Christmas 2009 - The Year of the White-Boards

Merry Christmas - belated, everybody!

Some of you spent Christmas with us.  Some of you received text messages or phone calls.  Some of you thought I forgot all about you.  But I didn't.  I promise.

When I was a kid, Christmas was always a very simple event (at least to my recollection):

• Christmas Eve: Open one present, always somehow managed to be pajamas.  Go to bed.
• Christmas Eve: Try to stay awake and listen for Santa Claus
• Christmas Eve: Have parents tell you over and over if you don't stop talking to your brother, you won't fall asleep and Santa won't come
• Christmas Eve: Fall asleep.

• Christmas Morning: Wake up and wonder if Santa had come, yet.
• Christmas Morning: Continue waiting and wondering.
• Christmas Morning: Stop wondering about Santa and start wondering if parents are ever going to wake up.
• Christmas Morning: Start wondering if parents are dead.
• Christmas Morning: Hear sounds of life coming from somewhere in the house, hope it is mom and dad.
• Christmas Morning: It is mom and dad!
• Christmas Morning: Collect stockings.
• Christmas Morning: Open presents (one at a time, each person gets a turn).
• Christmas Morning: Dad cooks breakfast.

• Christmas Day: Play with new toys, read new books, enjoy life.
• Christmas Day: Continue playing, maybe fight with brothers about whose toy belongs to whom.

• Christmas Night: Go to bed and start planning for next Christmas.

You see, when I was a kid, my grandparents all lived out of state. There was no way we were going to be able to make multiple-hour drives in each direction on Christmas, to see them.

As an adult, now, all of my remaining grandparents are still out of state.  Cordelia's grandparents, however, are not.  And Tammy's are here, too.  So Christmas becomes a bit more... shall we say involved?

I found out Christmas Eve that I was going to have to cook a turkey (yay!), and the turkey was still frozen at my mom's place (ugh!).  But it was a Butterball, so I didn't need to worry about having to prep it in order to keep it juicy (yay!).  So I went to my mom's got the turkey, came home, and began the rush-thaw of a 16 lb turkey.

Based on everything I could find on the internet, it was going to take 8 hours to thaw it in cold water.  So I put the bird in my largest picnic cooler, covered it in cold water, and set my alarm for 5:30 (it was about 10:00, so the turkey would be ready to cook by 6).   We didn't need to be to the in-laws until 10, and the gobbler was going to take about 4 hours to cook.  So we'd be a little late for breakfast, but not too much.

Got to bed by 1:00. 5:30 rolled around and my alarm didn't go off.  Fortunately (sort of), I woke up at about 5:50 and checked the time.  Jumped out of bed and finished prepping my bird and dropped him in the oven. Or her.  Thought about going back to bed.  Gave up on that idea. Watched some shows on Hulu.com that  I'd missed.

Eventually, it was time to get up.

Christmas Morning:  Cordelia is greeted by this sight (though less blurry...):

As you can see there are a lot of presents under the tree.  Most of which were actually for parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, etc.  However, I thought it looked better having them all piled up under the tree so we looked like we'd been completely spoiled :)

The trike is Cordelia's, as is the Crayola desk in back.  I haven't taken a great picture of it, just yet, but you'll see it in some of the following pics.  One of her favorite gifts, this year, came from her Uncle Chad (Tammy's brother) and Aunt Patty.  You'll see it in all of the following pictures.

Both the Crayola table, and the magnetic easel have a white-board side, and a chalk-board side.  Cordelia also received 3-4 pre-school books with white-board qualities (ie, you use a dry-erase marker to write on the pages of the book, and can wipe them clean).  She also received a Disney Princesses white-board message board.  Methinks a number of people out there know my little girl pretty well.  She absolutely loves to color and to draw.  Sometimes I think she loves to draw more than color, even.

She does portraits, too, though I haven't caught any on camera yet.  She tends to erase as soon as she finishes.

Anyway, after opening presents at home, we went to my parents-in-law for breakfast (two casseroles: hashbrown and french toast, both very good - especially the hashbrown).  And opened more presents.

