In which your humble narrator reflects with an uncharacteristic lack of sarcasm.
Count me out of the end-of-decade doom 'n' gloom being pushed hard by the media. I'm unsure where our intense, cultural need to engage in meaningless faux-retrospection at the end of a ten year period comes from, but it's taken a turn for the resolutely morose this time.
The list of complaints from the past decade is long: financial woe, Dick Cheney, Paris Hilton, Crocs, reality television, Ryan Seacrest, unnecessary war, housing bubble, Wall Street, Enron, assorted Kardashians, memoirs, W., et cetera, et cetera. I've run across the (particularly galling) phrase "end of innocence" a lot lately, usually pushed by boomer pundit types. If you'll forgive me for a moment, baby-boomers seems to be just a teensy bit obsessed with losing their innocence. You'd think it would be gone by now since they've proclaimed it lost every year since 1968. But I suppose when the twin foundations of your generational ethos are 1. incessant navel gazing and 2. buying stuff, you tend to stick pretty closely to familiar tropes.
But in an uncharacteristic spirit of optimism and (I hope) some perspective, I'd like to say that it just wasn't that bad of a decade. I got a college degree, turned 21, got married, ate lots of tasty things, had two marvelous children, turned 30, made progress on another degree, bought a condo, sold a condo, bought a house, read many interesting books, learned to play bridge, dressed better, traveled to interesting places and made many friends.
There was lots of crappy stuff too. I can't imagine a single friend or relative would ever accuse me of donning rose-colored glasses, but the relentless carping has gotten on my last damn nerve.
So if you're a nattering nabob of negativism, I'd like to cordially invite you to shut the hell up.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Bravissimo!
In which your humble narrator teaches his daughter to clap her hands and reaps the resulting plaudits.
Child #2 is at the point that she enjoys hitting things. I figured that she might enjoy learning to clap her hands. She certainly enjoyed it when I clapped for her, and even began to imitate it, albeit with closed fists. I slowly got her to unclench her hands and slapped her little palms together while she giggled until she figured out over the course of a few days how to do it on her own. She now claps happily to attract parental attention.
This afternoon I put her down on the living room floor with some toys and scooted off to the bathroom to use the facilities.
When I returned she applauded.
Child #2 is at the point that she enjoys hitting things. I figured that she might enjoy learning to clap her hands. She certainly enjoyed it when I clapped for her, and even began to imitate it, albeit with closed fists. I slowly got her to unclench her hands and slapped her little palms together while she giggled until she figured out over the course of a few days how to do it on her own. She now claps happily to attract parental attention.
This afternoon I put her down on the living room floor with some toys and scooted off to the bathroom to use the facilities.
When I returned she applauded.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Snow Fail
In which your humble narrator climbs on ladders, scrapes ice off of things, and wonder where the hell the "warmer than average" El Niño winter forecasted by the National Weather Service is.
The Snowpocalypse was a bust. We got about 5 hours of cold rain on top of 12+ inches of snow on Christmas, soaking the snow, turning the bottom 2 inches to slush. Then it snowed another 3-4 inches on top of that. Then it melted some more and then hard froze turning every horizontal, and most sloped surfaces to ice. Needless to say, the slush/ice removal has been a real pain.
So I've been up and down a ladder unfreezing all the downspouts so that the ice doesn't push our new gutters right off of the house. Too much fun.
On a more positive note, I got a new cookbook from the in-laws for my birthday. My birthday was more than a month ago, but I just got the package from New Hampshire. Apparently the shipping label came off and it got sent to the dead letter office in Atlanta. (Which is funny because the only other dead letter office is in St. Paul... about 10 minutes from our house.) It's the Veselka Cookbook. So I made pierogies since they're exactly the sort of bad-for-you, fatty, fiddly food you should eat in the middle of winter to keep your coat shiny. They we quite tasty. Child #1 even ate a couple of bites the first night we had them. Of course, on the second night he declared that he didn't like them any more and would not eat them. He's still on a weird jag.
On a second, also positive note, Child #2 has decided to sleep through the night regularly. Thus, my power of cogitation and command of the lexicon have returned with vigor. Huzzah!
The Snowpocalypse was a bust. We got about 5 hours of cold rain on top of 12+ inches of snow on Christmas, soaking the snow, turning the bottom 2 inches to slush. Then it snowed another 3-4 inches on top of that. Then it melted some more and then hard froze turning every horizontal, and most sloped surfaces to ice. Needless to say, the slush/ice removal has been a real pain.
So I've been up and down a ladder unfreezing all the downspouts so that the ice doesn't push our new gutters right off of the house. Too much fun.
