebrate them with a new feature here on the Stone Bridge: Spam Title Haiku.
True, it doesn't fit the strictest definition of Haiku, but you get the idea. Each line is an actual subject heading from a spam message we've received.
Here are our first two entries:
include lunch, but more times than
To cough a stipulation regular
you complain as fulfilment
A study as procrastinate
Have ask to soporific
As go a suburban
It's a shame to waste these, so we've decided to celebrate them with a new feature here on the Stone Bridge: Spam Title Haiku.
True, it doesn't fit the strictest definition of Haiku, but you get the idea. Each line is an actual subject heading from a spam message we've received.
Here are our first two entries:
include lunch, but more times than
To cough a stipulation regular
you complain as fulfilment
A study as procrastinate
Have ask to soporific
As go a suburban
Christmas card
I know most of you got one of these, either in hardcopy or via e-mail, but I adore my kids, so here's our Christmas card (again):
That's the real Winter Claus in there, by the way. Wait, I've just been informed that the Claus in Winter Claus is still a derivation of the Catholic Saint Nicholas. Therefore, he shall now be known as the Holiday Gift Distributor, or the HGD, if you prefer.
Other updates: He does not wear fur on his jacket, that is purely synthetic. Upon advice of counsel, he will no longer allow children to sit in his lap to present their gift wishes. Nor will he accept hand-written letters out of concern for deforestation. (An exception will be made for letters written on papers made of at least 80% post-consumer material. The preferred method of filing one's request will be via e-mail or the convenient web form (sponsored by the Home Depot) on his new website, www.hebethehgd.com.
The so-called "naughty and nice" list has been appropriately renamed to reflect the complex psychological roots of child behavior as the "acting out due to deep emotional wounds inflicted in infancy or early childhood and simply in denial" list. It may not work in a song, but poet Maya Angelou has been commissioned to squeeze it into a Haiku.
Happy Solstice everybody!
That's the real Winter Claus in there, by the way. Wait, I've just been informed that the Claus in Winter Claus is still a derivation of the Catholic Saint Nicholas. Therefore, he shall now be known as the Holiday Gift Distributor, or the HGD, if you prefer.
Other updates: He does not wear fur on his jacket, that is purely synthetic. Upon advice of counsel, he will no longer allow children to sit in his lap to present their gift wishes. Nor will he accept hand-written letters out of concern for deforestation. (An exception will be made for letters written on papers made of at least 80% post-consumer material. The preferred method of filing one's request will be via e-mail or the convenient web form (sponsored by the Home Depot) on his new website, www.hebethehgd.com.
The so-called "naughty and nice" list has been appropriately renamed to reflect the complex psychological roots of child behavior as the "acting out due to deep emotional wounds inflicted in infancy or early childhood and simply in denial" list. It may not work in a song, but poet Maya Angelou has been commissioned to squeeze it into a Haiku.
Happy Solstice everybody!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Christmas Advice for Parents
Savannah's to the age now that she tries to sneak a peek at her presents. I told her every time she peeks, a reindeer dies. I don't know if she bought it, but I haven't seen her within a yard of the tree since then.
Happy Holidays, or whatever...
I just read that, in response to the Wal-Mart "Happy Holidays" flap, Jon Stewart said on The Daily Show that "every time you say Happy Holidays, and angel gets AIDS." Brilliant.
What an interesting Christma-, I mean, holiday season this has been. I don't see a problem with saying Happy Holidays as opposed to Merry Christmas -- many of us have done that for years. I always figured it encompassed the whole season from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Plus, you never know if the person to whom you are speaking is Jewish or not. Okay, if someone has a bowl cut and a little mutton chop mustache and they walk around goose-stepping with a copy of Mein Kampf under one arm, chances are they aren't going to bum matches off you to light up the menorah. On the other hand, a guy named Moishe Feingold who owns a wholesale diamond concern isn't likely to know the lyrics to "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Otherwise, play it safe.
The rub comes with businesses that have banned the word Christmas while being careful to include Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. (For those who still cling to the ancient Roman holiday of Saturnalia, you'd best subscribe to HBO, because that's the only place you're going to get some love.) I heard it suggested that if the Christmas tree must become a Holiday tree, then the menorah should become a Holiday candelabra. I like it.
Carrying the PC trend to the extreme, we must then rename every potentially offensive or exclusive holiday tradition. The dreidel becomes the "solstice spinner." Yule logs, mistletoe and lights on trees should be banned altogether due to their connections to the traditions of the Druids. (Just don't bring it up to your Druish friends. You know how those Drus are.)
Christmas stockings become celebratory decorative archaic footwear. Wreaths should be used only to show solidarity with Martha Stewart. But you have to make it yourself!
Even Santa Claus suggests a Catholic origin, so Winter Claus would be more appropriate. Some might suggest the use of SC's alter-ego, Kris Kringle. But it is derived from the German Krist Kindle, or Christ Child. That's more overtly Christian than the word Christmas itself. I should be sued by the ACLU for even typing it!
I wonder how many of these "issues" would even be discussed if it weren't the era of 24-hour cable news... If the fundamentalists ever wake up to the fact that these networks are using their self-righteous indignation against them, they'll probably lighten up and start treating people with the same love and grace that Jesus personified. And that, friends, is what we call sarcasm. Actually, they'll just start their own CNN -- Christian News Network. I can see the bumper stickers now: God is my co-anchor.
Speaking of which, why haven't I seen "God is my wingman" yet? It's out there. You know it is.
Would it be so bad if we all just said our greeting of choice? I say Merry Christmas. You reply with Happy Kwanzaa. It's practically Han and Chewie, and that has to be good. And big retailers like Wal-Mart need to be honest with their greetings as well. Instead of Happy Holidays, their banners should read, "Celebrate your consumerism -- buy needless crap under the guise of religious observation." Okay, so it would look terrible on a banner, but Wal-Mart is not exactly known for their chic.
What an interesting Christma-, I mean, holiday season this has been. I don't see a problem with saying Happy Holidays as opposed to Merry Christmas -- many of us have done that for years. I always figured it encompassed the whole season from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Plus, you never know if the person to whom you are speaking is Jewish or not. Okay, if someone has a bowl cut and a little mutton chop mustache and they walk around goose-stepping with a copy of Mein Kampf under one arm, chances are they aren't going to bum matches off you to light up the menorah. On the other hand, a guy named Moishe Feingold who owns a wholesale diamond concern isn't likely to know the lyrics to "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Otherwise, play it safe.
