There goes your phone,
again, falling down alone
as you watch in fright
at your baby in mid-flight
you open your mouth to scream
battery life flashing before its screen
and you wonder if just once
it will simply just bounce
but you know that the floor
has never before lost a war
oh, what a tangled web we weave
when our screen the ground does cleave
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, July 01, 2011
A Guys Night Out
I recently went to a peanut-floored establishment with my brother-in-law and soon-to-be-brother-in-law (I had my punctuation supplier on speed dial in case I ran out during the course of the night). We told our wives and soon-to-be-wife that we were going there to get to know each other better as people, connect on a deeper level as brothers, and enjoy some manly fellowship. In reality, those things were all convenient side-effects created by the main purpose of drinking adult beverages (coffee, Pepto-Bismol, prune juice) by the pitcher-full.
In between chugging and quaffing, we also played some games that are of an appropriate skill level for the people who frequent the location. Namely, hitting balls into holes with the ends of sticks, and sliding metal pucks from one side of a table to the other. In other words, games that require absolutely no coordination to play (a small amount is required to play well, but not much). We opted for the shuffleboard for most of the night since the pool table didn't give us its balls unless we gave it money, and our religion does not condone pool prostitution, or whoreballing.
I had never played shuffleboard before, so it took me a few seconds to master it. Looking back, I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself by trying to eat the substance on the table that looks invitingly like salt. They are actually silicon beads that help to reduce friction (I'll take Wikipedia's word on that one).
It's a great game for the coordination impaired, as even the most inebriated fellow can lean against a table, pass out, and have his head hit the puck, probably giving it enough momentum to reach the other side for at least one point. However, old drunk people should not try this, as it voids their AARP warranty.
Really, the hardest part of the game is focusing on and adjusting the strength of your slide as you become more and more perfect in every way (at least that's what the alcohol tells me). I suppose this is good in more ways than one. It allows for the sort of deep male conversation you hear routinely at fine bars worldwide, like "You guys done with the pool table?", "Where's the bathroom?", and "That's not my vomit, officer!"
The sweet hoppy nectar does more than just loosen the tongue, but it also greases the axles of the rusty male brain that is perpetually driving in first gear if not sitting idle. Conversations happen that are normally restricted (by choice) to the female gender, with topics like birthplace choices, marriage, and personal hygiene. But after a while (read: a few pitchers of beer), these and other topics suddenly are as riveting as playing sports or grilling meat on a BBQ or playing sports while grilling meat on a BBQ (also known as the best day a man can possibly have).
Of course, these topics could also have surfaced out of necessity brought on by the shuffleboard table being used by two couples who were, shall we say, definitely not thirsty. They were chucking the pucks as hard as they could and laughing at the inevitable "PLUNK" as they (the pucks) smacked into the wood on the other side. I don't know who thought it would be a good idea to have only one shuffleboard table at a bar. That's like expecting a roomful of unsupervised two year olds to play nicely and share the one toy in the room. How every night doesn't end in tear-streaked bruises and scrapes and everyone calling for their mommy is a miracle in my eyes.
In between chugging and quaffing, we also played some games that are of an appropriate skill level for the people who frequent the location. Namely, hitting balls into holes with the ends of sticks, and sliding metal pucks from one side of a table to the other. In other words, games that require absolutely no coordination to play (a small amount is required to play well, but not much). We opted for the shuffleboard for most of the night since the pool table didn't give us its balls unless we gave it money, and our religion does not condone pool prostitution, or whoreballing.
I had never played shuffleboard before, so it took me a few seconds to master it. Looking back, I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself by trying to eat the substance on the table that looks invitingly like salt. They are actually silicon beads that help to reduce friction (I'll take Wikipedia's word on that one).
It's a great game for the coordination impaired, as even the most inebriated fellow can lean against a table, pass out, and have his head hit the puck, probably giving it enough momentum to reach the other side for at least one point. However, old drunk people should not try this, as it voids their AARP warranty.
Really, the hardest part of the game is focusing on and adjusting the strength of your slide as you become more and more perfect in every way (at least that's what the alcohol tells me). I suppose this is good in more ways than one. It allows for the sort of deep male conversation you hear routinely at fine bars worldwide, like "You guys done with the pool table?", "Where's the bathroom?", and "That's not my vomit, officer!"
The sweet hoppy nectar does more than just loosen the tongue, but it also greases the axles of the rusty male brain that is perpetually driving in first gear if not sitting idle. Conversations happen that are normally restricted (by choice) to the female gender, with topics like birthplace choices, marriage, and personal hygiene. But after a while (read: a few pitchers of beer), these and other topics suddenly are as riveting as playing sports or grilling meat on a BBQ or playing sports while grilling meat on a BBQ (also known as the best day a man can possibly have).
Of course, these topics could also have surfaced out of necessity brought on by the shuffleboard table being used by two couples who were, shall we say, definitely not thirsty. They were chucking the pucks as hard as they could and laughing at the inevitable "PLUNK" as they (the pucks) smacked into the wood on the other side. I don't know who thought it would be a good idea to have only one shuffleboard table at a bar. That's like expecting a roomful of unsupervised two year olds to play nicely and share the one toy in the room. How every night doesn't end in tear-streaked bruises and scrapes and everyone calling for their mommy is a miracle in my eyes.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Turn-by-Turn Innovation
These days, it seems like every car company is trying to outdo itself and others in the following aspects: safety, reliability, incredibly ugly designs, and obnoxiously conceited commercials...
*cue 30 second spot*
*dim lights*
The commercial opens with artistic shots of a sleek black luxury car gliding along twists and turns in a far-away exotic mountainous region (Chino Hills), while a deep-voiced narrator reads the following:
"Have you ever wanted to become one with the road? Have you ever dreamed of being so attached to your car that it becomes one with you? Have you ever desired to feel the wind beat ripples into the supple fabric of your Armani threads as you soar along the highway, your cares and worries flying from your brow like the beads of sweat on the brows of your subordinates? Well. This is the car for you. Lexus: If you don't already know how good we are, you don't have enough money to buy one."
But somehow, lost amongst the hustle and bustle of innovation, bailouts, and takeovers, oh my, something basic has been forsaken and thrown along the wayside like so many Justin Bieber CDs.
The turn signal.
You may be unaware that the turn signal has been around since the stone age, on the earliest model of the Volkswheel sedentary vehicle. Its purpose was just as it is today: to alert one's intention to turn, as well as to specify which direction. Of course, back then there wasn't much traffic, so it basically only alerted the saber-toothed tigers to let them know which way the food was going.
Now, nearly hundreds of years later, virtually nothing has changed! The turn signal still only lets the person or carnivorous feline near you know that you are either turning left or right; however, in a brilliant evolutionary breakthrough, if you are in an emergency situation, you now have the option to press a special red button that makes both signals blink simultaneously, allowing free reign to do whatever insane maneuvering you want in the name of "emergency".
This sort of innovation is something that has been lacking for the turn signal and its constituents (Light Bulbs Local 863). There is obviously an untapped amount of potential to modify the standard turn signal.
For instance, why is there not a special variation for U-Turns? How many accidents have been caused from some person slowing down to one mile per hour to make an unwieldy 180 that would barely miss the curb on the opposite side, only to be slammed from behind by someone paying less than adequate attention (and in this person's defense, probably not expecting someone to slow down to near-stopping in the left-hand turn lane)?