Then we came home, and started finishing up the preparations for the afternoon/evening.  The turkey was as close to perfect as I could have hoped, the gravy came along very smoothly, the stuffing was cooking up easily (though I hadn't thought ahead and gotten anything to go with it, so it was mostly just flavored, moist croûtons).  My mom and her new family (my new step-father and two step-sisters) arrived around 3, 3:30, and we played games until my dad arrived.  Then we ate lots of turkey and its table-friends, visited, opened more presents, and all-in-all had a really nice evening. 

Unfortunately, my youngest brother (the only one who lives within a reasonable distance), was unable to bring his kids over.  He ended up with a stomach virus and had to stay home.  He was sick enough his wife had to stay home from work.  So my dad, who rents their basement, took their presents with him, as well as some leftovers.

And that was the Christmas of the White-Boards.  We had a jolly time, and we certainly hope you all did, too!

Booger Art 101

While fun to create and sometimes interesting to behold, the art of decorating the wall with ones nasal mucus is decidedly gross.

Yesterday, as I was reading Cordelia a story before her her nap, she started picking at the wall.  At first I thought there was a scuff or other blemish on the wall and I turned to tell her not to pick at it.  But what I saw wasn't a nick or scratch.  It was an encrusted booger.  I was certain.

I asked her outright, "Is that a booger?"

She informed me that, "Yes. It's boogy."

Needless-to-say (yet I'll say it anyway) I put a stop to the picking even more definitively than I would have if it had just been wall-picking.  I informed her in as stern-but-loving a voice as I could muster, that she was not to put her boogers on the wall anymore.  It is gross and she needs to use a tissue if she has boogers in her nose.

She said "Okay, sheesh."

When I started cleaning it off the wall, I discovered several more pieces of art; fortunately, it seems the discovery was made before it could get too out of hand.  I'm going to have to keep a close eye on the wall, and start having her clean it up if it continues.

I did make an observation, however.  Gross as it may be, I have to point out that boogers set up like concrete.  I wonder just how much influence boogers had on the invention of krazy-glue.

You may note that I did not post any pictures of Cordelia's Booger Art.  It's not an attempt at preserving any kind of copyright to her art.  It's mostly because it was really gross.  And it's doubtful I'll be taking any pictures of future projects, either.  Unless there's a coolness factor that outweighs the gross factor.

<*fingers crossed*>

Last Christmas by Wham!

I hate this song. I hate it enough to blog about it.  It is, quite possibly, the worst song ever written on many levels.

Ok, so I'm not a composer, myself, so I cannot judge the quality of the composition, or the music, etc. blah, blah.  What I am, however, is a listener.  A consumer, if you will.  Therefore, I believe I am qualified to judge the quality of the song based on my opinions, my tastes, and - frankly - the crappiness of the song.

Let me give you the first verse/chorus:

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart

But the very next day, You gave it away

This year, to save me from tears

I'll give it to someone special

First line: Ok, ok... so far, so good.  Nothing terribly original, but nothing overly dumb, either.

Second line: "... the very next day you gave it away..."

What?

I gave you my heart and then you gave it away?  How exactly does that work?  My understanding of metaphor would suggest that to give away ones heart would mean to fall in love and commit oneself to another.  So, if I fall in love and commit myself to somebody - give them my heart - just how, exactly, do they "give it away"?  Even if that were possible, wouldn't it suggest that the recipient of said heart just transferred the "gift" to another, so now somebody else had the giver's love and commitment?   In which case, what does that person care?  They are still in love and committed, just to somebody else.

Ok, clearly transference of another person's love is not actually possible.  So the song just insulted me by saying something stupid and expecting me to think "wow... that's clever!"

Line three:  Nothing inherently wrong with this line, though it is verging on trite.

Line four: "...I'll give it to someone special..."

Huh... so last year you gave it to someone you didn't think was special? Why would you have done that?  Why would you still be all hurt and upset and grudge-bearing about it a whole year later if the person you gave your heart to wasn't special?