The rub comes with businesses that have banned the word Christmas while being careful to include Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. (For those who still cling to the ancient Roman holiday of Saturnalia, you'd best subscribe to HBO, because that's the only place you're going to get some love.) I heard it suggested that if the Christmas tree must become a Holiday tree, then the menorah should become a Holiday candelabra. I like it.
Carrying the PC trend to the extreme, we must then rename every potentially offensive or exclusive holiday tradition. The dreidel becomes the "solstice spinner." Yule logs, mistletoe and lights on trees should be banned altogether due to their connections to the traditions of the Druids. (Just don't bring it up to your Druish friends. You know how those Drus are.)
Christmas stockings become celebratory decorative archaic footwear. Wreaths should be used only to show solidarity with Martha Stewart. But you have to make it yourself!
Even Santa Claus suggests a Catholic origin, so Winter Claus would be more appropriate. Some might suggest the use of SC's alter-ego, Kris Kringle. But it is derived from the German Krist Kindle, or Christ Child. That's more overtly Christian than the word Christmas itself. I should be sued by the ACLU for even typing it!
I wonder how many of these "issues" would even be discussed if it weren't the era of 24-hour cable news... If the fundamentalists ever wake up to the fact that these networks are using their self-righteous indignation against them, they'll probably lighten up and start treating people with the same love and grace that Jesus personified. And that, friends, is what we call sarcasm. Actually, they'll just start their own CNN -- Christian News Network. I can see the bumper stickers now: God is my co-anchor.
Speaking of which, why haven't I seen "God is my wingman" yet? It's out there. You know it is.
Would it be so bad if we all just said our greeting of choice? I say Merry Christmas. You reply with Happy Kwanzaa. It's practically Han and Chewie, and that has to be good. And big retailers like Wal-Mart need to be honest with their greetings as well. Instead of Happy Holidays, their banners should read, "Celebrate your consumerism -- buy needless crap under the guise of religious observation." Okay, so it would look terrible on a banner, but Wal-Mart is not exactly known for their chic.
Vital Stats
Cooper went in for his 2-month check up today. He's extremely healthy, and as previously mentioned -- big.
He's now 24 inches long and weighs 12 lbs, 10 oz. For comparison, Savannah weighed 12 lbs, 8 oz at four months. We've started working on his recruiting tapes for all the major football programs.
He is in the 95th percentile for height, 80th for weight and 50th for head size, which means that he's not as much of a hippo head as his old man. That also means that half of you are raising some seriously hydrocephalic babies.
He's now 24 inches long and weighs 12 lbs, 10 oz. For comparison, Savannah weighed 12 lbs, 8 oz at four months. We've started working on his recruiting tapes for all the major football programs.
He is in the 95th percentile for height, 80th for weight and 50th for head size, which means that he's not as much of a hippo head as his old man. That also means that half of you are raising some seriously hydrocephalic babies.
Monday, December 19, 2005
SNL Funny Again!
For the first time in I don't know when, I watched most of an episode of Saturday Night Live last weekend. And I actually laughed! Since Will Ferrell left a few years ago, the show had been left with the feeling of a high school skit. The cast members didn't sell their performances, they looked as if they didn't rehearse at all, they were so focused on the cue cards that they didn't bother making eye contact with the other actors in the sketches and the writing was terrible. Still there are lingering bits of all those symptoms, but the show was very funny.
Jack Black hosted, which made a difference. There was a great music video featuring two of the cast members doing a hard core rap about going to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." There were a handful of brilliant moments in the Christmas edition of what is a new regular sketch, "Appalachian Emergency Room." In true SNL fashion, one of the real gems of the show was buried right at the end. Suffice it to say this is the funniest Spelling Bee you'll ever see.
Jack Black hosted, which made a difference. There was a great music video featuring two of the cast members doing a hard core rap about going to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." There were a handful of brilliant moments in the Christmas edition of what is a new regular sketch, "Appalachian Emergency Room." In true SNL fashion, one of the real gems of the show was buried right at the end. Suffice it to say this is the funniest Spelling Bee you'll ever see.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Those People and the Missing Irony Gene, Pt II
In the previous post, I explained how we, the Franklins, almost became "those people" by taking our baby to the movies. In writing that post, I was reminded of a verbal shorthand that my friend, David Adams, and I have. It's the kind of ironic joking that, if overheard by someone who didn't know us, would sound an awful lot like intolerance. And even some people who know us would think the same.
That's the problem with being ironic -- there's always a large part of any audience that doesn't get. It's the very nature of irony. Before we go any further, let's be sure to define irony because there's a lot of confusion on this topic. Here are the definitions from dictionary.com:
First of all, notice there is no mention of coincidence being a form of irony. So when you meet two people named Jesus on the same day, it's not ironic -- not even if it's on Christmas. Meet a guy named Jesus who allows you to die for his own benefit, now that's irony.
In this case, the definition that's of most import is 1.c: A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.
When David and I are working or hanging out together, we often slip -- perhaps too easily -- into a style of discourse that is rarely not ironic. More often than not, the irony is a parody of racist, intolerant people. We'll use phrases like,"we ARE talking about THOSE people, afterall" and "you know how they are." The topic doesn't even have to be race. We could be talking about librarians or chipmunks or Armenian racecar drivers. But we have to be careful.
Unless you've been living under a rock, you know the world has been beset by a social plague known as political correctness for more than a decade now. In some cases, I think PC can be a good thing. Anybody with a brain knows that the N-word is cruel and inflammatory. Referring to your female co-workers as "dames," "broads" or "skirts" is a really bad idea. No one should be referred to as a "gimp" or a "mongoloid," even if they are from Mongolia. But a little PC goes a long way. The problem is we don't have just a little PC anymore -- it's choking our verbal and literary discourse to death.
Now, I was quick to embrace "African American." It seemed a reasonable phrase at the time, but it raises a lot of issues. What if the person you are talking about is from another country? Are they African Briton? African French? African South African? And now, the new PC term is "people of color." Kelli and I have spent years reproving our parents for saying "colored people." How in the world am I supposed to explain the difference? Many people have chosen to stick with the tried and true "black people." You and I both know that most people of African descent are not actually black, but I'm not actually white either. But you don't hear me clamoring to be called a "sickly pallid American" do you?
