Experimentation is generally considered a good idea. It's cured diseases, determined the age of the universe, and led to self cleaning litter boxes. At some point in your lives people will encourage you to try everything from eggplant to skydiving. Even if you hate them, you'll be told that just trying will make you a better, more well rounded person. This weekend I tried hunting and getting high. Taken together they should not only make me more well rounded but unelectable in every state in the union.
Luckily the hunting came first. If it were second I might have actually killed something. Personally, I'm not really much of a killer. When I find a roach I generally build an elaborate maze leading from where the roach is to the nearest door and spend about an hour trying to help it find its way outside where it inevitably crawls back into my walls and lays millions of eggs. This kind of thinking doesn't really wash in Texas where there's certain things you're just supposed to do when you're a man. Hunting, fishing, and drinking beer are among the top three, and I'm not into any of them. I'll take your fruitiest cocktail over a cold one any day, I hate fish, and when I was a kid I shot at a bird with my BB gun and then tried to nurse it back to health when I actually hit it. It died and that was the end of my hunting career. Until this weekend when I upgraded to a 16 gauge shotgun.
The frightening thing is how good it feels to fire a gun. If I owned one I would be tempted to just sit around blowing holes in my walls and ceilings. The effort (moving your finger a fraction of an inch) and the outcome (KABLAM!) are so disproportionate it's a little like being a superhero. A superhero who kills things and blows shit up. Unfortunately, hunting is not nearly as exciting as shooting holes in walls. There's a lot of walking, standing, and dead animals involved, none of which are among my favorite things. In our case, the experienced hunters killed birds quickly and then took to flushing them out for the rest of us. When they would get a bird to fly past us we went off like an anti aircraft battery, guns blazing as a wall of sound and lead filled the air. And then whatever we were shooting at would continue on its way as if nothing had happened. The closest I came to actually killing a quail was when one hit my car. If I could have just condensed all of my wild shooting into the air into about a half hour and gone back to watching football, I'd not only be on board, I'd probably do it every weekend. As is stands I will continue to get my meat at the store and my drinks with umbrellas in them.
Which brings us to marijuana. When I was in high school I joined the Young Republicans and my brother got busted with pot. At the time it seemed like his actions were the dangerous and irresponsible ones. Who knew how bad the Republicans would turn out.
In high school the most important thing in your life is being cool. It influences what you wear, listen to, talk about, and do. I was never remotely successful at it. When you're as hopeless as I was, you sometimes go the other way, meaning that before all the various groups can disown you, you disown them, tell them you don't want to be in their stupid gang anyway, and you start cutting your own hair and buying Cure albums. Being anti-drug was less a philosophical decision for me than an avaliable niche. It was sort of like I showed up late on the day they hand out high school personas and ended up with Young Republican. I'm sure if they'd have known I was going to hate hunting and beer they would have kicked me out as well.
That said, the following is my experience with pot. In high school I smoked oregano with a bunch of other people and then spent an hour debating whether or not it was oregano. This put me off for many many years. Another time a good friend felt that it was absurd that I had achieved nominal adulthood without ever smoking and took it upon herself to get me high. This was almost as successful as the oregano and resulted in a lot of yelling about how I wasn't doing it right. Which brings us to this weekend.
This time the marijuana was baked into brownies according to a highly complicated and not well followed recipe. I ate a brownie. Then another. And another. And then one more. I felt nothing. Others were laughing, grinning, thinking deeply about the nature of the universe, but not me. Again, there was a lot of yelling about how I wasn't doing it right, how I wasn't 'open' to the experience. Say what you will about my umbrella drinks, it doesn't really matter whether or not you're open to them, after four or so you will be willing to show everyone how well you can do the robot whether they want to see or not. An hour after my last brownie, we declared the experiment a failure and I went to bed, still unclear why this was such a big deal for so many people.
Then I woke up. I have no idea what time it was. I had a series of thoughts, five of them to be exact, the third of which was that I was incredibly thirsty, and the last of which was something about being in a field. And then I had that same series of thoughts, in that same order. Over, and over, and over. If I tried to think about something else, dogs, toilets, being a Young Republican, I could hold it for a second or two and then, WHAM, I was thirsty, I was in field, etc, etc, etc. Each time the cycle repeated itself I got more and more freaked out until your mother woke up to use the bathroom and I tried to explain my predicament with panicked talk about fields, dry mouth, and fear that my brain was stuck on repeat. Tried, is the operative word. It really just came out as paranoid incoherent babbling and she rolled over and started ignoring me about the fifth time I said, 'there it goes again, see, I'm thirsty, see, now I'm in a field'. When I woke up the next day I was incredibly thirsty, not in a field, and not wild about anything that moved or produced light. That's it. What can I say. Not really the kind of experience that would make you an addict. Every time I see other people doing it, it looks like a ton of fun, and I'd love to have that experience. I just don't think I'm cut out for it. For me it's more eggplant than skydiving.
Which I guess brings us to the obligatory parent/unborn child drug talk. Here's the thing. If pot is the stupidest thing you ever try then I'll count myself lucky. I know it's not in my top ten stupidest things this year, let alone this lifetime. As a source of recreation it hasn't really worked out for me, but the idea that it's something we lock people up over while Budweiser sponsors the Superbowl strikes this Young Republican as ridiculous. As a father it's hard to see how I'd ever be okay with the idea that you might drink, have sex, or do drugs. But you will. Everyone I know has, and I don't think any of their parents were cheering them on. If the promises of every school sponsored film or 'just say no commercial' that I saw as a child had been fulfilled, the doctors and lawyers I know today would dead or knocking over 7-11s for their next fix. But life isn't that simple. It can't be reduced to a slogan. If being a parent or being a child were as easy as feeling one way or another about dead birds and dime bags then this whole thing would be a piece of cake. It also wouldn't be very interesting. I'll be glad to tell you about all the way I think I went wrong and the few times I think I got it right, but there are some things you'll simply have to decide on for yourself, even if it takes three decades to do it.
Novel - Ch12
Dunking - Wk5
French - Pomme de terre.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The One Where I Try To Make Failure Sound Noble
Let me start by saying that, in my defense, I can't tell you how many times before we were married that I tried to impress upon your mother how much better she could do. Get yourself a nice surgeon, or an investment banker, I said. Do you really want to spend your life with someone who clips coupons for ramen noodles? I'm not totally blameless. The gay guy in the aforementioned hot tub was a surgeon and if she'd gotten him to touch her breasts maybe they would have hit it off. That one's my fault. But, beyond that it's really just your mother's poor judgment that's kept us together. How's that for luck? She has one fault and it happens to benefit me.
Now as soon as you become humans you're going to be fascinated by all the things you can do. Reading, speaking, running on your hind legs while waving your opposable thumbs in the air, it's all very exciting. And then one day you'll realize that there's someone, or more likely lots of people, who can not only do those things better than you, but they look and sound better while they're doing them. And that's when you'll discover the most critical tool in the human shed, self deception.
Show a bunch of positive words to a human, they'll explain how each of them seems to describe them. Negative words, they'll detail how none of them really apply. Show them where they've made an error, they'll show you where the problem was poorly designed, the test poorly graded, or the Do Not Enter sign too ambiguous. It sounds like a bad thing, but if each of us had to face the day with a true accounting of how smart, attractive, or capable we were in relation to the rest of humanity, no one would get out of bed. The ability to believe that, in spite of evidence to the contrary, there's something different, something special, about each one of us isn't what holds us back, it's what makes us go.
Self deception is tricky since its job is to tell you that you're doing the right thing no matter what you're actually doing. When you get in your car after nine margaritas self deception doesn't tell you that you're going to run over a light pole, it says that you're going to glide home on a little cloud. Once you run over a few light poles you realize you aren't always the most reliable judge of your own abilities and that maybe you should listen to the four identical spinning people who are demanding your keys. And of course the minute you give up the keys you'll convince yourself what a smart move that was and how you're really awesome for making it.
So how do you know when to listen to the little voice and when to tell it that it's ruining your driving record? How do you know when you're fooling yourself as opposed to the only one who really knows what's up your sleeve? I don't really have a good answer for that, but I do have a horribly uninteresting story that I hope explains why I keep getting behind the wheel (have I gotten enough mileage out of that metaphor for you?).
I was working construction in Los Angeles and had spent the entire day crawling around in a ceiling and arguing with my boss about how much I sucked at construction and crawling around in ceilings. After work I went to get a sandwich, still covered in dirt, ceiling guts, and an odor that made other people reconsider eating. My phone rang and, thinking it was my boss who'd come up with another reason I should be fired, I answered it by just yelling, What? And then this very polite person on the other end told me that a story I'd written and submitted so long ago I'd forgotten about it had won an award. And then I started... I'm trying to think of a manly word for crying... bleeding salt water from my eyes? To be clear, we're talking about an award no one has ever heard of in a magazine no one had ever heard of. To this day I doubt more than 200 people have a copy of it, no more than 20 have read it, and only 2 thought it was worth printing, and they're both related to me. But there I was, bleeding from my eyes. I thanked the person, hung up and tried to pay for my sandwich, but the cashier, mistaking my eye blood for tears told me that there was no charge and that, 'things would be okay'.