Later in the song it goes: "...I thought you were someone special..."  So clearly, you did think they were special last year.  Based on the quality of the lyrics so far, and the fact that you're clearly still pining for the person you're singing this to, I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that your judgment hasn't really cleared up all that much, and whoever you give your heart to this year will be just as "special" as last year's recipient.

On top of that, didn't you already say that this person "gave it away"?  So in order for you to give it to "someone special," you're going to have to track down the person who has it now, and take it back from them.

Worst of all, and this is arguably a good thing about the song, it has a catchy tune.  It gets stuck in your head and you can't get it out.  In some ways this is exactly what a song should do, if it's a good song.  Unfortunately, far too often, songs that get stuck in your head are horrible, so it becomes a form of torture.

What I really don't get is why this song has been covered by at least a half-dozen artists since Wham! released it in 1984.  The song is terrible.

It's not even a Christmas song!  It's a song about lost love and heart-break.  It uses "Christmas" as a setting, not an event, or anything.  Christmas songs are about the Savior, the season, the weather, or even about Christmas parties. 

Also, I couldn't get it out of my head last night.  Fell asleep with the song still repeating on that chorus.  Woke up in the middle of the night from a... not a nightmare, per se, but a bad dream in which everything in the dream was dependent on these lyrics being lobbed back and forth across the sky from giant trebuchets playing an immense game of jai alai.

After waking up, I tried replacing the song by singing different Christmas songs to myself.  Turns out all the good ones were in hiding and I ended up getting other annoying songs stuck instead (Jingle Bell Rock and I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, for example).

Around 8:00 am Last Christmas returned and has been with me ever since.  Even with other music playing.  It's awful.  Anyway, I figured if I can't rid my brain of the pain, I might as well share it.

A Loss for Words

With Regard to Ir-

English is a difficult language, American English in particular. It is particularly difficult for people learning English as a second or third language; it is even more difficult for them when those of us who speak it as a first language ignore or simply don’t bother learning the rules ourselves.

This blog is going to be a rant. A personal, angry tirade against the misuse of words simply because of the lackadaisical way we Americans treat the English language. Enough is enough. Let us be proud of our language enough to at least learn when it is appropriate to adulterate it, and when it is not.

Sometimes, when people chuckle, they also snort. This leads us to a natural combination of the words chuckle and snort: Chortle. I believe it was Charles Dickens who gave us this word (interestingly, a similar combination of his names gives us Chickens, though I doubt that is where this word came from).

When people become flustered, they also often become frustrated, hence we have the obnoxious, yet reasonable word flustrated.

The above two paragraphs are indications of situations where it is acceptable to adulterate the language. I will now provide an instance of when it is not.

Regardless:

Adj. Having or showing no regard.

Adv. Without concern as to advice etc.

Idiom. In spite of, without regard for.

Irrespective:

Adj. without regard to something else.

As you can see from the similarities of the definitions of these two words, it should be reasonable to combine them to create a new, more powerful, all-inclusive word: irregardless.

But it is not reasonable to do so.

The prefix ir- denotes opposition. It is similar to the prefixes un-, ex-, dis-, and de-. Consider the word responsible: Attach the prefix ir-, and suddenly the word irresponsible stares us in the face. If I tell you that I was too lazy to make oatmeal and instead fed my 2 year old a hot fudge sundae Pop-Tart for breakfast, all joking aside, would you think I was being responsible or irresponsible?

You begin to see the power of the prefix ir-. I call it an oppositizer.

By the rules, irregardless cannot be a combination of regardless and irrespective, as it is the opposite of these words. Note that irrespective iteself starts with ir- and is therefore an opposite of its root word respective. Thus irregardless is synonymous with respective, and therefore, opposite of irrespective, and therefore mathematically proved as an opposite to regardless.

What an awful paragraph that was. I hope you all made it through safely.

Sadly for me, the word irregardless has been misused so often and by so many people that it has actually been added to some dictionaries as a synonym to regardless. This despite the fact (regardless of the fact) that they are essentially polar opposites of one another.

