Friday
1/12/04
Cold. Real Cold.
After making a rather silly decision this last weekend, I now know what true Cold is. I had thought I knew what cold was, but I turned out to be really, really, wrong.
Cold is not, for instance, forgetting to wear an extra sweater to an Islanders game. Likewise, cold is not waiting around for the school bus on a rainy December afternoon. And, perhaps most of all, cold is not shivering under the sheets while deciding if it’s worth sprinting out of bed for a pair of comfy socks.
No, real Cold is standing, simp that I am, at the top of the hill at Big Bear in the Poconos on Saturday morning wondering if it was, perhaps, a little too cold to send the lads skiing. It was six below zero with a stiff breeze working. Within literally five seconds the condensation on my mustache froze and got crunchy. Then the junk in my nose froze and got crunchy. Then my eyes stared watering, which is when I found out that it hurt my face to dab at the tears. A rather weak "Holy shit…" was about all I could manage before running for the lodge.
Once safely inside, the last damning piece of evidence that it was foolhardy to even consider sending the boys for lessons became apparent: despite the fact that it was well after nine in the morning on a beautiful sunny Saturday, there was only one other family there other than ourselves. One other foolish, foolish, family.
In the end, the weekend turned out to be a lot of fun; we hunkered down in our borrowed house and played family games and watched movies and gorged ourselves on junk food until the next day, which was warm enough to send the boys for those lessons. But never again will I tempt real Cold.
(And jeez, no wonder the U.S. is just lousy with Canadians; they obviously know better than to stick around up there. Brrr.)
( 1/9: We've waited just long enough to go skiing at Big Bear in the Poconos that we'll be getting the first real Arctic blast 'o the year. It seems that Saturday's high on the mountain is gonna be 0. That's right, 0. Wheeeee! )
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Cold. Real Cold.
After making a rather silly decision this last weekend, I now know what true Cold is. I had thought I knew what cold was, but I turned out to be really, really, wrong.
Cold is not, for instance, forgetting to wear an extra sweater to an Islanders game. Likewise, cold is not waiting around for the school bus on a rainy December afternoon. And, perhaps most of all, cold is not shivering under the sheets while deciding if it’s worth sprinting out of bed for a pair of comfy socks.
No, real Cold is standing, simp that I am, at the top of the hill at Big Bear in the Poconos on Saturday morning wondering if it was, perhaps, a little too cold to send the lads skiing. It was six below zero with a stiff breeze working. Within literally five seconds the condensation on my mustache froze and got crunchy. Then the junk in my nose froze and got crunchy. Then my eyes stared watering, which is when I found out that it hurt my face to dab at the tears. A rather weak "Holy shit…" was about all I could manage before running for the lodge.
Once safely inside, the last damning piece of evidence that it was foolhardy to even consider sending the boys for lessons became apparent: despite the fact that it was well after nine in the morning on a beautiful sunny Saturday, there was only one other family there other than ourselves. One other foolish, foolish, family.
In the end, the weekend turned out to be a lot of fun; we hunkered down in our borrowed house and played family games and watched movies and gorged ourselves on junk food until the next day, which was warm enough to send the boys for those lessons. But never again will I tempt real Cold.
(And jeez, no wonder the U.S. is just lousy with Canadians; they obviously know better than to stick around up there. Brrr.)
( 1/9: We've waited just long enough to go skiing at Big Bear in the Poconos that we'll be getting the first real Arctic blast 'o the year. It seems that Saturday's high on the mountain is gonna be 0. That's right, 0. Wheeeee! )
1/08/04
" I Wanna Work For Sega! "
CNN/Money Magazine yesterday printed a list of archaic jobs that are slowly dying out. The incremental loss of these professions, known as structural job loss, is apparently due to the fundamental changes that our economy and society are undergoing. In short, it seems that Elevator operators, Millwrights, Dressmakers and the like simply have no place in the 21st century.