By my expert analysis and research, a lot. Quite a lot, even. I would quote my sources, but I don't want to bother making them up.
Why not have a setting on the turn signal bar that puts the blinking to half speed or even slower, alerting the driver behind to be prepared to slam on his brakes when all instincts are telling him "that green arrow isn't going to last long, GUN IT!"
And how about a special setting for when you want to merge across two or more lanes of traffic, but you've got some Big Money Wielder (BMW) who sees it as an attack on his masculinity for anyone to merge into HIS lane, and his raging alpha male hormones will make him do everything in his horsepower to keep you from merging, even though you are just passing through into the next lane and possibly beyond.
You know the kind of person I'm talking about. You can picture him now, white-knuckling his leather-caressed wheel, shoulders peaked in tension as a terrifying thought grips him about how there is money in the world that doesn't yet belong to him, top shirt button unbuttoned to keep it from popping off into space as his bulging neck muscles resemble a swollen bunch of celery, shirt sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow so they don't get in the way of his driving gloves. Yeah, that guy. The guy whose motto is "Time is money, so get the $@&!% out of my lane!"
Finally, there should be a setting installed that detects when a turn signal has been on for more than 30 seconds, and automatically changes the shape of the regular intermittent flashes into intermittent flashing question marks, signifying an "eventual left or right turn", which is a legal maneuver for anyone over the age of 65 and means that they might make a turn between now and the second Thursday of next week. So be prepared!
Of course, all this is probably unnecessary, since no one uses their turn signals in the first place, so to expect them to learn new variations and put them to use is as improbable as expecting people to finish their blog pos
*cue 30 second spot*
*dim lights*
The commercial opens with artistic shots of a sleek black luxury car gliding along twists and turns in a far-away exotic mountainous region (Chino Hills), while a deep-voiced narrator reads the following:
"Have you ever wanted to become one with the road? Have you ever dreamed of being so attached to your car that it becomes one with you? Have you ever desired to feel the wind beat ripples into the supple fabric of your Armani threads as you soar along the highway, your cares and worries flying from your brow like the beads of sweat on the brows of your subordinates? Well. This is the car for you. Lexus: If you don't already know how good we are, you don't have enough money to buy one."
But somehow, lost amongst the hustle and bustle of innovation, bailouts, and takeovers, oh my, something basic has been forsaken and thrown along the wayside like so many Justin Bieber CDs.
The turn signal.
You may be unaware that the turn signal has been around since the stone age, on the earliest model of the Volkswheel sedentary vehicle. Its purpose was just as it is today: to alert one's intention to turn, as well as to specify which direction. Of course, back then there wasn't much traffic, so it basically only alerted the saber-toothed tigers to let them know which way the food was going.
Now, nearly hundreds of years later, virtually nothing has changed! The turn signal still only lets the person or carnivorous feline near you know that you are either turning left or right; however, in a brilliant evolutionary breakthrough, if you are in an emergency situation, you now have the option to press a special red button that makes both signals blink simultaneously, allowing free reign to do whatever insane maneuvering you want in the name of "emergency".
This sort of innovation is something that has been lacking for the turn signal and its constituents (Light Bulbs Local 863). There is obviously an untapped amount of potential to modify the standard turn signal.
For instance, why is there not a special variation for U-Turns? How many accidents have been caused from some person slowing down to one mile per hour to make an unwieldy 180 that would barely miss the curb on the opposite side, only to be slammed from behind by someone paying less than adequate attention (and in this person's defense, probably not expecting someone to slow down to near-stopping in the left-hand turn lane)?
By my expert analysis and research, a lot. Quite a lot, even. I would quote my sources, but I don't want to bother making them up.
Why not have a setting on the turn signal bar that puts the blinking to half speed or even slower, alerting the driver behind to be prepared to slam on his brakes when all instincts are telling him "that green arrow isn't going to last long, GUN IT!"
And how about a special setting for when you want to merge across two or more lanes of traffic, but you've got some Big Money Wielder (BMW) who sees it as an attack on his masculinity for anyone to merge into HIS lane, and his raging alpha male hormones will make him do everything in his horsepower to keep you from merging, even though you are just passing through into the next lane and possibly beyond.
You know the kind of person I'm talking about. You can picture him now, white-knuckling his leather-caressed wheel, shoulders peaked in tension as a terrifying thought grips him about how there is money in the world that doesn't yet belong to him, top shirt button unbuttoned to keep it from popping off into space as his bulging neck muscles resemble a swollen bunch of celery, shirt sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow so they don't get in the way of his driving gloves. Yeah, that guy. The guy whose motto is "Time is money, so get the $@&!% out of my lane!"
Finally, there should be a setting installed that detects when a turn signal has been on for more than 30 seconds, and automatically changes the shape of the regular intermittent flashes into intermittent flashing question marks, signifying an "eventual left or right turn", which is a legal maneuver for anyone over the age of 65 and means that they might make a turn between now and the second Thursday of next week. So be prepared!
Of course, all this is probably unnecessary, since no one uses their turn signals in the first place, so to expect them to learn new variations and put them to use is as improbable as expecting people to finish their blog pos
Friday, February 25, 2011
If God had a Facebook Page...
His profile picture would be a burning bush.
He would run out of room in the About Me section of His profile, so it would just say, "For more information, read The Bible".
He would send friend requests to everyone on Facebook, and if you decline it, He would send it again until you accept it.
He would max out His capability to add friends millions of times over.
Religious views would simply say “I Am.”
Political views would say “Theocracy”.
Instead of three pull down menus for the day/month/year of His birthday, there would be two pull down menus that each had one option: Alpha; Omega.
Languages would just say “Silence”.
Favorite movies would be "Monty Python and the Holy Grail", proving once and for all that God does have a sense of humor.
If God poked you, you would feel it.
His wall would consist of people asking “Are you there?”, “Did you get my message?”, and “Did you see that good deed I just did?”
God would always be online to chat. You'd never see a little moon next to His name.
His ad sidebar would consist of the following ads: "Get your halo 50% shinier, or your money back!", "Are your clouds as fluffy as they can be?", and "Watch 'When Popes Attack', a new Fox Special, airing tonight at 8/7 central."
His login password would be the entire book of Leviticus, no spaces. He would type it all in three seconds.
Instead of a “like” button, He would have a “love” button, and He would “love” everything that shows up on His feed.
His status would be permanently set as “Take up your cross and follow Me.”
He would have one event pending at all times. It would be called "Second Coming", and the date would be "Soon". All His friends are invited, but He is still "Awaiting Reply" from all of them.
If He ever edits any part of His profile after joining, His friends would receive the following message in their feeds:
“God changed his profile.”
Christians worldwide would go into a panic, screaming, “CHANGE?? WHAT CHANGED?!?!?”
And finally...
Could God make a Facebook page so popular that even He couldn’t “like” it?
