Mailbag Monday is Late

In which your humble narrator answers the mail.

Dear Rotten Baby,
How do I convince my mother-in-law that she is totally capable of taking care of our wonderful children (ages 1 1/2 and 3 1/2) for just 48 hours so that my estranged husband and I can go to the Florida Keys for an all expense paid trip?
                                     Needing some alone time together

Dear NSATT,
First of all: where did you get an all-expense paid trip to the Keys? I want an all expense-paid trip. I would settle for an all-expense-paid trip to Dubuque, Iowa and be very, very happy with it. Actually, you know what? I'd settle for being able to go to the bathroom without an accompanying two-year-old and the inevitable discussion of whether I'm peeing or pooping in the potty.

But I digress. When I was just a wee little boy, before I became an internet sensation known to, literally, tens of people, my Grandma said to me the following: "If you want somebody to do something for you, it works best to let them think that it's their decision. If you can't make them decide to do what you want, then you put the screws to 'em and nail their ass to the wall."

As you may have guessed, my grandma was Lyndon Baines Johnson.

For Attempt #1, "Vanity + Guilt," you try to get her to decide to do it herself. This is best accomplished by making a dual appeal to both her vanity and her guilt. Like this: "Oh mother-in-law (MIL) you're the only one I trust to care for my precious children* and... and (fake cry here) I'm just not sure that your child (your spouse, NSATT) is willing to tell you HOW MUCH S/HE NEEDS THIS." See? Vanity + Guilt

If this fails, then you move on to Attempt #2, "Ass to Wall."

"Look, MIL. Do this for me... or the next time we're at your house for dinner I'm telling the kids that you're serving Muppet."

*Feel free to sell your own Mom down the river here if you think it'll help... after all we're talking about a vacation away from the children, any reasonable court would sanction anything up to involuntary manslaughter under these circumstances.

Overheard on Craigslist

In which your humble narrator offers up a risque Craigslist post for your perusal.

Courtesy of Wife-a-roo, who trawls Craigslist every night because we don't have any money to buy anything and she needs to get her shopping fix somehow:

"This gently used Fisher-Price baby rocker swings both ways."

Kinky. I'm glad my kids didn't need their baby-swing to also be some sort of pan-sexual freak-fest.

Lets Bring Back Shame

In which your humble narrator gets his scold on and rants about the sheer ugliness of the ethical egoism that permeates modern life.

What ever happened to shame? Having been raised by quasi-hippies with a wide puritanical streak, I seem to have this unpopular notion that when you do stupid/evil/nasty/rude/hypocritical things, you should experience shame. Good ol' Pascal said "the only shame is to have none." Of course Blaise was a little too in love with his ability to turn a phrase, but I admire the sentiment none-the-less.

This week we have a president seemingly torpedoing his own agenda because he's now only got +18 majority in the Senate. From the New York Times Caucus Blog:

“If there’s one thing that I regret this year,” Mr. Obama said, “is that we were so busy just getting stuff done and dealing with the immediate crises that were in front of us that I think we lost some of that sense of speaking directly to the American people about what their core values are and why we have to make sure those institutions are matching up with those values.”

Goodness. Mealy-mouthed are we? This sounds like the trite response to the "what's your greatest weakness" job interview question.  "Oh gosh, America, I was just too darn focused on getting things done that I abdicated any responsibility for putting pressure on Congress to accomplish anything. Also I never bothered to communicate what it was that I wanted from a health care bill. I let opponents define the bill because I was too busy gettin'-r-done. Then I let the process drag on so long that Teddy Kennedy's seat is now held by a formerly nude Republican." Spare me the verbal curlicues, you tragic weiner.

Then there's our illustrious Supreme Court's conservative wing's (the one that has traditionally railed against judicial activism) decision to throw our 100+ years of precedent in a sweeping ruling where none was required. This was of course, not hypocritical. Just ask Antonin Scalia, he'll tell you so. Don't question him or he'll make a rude gesture to distract you while Dick Cheney sneaks up to shoot you in the face.

And last, on an entirely non-political note, what's up with the line-cutting, people? I frequently have middle aged persons try to cut in front of me in line. Are you all graduates of the Ayn Rand School for Tots?