The other problem with irony is that there are far too many people who were born without the irony gene. I know there's no evidence of the irony gene in the Human Genome Project, but that's probably due to the fact that a bunch of humorless scientists ran the project and likely studied their own DNA. Try this as an experiment: go to dinner with a bunch of scientists and then say something like, "we can fake sending man to the moon, but we can't find a way to make a decent cup of coffee." Rather than smirks or chuckles, you'll probably get a table load of socially inept frowns. Then they'll no longer talk to you, but around you the way people awkwardly talk around the handi-capable or the height disadvantaged.
Speaking of which, you tell me which term is more demeaning: midget or little person? I think if I were of short stature and someone called me a "little person," I might have to... I don't know, whatever midgets do to kick some ass.
Those of us with the irony gene have a responsibility to use it, but to do so thoughtfully. In fact, I think we should all agree to only speak ironically around those who we know will understand it, out of sensitivity for those who are irony-challenged. And if you believe that last sentence, I think you have a gap in your genome.
That's the problem with being ironic -- there's always a large part of any audience that doesn't get. It's the very nature of irony. Before we go any further, let's be sure to define irony because there's a lot of confusion on this topic. Here are the definitions from dictionary.com:
1.a. The use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.
b. An expression or utterance marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning.
c. A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.
2.a. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs: “Hyde noted the irony of Ireland's copying the nation she most hated” (Richard Kain).
b. An occurrence, result, or circumstance notable for such incongruity. See Usage Note at ironic.
3. Dramatic irony.
4. Socratic irony.
First of all, notice there is no mention of coincidence being a form of irony. So when you meet two people named Jesus on the same day, it's not ironic -- not even if it's on Christmas. Meet a guy named Jesus who allows you to die for his own benefit, now that's irony.
In this case, the definition that's of most import is 1.c: A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.
When David and I are working or hanging out together, we often slip -- perhaps too easily -- into a style of discourse that is rarely not ironic. More often than not, the irony is a parody of racist, intolerant people. We'll use phrases like,"we ARE talking about THOSE people, afterall" and "you know how they are." The topic doesn't even have to be race. We could be talking about librarians or chipmunks or Armenian racecar drivers. But we have to be careful.
Unless you've been living under a rock, you know the world has been beset by a social plague known as political correctness for more than a decade now. In some cases, I think PC can be a good thing. Anybody with a brain knows that the N-word is cruel and inflammatory. Referring to your female co-workers as "dames," "broads" or "skirts" is a really bad idea. No one should be referred to as a "gimp" or a "mongoloid," even if they are from Mongolia. But a little PC goes a long way. The problem is we don't have just a little PC anymore -- it's choking our verbal and literary discourse to death.
Now, I was quick to embrace "African American." It seemed a reasonable phrase at the time, but it raises a lot of issues. What if the person you are talking about is from another country? Are they African Briton? African French? African South African? And now, the new PC term is "people of color." Kelli and I have spent years reproving our parents for saying "colored people." How in the world am I supposed to explain the difference? Many people have chosen to stick with the tried and true "black people." You and I both know that most people of African descent are not actually black, but I'm not actually white either. But you don't hear me clamoring to be called a "sickly pallid American" do you?
The other problem with irony is that there are far too many people who were born without the irony gene. I know there's no evidence of the irony gene in the Human Genome Project, but that's probably due to the fact that a bunch of humorless scientists ran the project and likely studied their own DNA. Try this as an experiment: go to dinner with a bunch of scientists and then say something like, "we can fake sending man to the moon, but we can't find a way to make a decent cup of coffee." Rather than smirks or chuckles, you'll probably get a table load of socially inept frowns. Then they'll no longer talk to you, but around you the way people awkwardly talk around the handi-capable or the height disadvantaged.
Speaking of which, you tell me which term is more demeaning: midget or little person? I think if I were of short stature and someone called me a "little person," I might have to... I don't know, whatever midgets do to kick some ass.
Those of us with the irony gene have a responsibility to use it, but to do so thoughtfully. In fact, I think we should all agree to only speak ironically around those who we know will understand it, out of sensitivity for those who are irony-challenged. And if you believe that last sentence, I think you have a gap in your genome.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Those People and the Missing Irony Gene, part I
On Friday, Kel and I took the kids to see "The Chronicles of Narnia." (Sorry for the quotes, but my browser won't let me italicize.) That's right, I said KIDS plural. We were dangerously close to being those people. You know the people I mean -- the ones who show up to Spiderman 2 with a three-year-old in tow. "Hey, little Johnny! How'd you like it when that mean man's robot arms dragged that screaming lady across the floor, and her fingernails dug grooves in the linoleum? I bet Dora the Explorer can't do that." And in 20 years, little Johnny's parents will wonder why he's sitting on death row for slaughtering nurses across a six-state area.
Then there are the parents who show up to Star Wars Episode I with their newborn. Still wonder exactly who or what the Phantom Menace is? It's that baby! He starts screaming about the time Jake Lloyd first appears on screen. Then Jake Lloyd tries to act. I start screaming. The baby keeps screaming throughout the rest of the film. His parents take turns trying to feed him, rock him -- nothing works.
Then they finally get smart. The dad picks the baby up and heads for the exit. Whew. That only took about an hour for them to figure out. But wait! He's not leaving! He's just walking a path along the landing between the stadium seats and steerage down in front -- just pacing back and forth trying to calm the baby down... In front of everyone! Thanks, buddy. I could almost ignore your scream box when it was confined to one spot in the theater, but now you have successfully pulled me and everyone else here out of the movie. In retrospect, I guess I should have thanked him, but still, it's the principal of the thing.
I remember back in the day there would be a moment in the exhibitor trailer (you know the badly animated preview where the stars in the sky pop like corn and the milky way turns into, well, a Milky Way just before the theatre chain's logo comes surfing in on a bitchin' wave of Coca-Cola products) when we were all reminded that "crying babies should be taken outside." I always thought that was a rather obvious point, and I resented the theatre chain for talking down to me that way. And for making me sit through their inane, four-minute candy and light show. Apparently, that point was not obvious, and no one should ever rely on the common sense of the American public. But I am not like those people. I remember.