So what was the big deal? It barely paid anything, no one read it, and when I try to tell the story the reaction I usually get is something like, 'you skipped law school to write because you cried and got a free sandwich?' The problem is that there's really no way to explain the feeling. How do you explain what it feels like to connect your own dots? All I can say is that up until then I knew a lot of people who didn't know what they wanted from life, and I envied every one of them. When you get handed your life it's just this pile of clay. Everyone else seemed to be able to make anything they wanted out of theirs, and more importantly, to be happy with whatever they made. Having a dream, a desperate need to make the clay look like something in particular, felt like an affliction, and if I could have taken something for it I would have OD'd on it. But in that little moment I got to feel what it would be like to have your life follow directions, to turn the amorphous blob of years into something that makes you cry to look at it. That moment wasn't great because it made me rich or famous or even employable. It wasn't great because it made me anything. That moment was great because I made it.
So as for moving on, I'm afraid I'm hopeless. As humans we know we're weak. When something's hard we talk ourselves out of it. Invading armies used to burn bridges behind them so that turning back wouldn't be an option. I got a film degree which is kind of the same thing. Does this make me a good husband or father? No. If they administered tests for either position I'm sure I would fail. And I may well fail at being a writer too. If I weren't trying to be all three it probably wouldn't be an issue. But here we are.
You'll find out soon enough that most of what I say should rightfully be ignored and that leading by example is not my strong suit. But if I'm able to teach you anything, I would hope for it to be this: When you're young someone will ask what you want to be when you grow up and they'll tell you can be whatever you want. Sadly, if that were true we'd be a country of 250 million astronauts. But what they don't tell you is that that 'what you are' can't be expressed as a job description or a title someone slaps on a brass nameplate. The truth is, what you are is much bigger than that, and it really is in your hands. Accountants or opera singers, I don't give a damn. What I hope you grow up to be is the kind of people who never stop trying to bend and shape the life you get until it looks like the one you want. It will rarely cooperate, but the moments when it does, however brief, will be the ones you never forget. I've had two: one in a sandwich shop, and one at the end of an aisle with your mother. These moments don't pay, you can't live in them, they don't last, and if they could be bought there would be nothing else for sale. But until you have one, I'd argue you won't really know what it means to be alive.
Novel - Chapter 12
Dunking - wk5
French - C'est la vie.
Now as soon as you become humans you're going to be fascinated by all the things you can do. Reading, speaking, running on your hind legs while waving your opposable thumbs in the air, it's all very exciting. And then one day you'll realize that there's someone, or more likely lots of people, who can not only do those things better than you, but they look and sound better while they're doing them. And that's when you'll discover the most critical tool in the human shed, self deception.
Show a bunch of positive words to a human, they'll explain how each of them seems to describe them. Negative words, they'll detail how none of them really apply. Show them where they've made an error, they'll show you where the problem was poorly designed, the test poorly graded, or the Do Not Enter sign too ambiguous. It sounds like a bad thing, but if each of us had to face the day with a true accounting of how smart, attractive, or capable we were in relation to the rest of humanity, no one would get out of bed. The ability to believe that, in spite of evidence to the contrary, there's something different, something special, about each one of us isn't what holds us back, it's what makes us go.
Self deception is tricky since its job is to tell you that you're doing the right thing no matter what you're actually doing. When you get in your car after nine margaritas self deception doesn't tell you that you're going to run over a light pole, it says that you're going to glide home on a little cloud. Once you run over a few light poles you realize you aren't always the most reliable judge of your own abilities and that maybe you should listen to the four identical spinning people who are demanding your keys. And of course the minute you give up the keys you'll convince yourself what a smart move that was and how you're really awesome for making it.
So how do you know when to listen to the little voice and when to tell it that it's ruining your driving record? How do you know when you're fooling yourself as opposed to the only one who really knows what's up your sleeve? I don't really have a good answer for that, but I do have a horribly uninteresting story that I hope explains why I keep getting behind the wheel (have I gotten enough mileage out of that metaphor for you?).
I was working construction in Los Angeles and had spent the entire day crawling around in a ceiling and arguing with my boss about how much I sucked at construction and crawling around in ceilings. After work I went to get a sandwich, still covered in dirt, ceiling guts, and an odor that made other people reconsider eating. My phone rang and, thinking it was my boss who'd come up with another reason I should be fired, I answered it by just yelling, What? And then this very polite person on the other end told me that a story I'd written and submitted so long ago I'd forgotten about it had won an award. And then I started... I'm trying to think of a manly word for crying... bleeding salt water from my eyes? To be clear, we're talking about an award no one has ever heard of in a magazine no one had ever heard of. To this day I doubt more than 200 people have a copy of it, no more than 20 have read it, and only 2 thought it was worth printing, and they're both related to me. But there I was, bleeding from my eyes. I thanked the person, hung up and tried to pay for my sandwich, but the cashier, mistaking my eye blood for tears told me that there was no charge and that, 'things would be okay'.
So what was the big deal? It barely paid anything, no one read it, and when I try to tell the story the reaction I usually get is something like, 'you skipped law school to write because you cried and got a free sandwich?' The problem is that there's really no way to explain the feeling. How do you explain what it feels like to connect your own dots? All I can say is that up until then I knew a lot of people who didn't know what they wanted from life, and I envied every one of them. When you get handed your life it's just this pile of clay. Everyone else seemed to be able to make anything they wanted out of theirs, and more importantly, to be happy with whatever they made. Having a dream, a desperate need to make the clay look like something in particular, felt like an affliction, and if I could have taken something for it I would have OD'd on it. But in that little moment I got to feel what it would be like to have your life follow directions, to turn the amorphous blob of years into something that makes you cry to look at it. That moment wasn't great because it made me rich or famous or even employable. It wasn't great because it made me anything. That moment was great because I made it.
So as for moving on, I'm afraid I'm hopeless. As humans we know we're weak. When something's hard we talk ourselves out of it. Invading armies used to burn bridges behind them so that turning back wouldn't be an option. I got a film degree which is kind of the same thing. Does this make me a good husband or father? No. If they administered tests for either position I'm sure I would fail. And I may well fail at being a writer too. If I weren't trying to be all three it probably wouldn't be an issue. But here we are.
You'll find out soon enough that most of what I say should rightfully be ignored and that leading by example is not my strong suit. But if I'm able to teach you anything, I would hope for it to be this: When you're young someone will ask what you want to be when you grow up and they'll tell you can be whatever you want. Sadly, if that were true we'd be a country of 250 million astronauts. But what they don't tell you is that that 'what you are' can't be expressed as a job description or a title someone slaps on a brass nameplate. The truth is, what you are is much bigger than that, and it really is in your hands. Accountants or opera singers, I don't give a damn. What I hope you grow up to be is the kind of people who never stop trying to bend and shape the life you get until it looks like the one you want. It will rarely cooperate, but the moments when it does, however brief, will be the ones you never forget. I've had two: one in a sandwich shop, and one at the end of an aisle with your mother. These moments don't pay, you can't live in them, they don't last, and if they could be bought there would be nothing else for sale. But until you have one, I'd argue you won't really know what it means to be alive.
Novel - Chapter 12
Dunking - wk5
French - C'est la vie.
Monday, November 12, 2007
The One Where I Briefly Consider Being A Good Husband And Father
Your mom and I aren't really fighters. By my count (she probably has a different one, but she's wrong) we've only fought twice in nine years. Once she was drinking in a hot tub and kept challenging a gay guy to touch her breasts. Another time she ruined the end of a movie for me. In retrospect the second one seems kind of stupid. Maybe I was still pissed about the first. Anyway, it's not that we don't disagree, we're just more into debate than door slamming. I always thought that was a virtue, but maybe slamming a few doors isn't so bad. Everything your mom and I had to talk about this week, we've know about for years. Maybe if we'd just fought it out then we wouldn't be here now. But it's like someone told us we had a broken leg a long time ago and we've just been trying to walk it off. Thursday we finally fell down.
If I haven't made it plain on other occasions, the broken leg is me. Here's how I addressed it in my wedding toast (the fact that it had to be addressed while she was still in her dress kind of says it all):
What can I say, it sounded better in person. Anyway, while you could certainly say that I've been lucky to find such a patient partner, you could also say I've been incredibly selfish to take endless advantage of that patience. But if you put it that way it would sound awkward in a toast.
For a lot of years your mom was doing what she wanted to and what I did made no difference. I guess we just thought that by the time it mattered I'd have gotten something going. Well, with your imminent arrival that time has come. If this were a slasher movie now would be the part where the ax murderer is bearing down and the cute girl just can't get the car to start. You two are the ax murderer. I'm the cute girl.