Intelligent people with whom I’ve had this or similar conversations have often used the generally legitimate argument that “language is always evolving” and that as long as the person speaking is understood by his intended listeners, then it doesn’t matter if the words used are the correct words or not. Successful communication has taken place.

While technically true, it shows a deep disrespect for the mechanics and the very intelligence which allow human language to exist at all. If we fall back on the lazy argument that “well, you understood me from the context,” we might as well go back to grunts and growls to get our point across.

It reminds me of a lamely humorous thing my cousins and I used to say when we were in Middle School: The word dude can mean anything you want, depending on how you say it. It is all about inflection, and facial affectations.

In many ways, that’s all language is: inflection and affectation. But it has evolved to be so much more than that, so much more reliable, precise, and indicative. While inflection and affectation remain important, indeed core, functions of language, we have specific words with specific meanings in order to more effectively transmit the information we need to convey. We have words which represent inflection and affectation in order to express these functions of language via the written word.

Who among us hasn’t secretly cringed a little at a friend, an acquaintance, a sibling, or a parent when we heard them say something like, “We was there an hour early.” Or “I seen them coming a mile away.” In the first case, “was” is a conjugation of the verb “to be,” and therefore correct… and yet still very much incorrect. Likewise “seen” is a past tense of “to see,” and yet it wasn’t the correct past tense.

If you’ve read this far, you probably already agree with me, so there’s nothing more to say about it. Keep up the good work. To all the rest of you (the minority who don’t agree but did read this far), I’d encourage you to make a well-thought-out argument in favor of misusing words in order to communicate more effectively, but I honestly doubt I’d read it. Maybe for a laugh, but I’d probably just end up with a raging headache.

After I wrote this blog, I did a quick Google search for "irregardless dictionary" since I once found a dictionary of stupid English (paraphrasing). I thought I'd link it here. Instead I came across a Grammar Girl article (Grammar Girl is a really good resource for when you're trying to remember the rules for things like lay vs. lie etc.) about regardless vs. irregardless. So I'm linking it instead. She just set my mind at ease about why irregardless is in some dictionaries. Phew! I can sleep again.

"You Let Cordy Play in the Lion's Cage..."

“… and she got hurt. I’m very upset with you.”

I can’t blame her. What was I thinking, letting my almost-three-year-old play in a lion cage? I must be a terrible father.

And yet, I have to probe a little deeper. Since this happened in a dream, I have to ask why she dreamed about me being a terrible father. Does she think I’m a terrible father? Or was this just a simple case of random synapses firing in her stressed brainpan?

“I was in jail so I wasn’t with you when it happened. I don’t know exactly how she got hurt.”

Well, think I, at least she’s dreaming that she’s a less-than-perfect parent, too.

***

This brings me to what I was originally going to post about the other day, and ended up sidetracked:

When I come home at night - or if I’m home and Tammy comes home with Cordelia - and the first thing I hear as the door opens is “Daddy? Daaaaddy…” it wraps my heart in a warm towel. Fresh-from-the-drier warm.

She laughs at my stupidest jokes. My silliest faces. My goofiest attempts at being entertaining. Stuff that would make another adult roll their eyes, or just walk away in irritation make my little girl laugh and giggle. Sometimes it is the greatest feeling in the world, knowing that even though I’m no comedian, my daughter thinks I am. Sometimes, however, I get neurotic about it and wonder if I’m giving her a bad example, instructing her on how to be funny, but doing it in a way that will get her shunned from the society of other children, her peers as she grows up.

And then I shrug it off. I can only be who I am, and if that ruins her, so be it. At least she’ll know that her daddy loved her and spent enough time with her to destroy her socially. It sure beats the alternative. Besides, if the only laughs I’m ever going to get come from my daughter, age 2, then I had better take advantage of it while I can.