So there we were on Friday. Kelli and Savannah to my left and Cooper, with his baby carrier balanced between two armrests, to my right. We were officially white trash. We got there really early so we could settle in ahead of everyone else. It was a midday showing, so we were hoping to avoid a crowd. We fed Cooper and changed his diaper, hoping to provide him with maximum comfort. After all, Cooper is most concerned with his comfort. He was relaxed and quiet. So far, so good. And besides, if he started to cry, I knew exactly what to do -- hand him to Kelli and tell her to take his butt outside.
The crowd started to show. Two by two they came like an all-human Noah's ark. There were two comfortably well-off retirees, two goth nerds, two middle income parents with their two little girls, two uptight fundamentalists, two more uptight fundamentalists, two teenagers -- hey, wait, this is a school day! -- two apparently home-schooled teenagers, then. And each one, to a person, looked at us as if we had killed Jesus, shot Reagan and canceled "Touched by an Angel." (You see, they were mostly Christians. That is if you believe the media hype. I don't, but it is a funny image. Oh come on, do I have to draw you a diagram? Sheesh!)
As the theatre was approaching 75% capacity, a projector bloomed to life and we learned that the cheesy trivia/commercial/billboard still-frame slideshow had been replaced with a full-motion digital trivia/commercial/billboard slideshow -- still cheesy. But now there are goofy cartoons in between the ads. I love goofy cartoons! Cooper was calm. There were goofy cartoons and all the fundies in the theatre were restrained from killing us only because of their behaviorialist hang-ups. All was right with the world.
Then the trailers started. And so did Cooper. Crap! He still doesn't cry very loud, but his impeccable timing means that his whining and grunting our loudest in the quiet spaces of the trailers. Hell! Crap! What am I going to do? I read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" to Savannah over the summer, and we've been looking forward to this all year. He's getting louder. Crap! Hell! Crap! Maybe he's hungry again. I try to give him the little bit of formula left in his bottle. He rejects it. Hell! Hell! Crappity Crap! I have to send Kelli out to check his diaper. But I can't make Kelli leave. She has all the candy. Crap! Bugger! Double crap!
I pick him up out of his carrier. He's still fussy. I cradle him facing me so I can talk to him. No good. The fundies in the back are scaring him. I think one of them said something about the plagues of Egypt. The joke's on him, though. Cooper's not my firstborn. Ha! Ha! Semi-liberal Presbyterians: 1. Freedom-hating Fundies: 0.
So I turn Coop around, laying him back against my chest. Now he's facing the screen. Quiet. He's not grunting. He's not whining. No crying either. I look at him to make sure he's still breathing. His eyes are glazed over as if in a daze. The screen! He's transfixed by the images on the screen! He wasn't hungry or dirty or wet. He wanted to watch the movie. He's a cineaste! Now I can let the UPS guy out of his holding cell in my basement -- this truly is my child!
This is an opportunity not to missed or taken lightly. My child is a prodigy. At less than seven weeks old, he is showing a deep interest in the cinema. I start to whisper to him the more basic points about the art form. I explain to him the difference in aspect ratios and how widescreen was invented to combat the threat of television in the 50s. I talk to him about persistence of vision, suspension of disbelief, mise-en-scene, editing, sound, the evolution of special effects, the importance of a good cinematographer and the underappreciated role of the screen writer.
He starts grunting again. Oh, no, I've lost him! I pushed too hard! I've turned him against me. Now he'll hate the cinema and everyone involved in it. He'll resent me and my love of the popular arts. He'll embrace radical, outdated means of storytelling like books and painting, opera and theatre. Not theatre! He's become one of those people -- the movie haters! I've ruined my boy!
I lean close to start the damage control. I listen closely. He's not grunting. He's snoring. What a relief! Sure, I'm disappointed that he fell asleep in what was supposed to be a moment of unadulterated joy and excitement, but it's not the first time I've gotten this reaction. And now Kelli can let the babysitter out of her cell -- this truly is her son after all.
Next time, I'll explain the function of the irony gene.
Then there are the parents who show up to Star Wars Episode I with their newborn. Still wonder exactly who or what the Phantom Menace is? It's that baby! He starts screaming about the time Jake Lloyd first appears on screen. Then Jake Lloyd tries to act. I start screaming. The baby keeps screaming throughout the rest of the film. His parents take turns trying to feed him, rock him -- nothing works.
Then they finally get smart. The dad picks the baby up and heads for the exit. Whew. That only took about an hour for them to figure out. But wait! He's not leaving! He's just walking a path along the landing between the stadium seats and steerage down in front -- just pacing back and forth trying to calm the baby down... In front of everyone! Thanks, buddy. I could almost ignore your scream box when it was confined to one spot in the theater, but now you have successfully pulled me and everyone else here out of the movie. In retrospect, I guess I should have thanked him, but still, it's the principal of the thing.
I remember back in the day there would be a moment in the exhibitor trailer (you know the badly animated preview where the stars in the sky pop like corn and the milky way turns into, well, a Milky Way just before the theatre chain's logo comes surfing in on a bitchin' wave of Coca-Cola products) when we were all reminded that "crying babies should be taken outside." I always thought that was a rather obvious point, and I resented the theatre chain for talking down to me that way. And for making me sit through their inane, four-minute candy and light show. Apparently, that point was not obvious, and no one should ever rely on the common sense of the American public. But I am not like those people. I remember.
So there we were on Friday. Kelli and Savannah to my left and Cooper, with his baby carrier balanced between two armrests, to my right. We were officially white trash. We got there really early so we could settle in ahead of everyone else. It was a midday showing, so we were hoping to avoid a crowd. We fed Cooper and changed his diaper, hoping to provide him with maximum comfort. After all, Cooper is most concerned with his comfort. He was relaxed and quiet. So far, so good. And besides, if he started to cry, I knew exactly what to do -- hand him to Kelli and tell her to take his butt outside.