On a more positive note, I got a new cookbook from the in-laws for my birthday. My birthday was more than a month ago, but I just got the package from New Hampshire. Apparently the shipping label came off and it got sent to the dead letter office in Atlanta. (Which is funny because the only other dead letter office is in St. Paul... about 10 minutes from our house.) It's the Veselka Cookbook. So I made pierogies since they're exactly the sort of bad-for-you, fatty, fiddly food you should eat in the middle of winter to keep your coat shiny. They we quite tasty. Child #1 even ate a couple of bites the first night we had them. Of course, on the second night he declared that he didn't like them any more and would not eat them. He's still on a weird jag.
On a second, also positive note, Child #2 has decided to sleep through the night regularly. Thus, my power of cogitation and command of the lexicon have returned with vigor. Huzzah!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Snowpocalypse!
In which your humble narrator sharpens his ice picks, tightens the bolts on the snow rake and prepares to meet his doom.
Snowpocalypse!* Snowmageddon!** Snowtal Annihilation! Snownami!
If we don't get at least a foot and half out of this storm after all the hype, I'm going to be peevish. Wife-a-roo is off work for four days. I went to the liquor store Monday and the grocery yesterday because I'm smart. See y'all after the thaw.
* This is actually being used frequently on local teevee.
** This too.
Snowpocalypse!* Snowmageddon!** Snowtal Annihilation! Snownami!
If we don't get at least a foot and half out of this storm after all the hype, I'm going to be peevish. Wife-a-roo is off work for four days. I went to the liquor store Monday and the grocery yesterday because I'm smart. See y'all after the thaw.
* This is actually being used frequently on local teevee.
** This too.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Winterfulness
In which your humble narrator ventures out onto the frozen tundra.
It finally warmed up enough to take the children outside to play in the snow. Sister-of-Me and I ran over to the University with children in tow so she could turn in a paper. Then we came back to the house promising Child #1 that he could play in the snow. In the car:
So we get home and I drag him crying into the house. And I rummaged through the closet and found the snow pants while he's veering ever closer to a meltdown. He looked up at them, stopped crying and said, "Snowpants are red. I will wear them." If only I had known that the color was of paramount importance.
But first, we had to wrestle the baby into her snowsuit.
It finally warmed up enough to take the children outside to play in the snow. Sister-of-Me and I ran over to the University with children in tow so she could turn in a paper. Then we came back to the house promising Child #1 that he could play in the snow. In the car:
Child #1: I will shovel snow.
Me: We're going to play in the snow but we have to go inside first so you can get your snow pants on.
Child #1: I will not wear snow pants.
Me: Yes you will. It's cold and then your regular pants will stay dry.
Child #1: No! I will not wear snow pants. I don't like snow pants any more.
Me: You don't even know what snow pants are.
Child #1: (with increasing volume) I don't like them!
So we get home and I drag him crying into the house. And I rummaged through the closet and found the snow pants while he's veering ever closer to a meltdown. He looked up at them, stopped crying and said, "Snowpants are red. I will wear them." If only I had known that the color was of paramount importance.
But first, we had to wrestle the baby into her snowsuit.
Then we lost her since she camouflaged herself into the rug.
We found her eventually and then proceeded outside for much winterful fun.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Fat Capitalist Pig Fascist Controller - Sir Topham Hatt
In which your humble narrator delves deeply in to the political machinations of Imperialist Oppressor, Sir Topham Hatt and his hegemonic stranglehold on the Island of Sodor.
Apparently we need to take a careful look at the conservative indoctrination of our toddlers. Sister-of-Me sent me a couple of links regarding a political analysis of Thomas the Tank Engine. The next day it was picked up as a story on CBC's As it Happens,* the Canadian radio news magazine show.
Exhibit A (from Canada.com: a bitchin' Canadian News Aggregater):
Predictably the response I've read and heard to this analysis generally falls into the hyper-moronic, tabloid style that one sees in the U.K.'s Guardian. And that's too bad, because the issue isn't some stupid liberal trying to ruin the teevee for our kids. This issue is that this analysis entirely misses the point that the developmental differences between children and adults demand that children's programs contain different messages. Toddlers need to understand the social power relationships in their family. And if that family is going to function in any reasonable way, the toddler better not be the one in charge.**
When people ask me about my political philosophy I tell them that I'm a liberal because I believe in progressive taxation and active government regulation of the markets. But I'm not into all that other hippie bullshit.
*Which you should listen to.
** Because small children are insane.
Apparently we need to take a careful look at the conservative indoctrination of our toddlers. Sister-of-Me sent me a couple of links regarding a political analysis of Thomas the Tank Engine. The next day it was picked up as a story on CBC's As it Happens,* the Canadian radio news magazine show.