As I read this I wondered if my oldest, who was siting next to me doing his homework, had any professional ambitions yet. I steeled myself and inquired, "Hey Sean, what do you want to be when you grow up?" After all, I thought, there might yet be time to talk him into becoming a dairy farmer or whatever.
The reply came without hesitation: "A video game tester for Nintendo." I must admit I flinched.
And from the doorway the little one piped up, "I wanna work for Sega!" I cringed just a little more.
Not being one to judge the Hopes and Dreams of others, I remembered the fact that when I was six I desperately wanted to be a garbage man so I could crunch stuff up in the big truck. Now, though, as an ostensible adult, I considered the potential benefits and possible social consequences of garbage man vs. Nintendo guy as profession, and they seem to me pretty evenly matched. Still, though, I’d have to choose garbage guy, if only because the benefits must be better.
No, wait, it’s the twenty first century and we’re allowed to follow the Muse. Screw the garbage truck, I’m off to play some Mario Party with the boys. Maybe I'll teach them to be sensible later.
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" I Wanna Work For Sega! "
CNN/Money Magazine yesterday printed a list of archaic jobs that are slowly dying out. The incremental loss of these professions, known as structural job loss, is apparently due to the fundamental changes that our economy and society are undergoing. In short, it seems that Elevator operators, Millwrights, Dressmakers and the like simply have no place in the 21st century.
As I read this I wondered if my oldest, who was siting next to me doing his homework, had any professional ambitions yet. I steeled myself and inquired, "Hey Sean, what do you want to be when you grow up?" After all, I thought, there might yet be time to talk him into becoming a dairy farmer or whatever.
The reply came without hesitation: "A video game tester for Nintendo." I must admit I flinched.
And from the doorway the little one piped up, "I wanna work for Sega!" I cringed just a little more.
Not being one to judge the Hopes and Dreams of others, I remembered the fact that when I was six I desperately wanted to be a garbage man so I could crunch stuff up in the big truck. Now, though, as an ostensible adult, I considered the potential benefits and possible social consequences of garbage man vs. Nintendo guy as profession, and they seem to me pretty evenly matched. Still, though, I’d have to choose garbage guy, if only because the benefits must be better.
No, wait, it’s the twenty first century and we’re allowed to follow the Muse. Screw the garbage truck, I’m off to play some Mario Party with the boys. Maybe I'll teach them to be sensible later.
01/03/04
The Christmas Tree with Boobies
I came to the conclusion, a very long time ago, that there will always be an unbridgeable gulf between my world and the world occupied by celebrity parents. I, for instance, have had the modest satisfaction of watching my boys as they fling themselves into space from the swing in the back yard when they get it going to a respectable height. It is unlikely, however, that I’ll ever be lucky enough to fly all the way to Rome just to indulge in the pleasure of dangling my child from a hotel balcony.
Likewise, on soft summer evenings the boys and I have little choice but to content ourselves by chasing fireflies with homemade nets and a jelly jar with holes poked in the lid. (Had enough Norman Rockwell yet?) It is again, however, unlikely that I’ll ever have my own zoo, complete with crocodiles for infant dangling purposes.
Ah but then again, my snide tone aside, haven’t we all engaged in moments of parental foolishness for which there is no justification? Granted, foolishness slightly less spectacular and rather danger-free, but still, my confession follows:
While trimming our tree this year the boys and I were trying to think of new and fun things to put on the tree. Little dated pictures of the kids are pleasant, in a traditional sort of way, but they lack a certain joie de vivre.
Simultaneous with this exercise, our youngest brought up the subject of names of different body parts. Various body parts were named. The list, as one can imagine, got cruder and sillier. Then I, in a moment of perfect clarity, had a flawlessly brilliant idea.
"You know what? Let’s put some boobies on the tree!" The giggling grew exponentially, and in a mere twinkle of Santa’s eye I had downloaded, printed, cropped and hung a small picture of Brown Boobies, species Sula leucogaster. It was, may I say, the hit of the evening, and my Lovely Bride, future saint that she is, merely rolled her eyes and looked the other way.