When she’s in trouble, even if I’m the one who is mad at her (especially if I’m the one) she puts on her sad face and opens her arms and asks for a hug. Of course, I never deny her any hugs – I need them, too. The hugs are important, I think, even when she’s in trouble, so she knows she’s still loved and she has simply done something that was inappropriate or unacceptable (example: She likes to get a mouthful of water/juice/milk/etc. and spit it on the floor in fun and interesting patterns. I certainly don’t want to stifle her creativity, but the laminate floor isn’t water-proof, easy or cheap to replace, and frankly, the behavior is kind of gross).

But I’m her daddy, and she picks me over Tammy 80% of the time. It makes me feel good, and sad at the same time. Tammy is a good mom and deserves more than 20%. I suppose in time she’ll get more. Girls seem to gravitate towards moms as they get older and realize that dads are just dumb boys like all the rest.

The Evoloution of Tard Into Man

This may come as a shock to most of you, but I have not always been the congenial, adorable, wonderful guy you all know and love. I used to be a shy, awkward, goofy (looks and behavior) kid who had a hard time making friends, and a harder time keeping them. When I did make and keep friends, it was more of a testament to them and their congenial wonderfulness than to anything I may have said or done.

That said, I was never entirely convinced I was ever going to meet a girl who would be able to stand being around me long enough or consistently enough that she’d ever be able to love me enough to marry me. On my mission I learned a lot about interpersonal relationships and learned to modify my behavior around human beings so that I became less awkward and more “normal”(ish), which is one of the many blessings I received as a missionary.

I started dating not long after I got home from my mission, and even had long-ish-term relationships that I thought would eventually lead somewhere eternal. I was 21 when I had my first kiss. That relationship didn’t last (5 months). I was 23 when I had my second. Also didn’t last (1 week, give or take). I was 27 when I had my third kiss. That relationship lasted off-and-on for the better part of 18 months, and was a very positive time in my life for growing and understanding how boys and girls interact emotionally and spiritually. After that break-up, I was much more confident and capable when it came to dating, and though I did get into one more extended-but-failed relationship, I was finally ready to meet that special someone who wouldn’t have to put up with a complete tard in order for us to work out.

Let me make a clarification: 1^st kiss vs. 2^nd kiss = I did kiss each of these girls more than once. The so-called “second kiss” is a way of stating it was the second girl I’d kissed… not that it makes much difference when there were 2+ years between them.

When I was almost 30 years old, I met Tammy. I was 30 before we went on our first date. I immediately felt a connection with her that was different from anything else I had ever experienced. Within 3 or 4 dates, I had a sneaking suspicion that I was going to marry her. That thought frightened me for a number of reasons:

• I had often felt that way about girls I'd dated before
• I barely knewy her or anything about her
• I wasn't in love with her, or even sure how deep my crush on her was
• I didn't know how she felt about me
• We hadn't even kissed yet
• I still had a huge crush on the last girl I'd been seeing

And yet, something about this girl had convinced me that I was going to marry her.

I found out later that she had felt the same thing about me, and she had been just as frightened for many of the same reasons (though I really don’t think she had a crush on the last girl I’d been seeing).

I started this blog because I was going to relate a completely different story, but that story needed some background. Thus the blog evolved into a story about meeting Tammy and, as is the apparent custom at this time of year, I find myself expressing gratitude for her and for the Lord who guided me along my path, through my awkward years and led me to meet people who gave me opportunities for growth and self-discovery so that I would be ready to meet Tammy (who was just about to graduate college when I met her) just as she became available. If I had been ready any sooner, she would have been too young or away at school, and we would possibly have never met.

My wife is way too good for me, and yet she’s just exactly right for me. I love her and am grateful for her extremely undeserved patience with me. She keeps me grounded and, frustrating as that is for me sometimes, this keeps me happy over all.

One final observation: I am on good or better terms with every girl I ever dated. This helps support my belief that meeting them, even dating them, was the will of God. And strengthens my gratitude to him and to them.

I’ll most likely write the post I originally intended within the next day or so, but if not: Happy Thanksgiving!

Customer Service - Shouldn't It Extend to Job Applicants?