Exhibit A (from Canada.com: a bitchin' Canadian News Aggregater):
"Shauna Wilton, an associate professor of political studies at the University of Alberta's Augustana campus in Camrose, Alta., analyzed two dozen episodes [of Thomas and Friends] and found a strong conservative political flavour to the show.
Thomas inhabits a world where efforts to gain individual power or to upset the social hierarchy are punished, good citizenship is the ultimate virtue and episodes revolve around the morals of everyone having a role to play and the importance of teamwork and doing a good job, she says.Oh horrors! A children's program extolling the virtues of good citizenship and emphasizing the importance of having a role to play? But how will the little darlings learn to express themselves?
"One thing that's really clear when you watch Thomas is that there's a really strong social hierarchy and Sir Topham Hatt, the controller of the railway, is at the top and the different types of trains and characters fall below him," Wilton says."
"It's a recurring theme on the show that Topham Hatt has a duty for the trains to fulfil and they try to make him happy and do a good job, she says -- a helpful theme for raising co-operative preschoolers, but not so good for teaching them to think for themselves or to question things as they grow.For pity's sake. It's a show for pre-schoolers. We don't really need to to teach them to think about things or to question authority BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. The idea that, as parents, we should be encouraging rugged individualism in 2-5 year-olds is unmitigated idiocy. There used to be a word used to describe a young child who insisted on always doing things his or her own way, never following the rules and not bothering to learn basic rules of manners and morals. That word was "brat."
On the show, any attempt by the trains to act on their own or go against orders has "fairly disastrous results,"she says, citing the story in which Thomas is temporarily replaced by another engine after he whistles impatiently at a police officer."
Predictably the response I've read and heard to this analysis generally falls into the hyper-moronic, tabloid style that one sees in the U.K.'s Guardian. And that's too bad, because the issue isn't some stupid liberal trying to ruin the teevee for our kids. This issue is that this analysis entirely misses the point that the developmental differences between children and adults demand that children's programs contain different messages. Toddlers need to understand the social power relationships in their family. And if that family is going to function in any reasonable way, the toddler better not be the one in charge.**
When people ask me about my political philosophy I tell them that I'm a liberal because I believe in progressive taxation and active government regulation of the markets. But I'm not into all that other hippie bullshit.
*Which you should listen to.
** Because small children are insane.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Mailbag Monday (on Tuesday)
In which your humble narrator answers the missives of his adoring public.
Dear Rotten Baby,
Does a diet lacking animal products make one stupid?
-Raging Ronda in Ridgecrest
Dear Ronda,
First of all, I think someone who can't spell "Rhonda" with the traditional "h" has little room to criticize other people's dietary choices. Are you ashamed of your Welsh heritage, Ronda? But seriously, a diet lacking animal products doesn't correlate with stupidity. My diet is completely free of animal products. Other people may be willing to eat cookies made by gophers, but I'm not.
Teacher,
i am an (imaginary) sad-sack undergraduate with innumerable vague personal problems including, but not limited, to the deaths of my seven grandmothers this semester. i haven't turned in my final project that was du last week. Also i have skipped, like a lot, almost a third of my classes. My question 2 u is: shouldn't i be able to postpone taking the final? i'm, like, not prepared.
-Student terribly upset, probably in denial
Dear STUPID,
You have got to be freaking kidding me. I do not have either the time or the inclination to deal with your self-centered bullshit during the last week of classes. The time to be discussing how you can pass my class was last month. Where were you while I sat in my windowless office whilst tumbleweeds rolled past my door during my many office hours this semester? Also, perhaps if you're going to write an email trying to solicit pity you should 1. suck up a little, 2. capitalize the word "I." As for delaying your final: I'm, like, not prepared to do that.
Dear Rotten Baby,
Did you know that there were 1,808 baby girls born in the United States last year named "Brooklyn?" What's up with that?
-Slightly culpable bystander
SCB,
What's up indeed. My guess is that it's a lot of obnoxious hipster parents living in the mid-west and the west coast were trying be cool when they named their babies. It shouldn't surprise you that "Matilda"* is increasing exponentially in popularity as well. What's happening is this: having a child has become yet another way for people to "express" themselves and broadcast their social (and often economic) value to the rest of the world. Let's hope that many of those darling little Brooklyns grow up to be right-wing talk radio hosts, NASCAR enthusiasts or Joe Lieberman.
That wraps up this edition of 'Mailbag Monday," boys and girls. To have your queries, imaginary or otherwise answered, send an email to:
rotten.baby.blog (at) gmail (dot) com.
*Really?
Dear Rotten Baby,
Does a diet lacking animal products make one stupid?
