In which your humble narrator corresponds with entities unlike to respond or sue him.
Dear Youth of America,
Put some damn clothes on, and seriously, you're going to live to regret that tattoo one day.
Dear State of New York,
Congratulations on letting the gays get hitched. And extra special congratulations for doing it legislatively. Just don't go buck wild and let corporations get married even if Antonin Scalia thinks they're people too.
Dear People who "Make Their Voices Heard!",
Isn't sort of an exercise in futility to "make your voice heard" every damn day in a culture where exactly no one listens? I suppose it sounds better than "I like to shout my opinions all the damn time!"
Dear Peter Falk,
Rest in peace. Goodbye, Columbo.
Dear Rest of the United States of America,
I am in no way responsible for Michele Bachmann. Just because she lives 20 miles from me doesn't mean I have any insight into that big bag of crazy.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Literal and Metaphorical Dark Clouds
In which your humble narrator becomes confused about his geographic location, packs off the children into the care of trained professionals, encourages trained professionals not to allow Child #1 to walk at the end of any lines, and receives a teensy ray of email-delivered hope in his ongoing battle against imminent professional despair and eventual penury.
So it's June, which means apparently, that it will first rocket up to 103 degrees and then rain for three weeks with temperatures barely cracking into the 70s. This is the weirdest weather year in the Cities that I can remember and I've been here for quite a while. But today is sunny and nice and I feel good.*
The children are now "in care" three days a week. Child #1 is at day camp which is going well with one entirely predictable exception. On Wednesday two lines of small children were passing in a hallway, Child #1 was at the end of his line, no doubt rambling along without the slightest attention being paid to his surroundings. He managed to get turned around and start following the other line of children to their destination. No one realized this until adults responsible for the other group of children realized they had picked up an extra child. At this point of course, Child #1 snapped back to the reality that the rest of us inhabit and started to freak out, wailing, "I'm supposed to be in Beth's room!" He was promptly deposited back with his group though it apparently took him a little while to calm down.
How can one put this politely? Child #1 lacks focus. He is a terribly sweet child who has a certain difficulty in, shall we say, goal-directed and sequential behaviors. He has been strenuously arguing against my assertion that after using the toilet, pulling one's pants up before trying to flush, wash one's hands, and leave the bathroom will actually make the entire process more efficient. He rejects my narrow, linear, temporal conformity strongly.
Also, this morning I received an email indicating that I may get my dissertation data before the State government shuts down next week. If this in fact occurs, I can do my analysis this summer and (fingers crossed) complete my thesis. The only good dissertation is a done dissertation.
*By which I mean I do not feel actively bad because I am sublimating my anxiety with unusual success.
So it's June, which means apparently, that it will first rocket up to 103 degrees and then rain for three weeks with temperatures barely cracking into the 70s. This is the weirdest weather year in the Cities that I can remember and I've been here for quite a while. But today is sunny and nice and I feel good.*
The children are now "in care" three days a week. Child #1 is at day camp which is going well with one entirely predictable exception. On Wednesday two lines of small children were passing in a hallway, Child #1 was at the end of his line, no doubt rambling along without the slightest attention being paid to his surroundings. He managed to get turned around and start following the other line of children to their destination. No one realized this until adults responsible for the other group of children realized they had picked up an extra child. At this point of course, Child #1 snapped back to the reality that the rest of us inhabit and started to freak out, wailing, "I'm supposed to be in Beth's room!" He was promptly deposited back with his group though it apparently took him a little while to calm down.
How can one put this politely? Child #1 lacks focus. He is a terribly sweet child who has a certain difficulty in, shall we say, goal-directed and sequential behaviors. He has been strenuously arguing against my assertion that after using the toilet, pulling one's pants up before trying to flush, wash one's hands, and leave the bathroom will actually make the entire process more efficient. He rejects my narrow, linear, temporal conformity strongly.
Also, this morning I received an email indicating that I may get my dissertation data before the State government shuts down next week. If this in fact occurs, I can do my analysis this summer and (fingers crossed) complete my thesis. The only good dissertation is a done dissertation.
*By which I mean I do not feel actively bad because I am sublimating my anxiety with unusual success.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I'm #2!
In which your humble narrator learns his place.
Child #1 succesfully completed his first year of preschool yesterday. After a celebratory lunch at Costco (he picked it) we did some grocery shopping. Having recently returned from a brief trip to Ohio and Iowa there was no food to speak of in the house.
At the last stop (a liquor store, but you know, a nice one next to the grocery, not one filled with bums or anything), Child #1 so enchanted the cashier that she gave him a sucker. He was enraptured.
After loading the groceries into the van I scooped up Child #1 over my shoulder to put him in his seat. He giggled and said "I love you, Daddy."
"Aww," I replied, "I love you too."
"And I love my sucker," he continued. Not being one to realize when to leave well enough alone, I asked, "Who do you love more, Daddy or your sucker?"
"My sucker." Without missing a beat.
Child #1 succesfully completed his first year of preschool yesterday. After a celebratory lunch at Costco (he picked it) we did some grocery shopping. Having recently returned from a brief trip to Ohio and Iowa there was no food to speak of in the house.
At the last stop (a liquor store, but you know, a nice one next to the grocery, not one filled with bums or anything), Child #1 so enchanted the cashier that she gave him a sucker. He was enraptured.
After loading the groceries into the van I scooped up Child #1 over my shoulder to put him in his seat. He giggled and said "I love you, Daddy."
"Aww," I replied, "I love you too."
"And I love my sucker," he continued. Not being one to realize when to leave well enough alone, I asked, "Who do you love more, Daddy or your sucker?"
"My sucker." Without missing a beat.
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