Spring Sprang Sprung

In which your humble narrator remarks on the seasonal madness of Minnesotans.

This is the first March in the Twin Cities in 675 years of record-keeping (since the reign of King Thorbjorn the Unresponsive) that there has been no snow. As I sit tapping out this this sentence at 8:52 a.m. it's already a balmy 54 degrees.

I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

To say that this has made the locals "happy" would be an overstatement. "Suspicious" is more like it. When the dumb college dudes started wearing those shiny shorts three weeks ago, (when it got into the 40s) the fleece-clad locals scoffed.

But today it's going to be 75. And the locals have all emerged from hibernation, blinking in the sun and looking vaguely sour, as if nice weather in March must surely be some sort of portent of doom.

The climate induced schizophrenia is especially noticeable on the playground where over-bundled children are tended by Mommies and Nannies in shorts. Children in parkas play with children in tee shirts. Child #1 still insists that we take his jacket with us whenever we leave the house, but he never wears it.

Oh, of course! They wore shirts! It all makes sense now.

In which your humble narrator prattles on concerning poop and cartoons.

It's Saturday morning and Wife-a-roo is minding the progeny. I informed her yesterday that every single poop that either one of the little darlings produces this weekend is her responsibility because both of them crapped so much while she was at work this week that in order to maintain the poopy-diaper ratio that keeps our marriage intact, she was going to have to be the main poop-changer for two days. So this is just like a vacation for me, except I'm still at home and have to clean and grade papers and work and stuff.

For some reason I woke up this morning with a strong "It's Saturday!" feeling which made me want to watch Saturday morning cartoons. But sadly the Saturday morning cartoons of 1984 aren't on anymore. Mostly it seems to just be more of the same insipid morning "news" shows that are on during the week only with third-string anchors instead of Meredith Vieira, George Stephanopolous or Harry Smith.

On the plus side, after some interwebular research I finally found the answer to a a question I've been asking for what seems like months. That question was (usually directed at Sister-of-Me) "What was that one weird cartoon about a bunch of animals living in a tree in a park, and maybe they fought crime or something? I feel like there was a girl Panda bear and maybe a bashful mole involved somehow."

The answer is "Shirt Tails."

I had completely forgotten that they wore shirts. Duh.

And last, does anyone remember another cartoon on at that time which had the hilarious title "Pole Position?" Fortunately I was only able handle one entendre at a time at the tender age of 5. It was a sort of British speed racer. I encourage you to go here to read the theme lyrics, because if you're immature like me, they'll make you giggle.

Those Sour Grapes Will Make a Lovely Whine

In which your humble narrator pummels the body politic with his mad metaphorical skills.

I don't usually get all blog-politicky but certain events have transpired which call for three minor points to be made.

1. The Health Care bill passed. This means that my uninsured, pre-existing conditioned Mom will be able to purchase insurance again. This means that the 8.7% of my brain that is in charge of worrying about Mom being hit by a truck full of organ thieves and having tens of thousands of dollars in unpayable medical bills can now be reassigned to worrying about zombies, tornadoes and Peter Fonda.
2. For my Republican friends (and you, Grandma): It's not actually a subversion of democracy when congressional majorities pass legislation which is then signed by a president who won a clear majority of votes. When your side wins you get to start wars and send free platinum toilets to bank executives and stuff. When we win we get to do stuff too. 
3. I look absolutely smashing in the official socialist paradise jumpsuit that the neighborhood commisar delivered to the house yesterday. Long live the Apparatus of State!

Do you remember that one kid in the neighborhood when you were growing up that nobody wanted to play with because he was constantly changing the rules? If you were playing basketball and you made a shot, it didn't count because that kid would immediately call a foul or invent a rule that said nothing that touched the rim counted for a point or maybe that you were actually playing lacrosse and by making the basket you just earned -43 points. But if that kid had the ball, you weren't allowed to defend the basket because he just remembered that playing defense contravenes the Basketball Convention of 1896. So you were supposed to just lie down on the ground and let that kid take as many shots as he wanted.

That kid is now a Republican member of Congress.

It's Friday so I Hate Stuff

In which your humble narrator accounts for five rebarbative aspects of life.

1. Sentiments expressed on bumper stickers that are entirely antithetical to the driving habits of the owner of the vehicle on which said sentiment is plastered. While in the car with my children yesterday afternoon, a man in a Buick who exhorted us to "Protect Life" simultaneously attempted to rob us of ours.
2. That weird mold that's been growing on the lawn underneath the snow.
3. Any mention of Tiger Woods, ever.
4. The insistence of newspapers to break their 500-word news articles across three pages to cram in more ads. I know y'all have to figure out a new revenue model. Annoying the crap out of me isn't it.
5. The realization that I am clearly old. Now that the haircuts of twelve-year-old boys regularly piss me off, there's really no point in trying to remain even vaguely cool.

Scrapbooking for Jesus with my seven children while losing weight by climbing rocks and making sweet love to my bicycle

In which your humble narrator surveys the interwebs and finds them wanting.

The fine folks at Google, in their zeal to index everything, changed the functionality of the "Next Blog" button featured on the navigation bar of most Blogger blogs. Rather than taking you to a completely random Blogger blog (possibly in another exciting language) it now takes you to a blog that Google thinks you will find interesting based on what you've written on your blog. What follows is an unscientific survey of the blogs available to me via the Next Blog button (all within 3 clicks).