-Raging Ronda in Ridgecrest
Dear Ronda,
First of all, I think someone who can't spell "Rhonda" with the traditional "h" has little room to criticize other people's dietary choices. Are you ashamed of your Welsh heritage, Ronda? But seriously, a diet lacking animal products doesn't correlate with stupidity. My diet is completely free of animal products. Other people may be willing to eat cookies made by gophers, but I'm not.
Teacher,
i am an (imaginary) sad-sack undergraduate with innumerable vague personal problems including, but not limited, to the deaths of my seven grandmothers this semester. i haven't turned in my final project that was du last week. Also i have skipped,
-Student terribly upset, probably in denial
Dear STUPID,
You have got to be freaking kidding me. I do not have either the time or the inclination to deal with your self-centered bullshit during the last week of classes. The time to be discussing how you can pass my class was last month. Where were you while I sat in my windowless office whilst tumbleweeds rolled past my door during my many office hours this semester? Also, perhaps if you're going to write an email trying to solicit pity you should 1. suck up a little, 2. capitalize the word "I." As for delaying your final: I'm, like, not prepared to do that.
Dear Rotten Baby,
Did you know that there were 1,808 baby girls born in the United States last year named "Brooklyn?" What's up with that?
-Slightly culpable bystander
SCB,
What's up indeed. My guess is that it's a lot of obnoxious hipster parents living in the mid-west and the west coast were trying be cool when they named their babies. It shouldn't surprise you that "Matilda"* is increasing exponentially in popularity as well. What's happening is this: having a child has become yet another way for people to "express" themselves and broadcast their social (and often economic) value to the rest of the world. Let's hope that many of those darling little Brooklyns grow up to be right-wing talk radio hosts, NASCAR enthusiasts or Joe Lieberman.
That wraps up this edition of 'Mailbag Monday," boys and girls. To have your queries, imaginary or otherwise answered, send an email to:
rotten.baby.blog (at) gmail (dot) com.
*Really?
Monday, December 14, 2009
Trudge, trudge, limp, collapse
In which your humble narrator claws his way across the finish line of the semester, only sacrificing a little sanity along the way.
The children are still sick. Child #1 is finally getting to the end of his cold, which makes him much more likable now that his upper lip isn't shellacked with a shiny covering of snot all the time. Wife-a-roo is sick too, as of the end of last week. I was going to drive to Costco yesterday morning since we were damn near out of toilet paper, paper towels, baby formula and imported, Italian cheese.
He was temporarily restored by getting to drag the giant packages of toilet paper and paper towels around the house when I returned. I then spent most of the rest of the day grading papers in an attempt to finish everything so I can return stuff at the final exam tomorrow. Also, I think I discovered a leak in our new, $8000 roof.
This morning I was all set to leave the house without children in tow to meet with a faculty member regarding a research project that I've neglected for far too long. Then I was going to have lunch with a friend (We'll call him "Bobo" because it's way funnier than "Chris."). So I was getting my crap ready to go this morning as Sister-of-Me had consented to mind the offspring and Wife was home anyway with her illness.
Then Child #2 broke out in hives.
Welcome to Can't Catch a Break, Minnesota. Population: Me.
The children are still sick. Child #1 is finally getting to the end of his cold, which makes him much more likable now that his upper lip isn't shellacked with a shiny covering of snot all the time. Wife-a-roo is sick too, as of the end of last week. I was going to drive to Costco yesterday morning since we were damn near out of toilet paper, paper towels, baby formula and imported, Italian cheese.
9:45 a.m.
Me: (to Child #1) Wanna go to Costco?
Child #1: No.
10:17 a.m.
Me: (to Child #1) Wanna go to Costco?
Child #1: No. Don't wanna go to Costco.
11:05 a.m.
Me: (to Child #1) Wanna go to Costco?
Child #1: No. I don't want to go to Costco (starts crying).
Me: Okay, Okay. No Costco. Don't wig out, little dude.
3:30 p.m.
Wife-a-roo: (via cell phone message left while I am at Costco during Child #1's nap) Umm. It turns out that your son did want to go to Costco. If you're still in the neighborhood could you come back and pick him up? (Much screaming is audible in the background from Child #1)
He was temporarily restored by getting to drag the giant packages of toilet paper and paper towels around the house when I returned. I then spent most of the rest of the day grading papers in an attempt to finish everything so I can return stuff at the final exam tomorrow. Also, I think I discovered a leak in our new, $8000 roof.
This morning I was all set to leave the house without children in tow to meet with a faculty member regarding a research project that I've neglected for far too long. Then I was going to have lunch with a friend (We'll call him "Bobo" because it's way funnier than "Chris."). So I was getting my crap ready to go this morning as Sister-of-Me had consented to mind the offspring and Wife was home anyway with her illness.
Then Child #2 broke out in hives.