The short version is that your mom doesn't love her job. What I mean by that is that she gets depressed and yells before she goes to it. You know what sounds like a good job to your mom? Turns out it's taking care of twins. But since the only house my writing could provide would have to be made out of my actual pages our options seem limited. That's why I finally said what we'd both been thinking. That's it time for me to give up.
The truth is I feel guilty sitting here stringing together sentences that can't finance the computer they're typed on while your mom wades around in other people's barf and blood (that's how I picture it anyway). Whether the roles of men and women are the result of innate differences or playing with Barbies instead of Tonka trucks, it doesn't really matter. The fact that your mom has to work while I sit around chasing rainbows just feels wrong to both of us on some deep, politically incorrect, get fired from Harvard for mentioning it level. She's given me years to do my thing. It's her turn now. And yours. Someone has to make sure that you have every opportunity to do what you want to do, right? If someone has to do something they hate, it should be me.
That's what we agreed on. Sadly, it's not even a matter of just getting a job. I have to get trained to do something useful first. It would be some time before I could shoulder much of the burden, but just knowing that it was coming seemed to perk your mom up.
So, I sat down and I wrote all this up for you guys. It looked like I said all the right things. Growing up, facing reality. The end was something like 'dreams are what you have when you're asleep, a job is what you have when you're awake'. Incidentally, it's just that kind of hacky writing that's gotten me where I am, but that's not the point. The point is that I didn't send it. I don't know, I guess when I read it over it said what I thought it should say, what I'd already said to your mother, what a bigger, less selfish, more responsible, more fatherly person would say.
But I kind of thought it sounded like a bunch of Dr. Laura bullshit.
If you didn't have the attention span of bees and I didn't have to feed a cat through a tube I could tell you why. But, like your mother before you, you'll have to wait a day to hear me take it all back.
Novel - Ch12
Dunking - wk 5
French - unit 2 lesson 2
If I haven't made it plain on other occasions, the broken leg is me. Here's how I addressed it in my wedding toast (the fact that it had to be addressed while she was still in her dress kind of says it all):
What I’ve chosen to do with my life isn’t easy and it certainly doesn’t pay well, and if at any time she’d ever asked me to stop, to give it up, I’d have done so in a heartbeat. It’s a testament to just how incredibly lucky I am that the only times she’s used the words stop or give up, they were directly preceded by the word never.
What can I say, it sounded better in person. Anyway, while you could certainly say that I've been lucky to find such a patient partner, you could also say I've been incredibly selfish to take endless advantage of that patience. But if you put it that way it would sound awkward in a toast.
For a lot of years your mom was doing what she wanted to and what I did made no difference. I guess we just thought that by the time it mattered I'd have gotten something going. Well, with your imminent arrival that time has come. If this were a slasher movie now would be the part where the ax murderer is bearing down and the cute girl just can't get the car to start. You two are the ax murderer. I'm the cute girl.
The short version is that your mom doesn't love her job. What I mean by that is that she gets depressed and yells before she goes to it. You know what sounds like a good job to your mom? Turns out it's taking care of twins. But since the only house my writing could provide would have to be made out of my actual pages our options seem limited. That's why I finally said what we'd both been thinking. That's it time for me to give up.
The truth is I feel guilty sitting here stringing together sentences that can't finance the computer they're typed on while your mom wades around in other people's barf and blood (that's how I picture it anyway). Whether the roles of men and women are the result of innate differences or playing with Barbies instead of Tonka trucks, it doesn't really matter. The fact that your mom has to work while I sit around chasing rainbows just feels wrong to both of us on some deep, politically incorrect, get fired from Harvard for mentioning it level. She's given me years to do my thing. It's her turn now. And yours. Someone has to make sure that you have every opportunity to do what you want to do, right? If someone has to do something they hate, it should be me.
That's what we agreed on. Sadly, it's not even a matter of just getting a job. I have to get trained to do something useful first. It would be some time before I could shoulder much of the burden, but just knowing that it was coming seemed to perk your mom up.
So, I sat down and I wrote all this up for you guys. It looked like I said all the right things. Growing up, facing reality. The end was something like 'dreams are what you have when you're asleep, a job is what you have when you're awake'. Incidentally, it's just that kind of hacky writing that's gotten me where I am, but that's not the point. The point is that I didn't send it. I don't know, I guess when I read it over it said what I thought it should say, what I'd already said to your mother, what a bigger, less selfish, more responsible, more fatherly person would say.
But I kind of thought it sounded like a bunch of Dr. Laura bullshit.
If you didn't have the attention span of bees and I didn't have to feed a cat through a tube I could tell you why. But, like your mother before you, you'll have to wait a day to hear me take it all back.
Novel - Ch12
Dunking - wk 5
French - unit 2 lesson 2
Thursday, November 8, 2007
10 Items Or Less
Last time we talked I was burying a cat. Today we're having a feeding tube surgically installed in another one to try to avoid a repeat performance. Pets are a lot like children in that the things you're willing to do for them seem absurd from the outside and obvious from the inside. I have trouble justifying the additional cost of putting cheese on my hamburger but would gladly trade my laptop so that our cat can continue sleeping for 23 hours a day and walking on my head for the other one.
As for you two, we visited the doctor who is sending us to a new doctor that will be better equipped to handle your twinly needs. We've been told that it's essentially inevitable that despite my warnings you guys are going to put your mom down with some extended bedrest and possibly a host of procedures designed keep you in that little bubble relentlessly punching each other (yes, we saw that). I tend to think that with her bedridden for weeks and me desperately trying to finish a novel in the same house, we're setting up a very Stephen King situation. I don't really have time to explain that to you, but imagine axes, sledgehammers, and pre-birth post traumatic stress disorder.
On the other hand, your mom is getting a little burned out on work. Maybe time off will make her fall in love with it again. Or make it impossible for her to go back. That's what really kills me about our collective situation. For all I know your mom would love to stay home tending your every need as much as I would love to avoid it. I just don't know how to make that happen. Various strikes and so forth have made the movie look impossible for the foreseeable future. Millions of books are written and never published, most of which probably aren't handicapped with a beaver character. And it's hard to see how dunking will improve my breadwinning skills unless there's a circus somewhere that needs me. The truth is, despite accumulating impressive amounts of school debt, I'm not qualified for many jobs that don't directly relate to the movement or checking of groceries. I said you guys worried me because I hadn't really done anything with my life. I think you really worry me because the reality of you will finally make it impossible to keep sitting on the beach imagining a large ship headed my way. On the upside, I really think I could kick ass in an express lane.
Novel - CH11
Dunking - wk4
French - Je suis faim.
As for you two, we visited the doctor who is sending us to a new doctor that will be better equipped to handle your twinly needs. We've been told that it's essentially inevitable that despite my warnings you guys are going to put your mom down with some extended bedrest and possibly a host of procedures designed keep you in that little bubble relentlessly punching each other (yes, we saw that). I tend to think that with her bedridden for weeks and me desperately trying to finish a novel in the same house, we're setting up a very Stephen King situation. I don't really have time to explain that to you, but imagine axes, sledgehammers, and pre-birth post traumatic stress disorder.
On the other hand, your mom is getting a little burned out on work. Maybe time off will make her fall in love with it again. Or make it impossible for her to go back. That's what really kills me about our collective situation. For all I know your mom would love to stay home tending your every need as much as I would love to avoid it. I just don't know how to make that happen. Various strikes and so forth have made the movie look impossible for the foreseeable future. Millions of books are written and never published, most of which probably aren't handicapped with a beaver character. And it's hard to see how dunking will improve my breadwinning skills unless there's a circus somewhere that needs me. The truth is, despite accumulating impressive amounts of school debt, I'm not qualified for many jobs that don't directly relate to the movement or checking of groceries. I said you guys worried me because I hadn't really done anything with my life. I think you really worry me because the reality of you will finally make it impossible to keep sitting on the beach imagining a large ship headed my way. On the upside, I really think I could kick ass in an express lane.
Novel - CH11
Dunking - wk4
French - Je suis faim.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Via Con Dios Marvin
Well kids, Marvin died today. It's a long sad story that doesn't get any happier if you add words, so suffice it to say that my first effort at parenting was a total disaster. Hard to get much confidence out of the fact someone like Britney Spears can raise two kids and I can't keep a poor kitten alive for two weeks.
I don't really think that I can explain why I cried like a four year old over the death of an animal I'd known for less that the amount of time it takes my mother to program a VCR, but I think it was the sense that I had so totally failed. Failure itself I'm familiar with. I do it often, and like anything it gets easier with practice. It was the idea that someone else was counting on me not to screw up, or cut corners, or try and do better the next time, that I was unfamiliar with. Done right, failing yourself is inadvisable, but eventually tolerable. Failing someone that depends on you just to so they can keep breathing is a special kind of hell. I liked it better when the consequences of poor performance on my part were limited to feeling bummed out and eventually having someone send me a toaster.