For a little over a year, now, I’ve been casually looking for a new, better-paying, better-benefits-offering, better-hours-giving job. Due to some very specific circumstances that job search has become less-casual and more frantic over the past month.

Tammy has also been on the prowl for better employment for a little over a year.

During this period of job-hunting we’ve made some observations that I want to share: Potential employers don’t care. The people handling applications need to receive some training from the company Public Relations and/or Marketing Departments.

Here’s what they are forgetting: As a prospective employee, I am also a potential customer. This doesn’t mean you have to hire me, it doesn’t mean you even have to interview me. But in today’s hi-tech world of online job applications, it does mean that you, as a business, should at least have the customer-friendly courtesy to provide a minimal response to applicants. An automated email stating “Thank you for your application, it will be reviewed within [a given amount of time], at which point we will contact you. If we feel that your application meets our needs, and if the position is still open at that time, we will schedule an interview.”

And then, once the application has been processed, if they aren’t interested it is not a difficult process to set up an automated email that says nothing more than: “Thank you for your interest in [such and such a position] with our company. Unfortunately, we are unable to schedule you for an interview at this time due to the position having already been filled, your qualifications are not exactly what we are looking for, or due to unforeseen circumstances, we are no longer able to fill the position as expected.”

Of course, this last option would need to be written better, but it could say basically the same thing. Maybe tack on a “We apologize for the form letter, however we hope you can imagine the necessity as we receive hundreds of applications every month, and to keep our costs low for our customers, we need to stream-line our services wherever possible.” And yes, this is probably not the best wording for the apology, either, but you get the point.

Having applied for dozens of jobs over the past 12-18 months, I believe that between the two of us, Tammy and I have received exactly four responses from potential employers letting us know that they were not interested. In Tammy’s case, she even had interviews (sometimes multiple interviews with the same employer) where the employer didn’t bother following up, in the end, to let her know they decided to go with somebody else.

In her case, as a math teacher, she’s not really a potential customer, since few (if any) of her applications were within our school district; however, in my case, all of my applications have been to businesses that I could potentially patronize. With very limited exceptions, I do have choices as to whether or not to use their services. Example: I’ve applied for jobs at Comcast, Dish Network, and DirecTV. Two of them responded to my applications. One of the responses was better than the other. Now, if we ever decide to get more than broadcast TV, I know which one of these companies will be my first choice, which will be my second. And that I’m least likely to consider Comcast.

< /soapbox >

The Parents' Dictionary - First Entry

Help - ful [help - fuhl]:

adj.

1. When children, having the best of intentions, behave in a manner that is both cute and obstructive.

While I was raking the leaves, my daughter helpfully picked leaves which had not yet fallen from the tree, in order to add them to the pile I was making.

A Brief Apology

A number of you receive automatic emails from this blog whenever I post a new one. Until last night, I had no idea that the automatic email actually sends the blog-post itself. I honestly thought it sent a simple notice: "Casper the Not-Always-So-Friendly Blog has just been updated with a new post. View it here!" with a link to the actual blog.

I updated my mailing list, however - because I've actually been wondering about this feature - to include myself.

Well, those of you who get the email, are not getting the full effect of the actual blog. Primarily, the email is black-on-white, whereas the blog is off-white-on-black. This isn't an issue for posts like this one which is all text, but when I change the color of some of the text to, say, light-blue (which I do frequently), it is actually kind of difficult to see on a white background.

I'm considering changing my blog template to use a more typical black-on-white (or at the very least dark-on-light) scheme, but in the meantime, I want to apologize and invite you all, when you get the blog notifications, to click the link at the bottom of the email that takes you directly to the blog itself, where you can see all the other fun features on the blog.

TTFN

Ghost Milk

We went to Hogle Zoo on Saturday. There was a definite Halloween theme going on: Monkeys dressed as zebras, elephants sporting rhino horns, you know, Halloween stuff.

Ok, that was all a bunch of lies. But there were lots of kids in costumes, and lots of booths for trick-or-treaters to bag oodles of tooth-rotting goodness.