Welcome to Can't Catch a Break, Minnesota. Population: Me.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
It's Thursday, so that must mean I hate things (Winter Edition)
In which your humble narrator comments on five examples of awfulness, worthy of hate.
- Undergraduates complaining about how cold it is when they're wearing what amounts to pajamas to class. It's cold. Wear layers. Sweats and a jacket aren't going to cut it when the high is 9 degrees.
- SUV drivers who have four wheel drive and still park 4 feet from the curb, because, you know, it's all snowy and shit.
- Black ice.
- Trying to get change out of your pockets to feed the parking meter while wearing gloves.
- Frozen boogers.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Housebound Housewifery
In which your humble narrator comments on the banality of his day.
It snowed about 8 inches. It's only 10 degrees and very windy. I'm stuck in the house all day with the children.
Wife-a-roo sent me a link to a Salon blog by Aaron Traister which pretty much sums up my existence these days. A particularly salient paragraph:
Last night I was in the kitchen with the children. Child #2 was sitting in her high chair screaming unhappily and refusing all toys or diversions while Child #1 was merrily running head first into the kitchen cabinets and trying valiantly to drop cast-iron cookware on his feet.** Wife-a-roo was late because of the snowstorm and I was trying to cook dinner (modest pasta dish). It occurred to me: "If I'm going to live the life of a 1950's housewife, I'm pretty sure I deserve some of the pills."
* I have righted Child #2 eight times during the writing of this post.
** He still has a cold. Colds make him insane and self-injurious.
It snowed about 8 inches. It's only 10 degrees and very windy. I'm stuck in the house all day with the children.
Wife-a-roo sent me a link to a Salon blog by Aaron Traister which pretty much sums up my existence these days. A particularly salient paragraph:
"My view of parenting and its effect on the adult mind is particularly sour right now since my daughter has just entered into the most difficult stage of development. She is 10 months old, and while most people would point to the fabled “terrible twos” as the most challenging and exhausting time with their young ones, the interval between 8 and 15 months is almost indescribably difficult for me, especially because it is making me not good at words plus how to use them."Child #2 is 7+ months old now and at the incredibly obnoxious stage where she is increasingly mobile, but only in uni-directional pathways. For example: she can maneuver from a seated position to lying either on her back or her stomach, but is unable or unwilling to move from either of those positions to any other, more satisfactory position. This necessitates righting her or rearranging her approximately every 2.5 minutes* since she doesn't like lying down: the position, but only lying down: the act. Thank God for overalls.
Last night I was in the kitchen with the children. Child #2 was sitting in her high chair screaming unhappily and refusing all toys or diversions while Child #1 was merrily running head first into the kitchen cabinets and trying valiantly to drop cast-iron cookware on his feet.** Wife-a-roo was late because of the snowstorm and I was trying to cook dinner (modest pasta dish). It occurred to me: "If I'm going to live the life of a 1950's housewife, I'm pretty sure I deserve some of the pills."
* I have righted Child #2 eight times during the writing of this post.
** He still has a cold. Colds make him insane and self-injurious.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The White Menace is Coming! Surely We Shall Perish Anon!
In which your humble narrator procures medication for his daughter gets his media criticism on and discusses the cultural differences between the frigid tundra of Minnesota where he lives and the smoggy, semi-southern hills of Cincinnati from whence he came.
Child #2 has an ear infection. We were supposed to get round 2 flu shots for both children yesterday but the on-again-off-again fever of Child #2 spiked once more yesterday morning so we took her in to see the doctor. The regular baby-doctor is off on Mondays so we saw a tall, laconic family practice doctor of Scandinavian descent, named "Olav Olson" or "Hjalmar Carlson" or "Lindstrom P. Nordic" or "Sven McSwedish" or something. He seemed delighted that we spoke in low, measured tones and communicated primarily by subtle eye-brow movements. Prescription for antibiotics in hand, we repaired, as a family, to the fancy-people's grocery to get some drugs at the pharmacy and donuts at the bakery.
Child #2 seems in better spirits already, just in time for the much ballyhooed snowstorm of the season which is supposed to begin later today. After attending to my personal grooming this morning, I flipped on the teevee to watch the weather while I got dressed. The local news boys and girls were nearly wetting themselves with anticipation of the (potential) 5-7 inches of white snow which will (maybe) fall on the metropolitan area (or somewhere else) over the next 36 hours. The sparkle of weather-related insanity gleaming in their glassy teevee eyes, they prattled on and on about the coming snowstorm as if it was the long-awaited messiah of frozen precipitation set to come to earth.