I suppose this would be as good a time as any to tell you that all kittens end up in heaven and that Marvin is sitting among puffy clouds and Popes just waiting for us all. I don't happen to believe that, but after spending part of my day with a shovel in my hand I certainly understand the appeal. Personally, I think this is the good part, whether it lasts a day or a decade, a month or a millennium, and if you really appreciate how miraculous it is then you can't help but want to suck it dry. The only way I'm completely confident you can stick around is in the minds of those you happen to bump into along the way. Marvin showed that you don't have to do more than spend a couple weeks crapping on hands and asking to have your belly rubbed to secure a spot in someone's head for the long haul. And while I hope it's for more than my crapping and belly habits, if people manage to remember me half as fondly as I'll remember him I'd consider my time well spent.
I'm almost positive that there aren't any parenting books that say you should eulogize a dead cat to your unborn children, so please accept my apologies. I don't even pretend to know what I'm doing. It just seems important for some reason. I thought Marvin was going to teach me how to take care of you guys. Instead, he taught me never to take you for granted.
What a smart fucking cat.
Novel - Ch11
Dunking - wk4
French - Je suis desole.
I don't really think that I can explain why I cried like a four year old over the death of an animal I'd known for less that the amount of time it takes my mother to program a VCR, but I think it was the sense that I had so totally failed. Failure itself I'm familiar with. I do it often, and like anything it gets easier with practice. It was the idea that someone else was counting on me not to screw up, or cut corners, or try and do better the next time, that I was unfamiliar with. Done right, failing yourself is inadvisable, but eventually tolerable. Failing someone that depends on you just to so they can keep breathing is a special kind of hell. I liked it better when the consequences of poor performance on my part were limited to feeling bummed out and eventually having someone send me a toaster.
I suppose this would be as good a time as any to tell you that all kittens end up in heaven and that Marvin is sitting among puffy clouds and Popes just waiting for us all. I don't happen to believe that, but after spending part of my day with a shovel in my hand I certainly understand the appeal. Personally, I think this is the good part, whether it lasts a day or a decade, a month or a millennium, and if you really appreciate how miraculous it is then you can't help but want to suck it dry. The only way I'm completely confident you can stick around is in the minds of those you happen to bump into along the way. Marvin showed that you don't have to do more than spend a couple weeks crapping on hands and asking to have your belly rubbed to secure a spot in someone's head for the long haul. And while I hope it's for more than my crapping and belly habits, if people manage to remember me half as fondly as I'll remember him I'd consider my time well spent.
I'm almost positive that there aren't any parenting books that say you should eulogize a dead cat to your unborn children, so please accept my apologies. I don't even pretend to know what I'm doing. It just seems important for some reason. I thought Marvin was going to teach me how to take care of you guys. Instead, he taught me never to take you for granted.
What a smart fucking cat.
Novel - Ch11
Dunking - wk4
French - Je suis desole.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Do You Guys Have A Snooze Button?
First of all, I feel like I'm getting some things worked out. For instance, you're both aware that I really don't find babies very attractive, that I'm in fact creeped out by them and would rather have a dog lick my eyeballs than a baby try to touch me. But Halloween has taught me that children can be cute as long as they're dressed up as small animals. So far I know that duck and lion costumes work and I assume there must be others. If not you can just rotate between those two outfits every few days for the first few years. And all this time I thought I'd have no interest in buying you guys clothes.
I'm also getting more comfortable with crap. Marvin, he's that kitten I'm bottle feeding, doesn't know how to crap on his own. I have to rub his butt with wet toilet paper in order to stimulate him. That often stimulates him into crapping all over my hand. If I'm lucky enough to put him down before he goes he tends to walk through his crap and drag it all over the place, meaning that one way or another I get to clean it up. Of course, I doubt that your mother is going to let me get away with just holding you under a running faucet and throwing you into a pile of towels the way I do Marvin, but we'll see. Maybe I can convince her it's a French thing.
I also find myself very interested in the color and consistency of Marvin's crap, something I hear parents talking about all the time. It seems that until you're able to start getting A's or applying to law school parents are still obligated to find something to brag about and early on feces is popular. I worry about it being too runny, or not runny enough, too brown, or not brown enough. It's like opening an oven to check on cookies only it comes out of a cat's butt and kind of makes you never want to eat again.
But every time I get used to one thing you two throw me another curve ball. It seems that in addition to your new due date you're now planning to put your mom down with bedrest for some extended period of time. Maybe you've forgotten who wears the pants in our family. It's not that I don't earn enough to bring home the bacon, it's just that once I've actually purchased the bacon I won't have enough to cover the mortgage, utilities, or another groceries we might want to eat. I can't stress enough the degree to which you are biting the hand that feeds you. Unless the thought of a bacon filled yet domicile free future appeals to you I suggest you sit quietly and keep your mom on her feet until someone shoves a speculum in there and politely asks you to come out.
Also, we were hoping the barfing would be ending soon, but somehow having two of you in there means there's ten times the hormones floating around so the sickness may never end. To be honest, your mom's gotten so used to it that she can pretty much be right in the middle of a story, run to throw up, and then continue \without missing a beat. My real beef is that it offends my cost conscious nature. I can't tell you how many times we've gone out to eat and by the time we drive home your mother has thrown it up. When she says we should go out for pizza I just want to give her ten dollars and say why don't you just put this in the toilet and we can skip the drive.
But the adjustment that's killing me is the lack of time. I remember watching the Olympics as a kid and wondering why the people who were losing the races didn't just run faster. Then I joined track and learned there are some things you just can't outrun. In my case it was anything speedier than an overweight junior high girl. This is my first week trying to do two chapters and I'm already behind. According to my schedule I need to not only successfully do it this week, but thirteen more times before you show up. And the truth is, even before you're here, you're here. You're here in doctor's appointments and showers and nursery decorating and cloth diaper research and stacks of books that I'm supposed to be reading but keep avoiding because they have pictures of babies not dressed as small animals on them. How can anyone with unborn children find themselves applying to a day care and still pretend that they're not yet a parent?
I'm the kind of person who spent his life asking teachers for extensions and postponements, and while I may be clinging desperately to the last bits of my youth, I'm too old to actually start taking deadlines seriously. I know it's crowded in there, but really, if you could just hit the snooze button for a few weeks it would really help me out. I had three decades to grow up and I didn't get it done. The least you could do is give me the full nine months.
Novel - Chapter 11
Dunking - wk3
French - Learning French nursery rhymes that have been guaranteed to make you fluent, or that was my understanding when they were given to me. Have added ants to my vocabulary.
I'm also getting more comfortable with crap. Marvin, he's that kitten I'm bottle feeding, doesn't know how to crap on his own. I have to rub his butt with wet toilet paper in order to stimulate him. That often stimulates him into crapping all over my hand. If I'm lucky enough to put him down before he goes he tends to walk through his crap and drag it all over the place, meaning that one way or another I get to clean it up. Of course, I doubt that your mother is going to let me get away with just holding you under a running faucet and throwing you into a pile of towels the way I do Marvin, but we'll see. Maybe I can convince her it's a French thing.
I also find myself very interested in the color and consistency of Marvin's crap, something I hear parents talking about all the time. It seems that until you're able to start getting A's or applying to law school parents are still obligated to find something to brag about and early on feces is popular. I worry about it being too runny, or not runny enough, too brown, or not brown enough. It's like opening an oven to check on cookies only it comes out of a cat's butt and kind of makes you never want to eat again.
But every time I get used to one thing you two throw me another curve ball. It seems that in addition to your new due date you're now planning to put your mom down with bedrest for some extended period of time. Maybe you've forgotten who wears the pants in our family. It's not that I don't earn enough to bring home the bacon, it's just that once I've actually purchased the bacon I won't have enough to cover the mortgage, utilities, or another groceries we might want to eat. I can't stress enough the degree to which you are biting the hand that feeds you. Unless the thought of a bacon filled yet domicile free future appeals to you I suggest you sit quietly and keep your mom on her feet until someone shoves a speculum in there and politely asks you to come out.
Also, we were hoping the barfing would be ending soon, but somehow having two of you in there means there's ten times the hormones floating around so the sickness may never end. To be honest, your mom's gotten so used to it that she can pretty much be right in the middle of a story, run to throw up, and then continue \without missing a beat. My real beef is that it offends my cost conscious nature. I can't tell you how many times we've gone out to eat and by the time we drive home your mother has thrown it up. When she says we should go out for pizza I just want to give her ten dollars and say why don't you just put this in the toilet and we can skip the drive.