But then, almost as if it were a potted plant from outer space, the Legend of the Boobies grew out of control. Everyone who subsequently came to the house was led by the boys to the Brown Boobies. Reactions ranged from politely amused to the woodenly perplexed. But mostly perplexed.
So, one evening shortly thereafter, I, the guy now responsible for endangering the future character of not one, but two minors, had no choice but to dispose of the Brown Boobies under the cover of night. And, thankfully, once gone, they were quickly forgotten.
In the end, I consider myself lucky. Sure, I don’t have a sprawling, magical ranch replete with monkeys and poor John Merrick’s bones… and as much as a zoo would be a real conversation starter, I still have it better. After all, it’s pretty likely that friends and neighbors alike will someday forget all about my Christmas Tree with Boobies.
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The Christmas Tree with Boobies
I came to the conclusion, a very long time ago, that there will always be an unbridgeable gulf between my world and the world occupied by celebrity parents. I, for instance, have had the modest satisfaction of watching my boys as they fling themselves into space from the swing in the back yard when they get it going to a respectable height. It is unlikely, however, that I’ll ever be lucky enough to fly all the way to Rome just to indulge in the pleasure of dangling my child from a hotel balcony.
Likewise, on soft summer evenings the boys and I have little choice but to content ourselves by chasing fireflies with homemade nets and a jelly jar with holes poked in the lid. (Had enough Norman Rockwell yet?) It is again, however, unlikely that I’ll ever have my own zoo, complete with crocodiles for infant dangling purposes.
Ah but then again, my snide tone aside, haven’t we all engaged in moments of parental foolishness for which there is no justification? Granted, foolishness slightly less spectacular and rather danger-free, but still, my confession follows:
While trimming our tree this year the boys and I were trying to think of new and fun things to put on the tree. Little dated pictures of the kids are pleasant, in a traditional sort of way, but they lack a certain joie de vivre.
Simultaneous with this exercise, our youngest brought up the subject of names of different body parts. Various body parts were named. The list, as one can imagine, got cruder and sillier. Then I, in a moment of perfect clarity, had a flawlessly brilliant idea.
"You know what? Let’s put some boobies on the tree!" The giggling grew exponentially, and in a mere twinkle of Santa’s eye I had downloaded, printed, cropped and hung a small picture of Brown Boobies, species Sula leucogaster. It was, may I say, the hit of the evening, and my Lovely Bride, future saint that she is, merely rolled her eyes and looked the other way.
But then, almost as if it were a potted plant from outer space, the Legend of the Boobies grew out of control. Everyone who subsequently came to the house was led by the boys to the Brown Boobies. Reactions ranged from politely amused to the woodenly perplexed. But mostly perplexed.
So, one evening shortly thereafter, I, the guy now responsible for endangering the future character of not one, but two minors, had no choice but to dispose of the Brown Boobies under the cover of night. And, thankfully, once gone, they were quickly forgotten.
In the end, I consider myself lucky. Sure, I don’t have a sprawling, magical ranch replete with monkeys and poor John Merrick’s bones… and as much as a zoo would be a real conversation starter, I still have it better. After all, it’s pretty likely that friends and neighbors alike will someday forget all about my Christmas Tree with Boobies.
Monday
12/29/03
The Vacation That Wouldn't Die
Monday, 7:00 am. Beginning week number two with the kids at home. All day. Everyday. Must… keep… will… to… live…
9:45- Waffles with leftover ham and scrambled eggs for breakfast. For the fifth morning in a row. Starting to fear ham…
11:00 – Lost 27th consecutive game on new foosball table. Getting really tired of losing to an eight-year-old.
12:30 – Boys running crazy in the back yard instead of house. It’s mandatory.
1:15 – Give the dog funny looks for a while. He started it.
3:00 – Both boys in tears after dispute over Spongebob and the Battle for Bikini Bottom. In front of nice neighbor kid no less. Neighbor kid looks as puzzled as me…
5:15 – Foosball rematch, but to no avail.