I don't remember this kind of frenetic weather mania from my childhood in Cincinnati. We had a couple of good snows, the occasional tornado and a lot of thunderstorms, but not the single-minded obsession with the weather that occupies a large portion of the real estate in the heart of any true Minnesotan. For example, the pre-first-snow paroxysm is not unique. There is also the annual "first thunderstorm rumpus," and the "first 80 degree day madness." The local newsies are an excitable bunch.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I like winter. I don't even mind the shoveling since it's an activity that, even Wife-a-roo will admit, cannot be pursued with small, stroppy children in tow. The only things I don't like are scraping snow off the roof, and the media frenzy that precedes each potential life-threatening snow fall. For God's sake, people. It's Minnesota. It's not like winter should come as a surprise.
Child #2 has an ear infection. We were supposed to get round 2 flu shots for both children yesterday but the on-again-off-again fever of Child #2 spiked once more yesterday morning so we took her in to see the doctor. The regular baby-doctor is off on Mondays so we saw a tall, laconic family practice doctor of Scandinavian descent, named "Olav Olson" or "Hjalmar Carlson" or "Lindstrom P. Nordic" or "Sven McSwedish" or something. He seemed delighted that we spoke in low, measured tones and communicated primarily by subtle eye-brow movements. Prescription for antibiotics in hand, we repaired, as a family, to the fancy-people's grocery to get some drugs at the pharmacy and donuts at the bakery.
Child #2 seems in better spirits already, just in time for the much ballyhooed snowstorm of the season which is supposed to begin later today. After attending to my personal grooming this morning, I flipped on the teevee to watch the weather while I got dressed. The local news boys and girls were nearly wetting themselves with anticipation of the (potential) 5-7 inches of white snow which will (maybe) fall on the metropolitan area (or somewhere else) over the next 36 hours. The sparkle of weather-related insanity gleaming in their glassy teevee eyes, they prattled on and on about the coming snowstorm as if it was the long-awaited messiah of frozen precipitation set to come to earth.
I don't remember this kind of frenetic weather mania from my childhood in Cincinnati. We had a couple of good snows, the occasional tornado and a lot of thunderstorms, but not the single-minded obsession with the weather that occupies a large portion of the real estate in the heart of any true Minnesotan. For example, the pre-first-snow paroxysm is not unique. There is also the annual "first thunderstorm rumpus," and the "first 80 degree day madness." The local newsies are an excitable bunch.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I like winter. I don't even mind the shoveling since it's an activity that, even Wife-a-roo will admit, cannot be pursued with small, stroppy children in tow. The only things I don't like are scraping snow off the roof, and the media frenzy that precedes each potential life-threatening snow fall. For God's sake, people. It's Minnesota. It's not like winter should come as a surprise.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Hoop jumping
In which your humble narrator describes slogging through the writing of an academic paper with no parameters.
In my continuing quest to complete my Ph.D. in Educational Psychology so that I can become unemployed, I am currently involved in the revision of my oral preliminary exam paper. My department gives both written and oral preliminary exams for doctoral students. I passed the written preliminary test when child #1 was 6 months old on the Saturday before we moved to our new house. It was a giant waste of time.
For the oral prelim, I have to write a 20-50 page review paper of some literature without providing any plan for my dissertation (that's part of the next hoop, dummy). It's ostensibly supposed to show my "evaluative skills" and prove to my committee that I can write a literature review, though I think it's actually just to provide some framework for what they might want to ask me about during this upcoming 2-hour fun-fest.
My adviser's instructions for writing this paper (as the department provides virtually no direction other than what I mentioned above) were to (wait for it) "write about something I know a lot about."
I wrote most of the paper this summer while I was teaching and was allowed to leave the house more than once a week. Now I'm reduced to working on it during the 24 minutes between when the children are finally settled in their beds and when my brain turns off and NASCAR starts seeming interesting.
Perhaps it would have been better to finish this degree before transmitting my genetic material to another generation of crabby, demanding little persons.
In my continuing quest to complete my Ph.D. in Educational Psychology so that I can become unemployed, I am currently involved in the revision of my oral preliminary exam paper. My department gives both written and oral preliminary exams for doctoral students. I passed the written preliminary test when child #1 was 6 months old on the Saturday before we moved to our new house. It was a giant waste of time.
For the oral prelim, I have to write a 20-50 page review paper of some literature without providing any plan for my dissertation (that's part of the next hoop, dummy). It's ostensibly supposed to show my "evaluative skills" and prove to my committee that I can write a literature review, though I think it's actually just to provide some framework for what they might want to ask me about during this upcoming 2-hour fun-fest.
My adviser's instructions for writing this paper (as the department provides virtually no direction other than what I mentioned above) were to (wait for it) "write about something I know a lot about."
I wrote most of the paper this summer while I was teaching and was allowed to leave the house more than once a week. Now I'm reduced to working on it during the 24 minutes between when the children are finally settled in their beds and when my brain turns off and NASCAR starts seeming interesting.