But the adjustment that's killing me is the lack of time. I remember watching the Olympics as a kid and wondering why the people who were losing the races didn't just run faster. Then I joined track and learned there are some things you just can't outrun. In my case it was anything speedier than an overweight junior high girl. This is my first week trying to do two chapters and I'm already behind. According to my schedule I need to not only successfully do it this week, but thirteen more times before you show up. And the truth is, even before you're here, you're here. You're here in doctor's appointments and showers and nursery decorating and cloth diaper research and stacks of books that I'm supposed to be reading but keep avoiding because they have pictures of babies not dressed as small animals on them. How can anyone with unborn children find themselves applying to a day care and still pretend that they're not yet a parent?
I'm the kind of person who spent his life asking teachers for extensions and postponements, and while I may be clinging desperately to the last bits of my youth, I'm too old to actually start taking deadlines seriously. I know it's crowded in there, but really, if you could just hit the snooze button for a few weeks it would really help me out. I had three decades to grow up and I didn't get it done. The least you could do is give me the full nine months.
Novel - Chapter 11
Dunking - wk3
French - Learning French nursery rhymes that have been guaranteed to make you fluent, or that was my understanding when they were given to me. Have added ants to my vocabulary.
Monday, October 29, 2007
The one that goes...
You kids got your ears on? That's CB lingo. It will be completely obsolete by the time I get to explain it to you. We'll all be talking on cellphones the size of nickels. On the moon. My point is that you're growing ears, four of them (so damn many), so you can officially hear, which means you can officially begin tuning me out as you will no doubt do for many, many years. Frankly, the sooner the better, once you stop using the bathroom in your pants I'm kind of out of advice.
So many people have been telling me what it will be like once you two show up, how much it will change not just my schedule, or my life, but my perspective. It's like being told that you're going to have a lobotomy and the people telling you it's going to be fine are the ones with stitch marks across their skull. I don't doubt them. The fact is, a lot of my friend's are different since they had kids, and to be honest, I liked them better before.
Now, human beings are notoriously awful estimators when it comes to what will and won't make them happy. This is the only reason anyone owns ferrets. Studies show that many things we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies (ferrets) turn out to be not so bad, and things that we pine away for tend not to be so great. The common mistake is assuming that we know ourselves. I certainly like to think I know myself, but that's largely because I can't possibly claim to know anything else.
What I'm really afraid of is that they're all right. That you're going to be amazing, the best thing to ever happen to me, and that I'll anxiously take up the job of being your father as opposed to being me. From where I'm sitting, that just doesn't sound right. I'm supposed to generate my own happiness by dunking basketballs and writing books, not get it by proxy from seeing you in matching outfits (and believe me, your mom is stocking up on matching outfits). It's the idea that all the things that are important to me will become secondary. I'll forget them or put them aside until one day you stop holding my hand and calling me daddy and start locking your room with a deadbolt and calling me Hitler and I realize that I'm old, bald, and I forgot to hitchhike through South America. If you don't think this really happens I invite you to visit a Harley dealership on a weekend. Lots of bald guys named Hitler looking for bikes.
Someday you'll hear a song that you love, and you'll have no idea what it is or who it's by. You'll try to explain it, you'll use non-existent words like da, dee, and dum and no matter how you put them together the people you tell will have no idea what you're talking about. It's one of the few downsides to having ears (along with John Tesh). But for all they can do, there's some things that words can't handle. You can't explain a guitar solo, people have to hear for themselves. I've heard every variation on how I'll feel when you two escape that weird little snow globe where you're floating around, but until it happens it all just sounds like a lot of da's, dee's, and dum's. I'm sure when you show up I'll finally hear what everyone has been talking about. I probably won't even miss my old tunes.
And that's exactly what I'm afraid of.
Novel - Into double digits
Dunking - Wk3
French - Unit 2
So many people have been telling me what it will be like once you two show up, how much it will change not just my schedule, or my life, but my perspective. It's like being told that you're going to have a lobotomy and the people telling you it's going to be fine are the ones with stitch marks across their skull. I don't doubt them. The fact is, a lot of my friend's are different since they had kids, and to be honest, I liked them better before.
Now, human beings are notoriously awful estimators when it comes to what will and won't make them happy. This is the only reason anyone owns ferrets. Studies show that many things we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies (ferrets) turn out to be not so bad, and things that we pine away for tend not to be so great. The common mistake is assuming that we know ourselves. I certainly like to think I know myself, but that's largely because I can't possibly claim to know anything else.
What I'm really afraid of is that they're all right. That you're going to be amazing, the best thing to ever happen to me, and that I'll anxiously take up the job of being your father as opposed to being me. From where I'm sitting, that just doesn't sound right. I'm supposed to generate my own happiness by dunking basketballs and writing books, not get it by proxy from seeing you in matching outfits (and believe me, your mom is stocking up on matching outfits). It's the idea that all the things that are important to me will become secondary. I'll forget them or put them aside until one day you stop holding my hand and calling me daddy and start locking your room with a deadbolt and calling me Hitler and I realize that I'm old, bald, and I forgot to hitchhike through South America. If you don't think this really happens I invite you to visit a Harley dealership on a weekend. Lots of bald guys named Hitler looking for bikes.
Someday you'll hear a song that you love, and you'll have no idea what it is or who it's by. You'll try to explain it, you'll use non-existent words like da, dee, and dum and no matter how you put them together the people you tell will have no idea what you're talking about. It's one of the few downsides to having ears (along with John Tesh). But for all they can do, there's some things that words can't handle. You can't explain a guitar solo, people have to hear for themselves. I've heard every variation on how I'll feel when you two escape that weird little snow globe where you're floating around, but until it happens it all just sounds like a lot of da's, dee's, and dum's. I'm sure when you show up I'll finally hear what everyone has been talking about. I probably won't even miss my old tunes.
And that's exactly what I'm afraid of.
Novel - Into double digits
Dunking - Wk3
French - Unit 2
Friday, October 26, 2007
Overachievers
From first grade through, like, yesterday, a period covering everything from finger painting through medical school, your mother has literally been a perfect 4.0 student. We're talking wheelbarrow of awards, chief resident, someone please stop her, type overachiever. Given that, I now feel stupid for thinking she would produce anything other than twins. Really, I'm lucky there's not going to be a litter of you. I was aware of the sense of inferiority and self loathing that came with marrying a Type A wonderbrain, and frankly, I'm cool with it. I just didn't know her competitive spirit extended to her ovaries. Apparently all her body parts are strivers.
Unfortunately for me, it looks like you're a pair of gunners yourselves. Turns out, the fact that there's two of you means that you're going to graduate the womb early. If you were boys I might have some faith that my lazy DNA would more than counteract this, but since you're shaping up as girls I think we have to discount my contribution (thank god) and prepare for not only an early arrival, but the possibility that you'll come out doing differential equations faster than I can calculate the tip on a ten dollar check. I've been told I now have almost one month less than I thought in which to live out my meager dreams. This is going to call for some changes.
French is going to be a problem. I can finish my course ahead of your new due date, but to be honest, when it's over it's unlikely that I could navigate my way down a French street unless it contained nothing but cars, horses, and numbers under thirty. This seems like a limited vocabulary with which to try to raise you bilingually. A friend in Boulder tells me they start teaching foreign languages (including Mandarin!) in first grade. Perhaps your school will offer such things while you're still young and sponge brained. Or we'll just send you to live with these other people. Either way, I'll finish out the course, but I think we have to take 'learning' a foreign language off the table.
And we're going to have to increase novel production. Here's how the chapter a week is going. By Thursday I usually have like four paragraphs. Then by Saturday I have a chapter. Clearly there are some days at the beginning of the week that aren't pulling their weight, so we're going to try to wring a chapter out of Wednesday and another out of Sunday. At that rate I will successfully complete the world's worst book before you're born. See, I can do exceptional things too.
If I had any doubt about how impossible these things would become after you two made the scene it's gone now. In addition to at least 1000 people giving me some variation on the line 'a pair of twins are four times the work' I've somehow ended up nursing that kitten I mentioned finding right after you two made yourselves known. I took it to the shelter, but they said they'd have to kill it because they don't have the manpower to bottle feed it. As I previously mentioned I have a soft spot for small furry animals, so guess who's warming milk and feeding it to a little poop machine every few hours. I have no idea why they bother giving high school students bags of sugar and lectures about birth control. If someone had given me a kitten to nurse and then told me that babies are even harder I wouldn't have had anything more than a pen pal before I was 25. In fact, remind me to have you girls nurse kittens right about the time you hit puberty.
Novel - Double time!
Dunking - Wk 2 complete
French - Lowering expectations (don't worry, I've done this before)
Unfortunately for me, it looks like you're a pair of gunners yourselves. Turns out, the fact that there's two of you means that you're going to graduate the womb early. If you were boys I might have some faith that my lazy DNA would more than counteract this, but since you're shaping up as girls I think we have to discount my contribution (thank god) and prepare for not only an early arrival, but the possibility that you'll come out doing differential equations faster than I can calculate the tip on a ten dollar check. I've been told I now have almost one month less than I thought in which to live out my meager dreams. This is going to call for some changes.