The crowd started to show. Two by two they came like an all-human Noah's ark. There were two comfortably well-off retirees, two goth nerds, two middle income parents with their two little girls, two uptight fundamentalists, two more uptight fundamentalists, two teenagers -- hey, wait, this is a school day! -- two apparently home-schooled teenagers, then. And each one, to a person, looked at us as if we had killed Jesus, shot Reagan and canceled "Touched by an Angel." (You see, they were mostly Christians. That is if you believe the media hype. I don't, but it is a funny image. Oh come on, do I have to draw you a diagram? Sheesh!)
As the theatre was approaching 75% capacity, a projector bloomed to life and we learned that the cheesy trivia/commercial/billboard still-frame slideshow had been replaced with a full-motion digital trivia/commercial/billboard slideshow -- still cheesy. But now there are goofy cartoons in between the ads. I love goofy cartoons! Cooper was calm. There were goofy cartoons and all the fundies in the theatre were restrained from killing us only because of their behaviorialist hang-ups. All was right with the world.
Then the trailers started. And so did Cooper. Crap! He still doesn't cry very loud, but his impeccable timing means that his whining and grunting our loudest in the quiet spaces of the trailers. Hell! Crap! What am I going to do? I read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" to Savannah over the summer, and we've been looking forward to this all year. He's getting louder. Crap! Hell! Crap! Maybe he's hungry again. I try to give him the little bit of formula left in his bottle. He rejects it. Hell! Hell! Crappity Crap! I have to send Kelli out to check his diaper. But I can't make Kelli leave. She has all the candy. Crap! Bugger! Double crap!
I pick him up out of his carrier. He's still fussy. I cradle him facing me so I can talk to him. No good. The fundies in the back are scaring him. I think one of them said something about the plagues of Egypt. The joke's on him, though. Cooper's not my firstborn. Ha! Ha! Semi-liberal Presbyterians: 1. Freedom-hating Fundies: 0.
So I turn Coop around, laying him back against my chest. Now he's facing the screen. Quiet. He's not grunting. He's not whining. No crying either. I look at him to make sure he's still breathing. His eyes are glazed over as if in a daze. The screen! He's transfixed by the images on the screen! He wasn't hungry or dirty or wet. He wanted to watch the movie. He's a cineaste! Now I can let the UPS guy out of his holding cell in my basement -- this truly is my child!
This is an opportunity not to missed or taken lightly. My child is a prodigy. At less than seven weeks old, he is showing a deep interest in the cinema. I start to whisper to him the more basic points about the art form. I explain to him the difference in aspect ratios and how widescreen was invented to combat the threat of television in the 50s. I talk to him about persistence of vision, suspension of disbelief, mise-en-scene, editing, sound, the evolution of special effects, the importance of a good cinematographer and the underappreciated role of the screen writer.
He starts grunting again. Oh, no, I've lost him! I pushed too hard! I've turned him against me. Now he'll hate the cinema and everyone involved in it. He'll resent me and my love of the popular arts. He'll embrace radical, outdated means of storytelling like books and painting, opera and theatre. Not theatre! He's become one of those people -- the movie haters! I've ruined my boy!
I lean close to start the damage control. I listen closely. He's not grunting. He's snoring. What a relief! Sure, I'm disappointed that he fell asleep in what was supposed to be a moment of unadulterated joy and excitement, but it's not the first time I've gotten this reaction. And now Kelli can let the babysitter out of her cell -- this truly is her son after all.
Next time, I'll explain the function of the irony gene.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Take this faux European design and shove it!
Kelli and I are doing some long-range planning for our housing. Our plan, crazy as it sounds to some, is to pay off all of our debts, then save up a substantial down payment for a lot. Eventually, we will build on that lot, hopefully a home that we design ourselves.
We've got our eyes on a 20±acre estate lot in the Sterrett/Vandiver area. That would allow us to have horses, which would then cause Savannah to have some sort of fit. I'd really like to build a green house (as opposed to a greenhouse) that is environmentally friendly, low in chemical off-gassing (Cooper and I can handle all the off-gassing, thank you,) built primarily of renewable and recycled materials and with a cool, modern design.
I get aggravated with all of these subdivisions and their covenants. I know they are designed to maintain a certain level of aesthetic beauty, cleanliness, architectural continuity and general non-white-trashiness. I can understand that. Nobody wants some alcoholic with a dozen broken-down old cars in the back yard parked around a dilapidated tin shed cum chicken coop. Believe me, I know. That pretty much describes our next door neighbor when I was growing up. But I have a disrespect for authority, and someone else's continuity is my totalitarian uniformity.
Plus, architecture has always evolved based upon available technology. That being the case, why does everyone want a house that looks like it was built 200 years ago? Traditional homes and building methods result in huge amounts of construction waste which crowd our landfills and push up housing costs. And they're often boring. Look at the house we're in -- it's just a cracker box turned on end with some brick slapped on the front. There's a difference between simplicity of design and lack of design.
To that end, check out these sites that feature some pretty innovative, modern design styles:
Live Modern
FabPrefab
the weeHouse
glide house
And for those of you who need to fit a house in a very small space, the micro compact home.
We've got our eyes on a 20±acre estate lot in the Sterrett/Vandiver area. That would allow us to have horses, which would then cause Savannah to have some sort of fit. I'd really like to build a green house (as opposed to a greenhouse) that is environmentally friendly, low in chemical off-gassing (Cooper and I can handle all the off-gassing, thank you,) built primarily of renewable and recycled materials and with a cool, modern design.
I get aggravated with all of these subdivisions and their covenants. I know they are designed to maintain a certain level of aesthetic beauty, cleanliness, architectural continuity and general non-white-trashiness. I can understand that. Nobody wants some alcoholic with a dozen broken-down old cars in the back yard parked around a dilapidated tin shed cum chicken coop. Believe me, I know. That pretty much describes our next door neighbor when I was growing up. But I have a disrespect for authority, and someone else's continuity is my totalitarian uniformity.
Plus, architecture has always evolved based upon available technology. That being the case, why does everyone want a house that looks like it was built 200 years ago? Traditional homes and building methods result in huge amounts of construction waste which crowd our landfills and push up housing costs. And they're often boring. Look at the house we're in -- it's just a cracker box turned on end with some brick slapped on the front. There's a difference between simplicity of design and lack of design.
To that end, check out these sites that feature some pretty innovative, modern design styles:
Live Modern
FabPrefab
the weeHouse
glide house
And for those of you who need to fit a house in a very small space, the micro compact home.