Friday, August 06, 2010
The Cover Up
During my nine hour stint today at work (official title: Super Accounting Dude), I was playing with some numbers ("Where'd five go? Where'd fiiiive go? Peekaboo!") when someone dropped an expense report on my desk. Expense reports are filled out and given to me for two reasons: One, as a way to document and turn in receipts in order to receive a reimbursement, and two, to explain what the expense was for and how it relates to company business. A coincidental third reason for filling out expense reports is so I can test for basic knowledge of Excel and how formulas work, basic addition and subtraction, and last but certainly not least, correct spelling and grammar.
As someone who has trudged through the public screwl system and graduated college with a fancy degree that I still haven't picked up from the university...
...I was surprised at first to see upper management people and other big titles handing me expense reports with incorrect addition due to poor use of formulas in Excel, misspellings of their superior's last name...multiple times, and other gross typos and grammatical oversights. In some cases, some people seem to be incapable of turning in expense reports at all EXCEPT when a reimbursement is needed. Then they are magically able to find all of their receipts and finish what previously seemed to be the insurmountable task of allocating five minutes to filling out an expense report.
So when the expense report was dropped on my desk, I did my normal professional accounting routine - look for spelling errors. Normally, if that produces no hilarity, I'll then flip through the receipts. Since I'm just an accountant, I don't get to go to all the fancy dinners where clients are schmoozed and expensive bottles of wine are swished and tips are given in amounts that are more than what I make in a day. So I do the next best thing - find the receipts that give a line-itemized account of what was purchased, and live vicariously. It's a glamorous profession, but someone has to do it.
This particular expense report was submitted by a lady whom I know has never had to fill out an expense report before. I don't know how some people feel about submitting expense reports that show in detail what they consumed/enjoyed/partook of/etc... on the company dollar. Maybe some feel guilt at ordering that extra martini; maybe some feel justified in eating that $50 steak; maybe some others do it unabashedly in the noble name of putting on a well-fed face for the company.
Regardless of the reason, the person who submitted this expense report apparently had some issue she was trying to cover up. Admittedly, I don't talk to this particular person at work very much, so I don't know if perhaps she's on a diet, or conscious of her weight, or maybe just afraid of what others think of her eating habits. But I just don't understand why else she would do this:
The first item on the receipt is for a Chocolate Chip Cookie. However, it's not just any chocolate chip cookie - it's a nearly $3 chocolate chip cookie. Imagine the size! It must have been like holding a garbage can lid with both hands and...oh wait. It's from an airport snack bar. It was probably more like holding a quarter with a thumb and index finger and probably tasted similar too.
Regardless of its size, "someone" crossed out "Choc CP Cookie" and wrote "BAGEL" above it. I'm sorry, but how stupid does she think I am?
Sean: *mouth gaping open, with a string of drool reaching from my bottom lip to the desk* "Daaaah, uh bayguhl? Oh ummkay, dat sownds akseptabuhl. At leest it wusn't a kooky."
Besides, I'm not stupid because I'm not the one buying an imported strawberry from Odwalla (where's that? Australia?) for $4.99. Unless it was this one:
Part of me wanted to confront her about it in the hallway or something and ask,
"So, how was your...bagel?"
"It was fine, thank you."
"Oh, was it? Oh, I'm so glad to hear that! Here's your reimbursement check."
Hey, I'm in accounting and sit in a cubicle all day. I'm not one for confrontations. I would probably choose a more subtle route.
Bagel Girl: "Look! Someone brought homemade chocolate chip cookies to work."
Me: "Oh, it's too bad they didn't bring any nutritious guilt-free BAGELS!"
Bagel Girl: "Why are you yelling?"
Me: "LOOK OVER THERE!" *takes the chocolate chip cookie platter and runs*
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden hankering for a...bagel. And an Australian strawberry.
As someone who has trudged through the public screwl system and graduated college with a fancy degree that I still haven't picked up from the university...
...I was surprised at first to see upper management people and other big titles handing me expense reports with incorrect addition due to poor use of formulas in Excel, misspellings of their superior's last name...multiple times, and other gross typos and grammatical oversights. In some cases, some people seem to be incapable of turning in expense reports at all EXCEPT when a reimbursement is needed. Then they are magically able to find all of their receipts and finish what previously seemed to be the insurmountable task of allocating five minutes to filling out an expense report.
So when the expense report was dropped on my desk, I did my normal professional accounting routine - look for spelling errors. Normally, if that produces no hilarity, I'll then flip through the receipts. Since I'm just an accountant, I don't get to go to all the fancy dinners where clients are schmoozed and expensive bottles of wine are swished and tips are given in amounts that are more than what I make in a day. So I do the next best thing - find the receipts that give a line-itemized account of what was purchased, and live vicariously. It's a glamorous profession, but someone has to do it.
This particular expense report was submitted by a lady whom I know has never had to fill out an expense report before. I don't know how some people feel about submitting expense reports that show in detail what they consumed/enjoyed/partook of/etc... on the company dollar. Maybe some feel guilt at ordering that extra martini; maybe some feel justified in eating that $50 steak; maybe some others do it unabashedly in the noble name of putting on a well-fed face for the company.
Regardless of the reason, the person who submitted this expense report apparently had some issue she was trying to cover up. Admittedly, I don't talk to this particular person at work very much, so I don't know if perhaps she's on a diet, or conscious of her weight, or maybe just afraid of what others think of her eating habits. But I just don't understand why else she would do this:
The first item on the receipt is for a Chocolate Chip Cookie. However, it's not just any chocolate chip cookie - it's a nearly $3 chocolate chip cookie. Imagine the size! It must have been like holding a garbage can lid with both hands and...oh wait. It's from an airport snack bar. It was probably more like holding a quarter with a thumb and index finger and probably tasted similar too.
Regardless of its size, "someone" crossed out "Choc CP Cookie" and wrote "BAGEL" above it. I'm sorry, but how stupid does she think I am?
Sean: *mouth gaping open, with a string of drool reaching from my bottom lip to the desk* "Daaaah, uh bayguhl? Oh ummkay, dat sownds akseptabuhl. At leest it wusn't a kooky."
Besides, I'm not stupid because I'm not the one buying an imported strawberry from Odwalla (where's that? Australia?) for $4.99. Unless it was this one:
Part of me wanted to confront her about it in the hallway or something and ask,
"So, how was your...bagel?"
"It was fine, thank you."
"Oh, was it? Oh, I'm so glad to hear that! Here's your reimbursement check."
Hey, I'm in accounting and sit in a cubicle all day. I'm not one for confrontations. I would probably choose a more subtle route.
Bagel Girl: "Look! Someone brought homemade chocolate chip cookies to work."
Me: "Oh, it's too bad they didn't bring any nutritious guilt-free BAGELS!"
Bagel Girl: "Why are you yelling?"
Me: "LOOK OVER THERE!" *takes the chocolate chip cookie platter and runs*
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden hankering for a...bagel. And an Australian strawberry.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
100th Blog Post!
And it only took me five and a half years! That has to be a record of some sort...
I have an abundance of time to observe the idiosyncrasies of life during my eight minute, two mile drive to work. The recent rainstorm on Monday (net precipitation: -.01 inches) reminded me of my favorite thing about driving in the rain in Southern California: watching the sun-drenched natives react to this "weird wet stuff, like, falling from the sky and making it, like, hard to see outta my window, man".