French is going to be a problem. I can finish my course ahead of your new due date, but to be honest, when it's over it's unlikely that I could navigate my way down a French street unless it contained nothing but cars, horses, and numbers under thirty. This seems like a limited vocabulary with which to try to raise you bilingually. A friend in Boulder tells me they start teaching foreign languages (including Mandarin!) in first grade. Perhaps your school will offer such things while you're still young and sponge brained. Or we'll just send you to live with these other people. Either way, I'll finish out the course, but I think we have to take 'learning' a foreign language off the table.
And we're going to have to increase novel production. Here's how the chapter a week is going. By Thursday I usually have like four paragraphs. Then by Saturday I have a chapter. Clearly there are some days at the beginning of the week that aren't pulling their weight, so we're going to try to wring a chapter out of Wednesday and another out of Sunday. At that rate I will successfully complete the world's worst book before you're born. See, I can do exceptional things too.
If I had any doubt about how impossible these things would become after you two made the scene it's gone now. In addition to at least 1000 people giving me some variation on the line 'a pair of twins are four times the work' I've somehow ended up nursing that kitten I mentioned finding right after you two made yourselves known. I took it to the shelter, but they said they'd have to kill it because they don't have the manpower to bottle feed it. As I previously mentioned I have a soft spot for small furry animals, so guess who's warming milk and feeding it to a little poop machine every few hours. I have no idea why they bother giving high school students bags of sugar and lectures about birth control. If someone had given me a kitten to nurse and then told me that babies are even harder I wouldn't have had anything more than a pen pal before I was 25. In fact, remind me to have you girls nurse kittens right about the time you hit puberty.
Novel - Double time!
Dunking - Wk 2 complete
French - Lowering expectations (don't worry, I've done this before)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
That Would Explain All The Barfing
You know what would be funny? What if there was a guy who was on the fence about having kids, but his wife got pregnant just before their honeymoon, and rather than being mature and properly preparing himself to be a father he started desperately trying to dunk a basketball because somehow that would keep him young and free forever? And then, what if that guy and his wife went to one ultrasound and they took a picture of their baby which he named Bear, a picture he still has, a picture of Bear and Bear alone, but then a month or so later they went back and took another picture and it turned out that little Bear was in fact, not alone, but had been hiding an identical cohort the entire time?
Actually, I'm not sure it's that funny, but clearly you two thought it would be hilarious. So allow me to start all over, the way we apparently should have started in the first place.
Hello.
And, Hello.
Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, I'd like to point out that one of you is clearly lost. Your mom and I, we have no twins in our family history and we didn't use fertility drugs (at least I don't think so, but you have to admit that things are getting pretty damned suspicious). So, one of you is in the wrong uterus. You work this out among yourselves and as soon as you know who goes where we'll work on getting this straightened out.
Until then, fetus number two, welcome. Obviously, you're going to need a catchier fetus name, and going from that same list of awesome but maternally rejected names that we got Bear from, that makes you Danger. Danger and Bear. Danger Bear. You're like a superhero that fights sleep. Apparently you're both also girls, or at least that's the current theory based on the angle of some bone you're both making, so expect your real names to be slightly less awesome. Of course, before you start thinking about prom dresses, please bear in mind that this guess comes from the same people who thought there was only one of you. Who knows what we find on the next visit.
Now, the cheapskate in me feels like any time you can get something 2 for 1 you've got to jump at it. And if putting diapers behind me the first time means I've put them behind me for the last time, then I'm all for it. That said, I was feeling like I'd be lucky to survive one of you. Now you come at me with the double team, I'm feeling a little shaky. When I got home from getting the news about you two I found an abandoned kitten under the porch, and if my efforts to feed this thing a bottle are any indication you're both going to have to get a lot of your nutrition off your feet. Think about that while decide if you want to pull any more stunts.
Bottom line, the nine months were not just for you. We, meaning I, need a long lead in to get the head screwed on straight. A little hint about you being a pair would have been nice. Then again, how often do you get to pull a prank while in utero? I kind of admire your commitment to the bit.
Seriously though, if we come back next month and there's four of you, I'm heading for Nova Scotia.
Novel - Ch9
Dunking - Wk2
French - Unit 2
Actually, I'm not sure it's that funny, but clearly you two thought it would be hilarious. So allow me to start all over, the way we apparently should have started in the first place.
Hello.
And, Hello.
Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, I'd like to point out that one of you is clearly lost. Your mom and I, we have no twins in our family history and we didn't use fertility drugs (at least I don't think so, but you have to admit that things are getting pretty damned suspicious). So, one of you is in the wrong uterus. You work this out among yourselves and as soon as you know who goes where we'll work on getting this straightened out.
Until then, fetus number two, welcome. Obviously, you're going to need a catchier fetus name, and going from that same list of awesome but maternally rejected names that we got Bear from, that makes you Danger. Danger and Bear. Danger Bear. You're like a superhero that fights sleep. Apparently you're both also girls, or at least that's the current theory based on the angle of some bone you're both making, so expect your real names to be slightly less awesome. Of course, before you start thinking about prom dresses, please bear in mind that this guess comes from the same people who thought there was only one of you. Who knows what we find on the next visit.
Now, the cheapskate in me feels like any time you can get something 2 for 1 you've got to jump at it. And if putting diapers behind me the first time means I've put them behind me for the last time, then I'm all for it. That said, I was feeling like I'd be lucky to survive one of you. Now you come at me with the double team, I'm feeling a little shaky. When I got home from getting the news about you two I found an abandoned kitten under the porch, and if my efforts to feed this thing a bottle are any indication you're both going to have to get a lot of your nutrition off your feet. Think about that while decide if you want to pull any more stunts.
Bottom line, the nine months were not just for you. We, meaning I, need a long lead in to get the head screwed on straight. A little hint about you being a pair would have been nice. Then again, how often do you get to pull a prank while in utero? I kind of admire your commitment to the bit.
Seriously though, if we come back next month and there's four of you, I'm heading for Nova Scotia.
Novel - Ch9
Dunking - Wk2
French - Unit 2
Monday, October 22, 2007
Choosing Your Sexual Organs
Choosing your sex organs is one of the most important decisions you'll make while in utero, determining in an instant whether you'll spend your life waiting in absurd lines for public restrooms or being free to just pee on the side of the road. So it seems as good a time as any for the first of what will inevitably be a series of uncomfortable discussions during your lifetime which involve the words penis and vagina.
Some thoughts on being a girl. In a nutshell, women don't get to be Offensive Linemen. Men can be utterly fat, lazy, and average without anyone making the slightest mention of it, but a woman could resurrect Jesus and someone somewhere would ask, "yeah, but is she hot?" Cosmopolitan, size zero, high heels, cellulite, breast augmentation, lipstick, eyeliner, pantyhose, waxing; all burdens for which there is no male equivalent. I, for instance, have been wearing the same clothes for several days and cut my own hair with dog grooming equipment, and yet they just let me walk around. None of this is fair, but I don't expect it to change by the time you show up. If you decide to go this route, try to steer clear of my DNA when forming all your exterior structures. Use me for like, the pancreas.
Some thoughts on being a boy. The smartest boys are still incredibly stupid. I'm confident even Einstein's pals got him to try jumping his bicycle over a mailbox a time or two. That's probably how he discovered gravity. If he discovered gravity. I can't say definitively because I've had a lot of head injuries, which is the point. The list of things I've jumped, fallen, or crashed into seems to refute Darwinism all by itself. And this is all just to impress other guys. We haven't even gotten to what males will try to impress females. The bottom line is, while the demands of being a girl can be absurd, at least you're far less likely to produce a headline like "Died On Fire While Backyard Wrestling".
So those are your options. Frankly, I know neither one sounds all that great, but I suggest you still pick one or the other. Trying some of each is something you should do when you're having tapas, not building sex organs. A lot of people have asked if I have a feeling about which way you'll go. Frankly, I have no idea. If we had waited for them to get cloning dialed in like I wanted, we could know that you were going to grow up to be a gorgeous brilliant woman. As it stands, any deviation from that will be my fault. When I'm asked what I want I usually say, 'an Amy'. But, if you do decide to take after me, I'd stop at the penis.
Novel - On to Ch9
Dunking - wk2
French - Lesson 4
Some thoughts on being a girl. In a nutshell, women don't get to be Offensive Linemen. Men can be utterly fat, lazy, and average without anyone making the slightest mention of it, but a woman could resurrect Jesus and someone somewhere would ask, "yeah, but is she hot?" Cosmopolitan, size zero, high heels, cellulite, breast augmentation, lipstick, eyeliner, pantyhose, waxing; all burdens for which there is no male equivalent. I, for instance, have been wearing the same clothes for several days and cut my own hair with dog grooming equipment, and yet they just let me walk around. None of this is fair, but I don't expect it to change by the time you show up. If you decide to go this route, try to steer clear of my DNA when forming all your exterior structures. Use me for like, the pancreas.