• 15,000 "family" blogs focused on frequently photographed children named Camryn, Tamryn, Payton, Braden, Jayden, Caden, Aiden, Ain't Misbehavin', Desmond, Connor, Tanner, Planner, Delilah, Rylie, Kylie and Wingnut.
• 12,000 blogs with the word "ramblings" heavily featured in the title or description.
• 9,000 blogs where people talk about Jesus... a lot.
• 6,000 blogs about scrap-booking (many overlap with the above categories.)
• 4,000 blogs about losing weight.
• 2,000 blogs describing climbing up big rocks in exhaustive detail.
• 750 blogs about people and their unnatural relationships with their bicycles.
• 500 blogs with "embracing winter," somewhere in the first few posts, because really, seasons need hugs.
• 50 blogs about making life more simple by blogging about simplicity.
• 1 blog about an international organization of philatelists.*

I understand (even if I also reject) the preponderance of sallow-skinned, dead-eyed suburban family blogs showing up. I write about children. They write about children.  I, however, am at a loss regarding the climbing of big rocks, the techno-sexual bicycle relationships, simplicity, and philately blogs.


Actually the philatelist's blog was the only interesting one.

*I have spent at least an hour trying to imagine what their parties must be like. My only conclusion: off the hook.

Abrupt Reversal

In which your humble narrator discusses his progeny's prudishness and rapaciousness for candy.

For reasons known only to his own little weirdo brain, Child #1, a previously stalwart opponent of combined bathing with Child #2 has abruptly reversed himself and begun demanding that his sister be deposited into the tub at the same time that he goes through his evening ablutions.

This surprised all and sundry since upon previous entreaties to maximize the efficiency of tub-time, Child #1 looked positively scandalized and began the octave jumping litany which follows any suggestion to which he is not immediately inclined, "No, No, NO, NO, NO!"

Frankly, he is a bit of a prude. Someone gave us* a copy of that classic of the Western Canon, Once Upon a Potty, which we introduced to Child #1 several month ago. He was appalled. When his grandmother read it to him and his eyes got very big, and when the got to the page on which the little boy proudly produces poop, Child #1 covered his eyes and blushed.

Needless to say potty training is proceeding slowly. At least now it's proceeding. Once he figured out that going in the potty chair meant a high probability of candy upon completion he suddenly got a lot more willing. Every kid has his price.


*Or maybe Wife-a-roo bought it? Or maybe pixies left in under a cabbage leaf in the garden? I cannot keep track of the stream of child-related ephemera that sweeps into our house on a weekly basis.

They sailed away in a big cliché, to a land where a donkey goes...

In which your humble narrator declines to smell a donkey.

On today's public radio edition of the Liberal Mid-Morning Middle-Aged Ladies' Lifestyle Hour (LM-MM-ALLH) they're having yet another guest who has made the boldly innovative decision to abandon the fetid stench of the metropolis and move out to the Real America where things are all simpler, purer, more rural and everything is positively saturated with greater meaning. She lives on a farm and writes about it and stuff.

YAWN.

I've decided that I'm going to adopt the outlook that living in a 1948, post-war, ticky-tacky house on a nondescript boulevard in a relentlessly middle-class urban neighborhood confers upon me a penetrating insight into the human condition. As such, every single economic and lifestyle choice I make becomes a part of the narrative of my own personal specialness. Applications for "cult-like followers" will be accepted.

Also, this woman on the radio said she "loves to smell her donkey." 

That's messed up.

Double Indumbnity

In which your humble narrator reminds you that the children are our future and as such we are hopelessly screwed.

I spent a few minutes this morning trying to track down a quote I'm pretty sure I read in a Joe Queenan book. I can't remember if it was Mr. Queenan or if he was quoting someone else. Without further nattering it was something along these lines:

If children are so smart, why isn't one of them in charge of the Federal Reserve?

While a spectacularly bright boy over all, Child #1 does manage some truly epic failures of smartness in his brain thing. On Tuesday night, Child #1 was looking a little queasy at dinner and not eating much. His mother got him some frozen yogurt (bad idea) and he ate a little. After dinner he decided he was going to help give Child #2 a bath and ran from the kitchen into the bathroom. Upon entering the bathroom, he began to vomit (while running toward his mother), slipped on his own puke, slid across the floor on his ass, leaving a trail of pink yogurty barf. Much wailing and distress ensued.


The next day he got pink eye, which he's handled with all the stoicism you would expect from a two-year-old, by trying to gouge his eyes out, intermittently wailing, and smearing yellow-green eye pus over all my modestly appointed home.

The baby pooped through two sets of clothes yesterday, and her nose is still running, leaving her with a ring of gray (frequently linty) boogers around her nostrils.

I'm leaving the little darlings in the care of our baby sitter today while I go to teach some undergraduates about curriculum analysis. Undergrads may be nearly as gross as children, but at least none of them will touch me.

For this, I am truly grateful.

The Department of "With All due Respect"

In which your humble narrator decries weasel-speak.

Why is it socially acceptable to be insulting, insensitive or condescending if you preface your remarks by uttering "with all due respect?" I suggest we encourage our elected officials to avoid weaselly idioms.

After watching a few clips of last week's White House health summit I'm convinced we should replace "with all due respect" with, "bitches, please," 'cause you know that's what they're all thinking.*

Except for John Boehner who is thinking about cigarettes, and Joe Biden who is thinking about, oh I don't know... maybe waffles. And Amtrak.