Hell Freezes Over!
My good college buddy, Jerrod Brown, got married over the weekend. The wedding was a simple affair at Tannehill State Park's old country church. The celebration was marked by the release of one dozen flying pigs and guests were invited to ice skate in Hell following the reception.
Jerrod's new bride, Shalon, is a very special woman. Now, I've only met her once prior to the wedding, but if she married Jerrod, she has to be pretty special. They basically catered the reception themselves, serving their guests a feast of turkey, dressing and assorted veggies. The groom's cake was instead an assortment of cheesecakes -- an idea that should sound awfully familiar to anyone who attended our wedding.
Another similarity to our wedding was in the vows -- they wrote their own. That is, they re-wrote ours to create their own. (Jerrod was the minister in our wedding. Old friend Bill Morrison was also there and he performed my first wedding. I used the opportunity to scout a minister for wife #3.) I haven't called Jerrod on it, yet, but I'm not even sure he realizes they were the ones we used. It'd be pretty cool if our vows caught on and became an alternate standard.
The best man, old pal Edwin, and I stole away with Kelli to do some dec'ratin' on the car they were using to leave town. It was pretty standard stuff--writing on the windows, shrink-wrapping the car to make opening the doors especially tough, condoms blown up as balloons on the antenna, Vick's vapo-rub in the grille to clear out their sinuses as they drove. We also put together a little "love kit" for them. It was mostly standard stuff, except for a few touches like a pack of Red Bull energy drink (Edwin's idea,) a 20-pack of Energizer batteries for the "personal massager" and a Barry White CD.
Jerrod's planning for the wedding, it turns out, was a weird hybrid of meticulous and haphazard. He asked Ronnie Brewer, our old campus minister from college to perform the ceremony, but Jerrod completely scripted every word and moment himself. On the flipside, he never even spoke directly to Ronnie. He just sent him two e-mails with his ceremony plan, and that didn't even happen until a month prior to the wedding. He asked Edwin to be in the wedding party, but didn't tell him he was best man until the rehearsal. Edwin didn't even get an invitation!
It all came off beautifully, though. It was simple and thoughtful and reflected the personalities of the couple.
The best part of the weekend for me was catching up with old friends. The worst part was not getting to spend more time with them than we did. To paraphrase a toast I gave at Paige and Chris' wedding, "here's to Jerrod and Shalon: may they trust in God and lean on friends through all of life's comings and goings, and as they grow older, may the comings be frequent and the goings regular!"
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On a more somber note, our dear friend Missy Leonard lost her grandmother to leukemia this weekend. They were very close. Our prayers are with Luke, Missy and her family.
Jerrod's new bride, Shalon, is a very special woman. Now, I've only met her once prior to the wedding, but if she married Jerrod, she has to be pretty special. They basically catered the reception themselves, serving their guests a feast of turkey, dressing and assorted veggies. The groom's cake was instead an assortment of cheesecakes -- an idea that should sound awfully familiar to anyone who attended our wedding.
Another similarity to our wedding was in the vows -- they wrote their own. That is, they re-wrote ours to create their own. (Jerrod was the minister in our wedding. Old friend Bill Morrison was also there and he performed my first wedding. I used the opportunity to scout a minister for wife #3.) I haven't called Jerrod on it, yet, but I'm not even sure he realizes they were the ones we used. It'd be pretty cool if our vows caught on and became an alternate standard.
The best man, old pal Edwin, and I stole away with Kelli to do some dec'ratin' on the car they were using to leave town. It was pretty standard stuff--writing on the windows, shrink-wrapping the car to make opening the doors especially tough, condoms blown up as balloons on the antenna, Vick's vapo-rub in the grille to clear out their sinuses as they drove. We also put together a little "love kit" for them. It was mostly standard stuff, except for a few touches like a pack of Red Bull energy drink (Edwin's idea,) a 20-pack of Energizer batteries for the "personal massager" and a Barry White CD.
Jerrod's planning for the wedding, it turns out, was a weird hybrid of meticulous and haphazard. He asked Ronnie Brewer, our old campus minister from college to perform the ceremony, but Jerrod completely scripted every word and moment himself. On the flipside, he never even spoke directly to Ronnie. He just sent him two e-mails with his ceremony plan, and that didn't even happen until a month prior to the wedding. He asked Edwin to be in the wedding party, but didn't tell him he was best man until the rehearsal. Edwin didn't even get an invitation!
It all came off beautifully, though. It was simple and thoughtful and reflected the personalities of the couple.
The best part of the weekend for me was catching up with old friends. The worst part was not getting to spend more time with them than we did. To paraphrase a toast I gave at Paige and Chris' wedding, "here's to Jerrod and Shalon: may they trust in God and lean on friends through all of life's comings and goings, and as they grow older, may the comings be frequent and the goings regular!"
--------------------------------------------------------
On a more somber note, our dear friend Missy Leonard lost her grandmother to leukemia this weekend. They were very close. Our prayers are with Luke, Missy and her family.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
A New House for You (and a few dozen of your friends)
I know many of our friends are looking to move up to a bigger house, a nicer neighborhood, maybe a little more land. We'd like to eventually get a place where we can have some horses. Well, unless you've been concealing a secret (very wealthy) identity from me, this is not the house for you. If you can afford it, we need to talk about some very exciting business opportunities in the television and film industry.
Does anyone here can't Breastfeed?!
Okay, the title of this post has nothing to do with the subject matter, but I saw that on one of Kelli's parenting boards and I couldn't resist. I'm not sure what sort or grammatical structure governs a sentence like that, but I like it! It's better than Yoda-speak, which very tiresome has become. Now, I do Moving on to the post I have can Write.
Cooper is going to eat us into bankruptcy. If it's not bad enough that the kid always seems to choose the 4-7am window to exercise his colon (usually to no avail,) he is now eating every two hours! We're going to bump him up from four to six ounces per feeding, and see what that does. If it doesn't work, he's going out to live with the dog. I'm still convinced we can get a research grant for that kind of thing.