Some thoughts on being a boy. The smartest boys are still incredibly stupid. I'm confident even Einstein's pals got him to try jumping his bicycle over a mailbox a time or two. That's probably how he discovered gravity. If he discovered gravity. I can't say definitively because I've had a lot of head injuries, which is the point. The list of things I've jumped, fallen, or crashed into seems to refute Darwinism all by itself. And this is all just to impress other guys. We haven't even gotten to what males will try to impress females. The bottom line is, while the demands of being a girl can be absurd, at least you're far less likely to produce a headline like "Died On Fire While Backyard Wrestling".
So those are your options. Frankly, I know neither one sounds all that great, but I suggest you still pick one or the other. Trying some of each is something you should do when you're having tapas, not building sex organs. A lot of people have asked if I have a feeling about which way you'll go. Frankly, I have no idea. If we had waited for them to get cloning dialed in like I wanted, we could know that you were going to grow up to be a gorgeous brilliant woman. As it stands, any deviation from that will be my fault. When I'm asked what I want I usually say, 'an Amy'. But, if you do decide to take after me, I'd stop at the penis.
Novel - On to Ch9
Dunking - wk2
French - Lesson 4
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Babies As Bumperstickers
I have a friend who once told me how much she hated walking through the Salt Lake City airport with her baby. It wasn't about the airport. It was the way people looked at her and assumed that because she was a young white woman with a baby she must also be a Mormon. Mormonism is a big topic for someone with no ribcage, so let's set that one aside. The point is, before you ever say word (in English or half-assed French), you'll speak volumes about whoever is holding you.
Humans are tribal. We constantly broadcast our affiliations. A Yankees hat says you like winners. A Che T-shirt says you like berets. A Sean Hannity bumpersticker says you're an asshat. Ditto with those barbed wire tattoos I warned you about. All these things cultivate a carefully assembled picture of how we want the world to see us.
And then you have a baby and it all goes down the drain. Whatever you were before doesn't matter. Suddenly, you're just the poor sap carrying a Blue's Clues backpack and pushing a stroller. It's what's inside the stroller that says everything. This is why you see babies with mohawks or crapping into Notre Dame diapers. Anything to try to get you guys on message.
Names are the obvious place to start. Between talking to a six year old and spending five hours in a police car yesterday (see what a full life I'm leading while I'm still free!) these are the names I came across: Presious, Tavory, Britney, Peyton, Skyler, and Ikea. You see what I'm saying? If we think it sends the right message about us, we'll name kids after strippers, misspelled words, or low cost Swedish furniture chains.
And you're not the only who gets a new name. Your prospective grandparents have opened discussions on how they want to be identified in the post-Bear era. Na-na, pop-pop, gam-gam? They all sound like foods for denture wearers to me, but who am I to judge. I'm thinking of going with something other than Dad myself. I'm sure it will be great the first time you call me Da-da, but how much better would it be if you called me Mr. President or Dr. Huxtable instead?
Nobody wants to be generic, not even your parents, even if that's how they'll always seem to you. And it if takes naming you Costco and making all your clothes out of grass to avoid the soul sucking SUV-driving-soccer-parent label, then Costco, prepare to wear lots of green. At least until you learn to dress yourself or file an injunction.
I should also mention that the news of your arrival is out. Lots of screaming, congratulations, etc. Several friends have attempted to reassure me that their own little Costcos are brewing and will arrive within days of you, so we'll have lots of support. It sounds good, but something tells me that none of them are going to wipe you butt or show you how to put a condom on a banana, so I'm guessing their support will be mostly moral, which everyone knows is the worst kind. For my money, your great grandmother had the best reaction, which was that she basically nodded, said she doesn't babysit, and went back to eating her dinner. I have a soft spot for people who hate babies. I'm thinking of building a shrine for the ones who can get away with saying it.
Novel - Procrastinating
Dunking - Hoping to find a program for just getting taller
French - Maybe we'll name you Jacques and you'll magically pick it up.
Humans are tribal. We constantly broadcast our affiliations. A Yankees hat says you like winners. A Che T-shirt says you like berets. A Sean Hannity bumpersticker says you're an asshat. Ditto with those barbed wire tattoos I warned you about. All these things cultivate a carefully assembled picture of how we want the world to see us.
And then you have a baby and it all goes down the drain. Whatever you were before doesn't matter. Suddenly, you're just the poor sap carrying a Blue's Clues backpack and pushing a stroller. It's what's inside the stroller that says everything. This is why you see babies with mohawks or crapping into Notre Dame diapers. Anything to try to get you guys on message.
Names are the obvious place to start. Between talking to a six year old and spending five hours in a police car yesterday (see what a full life I'm leading while I'm still free!) these are the names I came across: Presious, Tavory, Britney, Peyton, Skyler, and Ikea. You see what I'm saying? If we think it sends the right message about us, we'll name kids after strippers, misspelled words, or low cost Swedish furniture chains.
And you're not the only who gets a new name. Your prospective grandparents have opened discussions on how they want to be identified in the post-Bear era. Na-na, pop-pop, gam-gam? They all sound like foods for denture wearers to me, but who am I to judge. I'm thinking of going with something other than Dad myself. I'm sure it will be great the first time you call me Da-da, but how much better would it be if you called me Mr. President or Dr. Huxtable instead?
Nobody wants to be generic, not even your parents, even if that's how they'll always seem to you. And it if takes naming you Costco and making all your clothes out of grass to avoid the soul sucking SUV-driving-soccer-parent label, then Costco, prepare to wear lots of green. At least until you learn to dress yourself or file an injunction.
I should also mention that the news of your arrival is out. Lots of screaming, congratulations, etc. Several friends have attempted to reassure me that their own little Costcos are brewing and will arrive within days of you, so we'll have lots of support. It sounds good, but something tells me that none of them are going to wipe you butt or show you how to put a condom on a banana, so I'm guessing their support will be mostly moral, which everyone knows is the worst kind. For my money, your great grandmother had the best reaction, which was that she basically nodded, said she doesn't babysit, and went back to eating her dinner. I have a soft spot for people who hate babies. I'm thinking of building a shrine for the ones who can get away with saying it.
Novel - Procrastinating
Dunking - Hoping to find a program for just getting taller
French - Maybe we'll name you Jacques and you'll magically pick it up.
Monday, October 15, 2007
These Hands Are Weapons
I hear you're working on hands and feet this week. That's great, I encourage it, but I want to warn you now that you should not expect much from them. With half of my DNA, walking and using utensils may be the most you can hope for. When it comes to athletics I'm the owner of a large number of 'participant' ribbons, a concept you will probably come to understand all too soon. The thing to know now is that they don't give them out because you have exceptional coordination, aim, ability, or skill. Once I was playing catch with a friend and when I threw the ball back it went about twenty five feet right of him and hit his dog. The fact that I missed him by twenty five feet wasn't really that exceptional, it was more that I actually managed to hit something that was surprising.
On that note, I wanted to update you the athletic component of my pre-bear to-do list. I measured my vertical leap so we'll know what we're up against when it comes to dunking. As it stands my vertical is 27 inches. I was expecting a single digit number, so I was pretty excited about that. Then, just for fun I decided to look at the results of the latest NFL combine where they put prospective draftees through a battery of basic tests. The lowest vertical leap I could find was 28.5 inches. There were a few of them. That made me feel better. Then I saw that they all belonged to Offensive Lineman, and they all weighed more than 300 pounds. I'm an inch and a half short of being able to out jump a bunch of fat guys. You see why I'm telling you to temper your excitement regarding your limbs and appendages.
I figure that I need to get about six inches over the rim in order to stuff the ball in. That leaves me an extra 9.5 inches to go. The program promises 11 to 15 inches, but the program probably works best for people with enough athletic ability to play catch without hitting small animals. It may be no match for me.
Novel - On to chapter 8
Dunking - 9.5 inches to go
French - Voiture = Car
On that note, I wanted to update you the athletic component of my pre-bear to-do list. I measured my vertical leap so we'll know what we're up against when it comes to dunking. As it stands my vertical is 27 inches. I was expecting a single digit number, so I was pretty excited about that. Then, just for fun I decided to look at the results of the latest NFL combine where they put prospective draftees through a battery of basic tests. The lowest vertical leap I could find was 28.5 inches. There were a few of them. That made me feel better. Then I saw that they all belonged to Offensive Lineman, and they all weighed more than 300 pounds. I'm an inch and a half short of being able to out jump a bunch of fat guys. You see why I'm telling you to temper your excitement regarding your limbs and appendages.