When I left for work in the wee early hours of the morning (7:45) on Monday, the intensity of the raging storm was somewhere between a mild mist and a subtle sprinkling, not unlike the automatic spritzers which keep the produce wet in the supermarket. It's the sort of torrent that requires you to give your windshield a once-over with the wipers every ten or fifteen seconds or so. One might call it a bum moistener, a ruined car wash, or a reason to rethink your footwear choice from flip flops to shoes.
And yet, this does not stop certain drivers from exhibiting a peculiar behavior which I search for whenever a window wetter of a storm like this hits.
Instead of an occasional gentle burst from the wipers, or even a low intermittent setting, these drivers have their windshield wipers set on "excited dog". They have their wipers wagging on the absolute maximum setting, easily restricting their vision more than the rain could ever do. Do these people know that there are settings lower than "crazed metronome"? If they're accustomed to using the highest setting for the slightest bit of rain, I wonder if they feel that the fastest is inadequate when it actually pours? If they could, they'd probably turn the wipers up so high that the heat generated from the friction of the blades whipping back and forth would actually cause the water to evaporate before it hits the windshield.
Another thing that I notice while driving that seems a little silly to me is those little stick figure decals that people put on their car windows to represent their families.
For instance, a typical Southern California decal set looks something like this:
In other words, you've got typical parents with their socially acceptable though culturally unsustainable 2.5 kids (each pet apparently accounts for .25 in this pic).
When I see decals like this, I think about the "what if" possibility. Like, what if I lived in Utah? Would I see a decal like this?
Or what would you think if you passed by a car with the following decals? I know I would switch lanes.
What I don't get is how unrealistic they all are. I always see these decals being used to portray a fun-loving family where the dad is an athletic surfer guy who is obviously his kids' best friend because he's so incredibly cool, the mom is still a stylish and involved person who can make an applesauce stain look glamorous, the kids are equally vivacious and socially brilliant, and the family pet is the cutest thing since my daughter.
However, in reality, this is Southern California. The dad probably works 80 hours a week to support a lifestyle that he still can't afford or enjoy, the mom probably hires a housekeeper, has the kids in daycare, gets weekly makeovers and the occasional face-lift, and works full-time just to afford these things, the kids are probably fat from a steady diet of no exercise and daily fast food, and they likely get the majority of their parental guidance from sitting slack-jawed in front of the idiot box, and nothing is cuter than my daughter.
Speaking of my daughter (end awesome segue), Emily is seven months old now. We had a father/daughter evening at the park tonight while Mommy stayed home and rested (she's sick with a cold) after a full day of taking care of Emily. We drove to a nearby park at 5:30 after I got home from work, put her in the jogging stroller, and went over to the basketball courts. I put the stroller between the 3-point line and half-court, facing the basket, and shot around for 25 minutes. She enjoyed watching Daddy play, and also entertained herself with her favorite rattle.
She eventually got bored and told me as much. I responded to her cries by putting my basketball into the storage area below the stroller and strolling to the dirt track right next to the courts. I then ran four laps around the track, while Emily provided sound effects. The track is a little bumpy, so Emily would emit a monotone "aaaaaahhhhhhhhh" and the vibration would turn it into "ahAHahAHahAHahAHahAH" She did that for at least half of the time - she loves hearing her voice especially when it vibrates either by her getting bounced or by someone tapping her mouth.
I got tired eventually, and started a cool-down walk. After ten minutes or so, we headed back to my car. An hour had passed, and I figured I would pack up and go home.
But when I picked up Emmy, she was so happy to be held that I decided to head over to the swings for a little while. I put her in the little swing that has the restraint chain and pushed her - she loved it. We did that for a while until Daddy started getting jealous, so I picked her up, sat on an adult swing, put her in my lap facing me, and swung with her.
She was very animated when she swung in her own swing, but she was much more subdued and relaxed when she swung with me. She seemed to like being able to swing a little higher, and she might have liked being in Daddy's warm arms, who knows? After a few minutes, just as I was starting to slow down, her head hit my chest. Less than a minute later, she was asleep on my chest while still swinging. Once we stopped, I half walked, half snuggled her to the car and drove home.
I like being a daddy.
I have an abundance of time to observe the idiosyncrasies of life during my eight minute, two mile drive to work. The recent rainstorm on Monday (net precipitation: -.01 inches) reminded me of my favorite thing about driving in the rain in Southern California: watching the sun-drenched natives react to this "weird wet stuff, like, falling from the sky and making it, like, hard to see outta my window, man".
When I left for work in the wee early hours of the morning (7:45) on Monday, the intensity of the raging storm was somewhere between a mild mist and a subtle sprinkling, not unlike the automatic spritzers which keep the produce wet in the supermarket. It's the sort of torrent that requires you to give your windshield a once-over with the wipers every ten or fifteen seconds or so. One might call it a bum moistener, a ruined car wash, or a reason to rethink your footwear choice from flip flops to shoes.
And yet, this does not stop certain drivers from exhibiting a peculiar behavior which I search for whenever a window wetter of a storm like this hits.
Instead of an occasional gentle burst from the wipers, or even a low intermittent setting, these drivers have their windshield wipers set on "excited dog". They have their wipers wagging on the absolute maximum setting, easily restricting their vision more than the rain could ever do. Do these people know that there are settings lower than "crazed metronome"? If they're accustomed to using the highest setting for the slightest bit of rain, I wonder if they feel that the fastest is inadequate when it actually pours? If they could, they'd probably turn the wipers up so high that the heat generated from the friction of the blades whipping back and forth would actually cause the water to evaporate before it hits the windshield.
Another thing that I notice while driving that seems a little silly to me is those little stick figure decals that people put on their car windows to represent their families.
For instance, a typical Southern California decal set looks something like this:
In other words, you've got typical parents with their socially acceptable though culturally unsustainable 2.5 kids (each pet apparently accounts for .25 in this pic).When I see decals like this, I think about the "what if" possibility. Like, what if I lived in Utah? Would I see a decal like this?
Or what would you think if you passed by a car with the following decals? I know I would switch lanes.
What I don't get is how unrealistic they all are. I always see these decals being used to portray a fun-loving family where the dad is an athletic surfer guy who is obviously his kids' best friend because he's so incredibly cool, the mom is still a stylish and involved person who can make an applesauce stain look glamorous, the kids are equally vivacious and socially brilliant, and the family pet is the cutest thing since my daughter.
However, in reality, this is Southern California. The dad probably works 80 hours a week to support a lifestyle that he still can't afford or enjoy, the mom probably hires a housekeeper, has the kids in daycare, gets weekly makeovers and the occasional face-lift, and works full-time just to afford these things, the kids are probably fat from a steady diet of no exercise and daily fast food, and they likely get the majority of their parental guidance from sitting slack-jawed in front of the idiot box, and nothing is cuter than my daughter.
Speaking of my daughter (end awesome segue), Emily is seven months old now. We had a father/daughter evening at the park tonight while Mommy stayed home and rested (she's sick with a cold) after a full day of taking care of Emily. We drove to a nearby park at 5:30 after I got home from work, put her in the jogging stroller, and went over to the basketball courts. I put the stroller between the 3-point line and half-court, facing the basket, and shot around for 25 minutes. She enjoyed watching Daddy play, and also entertained herself with her favorite rattle.