Perhaps it would have been better to finish this degree before transmitting my genetic material to another generation of crabby, demanding little persons.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Peter Fonda Freaks me Out
In which your humble narrator describes his anxiety regarding acting family scion, Peter Fonda.
Peter Fonda freaks me out. So I usually avoid him. Except I can't for two reasons. First, he's on this creepy baby-boomer infomercial all the time hawking a TimeLife collection of hippie music that's on in the middle of the night. What with having a baby and being prone to occasional insomnia and not having cable, I run into "Flower Power" after the midnight hour.*
Notice that his arms appear to be paralyzed. His torso is strangely motionless. Also I suspect he's heavily medicated.
Second, Child #1 has this creepy Thomas the Tank Engine movie called "Thomas and the Magic Railroad," which is a weird mash-up of regular old British-style Thomas stories with the PBS series "Shining Time Station," (where Thomas first appeared in the states) with a bizarre subplot about a magic railroad and some magic gold dust thrown in to make it more confusing. The movie features: Alec Baldwin, Didi Conn, Russell Means, and the (again) apparently heavily medicated Peter Fonda. Actually, the whole cast may have been medicated. If I tried to explain the plot, gentle reader, you might think I was heavily medicated.
Fortunately, this movie isn't usually in heavy rotation on Child #1's playlist, but someone seems to have gotten it out a couple of days ago.
For additional evidence of Peter Fonda's creepiness, please see:
*This makes me glower and feel dour for at least an hour.
Peter Fonda freaks me out. So I usually avoid him. Except I can't for two reasons. First, he's on this creepy baby-boomer infomercial all the time hawking a TimeLife collection of hippie music that's on in the middle of the night. What with having a baby and being prone to occasional insomnia and not having cable, I run into "Flower Power" after the midnight hour.*
Second, Child #1 has this creepy Thomas the Tank Engine movie called "Thomas and the Magic Railroad," which is a weird mash-up of regular old British-style Thomas stories with the PBS series "Shining Time Station," (where Thomas first appeared in the states) with a bizarre subplot about a magic railroad and some magic gold dust thrown in to make it more confusing. The movie features: Alec Baldwin, Didi Conn, Russell Means, and the (again) apparently heavily medicated Peter Fonda. Actually, the whole cast may have been medicated. If I tried to explain the plot, gentle reader, you might think I was heavily medicated.
Fortunately, this movie isn't usually in heavy rotation on Child #1's playlist, but someone seems to have gotten it out a couple of days ago.
For additional evidence of Peter Fonda's creepiness, please see:
- brother of Jane Fonda
- Easy Rider
- Voicing the aging hippie character in a Grand Theft Auto game
- Escape from L.A. (with the comparably creepy Kurt Russell)
*This makes me glower and feel dour for at least an hour.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Things I saw on the way to teach my class today
In which your humble narrator lists the assorted oddments that he surveyed on his way to teach the little children about educational psychology.
1. A man running down the street wearing and parka (no surprise... it's 26 degrees here in The Cities today) and no discernible pants (Very surprising. Minnesotans eschew nudity even during the summer) and very, very white legs.
2. A golden eagle hunting along the Mississippi River bank.
3. A tiny, wizened, old man with a long, flowing bead very slowly riding a tiny bicycle along the river while wearing a top hat.
1. A man running down the street wearing and parka (no surprise... it's 26 degrees here in The Cities today) and no discernible pants (Very surprising. Minnesotans eschew nudity even during the summer) and very, very white legs.
2. A golden eagle hunting along the Mississippi River bank.
3. A tiny, wizened, old man with a long, flowing bead very slowly riding a tiny bicycle along the river while wearing a top hat.
Oh Woeful Woe!
In which your humble narrator discovers that his progeny are little more than tiny incubators for disease germs and laments the brain fever of Child #1.
I don't get sick very often, or rather, I should say that I used to not get sick often. Since the birth of Child #1 I've had four or five colds, two sinus infections and varicella-zoster (chicken pox for big boys!). And the children are sick again. It's only been six weeks since they were sick the last time. At least this time, snot doesn't seem to be a major component. And I'm sick again. And it's not too bad, but it's lingering. Everyone's been out of sorts since the day after Thanksgiving.
I should mention that Child #1 goes completely crazy when he's running a fever. It overheats his brain and rather than laying around feeling lousy, he careens around the house caroming off of and colliding with furniture, the cats, the floor, Child #2, toys, his parents, and anything else easily accessible. I feel lousy and all I want to do is lay on the couch and watch television. He feels lousy and wants to jump off the couch and hang from the light fixtures. The baby feels lousy, but she just mostly wants me to keep reinserting her pacifier every five minutes so she knows I'm still paying attention to her.