Have you no shame?

Take that, hoop.

In which your humble narrator passes his preliminary exam and becomes a doctoral candidate.

After much fretting I sat for my oral preliminary examination this morning. Much to my delight, the questions were less "What business do you think you have here, miscreant, (probably retarded) urchin boy?" and more "So what do you think about this thing that you actually know about?"

Now on to other things. No, not a dissertation, gentle reader, the procurement of Kentucky Bourbon.

Wearisome Week

In which your humble narrator stares down the gaping maw of a test with no parameters and the beginning of another lousy semester.

Today is the first day of a new term, bringing with it new classes to teach, fresh undergraduate faces, an impending preliminary exam for my doctoral degree and a big old-fashioned bucket of glum. The enterprise of completing a Ph.D. seems less and less appealing since it seems apparent that it will result, not in a wood-paneled faculty office complete with tweed jacket and pipe, but rather a somewhat less glamorous job in the food service industry. "Would you like a thesis on the application of psycholinguistic research to reading comprehension tests with your burger and fries, sir? No?"

At least I'll be Dr. Impoverished Unemployed Person, Ph.D.

Friday brings with it my preliminary oral examination in which I will go into a room with my committee, give a 20 minute presentation and then hope and pray that I have actually learned something in my (too long) graduate career. I scheduled in for 9:30 in the morning, thinking that at least there won't be much of the day preceding the exam to spend agonizing over my impending doom. The lack of any set expectations for this exam is what sends my anxiety into full-on catastrophic mode: "What's that, simple boy? You're not ready for the physical challenge in which you wrestle with Jean Piaget's reanimated corpse?"

This may be the last post until after Friday as I plan to spend the next 60+ hours pulling the hair from my head strand by strand.

Wife-a-roo's Quotable Quotes

In which your humble narrator transcribes the wondrously weird wit and wisdom of Wife-a-roo.

"How did I get syrup on my butt?" (January 14, 2010)

 An existential question for the ages if I ever saw one. How, indeed?

Gratuitous Cuteness

GrIn which your humble narrator feels sorry for the parents of ugly children.

Child #2 sports a healthy vaseline sheen due to unremitting frigid, skin-drying temperatures.

Child #1 engages in imitative play by washing dishes in the bathroom sink. He washes dishes in the bath as well. He also pees in the bath a lot. I have yet to convince him that peeing in the dishwater is generally frowned upon.

Practical Jokery

In which your humble narrator discusses unimplemented plans for messing with his wife's head.

I actually almost never engage in practical jokery, which is sort of a shame since I'm really, really good at coming up with things that would completely annoy/surprise Wife-a-roo. It's a double pity because this is a woman who has gratifyingly large reactions to moderately startling circumstances. You can walk up to her, tell her that you now plan to hide behind a sofa and then jump out and yell "boo!" at her in exactly 43 seconds. She'll still jump when you do it. Here are some fun, unimplemented plans for messing with my wife's head.

1. Whenever I happen on the book that she's reading, I will flip one page forward. 
2. Reprogram Child #2's talking robot bear to say (and sing!) wife's name in that creepy robot bear voice it has. Then I shall put it on wife's pillow while she's mumbling about sleeping for "five more minutes*" and turn it on.
   
3. Pour regular cow milk into her rice milk cartons.
4. The next time I edit one of her papers on sexual health research, I will search for the term "sex" and replace it with the term "doin' it." "Sexual" will be replaced with "freak-nasty."
   

And last, even though I didn't do it, I should give an an honorable mention to Sister-of-me who changed Wife-a-roo's homepage to babyeinstein.com. Much flabbergasted sputtering ensued.


*Or, you know, 40 more minutes.

Crack

In which your humble narrator expounds upon his house's repeated attempts to drive him to penury and madness.

The drain pipe for the kitchen sink froze overnight on Monday. On Tuesday morning I came downstairs to find the sink full of dirty dishwasher water. Mercifully it did not overflow.