She eventually got bored and told me as much. I responded to her cries by putting my basketball into the storage area below the stroller and strolling to the dirt track right next to the courts. I then ran four laps around the track, while Emily provided sound effects. The track is a little bumpy, so Emily would emit a monotone "aaaaaahhhhhhhhh" and the vibration would turn it into "ahAHahAHahAHahAHahAH" She did that for at least half of the time - she loves hearing her voice especially when it vibrates either by her getting bounced or by someone tapping her mouth.
I got tired eventually, and started a cool-down walk. After ten minutes or so, we headed back to my car. An hour had passed, and I figured I would pack up and go home.
But when I picked up Emmy, she was so happy to be held that I decided to head over to the swings for a little while. I put her in the little swing that has the restraint chain and pushed her - she loved it. We did that for a while until Daddy started getting jealous, so I picked her up, sat on an adult swing, put her in my lap facing me, and swung with her.
She was very animated when she swung in her own swing, but she was much more subdued and relaxed when she swung with me. She seemed to like being able to swing a little higher, and she might have liked being in Daddy's warm arms, who knows? After a few minutes, just as I was starting to slow down, her head hit my chest. Less than a minute later, she was asleep on my chest while still swinging. Once we stopped, I half walked, half snuggled her to the car and drove home.
I like being a daddy.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Sick of Being Sick
It figures that when it's trendy to get the swine flu that I'd get hit with some mundane and boring infection like a sore throat. Sore throats are the nerds of the disease world. They're the wimps that get beat up on the germ playground.
"What can you do, poindexter?" says Hay Fever, pounding one fist into the other. "Make someone puke out their guts? Rupture their spleen?"
"Well," says Sore Throat, "I can make throats hurt just enough to be annoying, but most of the time people forget I'm there unless they swallow."
*awkward pause*
"Get him!"
Now, if you want to talk about a disease that would never get beat up, mainly because everyone would be too afraid to go near it, there's swine flu. And no, I will not be referring to it by its PC name, mainly because that's what Obama would want me to do, but also because this is a downright dirty, filthy, rolling-in-the-mud and eating rotten apple cores swine flu.
Many people don't know this, but swine flu is actually an ancient disease dating back to Biblical times. When Jesus commanded that the demons leave the body of the possessed man and enter the herd of swine, causing the pigs to hurl themselves off of a cliff, this was the first documented case when swine flew.
In that case, all of the swine died, meaning that the swine flu back then killed 100% of its victims, which is just slightly better than the greatest modern killer of all - greater even than an atomic bomb. And that ruthless killer is none other than a Wanda Sykes induced suicide, caused by indecent exposure to her person, voice, likeness, attempted humor, scent, or even an indirect gaze into a mirror in which her reflection is displayed. And how much exposure is indecent you ask? Scientific studies show that just .0001 seconds of indirect or direct exposure can leave the most humor-deaf person foaming at the mouth with the inexorable urge to JUST MAKE IT STOP!
Note: While I do check my facts, there is always room for error from the scientists themselves. For instance, the same scientists who proved the above statistics are also in staunch agreement with the rest of the swine in the scientific community that global warming is a major threat and requires swift and massive action and regulation and taxing by the federal government.
"What'll we do about this global warming, Bill?"
"Well, let's spin the wheel of legislative decision-making and find out!"
*spins*
"Let's see, raise taxes, take bribe, listen to lobbyist, raise taxes, listen to union, raise taxes, raise taxesssss, come onnnn!!! oh! What?!? Listen to taxpayer? How'd that get on there? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Oh, must have been that intern we just fired. Just raise taxes, if it's still around in six months we'll have a caucus in Tahiti to decide whose taxes to raise next."
However, I do wholeheartedly agree that Wanda Sykes is definitely a threat to the well-being of the human race and humor in general, and most definitely should be regulated and taxed and thrown into Guantanamo.
Speaking of pigs, the swine flu is also known by another less common name - the Jerry Springer flu.
"Today's show: Hillbillies, and the pigs who love them. With me today is Cletus. Now, Cletus, you're not here just to tell your wife AnnieBethAnnabelle that you have contracted the swine flu, are you? So, please, tell us how you, shall we say, hogtied yourself to the disease."
"Well Jerry, Lurleen, our prize pig, was a-struttin' her stuff out back in da mud one day, and, well, I-"
"What? What did you do, you self-righteous two-toother?" yells AnnieBethAnnabelle. "Yer thinkin' yer all better than me just cuz I only got ol' chomper?"
*crowd oooohs*
"Well Annie," says Jerry, "let's settle this once and for all. Lurleen? Come on out!"
*camera whips to a pig emerging from behind a glittering curtain. It is wearing pink high hooves, and striking a surprisingly alluring pose for a pig*
*chaos ensues*
So in short, I'll get swine flu when pigs fly.
"What can you do, poindexter?" says Hay Fever, pounding one fist into the other. "Make someone puke out their guts? Rupture their spleen?"
"Well," says Sore Throat, "I can make throats hurt just enough to be annoying, but most of the time people forget I'm there unless they swallow."
*awkward pause*
"Get him!"
Now, if you want to talk about a disease that would never get beat up, mainly because everyone would be too afraid to go near it, there's swine flu. And no, I will not be referring to it by its PC name, mainly because that's what Obama would want me to do, but also because this is a downright dirty, filthy, rolling-in-the-mud and eating rotten apple cores swine flu.
Many people don't know this, but swine flu is actually an ancient disease dating back to Biblical times. When Jesus commanded that the demons leave the body of the possessed man and enter the herd of swine, causing the pigs to hurl themselves off of a cliff, this was the first documented case when swine flew.
In that case, all of the swine died, meaning that the swine flu back then killed 100% of its victims, which is just slightly better than the greatest modern killer of all - greater even than an atomic bomb. And that ruthless killer is none other than a Wanda Sykes induced suicide, caused by indecent exposure to her person, voice, likeness, attempted humor, scent, or even an indirect gaze into a mirror in which her reflection is displayed. And how much exposure is indecent you ask? Scientific studies show that just .0001 seconds of indirect or direct exposure can leave the most humor-deaf person foaming at the mouth with the inexorable urge to JUST MAKE IT STOP!
Note: While I do check my facts, there is always room for error from the scientists themselves. For instance, the same scientists who proved the above statistics are also in staunch agreement with the rest of the swine in the scientific community that global warming is a major threat and requires swift and massive action and regulation and taxing by the federal government.
"What'll we do about this global warming, Bill?"
"Well, let's spin the wheel of legislative decision-making and find out!"
*spins*
"Let's see, raise taxes, take bribe, listen to lobbyist, raise taxes, listen to union, raise taxes, raise taxesssss, come onnnn!!! oh! What?!? Listen to taxpayer? How'd that get on there? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Oh, must have been that intern we just fired. Just raise taxes, if it's still around in six months we'll have a caucus in Tahiti to decide whose taxes to raise next."
However, I do wholeheartedly agree that Wanda Sykes is definitely a threat to the well-being of the human race and humor in general, and most definitely should be regulated and taxed and thrown into Guantanamo.
Speaking of pigs, the swine flu is also known by another less common name - the Jerry Springer flu.