It's gotten so that if we want to accomplish anything, we must leave the house to do it. The narcotic effect of the car does work on him -- it's like baby Kryptonite, baby crack and baby snake oil all rolled into one. Baby too fussy? Take a drive. Baby not sleeping enough? Load 'em up in the family sedan. Baby sleeping too much? Also the car. Baby screaming in tongues and levitating six feet off the floor? Lasso it, strap it into the car seat, fill the radiator with holy water and go for a drive... Then leave it on the doorstep of a monastery far, far away.
Savannah's a bit of a nut job, fluttering from sweet and considerate to obstinate, manic and crude. She has boundless energy these days, and it's tough to get her settled down for bed at night. She got in some trouble last week, and we told her we were taking back one of her Christmas gifts. This was a gift she had accidentally found, mind you. She was very upset about this punishment, so she decided to take it to the Big Man -- Santa. This is the same girl who screamed her head off two years ago in her Santa photo op and flat refused to see the JOE (Jolly Old Elf) last year. Now she was itching to go.
Last night we took the kids (that still sounds weird) to the mall to meet the man himself. Savannah was not only willing, but excited to do the photo. Then she stuck around to make sure she got the list to Santa: Barbie House, Barbie Castle, some horsies and the Barbie Pegasus movie. The last one was most important -- that's what we were going to take back. We'll see if Santa sees fit to bring it himself...
The adjustment from one kid to two has been a little tougher than I would have hoped, but thankfully I'm light on work right now. My exhaustion stumbles on. Earlier, I almost spread baby formula all over the counter top and put Clorox kitchen wipes in the baby's bottle. We're double-teaming this challenge and, in time, it'll get better. Until then, I'll keep surviving on caffeine and prayer.
Cooper is going to eat us into bankruptcy. If it's not bad enough that the kid always seems to choose the 4-7am window to exercise his colon (usually to no avail,) he is now eating every two hours! We're going to bump him up from four to six ounces per feeding, and see what that does. If it doesn't work, he's going out to live with the dog. I'm still convinced we can get a research grant for that kind of thing.
It's gotten so that if we want to accomplish anything, we must leave the house to do it. The narcotic effect of the car does work on him -- it's like baby Kryptonite, baby crack and baby snake oil all rolled into one. Baby too fussy? Take a drive. Baby not sleeping enough? Load 'em up in the family sedan. Baby sleeping too much? Also the car. Baby screaming in tongues and levitating six feet off the floor? Lasso it, strap it into the car seat, fill the radiator with holy water and go for a drive... Then leave it on the doorstep of a monastery far, far away.
Savannah's a bit of a nut job, fluttering from sweet and considerate to obstinate, manic and crude. She has boundless energy these days, and it's tough to get her settled down for bed at night. She got in some trouble last week, and we told her we were taking back one of her Christmas gifts. This was a gift she had accidentally found, mind you. She was very upset about this punishment, so she decided to take it to the Big Man -- Santa. This is the same girl who screamed her head off two years ago in her Santa photo op and flat refused to see the JOE (Jolly Old Elf) last year. Now she was itching to go.
Last night we took the kids (that still sounds weird) to the mall to meet the man himself. Savannah was not only willing, but excited to do the photo. Then she stuck around to make sure she got the list to Santa: Barbie House, Barbie Castle, some horsies and the Barbie Pegasus movie. The last one was most important -- that's what we were going to take back. We'll see if Santa sees fit to bring it himself...
The adjustment from one kid to two has been a little tougher than I would have hoped, but thankfully I'm light on work right now. My exhaustion stumbles on. Earlier, I almost spread baby formula all over the counter top and put Clorox kitchen wipes in the baby's bottle. We're double-teaming this challenge and, in time, it'll get better. Until then, I'll keep surviving on caffeine and prayer.
Monday, December 05, 2005
But do Electric Sheep Dream of Androids?
Okay, this new-baby-lack-of-sleep thing is getting old. Last night I handled Coop's 2:30 and 6:30am feedings. The feedings themselves weren't so bad, but the kid is so bound up (I am no longer using the term Gershon'd -- that is so November...) that he spent most of the night grunting and straining like one of those little midget Greek powerlifters in the Olympics. Needless to say, it's tough to sleep through that. On the upside, his clean-and-jerk is up to about 260 kilos.
This period with Savannah was so much easier, because we didn't have an older child to care for everyday. That meant if work was light (and boy was it!) that we could sleep in every morning. Not so right now. Sleep or no, we've got a four-year-old in our faces every morning clamoring for cartoons and chocolate milk. With this lack of sleep, Kelli and I are getting very... shall we say, terse? Our temptation is to say to Savannah, "aren't you able to get yourself fed, dressed and drive yourself to school, yet? What? You're only four? Well, that's no excuse!"
We're so edgy, I got mad at Santa Claus last night while watching "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." It's that part at the end -- you know, when Santa's off his Zoloft and has developed an eating disorder -- when the fog has rolled in over the North Pole, and Santa decides that Christmas should be cancelled. What? There's never been fog at the North Pole before? It's covered with ice! If the temperature gets above about ten below, there's going to be fog.
So, Santa makes his declaration in the movie, and suddenly I imagine myself as the lone disgruntled elf: "Cancelled? Son of a b****! You mean I just wasted a whole year of my life for nothing? You know what this? You know what it is, old man? It's the four P's -- Piss-Poor Prior Planning! Have you ever thought of, oh I don't know, HEADLIGHTS!? I tell you what, Karen Carpenter, give me the suit. Give me the suit and that stupid hat and I'll deliver the toys myself. If I crash and burn, who cares? Because I'm just an elf, and apparently my whole life's work means nothing, if you can just come waltzing in here and call off the whole thing on a whim. One day! That's all you have to do is work one day, but no! I guess that's too much for you. No, I tell you what: keep the suit, keep the hat and keep your nasty livestock -- who should not be in here where we're eating, by the way -- keep 'em all, because I quit. I'm going back to the lodge, and you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to knock back about a dozen egg nog shooters, and then I'm going to build a hot tub. Any elfettes with no morals and low self-esteem are welcome to join me. Blinky out!"
The sleep deprivation is not only affecting my mood. During the feedings last night, I decided to take that time to do some praying. That's a good thing, right? I've been spending some time in Bible study every night before bed and so the next step is to add in some prayer time. Except, it didn't go quite the way I had planned. It started off normally enough. I prayed for family and friends, for wisdom in running our business, for those dealing with health problems and those generally going through a hard time in life. How nice.