I figure that I need to get about six inches over the rim in order to stuff the ball in. That leaves me an extra 9.5 inches to go. The program promises 11 to 15 inches, but the program probably works best for people with enough athletic ability to play catch without hitting small animals. It may be no match for me.
Novel - On to chapter 8
Dunking - 9.5 inches to go
French - Voiture = Car
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Progress Reports
I understand that you recently made yourself some kidneys and urinated for the first time. I'd congratulate you on that, but the idea that you're already peeing on yourself seven months before you even show up seems sort of ominous to me.
Your mom is supposed to let people in on the imminence of your arrival this weekend. I'm hopeful she'll finally get the excited screams she's been after. You of course know how I feel. I'm happy, but I try to reserve the screams for sightings of spiders and Justin Timberlake. Besides, there's lots left to do.
On that front, I've been working on the book. I kind of hate writing. I think I forgot that. It's scary how long it's been since I've actually written anything new. It seems like I've been doing polishes and revisions on other things forever. Part of me that was hoping that would be enough, that maybe we could just make do with what I've already committed to paper and finance an early retirement.
The hardest thing is just making myself sit down to do it. When I first started dating your mom I'd give her a hundred dollars at the beginning of the week and unless I could turn in a certain number of pages she'd keep it. I'll try to explain to you the depth of my cheapness at a later date, but suffice to say, it was effective. Now that we have a joint account it's less so. I'm thinking of bringing some other folks on board, handing in my pages on a daily or weekly basis, and relying on fear and embarrassment to help me keep them readable and on time. In any case, I'm on it, but you growing those kidneys was a big step. I think you might be getting ahead of me.
As for the other stuff, I haven't started my dunking program yet. It's supposed to take 15 weeks to achieve my maximum vertical leap. If I start next week that puts me above the rim right about my next birthday.
On the language front, I got a piece of spam today (difficult to explain, just bear with me) that was in English, but it was off just enough that you could tell is was written by a foreigner. This really brought home how long it takes to learn a language. Knowing all the words is just the beginning. Also, I was watching a movie today and this one character starts trying to seduce another by speaking in French. The best I could translate it he said, "I also speak very good French, and you, you are ham." I don't think that's right. If it is I feel like it was a sub-par come on. Anyhow, that pretty much tells you where I'm at linguistically.
Probably a lot of rubbing and patting coming your way this weekend. Best you learn to deal with it now. It only gets worse when you make it to this side.
Novel - Ch 7
Dunking - Next week we fly
French - You, you are ham
Your mom is supposed to let people in on the imminence of your arrival this weekend. I'm hopeful she'll finally get the excited screams she's been after. You of course know how I feel. I'm happy, but I try to reserve the screams for sightings of spiders and Justin Timberlake. Besides, there's lots left to do.
On that front, I've been working on the book. I kind of hate writing. I think I forgot that. It's scary how long it's been since I've actually written anything new. It seems like I've been doing polishes and revisions on other things forever. Part of me that was hoping that would be enough, that maybe we could just make do with what I've already committed to paper and finance an early retirement.
The hardest thing is just making myself sit down to do it. When I first started dating your mom I'd give her a hundred dollars at the beginning of the week and unless I could turn in a certain number of pages she'd keep it. I'll try to explain to you the depth of my cheapness at a later date, but suffice to say, it was effective. Now that we have a joint account it's less so. I'm thinking of bringing some other folks on board, handing in my pages on a daily or weekly basis, and relying on fear and embarrassment to help me keep them readable and on time. In any case, I'm on it, but you growing those kidneys was a big step. I think you might be getting ahead of me.
As for the other stuff, I haven't started my dunking program yet. It's supposed to take 15 weeks to achieve my maximum vertical leap. If I start next week that puts me above the rim right about my next birthday.
On the language front, I got a piece of spam today (difficult to explain, just bear with me) that was in English, but it was off just enough that you could tell is was written by a foreigner. This really brought home how long it takes to learn a language. Knowing all the words is just the beginning. Also, I was watching a movie today and this one character starts trying to seduce another by speaking in French. The best I could translate it he said, "I also speak very good French, and you, you are ham." I don't think that's right. If it is I feel like it was a sub-par come on. Anyhow, that pretty much tells you where I'm at linguistically.
Probably a lot of rubbing and patting coming your way this weekend. Best you learn to deal with it now. It only gets worse when you make it to this side.
Novel - Ch 7
Dunking - Next week we fly
French - You, you are ham
Friday, October 5, 2007
Children, Dogs, Reason
I tend to like other people's kids about as much as I like other people's dogs, which is to say that if they've been trained not to hump my leg or lick my face, we seem to get on okay, but I don't feel a strong desire to pet or hold or fawn over them. I'd say that 90% of the time when I leave the room with someone else's child and/or dog, my overwhelming reaction is that I'm glad it lives in their house and not mine.
The thing about other people's dogs is that at least you can reason with them. With enough Pavlovian input, they'll eventually sit, heel, get you the paper, etc. Children don't seem to work that way. Maybe it's because shock collars and choke chains are off the table when it comes to child rearing. I've sat through enough tantrums on planes and in restaurants to make the thought of someone's retriever making love to my knee seem downright pleasant.
When you don't have kids, your first reaction to a kid doing something annoying is, "why don't that's kid's parents take him home and lock him in the closet." Now that you're on the way I'm having to examine the practicality of that strategy. As far as I know, closet locking is on the decline in this country, so there must be some newer, better way to deal with the madness.
From what I can see, ignoring the situation seems to be popular. We were at lunch yesterday and the adults seated around a screaming toddler just seemed to glaze over and plow ahead with their conversation. Maybe they're just numb to it. Maybe they're so sick of being at home they don't give a damn. I can't say for sure, but I think my sense of empathy for other diners is going to make this one tough to implement.
The other method deals with the time honored If this Then that scenario, i.e. if you don't shut up, then we're going to lock you in the closet. The problem here seems to be a misalignment of goals. If you've taken the child to a restaurant and what the child is screaming about is that it wants is to leave, then leaving would seem to reinforce the idea that screaming is a good way to get your parents to take you home. But if you stick it out, try to teach them a lesson, you end up torturing everyone else in order to make your point. Maybe this is that whole, it's takes a village thing.
I plan only to engage you in properly timed and formatted Lincoln / Douglas debates. The sooner you learn to effectively rebut the affirmative constructive the sooner you can get out of that closet.
Novel - Drafting Ch 7 (well, sort of)
Dunking - Still just jogging
French - Le cheval est sur le table.
The thing about other people's dogs is that at least you can reason with them. With enough Pavlovian input, they'll eventually sit, heel, get you the paper, etc. Children don't seem to work that way. Maybe it's because shock collars and choke chains are off the table when it comes to child rearing. I've sat through enough tantrums on planes and in restaurants to make the thought of someone's retriever making love to my knee seem downright pleasant.
When you don't have kids, your first reaction to a kid doing something annoying is, "why don't that's kid's parents take him home and lock him in the closet." Now that you're on the way I'm having to examine the practicality of that strategy. As far as I know, closet locking is on the decline in this country, so there must be some newer, better way to deal with the madness.
From what I can see, ignoring the situation seems to be popular. We were at lunch yesterday and the adults seated around a screaming toddler just seemed to glaze over and plow ahead with their conversation. Maybe they're just numb to it. Maybe they're so sick of being at home they don't give a damn. I can't say for sure, but I think my sense of empathy for other diners is going to make this one tough to implement.
The other method deals with the time honored If this Then that scenario, i.e. if you don't shut up, then we're going to lock you in the closet. The problem here seems to be a misalignment of goals. If you've taken the child to a restaurant and what the child is screaming about is that it wants is to leave, then leaving would seem to reinforce the idea that screaming is a good way to get your parents to take you home. But if you stick it out, try to teach them a lesson, you end up torturing everyone else in order to make your point. Maybe this is that whole, it's takes a village thing.
I plan only to engage you in properly timed and formatted Lincoln / Douglas debates. The sooner you learn to effectively rebut the affirmative constructive the sooner you can get out of that closet.
Novel - Drafting Ch 7 (well, sort of)
Dunking - Still just jogging
French - Le cheval est sur le table.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Parting Gifts
I got a toaster in the mail today from Disney. I guess that was their way of saying that they liked me and my toast based presentation, just not enough to trust me with a gazillion dollar movie. It reminded me of back when game shows were popular and the contestant would just miss winning the car and the host would say, 'but we do have some nice parting gifts for you. Johnny, tell him about his new toaster!'
Anyway, we'll call this a moral victory, and the thing to learn about moral victories is that they don't pay for shit but you can use them to make bagels.
Novel - Outlining
Dunking - I can jog again!
French - Cheval = Horse
Anyway, we'll call this a moral victory, and the thing to learn about moral victories is that they don't pay for shit but you can use them to make bagels.
Novel - Outlining
Dunking - I can jog again!
French - Cheval = Horse
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