One booth was giving away entire half-gallons of eggnog.

Egg. Nog.

So we took advantage of that, and purchased a jug at $0.00. What a bargain!

Take a close look at the picture. That’s a witch on the label. Witch or not, it’s a spooky picture, and Cordelia, seeing the jug in the fridge yesterday pointed to it and said: “Dost!”

“Ghost?” said I.

“Yes!” exclaimed she.

“That’s eggnog. Do you want some?”

“No egg! Dost Milk! Pease!”

Ok, so her English isn’t the best. But she makes herself understood, and she’s doing better. And honestly, I think “Ghost Milk” is a way better name than “eggnog.”

Pumpkin Pie, 11 Months Overdue

Last Thanksgiving I promised my pumpkin pie recipe but never got around to providing it. There were a number of reasons for that. One is that the pies I was making that day turned out… well… not overly edible; and I was a little embarrassed and didn’t think it would be prudent to provide a recipe that wasn’t any good.

In all honesty, the recipe is good, it was the cooking that wasn’t so great. So I’ve had to tweak the cooking temperature and time trying to find the best combination. As of last night, I am now confident enough to share.

You can download the recipe here, but watch the pie as it gets close to the end of the cooking time. Different ovens provide very different results. My in-law’s electric oven cooks the pie nearly perfectly at 375º in 55-60 minutes. My gas oven bakes the pies about as well at 350º for just over an hour.

I am working on an ideal pie crust to go with this pie, but so far I’ve only been able to make adequate crusts, nothing fantastic. Certainly nothing worthy of posting online. So if you don’t have your own pie crust recipe, you can find a bunch online, or buy a pre-made shell at the supermarket. Homemade is usually going to be better, however.

Surprising Sound

So today I was on the roof winterizing the house. While I was draining the water from the swamp-cooler I heard a familiar, yet confusing sound coming from behind me. Familiar because it was something I hear pretty constantly any time I’m home… or out shopping… or anywhere except at work.Confusing because it was a sound I very specifically do not expect to hear when I’m on the roof.

“Daddy?” was the sound.

I had left Cordelia in the house with specific instructions to finish her sandwich and then come outside. She’s generally a very obedient child, and I had no concerns. In the mean-time Tammy had her lunch break and had come upstairs to feed herself, and they had both come out giving Tammy a chance to explain to Cor what exactly it was that daddy was doing on the roof.

At this point, however, they had both gone back inside. Or so I thought.

When I turned around to see why it was that Cordelia’s voice had carried so clearly from the ground I saw just exactly what you are all thinking: Cordelia was up the ladder. She was, fortunately, not on the roof, but her head was well above it.

At this point I panicked, briefly, in my head. Sharply I said, “Cordelia!” And then, not wanting to frighten her and possibly cause her to fall, I took a breath and said far more calmly than I felt, “You aren’t supposed to be up here.”

I walked toward the ladder, hoping to be able to see some way to help her get back down safely, but found myself at a loss. Hoping that Tammy was still on her lunch break and within earshot, I started calling for her. Loud, but – again – calmly.

The rest of the story is pretty boring. Tammy came out, scolded the child much the same way I had, climbed up the ladder a few steps and helped Cordy make her way back down. Children, these days.

Might be my own fault. Here’s a picture I took last summer (actually April '08). This was done with my encouragement.

If you look carefully you can see the shadow of a

not-to-excited-about-this-stunt mommy ready

to jump to the rescue, if daddy's daredevil

decides to fall.

The Nobel Prize, Credibility Squandered

I normally save my political opinions for my other blog… but since I don’t ever update my other blogs, I think I’ll just do it here and be done with it.

I try to not be a hater, and I try to like President Obama. He seems like a really nice guy, and when I hear him talk, I like the things he says... as he says them. Unfortunately, after he gets finished talking, I find myself struggling to swallow any of it.