Then I started getting weary and the real motives of my heart were revealed as my consciousness waned, and those motives were selfish at worst and just plain weird at best. It started with money -- it always starts with money. I prayed that God's will would be done in our finances -- and it just so happens that I know his will is for us to be butt-stinking rich. I told God that I knew the world would be a better place if we were rich. People would be healthier, wars would cease and everyone would have good taste in both personal and home fashions. The world would finally be perfect. Plus, as a bonus, I could buy whatever I want, and really, who doesn't want that for me?
Next, I prayed that God would reveal to Kelli the wisdom of polygamy. After all, the prohibition against it in the Bible applies only to deacons. Let's face it, I'm no deacon. Clearly life would be easier with two wives -- built-in babysitting whenever I needed to take one of the ladies out on a date, a good split of household duties and somebody they could complain about me too without even having to pick up the phone. So I prayed that God would impart this wisdom to Kelli. And I prayed that he would impart it to Jennifer Love Hewitt at the same time.
From there, things took a turn from just plain selfish to the absurdly selfish. I prayed that I would be abducted by aliens. This is an old one for me. We're not talking the missing time, you-never-buy-me-dinner-before-you-probe-me kind of abduction. In my version, wowed by my rapier wit and superior intellect, the aliens would use me as the subject of their most ambitious human sociology study to date. They would, using their painless alien technology, morph me into the perfect man -- muscle definition, perfect teeth, 20/15 vision, nine percent body fat and cheek bones so high that Sir Edmund Hillary would weep that he had never conquered them. Then they would place me back into society to see how my life would change based solely upon my appearance. After a year, when I had conquered the worlds of big business and high society; once I had more wealth than is imaginable and when J-Love had become my second wife, the aliens and I would hang out in the hot tub and laugh about the vanity of man. We might even invite some happening elves to join us.
Then Cooper grunted and strained, snapping me out of my absurd prayer-dream. Then I prayed a real, heart-felt prayer -- that this baby would go to sleep so I could do the same.
This period with Savannah was so much easier, because we didn't have an older child to care for everyday. That meant if work was light (and boy was it!) that we could sleep in every morning. Not so right now. Sleep or no, we've got a four-year-old in our faces every morning clamoring for cartoons and chocolate milk. With this lack of sleep, Kelli and I are getting very... shall we say, terse? Our temptation is to say to Savannah, "aren't you able to get yourself fed, dressed and drive yourself to school, yet? What? You're only four? Well, that's no excuse!"
We're so edgy, I got mad at Santa Claus last night while watching "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." It's that part at the end -- you know, when Santa's off his Zoloft and has developed an eating disorder -- when the fog has rolled in over the North Pole, and Santa decides that Christmas should be cancelled. What? There's never been fog at the North Pole before? It's covered with ice! If the temperature gets above about ten below, there's going to be fog.
So, Santa makes his declaration in the movie, and suddenly I imagine myself as the lone disgruntled elf: "Cancelled? Son of a b****! You mean I just wasted a whole year of my life for nothing? You know what this? You know what it is, old man? It's the four P's -- Piss-Poor Prior Planning! Have you ever thought of, oh I don't know, HEADLIGHTS!? I tell you what, Karen Carpenter, give me the suit. Give me the suit and that stupid hat and I'll deliver the toys myself. If I crash and burn, who cares? Because I'm just an elf, and apparently my whole life's work means nothing, if you can just come waltzing in here and call off the whole thing on a whim. One day! That's all you have to do is work one day, but no! I guess that's too much for you. No, I tell you what: keep the suit, keep the hat and keep your nasty livestock -- who should not be in here where we're eating, by the way -- keep 'em all, because I quit. I'm going back to the lodge, and you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to knock back about a dozen egg nog shooters, and then I'm going to build a hot tub. Any elfettes with no morals and low self-esteem are welcome to join me. Blinky out!"
The sleep deprivation is not only affecting my mood. During the feedings last night, I decided to take that time to do some praying. That's a good thing, right? I've been spending some time in Bible study every night before bed and so the next step is to add in some prayer time. Except, it didn't go quite the way I had planned. It started off normally enough. I prayed for family and friends, for wisdom in running our business, for those dealing with health problems and those generally going through a hard time in life. How nice.
Then I started getting weary and the real motives of my heart were revealed as my consciousness waned, and those motives were selfish at worst and just plain weird at best. It started with money -- it always starts with money. I prayed that God's will would be done in our finances -- and it just so happens that I know his will is for us to be butt-stinking rich. I told God that I knew the world would be a better place if we were rich. People would be healthier, wars would cease and everyone would have good taste in both personal and home fashions. The world would finally be perfect. Plus, as a bonus, I could buy whatever I want, and really, who doesn't want that for me?
Next, I prayed that God would reveal to Kelli the wisdom of polygamy. After all, the prohibition against it in the Bible applies only to deacons. Let's face it, I'm no deacon. Clearly life would be easier with two wives -- built-in babysitting whenever I needed to take one of the ladies out on a date, a good split of household duties and somebody they could complain about me too without even having to pick up the phone. So I prayed that God would impart this wisdom to Kelli. And I prayed that he would impart it to Jennifer Love Hewitt at the same time.
From there, things took a turn from just plain selfish to the absurdly selfish. I prayed that I would be abducted by aliens. This is an old one for me. We're not talking the missing time, you-never-buy-me-dinner-before-you-probe-me kind of abduction. In my version, wowed by my rapier wit and superior intellect, the aliens would use me as the subject of their most ambitious human sociology study to date. They would, using their painless alien technology, morph me into the perfect man -- muscle definition, perfect teeth, 20/15 vision, nine percent body fat and cheek bones so high that Sir Edmund Hillary would weep that he had never conquered them. Then they would place me back into society to see how my life would change based solely upon my appearance. After a year, when I had conquered the worlds of big business and high society; once I had more wealth than is imaginable and when J-Love had become my second wife, the aliens and I would hang out in the hot tub and laugh about the vanity of man. We might even invite some happening elves to join us.
Then Cooper grunted and strained, snapping me out of my absurd prayer-dream. Then I prayed a real, heart-felt prayer -- that this baby would go to sleep so I could do the same.
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