I'm pretty sure that from an evolutionary perspective it's much better to be cute and pitiful when you're sick than manic and insane. Yesterday with a fever of almost 100 degrees, Child #1 actually ran laps around the coffee table for about 10 minutes.
We're spending the morning upstairs since it's the room with the least hazards and the most padding (big bed, carpeting). I believe we may have gone for two hours without any new bruises.
I don't get sick very often, or rather, I should say that I used to not get sick often. Since the birth of Child #1 I've had four or five colds, two sinus infections and varicella-zoster (chicken pox for big boys!). And the children are sick again. It's only been six weeks since they were sick the last time. At least this time, snot doesn't seem to be a major component. And I'm sick again. And it's not too bad, but it's lingering. Everyone's been out of sorts since the day after Thanksgiving.
I should mention that Child #1 goes completely crazy when he's running a fever. It overheats his brain and rather than laying around feeling lousy, he careens around the house caroming off of and colliding with furniture, the cats, the floor, Child #2, toys, his parents, and anything else easily accessible. I feel lousy and all I want to do is lay on the couch and watch television. He feels lousy and wants to jump off the couch and hang from the light fixtures. The baby feels lousy, but she just mostly wants me to keep reinserting her pacifier every five minutes so she knows I'm still paying attention to her.
I'm pretty sure that from an evolutionary perspective it's much better to be cute and pitiful when you're sick than manic and insane. Yesterday with a fever of almost 100 degrees, Child #1 actually ran laps around the coffee table for about 10 minutes.
We're spending the morning upstairs since it's the room with the least hazards and the most padding (big bed, carpeting). I believe we may have gone for two hours without any new bruises.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
"Off to the Races" or "Eat my dust, you old biddy!"
In which your humble narrator realizes that he's in a competition with a mean old lady, proceeds to calmly to glorious victory and offers her a heaping helping of loser pie.
I took the children to Target yesterday morning to buy all the things that I forgot to buy at Target on Sunday. On Sunday, we had been at the Midway Target (Targhetto) which is nice enough and close to our home. But Targhetto is always out of things and also it's full of a bizarre mix of annoying, urban, boutique liberals and poor people*. This makes it our natural habitat since we're poor, urban crabby-liberals who wish we had the cash to shop at boutiques.
But on Monday we went, instead, to the suburban paradise Target where everyone is glassy-eyed and dead inside and all the little girls are named "Ava." We collected our stuff and walked to the check-outs. We were proceeding along the mostly closed registers back toward the end of the store where we had parked when a mean old lady with flaring nostrils came up on the inside track to ace us out from the first open register. She scooted in ahead just as I was starting to turn the cart and stood stone-faced as if we did not exist.
But then, sweet vindication! The other old lady in front of the mean old bat had 147 coupons and was clearly paranoid that the 18-year-old cashier had malevolent designs on her social security money. We scooted down to the next lane and proceeded through check-out as the mean old bat started fuming, abandoned her lane and trotted down to the express lane, nostrils flaring violently all the merry way. We concluded our transaction just as she finally made it to a register. We just had enough time to cut her off at the front door and made it out into the parking lot before her. But did I pretend that she was not there?
No, gentle reader, I smirked at her.
*It's probably the only place they see each other.
I took the children to Target yesterday morning to buy all the things that I forgot to buy at Target on Sunday. On Sunday, we had been at the Midway Target (Targhetto) which is nice enough and close to our home. But Targhetto is always out of things and also it's full of a bizarre mix of annoying, urban, boutique liberals and poor people*. This makes it our natural habitat since we're poor, urban crabby-liberals who wish we had the cash to shop at boutiques.
But on Monday we went, instead, to the suburban paradise Target where everyone is glassy-eyed and dead inside and all the little girls are named "Ava." We collected our stuff and walked to the check-outs. We were proceeding along the mostly closed registers back toward the end of the store where we had parked when a mean old lady with flaring nostrils came up on the inside track to ace us out from the first open register. She scooted in ahead just as I was starting to turn the cart and stood stone-faced as if we did not exist.
But then, sweet vindication! The other old lady in front of the mean old bat had 147 coupons and was clearly paranoid that the 18-year-old cashier had malevolent designs on her social security money. We scooted down to the next lane and proceeded through check-out as the mean old bat started fuming, abandoned her lane and trotted down to the express lane, nostrils flaring violently all the merry way. We concluded our transaction just as she finally made it to a register. We just had enough time to cut her off at the front door and made it out into the parking lot before her. But did I pretend that she was not there?
No, gentle reader, I smirked at her.
*It's probably the only place they see each other.
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