The plumber was called and I was referred to a sewer service. A pleasant gentleman came to the house within 2 hours and steamed open the drain pipe only to find a crack. The plumber was called again and came yesterday to effect a permanent fix for said drain pipe. We used this service call to restore hot water pressure to the kitchen sink as it had become very weak due to a copper/galvanized pipe junction that had become clogged.* I've have since nearly burned my hands twice due to the sudden surprising availability of hot water.

We have not been in this house for 2 years yet, and we have already replaced the roof, soffits, fascia, gutters, both toilets, the chimney liner, the front door, fixed the outside spigot, added insulation, and addressed some electrical issues. I estimate that this maintenance alone is running $250-300 per month.

We should have picked either having children or having a house.


*It really sounds like I know what I'm talking about here doesn't it?

Mailbag Monday

In which your humble narrator answers some mail.

Dear Rotten Baby,
Can I yell at my baby when he's bad?
                               -Disciplinary Donna in Denver
Dear 3D,
What the hell is wrong with you? You can't yell at your baby as a punishment. That will freak your baby out and he'll grow up to be like Gilbert Gottfried. You may only yell at your baby as a part of happy-fun-screamy-time (HFST). I have HFST with Child #2 once or twice a day. She likes to yell. I like to yell. She thinks it's hysterical when I try to match her pitch. I'm thinking that maybe we could join that Finnish Shouting Choir as a fun Daddy-daughter type activity. Remember 3D, yelling should be an act of exuberance, not discipline.

Dear Rotten Baby,
What's up with Twilight? Am I missing something or is it really just vampornomance for current and former adolescent girls?
                                -Abe von Holsing
Abe,
You hit that nail on the head, there buddy. I'm not going to say anything else because I live in mortal terror of several former adolescent girls that may be reading this letter. In lieu of commentary on the Twi-nomenon, I offer this link* to the stupidest Twi-products that Twi-commerce has made Twi-vailable to the Twi-masses. I'll never eat a Pringle again.

Dear Rotten Baby,
I am having recurring, and frequently erotic, dreams about Fox News Sunday's Chris Wallace. While I find him comically inept as a "journalist" he keeps haunting my slumber. Is there anything I can do to stop finding him attractive?
                               -Foxy Lady
Foxy,
I suggest you get yourself booked as a guest on his show. That should clear everything up. But for the love of God, don't look into Brit Hume's eyes. He'll eat your soul (while emasculating Juan Williams).

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.


*Mad props, yo, to Captain Cartwheel and her dumb brother, Shadoweyes who may send me email mash notes about how much he misses me, but still hasn't f*****g linked to me. You get lunch when I get a link, sucker.

Of Deviled Eggs, Bad Science and the Psychology of Stupidity

In which your humble narrator makes a mistake.

First, I confess. I read the Huffington Post. A college friend of mine used to work for her Greekness, and I've read it for years. I rationalize it by claiming that it's just like the New York Post, but for urban, liberal types.

Last night I made the mistake of clicking on the "Living" tab on Huffington Post. For the love of God, if you enjoy food, don't feel particularly like mediatating, doing yoga or actualizing your dream states, don't visit. All food is viewed through the prism of it's effects on your health. The headline article today is "GLUTEN: What you don't know might KILL you." This article takes a surprisingly individual tack toward self-diagnosis. First, the author tells you to cut all gluten from your diet, then reintroduce it. If you feel bad at all after reintroduction you should never eat gluten again. And this guy is an M.D. Really? A single trial test? Shouldn't doctors have some familiarity with, oh... I don't know, SCIENCE?

I think that the vast majority of these articles are really about two complementary psychological desires. The first is to find an explanation for your illness/addiction/fatness/compulsive sexual behavior with Peruvian mountain goats that relieves you of any responsibility at all. That goat was asking for it. And the second desire is to individuate oneself from all the other wealthy boutique liberals so you can be unique like everyone else. For additional examples of these two complementary psychological drives please see: Oprah, Dr. Phil, daytime medical television and the entire self-help industrial complex. I'm pretty resigned to most of this silliness, but please, leave food out of it.

To help us move past this idiocy, here's a nice picture of some deviled eggs from one of my Mom's family reunions a couple of years ago. They're a pain in the butt to prepare. They're not good for you. You should still eat them and enjoy them. I do.