"Today's show: Hillbillies, and the pigs who love them. With me today is Cletus. Now, Cletus, you're not here just to tell your wife AnnieBethAnnabelle that you have contracted the swine flu, are you? So, please, tell us how you, shall we say, hogtied yourself to the disease."
"Well Jerry, Lurleen, our prize pig, was a-struttin' her stuff out back in da mud one day, and, well, I-"
"What? What did you do, you self-righteous two-toother?" yells AnnieBethAnnabelle. "Yer thinkin' yer all better than me just cuz I only got ol' chomper?"
*crowd oooohs*
"Well Annie," says Jerry, "let's settle this once and for all. Lurleen? Come on out!"
*camera whips to a pig emerging from behind a glittering curtain. It is wearing pink high hooves, and striking a surprisingly alluring pose for a pig*
*chaos ensues*
So in short, I'll get swine flu when pigs fly.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Wallet Rash
So I bought my first box of diapers today. Allow me to set the scene.
It was a warm Wednesday. Actually, it was pretty dang hot. So much for the amazing alliteration. The sun beat down on the asphalt as I approached the finest diaper retailing establishment in all of Orange County - Wal-Mart. As I walked, I unrolled the parchment given to me by my wife containing the list of our shopping necessities, stumbling as the other end hit my feet and rolled along ahead of me. I bent down and scooped it up in my arms, as portions of it cascaded over my arms like waterfalls. I peered over the top of the papery mound, found a shopping cart, and threw it in.
I looked at the first item on the list - milk, and went to the food aisles. Two aisles and just as many minutes later, I had already found 75% of what was on the list, and I wondered to myself how much time I've wasted in my life walking through endless aisles in other supermarkets, when Wal-Mart has everything I could possibly need condensed down to a handful of conveniently placed aisles. Where else can you find hot dogs, cheese, cheerios, butter, yogurt, turkey, and milk all within five feet of each other? Nowhere! I'd have to traverse half a mile through twenty different aisles to find all of those items in a normal supermarket. But I also get lost easily, so you might have an easier time of it.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where the baby section was at Wal-Mart, so after surreptitiously ditching the list ("clean-up in aisles six, seven, and eight!"), I sped over to the far end of the store. I say sped, because people in Wal-Mart drive their carts like chickens with their heads cut off. So I Mosey my way through the store as if the other shoppers are the Red Sea, parting dawdling geriatrics ("I spilled my pills!") and hesitant Asian onlookers ("That not very rice!") all the same, while moving faster than either the former or the latter drive their automobiles. I am a non-discriminatory cart driver. I will mow down anyone in my way, regardless of race, gender, weight, handicap, lack of acceptable velocity, personal scent, or inability to be aware of one's surroundings.
I arrived at the baby section, fanning my face as the clouds of burning tile dispersed. I found the shelves of diapers, and peered at the price tags. Now, I've heard what people say about how expensive diapers are, what with the diamond studded eyes of Grover and the gold lined feathers of Big Bird. But I had never physically stood in a diaper aisle and basked in its depressing reality. I nearly had a Fred Sanford heart attack! $19 for 84 diapers? I'm comin', Elizabeth!
I wondered to myself how much that costs per diaper, so I did the mental math, and came up with the answer on the spot: it's freaking expensive! Then I came home and did the actual math on a calculator: nearly 23 cents a diaper! You've heard of the expression being eaten out of house and home? Well, our daughter (aka the Diaper Defiler) could quite possibly cause us to be the first people able to claim the honor of being peed and pooped out of house and home.
Of course, knowing her, 23 cents a diaper is a small price to pay for...security.
It was a warm Wednesday. Actually, it was pretty dang hot. So much for the amazing alliteration. The sun beat down on the asphalt as I approached the finest diaper retailing establishment in all of Orange County - Wal-Mart. As I walked, I unrolled the parchment given to me by my wife containing the list of our shopping necessities, stumbling as the other end hit my feet and rolled along ahead of me. I bent down and scooped it up in my arms, as portions of it cascaded over my arms like waterfalls. I peered over the top of the papery mound, found a shopping cart, and threw it in.
I looked at the first item on the list - milk, and went to the food aisles. Two aisles and just as many minutes later, I had already found 75% of what was on the list, and I wondered to myself how much time I've wasted in my life walking through endless aisles in other supermarkets, when Wal-Mart has everything I could possibly need condensed down to a handful of conveniently placed aisles. Where else can you find hot dogs, cheese, cheerios, butter, yogurt, turkey, and milk all within five feet of each other? Nowhere! I'd have to traverse half a mile through twenty different aisles to find all of those items in a normal supermarket. But I also get lost easily, so you might have an easier time of it.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where the baby section was at Wal-Mart, so after surreptitiously ditching the list ("clean-up in aisles six, seven, and eight!"), I sped over to the far end of the store. I say sped, because people in Wal-Mart drive their carts like chickens with their heads cut off. So I Mosey my way through the store as if the other shoppers are the Red Sea, parting dawdling geriatrics ("I spilled my pills!") and hesitant Asian onlookers ("That not very rice!") all the same, while moving faster than either the former or the latter drive their automobiles. I am a non-discriminatory cart driver. I will mow down anyone in my way, regardless of race, gender, weight, handicap, lack of acceptable velocity, personal scent, or inability to be aware of one's surroundings.
I arrived at the baby section, fanning my face as the clouds of burning tile dispersed. I found the shelves of diapers, and peered at the price tags. Now, I've heard what people say about how expensive diapers are, what with the diamond studded eyes of Grover and the gold lined feathers of Big Bird. But I had never physically stood in a diaper aisle and basked in its depressing reality. I nearly had a Fred Sanford heart attack! $19 for 84 diapers? I'm comin', Elizabeth!
I wondered to myself how much that costs per diaper, so I did the mental math, and came up with the answer on the spot: it's freaking expensive! Then I came home and did the actual math on a calculator: nearly 23 cents a diaper! You've heard of the expression being eaten out of house and home? Well, our daughter (aka the Diaper Defiler) could quite possibly cause us to be the first people able to claim the honor of being peed and pooped out of house and home.
Of course, knowing her, 23 cents a diaper is a small price to pay for...security.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
This Daddy Business is Getting Interesting
So I thought that yesterday's blog post would be a fun look at an isolated and unique event that happened twice and would by no means ever be repeated again, especially not later in the day yesterday or today.
How naive of me. Emily proceeded to test the limits of her internal plumbing even further, uncorking two more diaper-filling toots yesterday. And then today, she just kept going! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!?! For the first few days, diaper changes were not something I approached in fear of what I would uncover. A pee-kissed diaper is a joy to change. A poop-smothered diaper is another story.
So when Emily was lying on my chest this morning, and I felt the jacuzzi jets being turned on and heard the F-18 jet engines rumbling, I knew what awaited me at the ceremonial changing table. I would perform the ritualistic rites of removing the only barrier between me and a delayed backfiring.
Emily has been tipping her hand so to speak lately. She will occasionally put both of her hands together and rub them as if plotting some sinister plan. She started doing that shortly before the first of her monster poops yesterday, and she did it earlier this morning too, so as you might imagine, my mental guard was up. Too bad that doesn't actually protect me from anything...