6:45 –Dinner yesterday was corn dogs. Dinner tomorrow will be corn dogs. But tonight we dine like kings: Pizza Bites.
7:30 – Trounce both boys repeatedly at Super Mario Kart 3. Victory is sweet.
8:15 – Tell the boys it’s time for bed. Nuf said.
8:45 – After boy’s hysterics subside, boys actually get in bed. What’s that? A distant light? At the end of a tunnel?
9:00 – Last trips for water.
9:20 – Really last trips for water.
9:30 pm – Mom and Dad lie in bed staring at ceiling.
Tuesday, 7:00 am. Repeat.
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The Vacation That Wouldn't Die
Monday, 7:00 am. Beginning week number two with the kids at home. All day. Everyday. Must… keep… will… to… live…
9:45- Waffles with leftover ham and scrambled eggs for breakfast. For the fifth morning in a row. Starting to fear ham…
11:00 – Lost 27th consecutive game on new foosball table. Getting really tired of losing to an eight-year-old.
12:30 – Boys running crazy in the back yard instead of house. It’s mandatory.
1:15 – Give the dog funny looks for a while. He started it.
3:00 – Both boys in tears after dispute over Spongebob and the Battle for Bikini Bottom. In front of nice neighbor kid no less. Neighbor kid looks as puzzled as me…
5:15 – Foosball rematch, but to no avail.
6:45 –Dinner yesterday was corn dogs. Dinner tomorrow will be corn dogs. But tonight we dine like kings: Pizza Bites.
7:30 – Trounce both boys repeatedly at Super Mario Kart 3. Victory is sweet.
8:15 – Tell the boys it’s time for bed. Nuf said.
8:45 – After boy’s hysterics subside, boys actually get in bed. What’s that? A distant light? At the end of a tunnel?
9:00 – Last trips for water.
9:20 – Really last trips for water.
9:30 pm – Mom and Dad lie in bed staring at ceiling.
Tuesday, 7:00 am. Repeat.
12/24/03
Never Forget the Obvious
As all… well most anyway, dads and moms know, the benefits of having kids is nearly limitless. Despite all the ridiculous trouble they can cause, there are always the sappy, maudlin moments of cuteness in which they unwittingly engage. There is, for instance, an unsolicited hug and " I love you, dad" for every masterpiece that appears on the couch in green magic marker. I suppose it’s a sort of Zen-like balance in our lives.
But, more to the point, today I was thinking about how kids are occasionally invaluable in that they remind us of the obvious. This morning, my oldest was racing dervish-like through the house, but then suddenly dropped to floor next to our elderly dog, scratched his head and simply said "soft". I looked down at the ancient Shih Tzu and wondered how long it had been since I had noticed the same thing.
But, despite sappy nonsense like that, the whole obvious-kid-thing has more practical applications as well. Sort of like when the little one will wander out of the bathroom and stop after a moment with an odd look on his face.
"I forgot to wipe." comes the explanation, exquisite in its simplicity.
"Yes, wiping is good." I reply. And off he goes back into the bathroom with an oddly world-weary air about him.
"Obvious," I murmured to myself, "never forget the obvious."
Oh yeah, I almost forgot the whole point of all this foolishness, as I came across this little sweetmeat today. It’s a BBC story reporting a study that says that doing housework is "depressing". The story is, of course, also an outstanding monument to the blindingly obvious.
And, of course, happy to you and yours
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Never Forget the Obvious
As all… well most anyway, dads and moms know, the benefits of having kids is nearly limitless. Despite all the ridiculous trouble they can cause, there are always the sappy, maudlin moments of cuteness in which they unwittingly engage. There is, for instance, an unsolicited hug and " I love you, dad" for every masterpiece that appears on the couch in green magic marker. I suppose it’s a sort of Zen-like balance in our lives.