So I set her on the changing table, still fully clothed. I looked her in the eye, and tried to read her. And what did she do? She gave me the old squinty eye, and then rubbed her hands together.
"Oh crap," I think, literally.
I began to weigh my options. I could let her lie there for a couple minutes and see how long she could hold in her bluff, or just charge in and get it over with as soon as possible. I chose to stare at her for a couple of minutes - something Erica and I have turned into a legitimate hobby. Eventually, my wife gently coaxed me into changing her diaper ("hurry up and do it or I'll rub your nose in it"). I was fortunate in hindsight, because Emily didn't have any ammo with which to reload, so I was able to change her safely without being treated to any additional impressions of Kermit the Frog with bad indigestion, or a duck trying to gargle salt water.
As I finish writing this, one week ago at this time, Erica was just going into serious labor. I can't believe time has passed this quickly. It's funny how I'm doing practically nothing by my usual standards - just sitting around the house, eating, sleeping, etc... - and normally this would make me feel unproductive and antsy, like I'm wasting my time. But now I just watch my baby girl sleep, or kiss her cheek, or hold her and let her head rest on my shoulder, and I feel like I've made the most of my time that I possibly could. There isn't anything more important or productive or beneficial that I could be doing.
It's amazing how things change.
Being stared at...
Snoozin' with Emily
The turtles just make it that much cuter
How naive of me. Emily proceeded to test the limits of her internal plumbing even further, uncorking two more diaper-filling toots yesterday. And then today, she just kept going! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!?! For the first few days, diaper changes were not something I approached in fear of what I would uncover. A pee-kissed diaper is a joy to change. A poop-smothered diaper is another story.
So when Emily was lying on my chest this morning, and I felt the jacuzzi jets being turned on and heard the F-18 jet engines rumbling, I knew what awaited me at the ceremonial changing table. I would perform the ritualistic rites of removing the only barrier between me and a delayed backfiring.
Emily has been tipping her hand so to speak lately. She will occasionally put both of her hands together and rub them as if plotting some sinister plan. She started doing that shortly before the first of her monster poops yesterday, and she did it earlier this morning too, so as you might imagine, my mental guard was up. Too bad that doesn't actually protect me from anything...
So I set her on the changing table, still fully clothed. I looked her in the eye, and tried to read her. And what did she do? She gave me the old squinty eye, and then rubbed her hands together.
"Oh crap," I think, literally.
I began to weigh my options. I could let her lie there for a couple minutes and see how long she could hold in her bluff, or just charge in and get it over with as soon as possible. I chose to stare at her for a couple of minutes - something Erica and I have turned into a legitimate hobby. Eventually, my wife gently coaxed me into changing her diaper ("hurry up and do it or I'll rub your nose in it"). I was fortunate in hindsight, because Emily didn't have any ammo with which to reload, so I was able to change her safely without being treated to any additional impressions of Kermit the Frog with bad indigestion, or a duck trying to gargle salt water.
As I finish writing this, one week ago at this time, Erica was just going into serious labor. I can't believe time has passed this quickly. It's funny how I'm doing practically nothing by my usual standards - just sitting around the house, eating, sleeping, etc... - and normally this would make me feel unproductive and antsy, like I'm wasting my time. But now I just watch my baby girl sleep, or kiss her cheek, or hold her and let her head rest on my shoulder, and I feel like I've made the most of my time that I possibly could. There isn't anything more important or productive or beneficial that I could be doing.
It's amazing how things change.
Being stared at...
Snoozin' with Emily
The turtles just make it that much cuterFriday, September 11, 2009
Little Emily Ruth Is Here!
Five days old, and already she's bested her dad in cuteness, sociability, and sheer farting prowess, with many more categories to follow, I'm sure.
Her birth was amazing. All three of us couldn't have prayed for a better one. Erica went into serious labor (contractions 1 minute apart) at 10:20 pm Saturday night. Her water broke at 12:30 am Sunday morning. Intense labor followed - I'll leave it up to the imagination save for the fact that it's very hard for a husband to see his wife go through that kind of pain. Fortunately Cybil our doula was instrumental in helping us both through the labor.
She labored at home until 6:10 am, when we went to get in the car. Erica practically ran down the stairs, she couldn't wait to get to the tub. We arrived at the birth center; she was 10 cm and ready to push, so she hopped in the tub and started pushing at 6:35 am. Two hours later, I helped catch our little girl's body as she left mommy's womb and placed her in her mommy's waiting arms. Everyone was healthy, happy, and alert for our first moment as a family together.
Later, I cut the cord - after being reassured that this wouldn't hurt her at all. They gave me this tiny area to cut, right between two clamps. I felt a little like a mayor at the grand opening of a supermarket.
Emily weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces, measured 20.5 inches, and looked like a doll. Yes, she was cute too, but a few times she was lying down and I came in from another room and saw her, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my daughter and not a plastic doll. Man, are they tiny!
Fast forward five days, and here we are now. We've been adjusting to her schedule of sleeping, eating, crying, and being utterly fascinated with the world. And yes, she just started to make some big girl poops today. The first one took us by surprise at the diaper change. Until this point, her poops had been very proper - runny yet well contained within her diaper, and appearing as a mild yellowish-brown color. In fact, most of the time we couldn't tell the difference between her pee and her poops save for the location inside the diaper.
However, we smelled something malodorous this morning, and mentally prepared ourselves to receive our daughter's first generous gift for us upon opening her diaper. It looked like ground beef that had been finely whipped into a paste form, something you might get if Cheez-Whiz was in the can-dispensed beefery business. Several baby wipes later, we laid a new diaper down for her, and started to put it on her, only to have her show us first hand that all facets of her plumbing did indeed work.
Another wipe and dry diaper later, and she was all fixed up. A few hours later, all three of us were in the living room. Emily was lying on Erica's lap on one couch, and I was on the other couch. Suddenly, we heard the 2 o' clock train toot its horn, announcing its arrival in town. It took me a second to realize, however, that the nearest train tracks were miles away. I looked at what could have been the only possible source for that caliber of noise. Of course, she denied it and blamed it on the baby, but I still had my doubts, not knowing whether a five day old body could be capable of such violent flatulence.
We took her into the changing room, and sure enough, the bomb had been dropped. I tell you, Japan had it easy. The effect was reminiscent of placing a can of brown paint into a cannon, placing the cannon inches away from a wall, and firing. Of course, with that example, you lose the clarity of texture and consistency, but hopefully you get the picture.
Yeah, she's an amazing baby. I'm sure many parents wonder if their kids will follow in their footsteps. Five days old, and mine already has. And I couldn't be prouder.
Watching closely, taking her notes...
Who, me?
Go ahead, make a crack, I'll clobber ya'
Here's the happy family
Her birth was amazing. All three of us couldn't have prayed for a better one. Erica went into serious labor (contractions 1 minute apart) at 10:20 pm Saturday night. Her water broke at 12:30 am Sunday morning. Intense labor followed - I'll leave it up to the imagination save for the fact that it's very hard for a husband to see his wife go through that kind of pain. Fortunately Cybil our doula was instrumental in helping us both through the labor.