But, more to the point, today I was thinking about how kids are occasionally invaluable in that they remind us of the obvious. This morning, my oldest was racing dervish-like through the house, but then suddenly dropped to floor next to our elderly dog, scratched his head and simply said "soft". I looked down at the ancient Shih Tzu and wondered how long it had been since I had noticed the same thing.
But, despite sappy nonsense like that, the whole obvious-kid-thing has more practical applications as well. Sort of like when the little one will wander out of the bathroom and stop after a moment with an odd look on his face.
"I forgot to wipe." comes the explanation, exquisite in its simplicity.
"Yes, wiping is good." I reply. And off he goes back into the bathroom with an oddly world-weary air about him.
"Obvious," I murmured to myself, "never forget the obvious."
Oh yeah, I almost forgot the whole point of all this foolishness, as I came across this little sweetmeat today. It’s a BBC story reporting a study that says that doing housework is "depressing". The story is, of course, also an outstanding monument to the blindingly obvious.
And, of course, happy to you and yours
12/22/03
Go Home, Ralph. And Stay There.
I don’t suppose there’s anything inherently wrong with being delusional; in fact we probably don’t realize most of the time when somebody is. The serious problems only start when those who are deluded have a little bit of money and a soapbox. Case in point: this link to an exploratory survey was sent along to me this morning, and, as bizarre as it is, it seems to be for real.
Now, anyone who knows me, (in the unlikely event that anyone ever actually reads any of this) already knows that I’m basically a liberal tax and spend Democrat who believes that everyone should have a place at the table. But, by the same token, I am certainly no granola munching, Birkenstock wearing, if-I-wish-hard-enough-I-can-make-it-the-60’s-again, delusional hippie. So, at the bottom of the brief survey, Mr. Nader invited me to share any comments I might like to make... which I did:
All we heard from you during the 2000 campaign was "There's no difference between the Republicans and Democrats" over and over again. Well I knew better in 2000, and I think it’s a damn shame that since then our huge surplus was raided to pay back Bush’s wealthy friends with tax cuts, that the environment has had to suffer constant rollbacks of its protections, and that so many of our troops have had to die in our misguided adventures in the mid-east. That’s just too high a price to pay for your hubris.
So, Ralph, do you get it yet, or are you still deluding yourself with your little anti-establishment fantasies? Do us all a favor and go home and stay there.
Sincerely,
Evan Selinske
Hmm, and I thought I had gotten over the whole 2000 thing a long time ago. Guess not. Perhaps a little therapy. Hell, who’s to say I’m not just a little delusional?
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Go Home, Ralph. And Stay There.
I don’t suppose there’s anything inherently wrong with being delusional; in fact we probably don’t realize most of the time when somebody is. The serious problems only start when those who are deluded have a little bit of money and a soapbox. Case in point: this link to an exploratory survey was sent along to me this morning, and, as bizarre as it is, it seems to be for real.
Now, anyone who knows me, (in the unlikely event that anyone ever actually reads any of this) already knows that I’m basically a liberal tax and spend Democrat who believes that everyone should have a place at the table. But, by the same token, I am certainly no granola munching, Birkenstock wearing, if-I-wish-hard-enough-I-can-make-it-the-60’s-again, delusional hippie. So, at the bottom of the brief survey, Mr. Nader invited me to share any comments I might like to make... which I did:
All we heard from you during the 2000 campaign was "There's no difference between the Republicans and Democrats" over and over again. Well I knew better in 2000, and I think it’s a damn shame that since then our huge surplus was raided to pay back Bush’s wealthy friends with tax cuts, that the environment has had to suffer constant rollbacks of its protections, and that so many of our troops have had to die in our misguided adventures in the mid-east. That’s just too high a price to pay for your hubris.
So, Ralph, do you get it yet, or are you still deluding yourself with your little anti-establishment fantasies? Do us all a favor and go home and stay there.
Sincerely,
Evan Selinske
Hmm, and I thought I had gotten over the whole 2000 thing a long time ago. Guess not. Perhaps a little therapy. Hell, who’s to say I’m not just a little delusional?