She labored at home until 6:10 am, when we went to get in the car. Erica practically ran down the stairs, she couldn't wait to get to the tub. We arrived at the birth center; she was 10 cm and ready to push, so she hopped in the tub and started pushing at 6:35 am. Two hours later, I helped catch our little girl's body as she left mommy's womb and placed her in her mommy's waiting arms. Everyone was healthy, happy, and alert for our first moment as a family together.
Later, I cut the cord - after being reassured that this wouldn't hurt her at all. They gave me this tiny area to cut, right between two clamps. I felt a little like a mayor at the grand opening of a supermarket.
Emily weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces, measured 20.5 inches, and looked like a doll. Yes, she was cute too, but a few times she was lying down and I came in from another room and saw her, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my daughter and not a plastic doll. Man, are they tiny!
Fast forward five days, and here we are now. We've been adjusting to her schedule of sleeping, eating, crying, and being utterly fascinated with the world. And yes, she just started to make some big girl poops today. The first one took us by surprise at the diaper change. Until this point, her poops had been very proper - runny yet well contained within her diaper, and appearing as a mild yellowish-brown color. In fact, most of the time we couldn't tell the difference between her pee and her poops save for the location inside the diaper.
However, we smelled something malodorous this morning, and mentally prepared ourselves to receive our daughter's first generous gift for us upon opening her diaper. It looked like ground beef that had been finely whipped into a paste form, something you might get if Cheez-Whiz was in the can-dispensed beefery business. Several baby wipes later, we laid a new diaper down for her, and started to put it on her, only to have her show us first hand that all facets of her plumbing did indeed work.
Another wipe and dry diaper later, and she was all fixed up. A few hours later, all three of us were in the living room. Emily was lying on Erica's lap on one couch, and I was on the other couch. Suddenly, we heard the 2 o' clock train toot its horn, announcing its arrival in town. It took me a second to realize, however, that the nearest train tracks were miles away. I looked at what could have been the only possible source for that caliber of noise. Of course, she denied it and blamed it on the baby, but I still had my doubts, not knowing whether a five day old body could be capable of such violent flatulence.
We took her into the changing room, and sure enough, the bomb had been dropped. I tell you, Japan had it easy. The effect was reminiscent of placing a can of brown paint into a cannon, placing the cannon inches away from a wall, and firing. Of course, with that example, you lose the clarity of texture and consistency, but hopefully you get the picture.
Yeah, she's an amazing baby. I'm sure many parents wonder if their kids will follow in their footsteps. Five days old, and mine already has. And I couldn't be prouder.
Watching closely, taking her notes...
Who, me?
Go ahead, make a crack, I'll clobber ya'
Here's the happy familyFriday, August 14, 2009
Clearing the Tumbleweeds
I want to start writing on a less regular basis, seeing as how my regular habit has been to not write at all. So I want to break that bad habit, especially with our little one coming in two weeks. I'm going to revitalize this blog; maybe give it a bloglift, a blogicure, some blogoplasty - an all-around major invasive blogery. I'll probably change the template and maybe add a few features to help modernize things a bit since the inception of Random Humor over 5 years ago. Hopefully you'll like the changes, and if I'm lucky I won't mess anything up too horribly, but something definitely needs to be done - besides blogging, of course.
Speaking of blogging...
I went to Wells Fargo to evict a couple of mischievous checks and some noisy cash that happened to be renting some space in my wallet. I just wanted to do a straight deposit, so I went to the drive-thru ATM. I rolled down my window, looking for the envelope box, but didn't see it. I pulled up to the ATM, and tried to open what looked to be a likely envelope-holding drawer, but to no avail. It didn't even open - it was one of those trick drawers that serves no purpose save for the ATM designers to snicker and point when someone tries in vain to open it.
So here I was with checks and cash to deposit, and there be not an envelope in sight. Wonderful. Then my eye fell upon a sign on the face of the ATM, stating that this was an envelope-free ATM. My first thought was, "Oh great, how am I supposed to make a deposit without an envelope?" Then a less retarded part of my brain woke up from its coma and shouted, "Hey stupid! That means there's some newfangled technology in that there ATM that makes envelopes obsolete. You probably just stick your checks into the machine and it takes care of the rest."
The obstinate part of me quickly retorted, "Bugger that, give me my old-fashioned envelope-operated ATM. I don't trust this lack of enveloping one bit."
And that was that. I drove through the drive-thru, made my way around to the front, parked my car, and walked up to the ATMs in the bank's front wall. As I approached an open one, I realized I forgot to bring a pen to write down my deposit amount ($2.53) on the envelope. I was about to stop my progress and go back to my car to get a pen when what do I see but more envelope-free ATMs! Seeing that there was no escape from my familiar ways, this time I gave one of them a closer look to see how it worked.
Apparently, all you have to do is stick your checks and/or cash into the ATM's mouth and it scans the checks and identifies the value of the bills in seconds. It even shows you the scanned electronic version of each check. And that's all it took to convert me. I went from stubborn curmudgeon to drooling technophile with one check.
It's a liberating feeling, really. Knowing that I no longer have to bring a pen with me to make a deposit at an ATM. Knowing that I don't even have to count up my bills and checks - I can just rely on a machine to do all the math for me, and I don't even need to think! Now if only I had a machine I could use to think of a good ending for this blog.
Oh well.
Speaking of blogging...
I went to Wells Fargo to evict a couple of mischievous checks and some noisy cash that happened to be renting some space in my wallet. I just wanted to do a straight deposit, so I went to the drive-thru ATM. I rolled down my window, looking for the envelope box, but didn't see it. I pulled up to the ATM, and tried to open what looked to be a likely envelope-holding drawer, but to no avail. It didn't even open - it was one of those trick drawers that serves no purpose save for the ATM designers to snicker and point when someone tries in vain to open it.
So here I was with checks and cash to deposit, and there be not an envelope in sight. Wonderful. Then my eye fell upon a sign on the face of the ATM, stating that this was an envelope-free ATM. My first thought was, "Oh great, how am I supposed to make a deposit without an envelope?" Then a less retarded part of my brain woke up from its coma and shouted, "Hey stupid! That means there's some newfangled technology in that there ATM that makes envelopes obsolete. You probably just stick your checks into the machine and it takes care of the rest."
The obstinate part of me quickly retorted, "Bugger that, give me my old-fashioned envelope-operated ATM. I don't trust this lack of enveloping one bit."
And that was that. I drove through the drive-thru, made my way around to the front, parked my car, and walked up to the ATMs in the bank's front wall. As I approached an open one, I realized I forgot to bring a pen to write down my deposit amount ($2.53) on the envelope. I was about to stop my progress and go back to my car to get a pen when what do I see but more envelope-free ATMs! Seeing that there was no escape from my familiar ways, this time I gave one of them a closer look to see how it worked.
Apparently, all you have to do is stick your checks and/or cash into the ATM's mouth and it scans the checks and identifies the value of the bills in seconds. It even shows you the scanned electronic version of each check. And that's all it took to convert me. I went from stubborn curmudgeon to drooling technophile with one check.
It's a liberating feeling, really. Knowing that I no longer have to bring a pen with me to make a deposit at an ATM. Knowing that I don't even have to count up my bills and checks - I can just rely on a machine to do all the math for me, and I don't even need to think! Now if only I had a machine I could use to think of a good ending for this blog.
Oh well.
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