Now, don't think I'm some crazy-right-wing-nut, I've been accused of being too conservative by some of my more liberal friends... but then I've been accused of being too liberal by some of my conservative friends, so I gave up trying to appease everybody and have contented myself with being myself and having my own views, regardless of others.

Here's the meat: Extreme liberal values are harmful to the masses. The idea to "spread the wealth" is damaging to the entire group. It helps the poor, sure, for a while. But it harms the wealthy. This can have a couple of long-term side-effects. I was going to go into a deep-ish philosophical diatribe about why this is bad, but chances are if you don't already know why, you'll just disagree with me and miss the point of this post.

Here's a really brief summary: extreme liberalism = socialism = something for nothing at the expense of others... whether they like it or not.

And here's the point of this post:

President Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize the other day. When a friend at work told me that, my first thought was: "Shut up." So I told him to shut up.

He insisted it was true. He turned to his computer and pulled up MSNBC.com and showed me. I scowled in thought... What's today? I thought. October something, so not April Fool's Day...

Still doubting I decided to check out the most official sources I could find. Ended up on nobelprize.org It was true. I was (and am) baffled. Why on Earth did the Nobel people choose to discredit this prize by giving it to somebody who did not earn it?? He hasn't done anything!

I read the official press release, I don't know if I need written permission to duplicate it here, so I'll sum up and give a link:

For efforts to strengthen international diplomacy, and his vision of a world without nuclear weapons.

Yes, friends, strangers, et al., President Barack Obama, 44th president of the United States of America was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for "trying" and "imagining" good things. Not for succeeding or accomplishing. For trying and pretending.

I decided this was going to be an opportunity for Socialists everywhere to point and say, "See, it works!! We really don't have to do anything, and good things will come our way!"

Obama, of course, was very gracious in his response to learning he would be receiving the award, and I have nothing bad to say about his response. However, I did read Rush Limbaugh's response to Obama's address, and though I do think Rush is a right-wing-nut, he made what I believe to be a good point.

He pointed out that this award was almost nothing more than the Nobel committee putting pressure on Obama (Read: bribing him) to leave Iran alone, refuse a surge in Afghanistan, and otherwise weaken the United States.

Best case scenario: The Nobel Peace Prize committee has undervalued their own prize and encouraged the rest of the world to see it as nothing more than a political award given to those who they think they can manipulate into advancing their own agenda.

Worst case scenario: President Obama feels the pressure, gives into it, and moves to completely eliminate the United States' presence in the world as a super power.

Bottome line: The Peace Prize has lost all significance in this frivolous awarding to President Obama. If I were a previous laureat, I would be saddened that my award no longer meant what it used to mean... of course, I suppose this started earlier, maybe when Al Gore received it.

Links:

Nobel Prize Press Release

Fox News (transcript of Rush Limbaugh)

Dog Psychology

This is Argos, our lovable, friendly, easily excitable, puff-ball. He's two years old now, and has been a member of our family for about 18 months. This picture was taken the day we brought him home.

From the time we got married Tammy had hinted at wanting a dog. She'd see dogs running around a neighborhood and point out that the poor things didn't have any home and we should pick them up and give them a new home at our house. Sometimes she was less subtle and would simply say something along the lines of, "We should get a dog."

I did not want a dog. Or any pet. Maybe a fish. You see, I grew up with pets. Cats, dogs, rabbits, fish, a turtle, a chicken, and my parents had horses. So I've had them, been around them, seen them get sick, seen them grow old, retrieved their bodies from the road. I've dealt with pets alive and dead, and I just didn't want to do it anymore. Dead pets are nobody's best friend, and they leave holes in my heart that never want to mend.

But as Cordy became more and more mobile, I came across an old photo of my niece when she was about Cordelia's age, and she was out playing with my brother's dog and her young litter of pups. The smile on her face was a mile wide and I realized that my selfish refusal to have pets would prevent my own child/children from experiencing the unfeigned love and joy that my pets had brought me my entire life. I couldn't live with the idea that I'd be preventing my own little girl from having her own pet-experiences, when animals had always been an extremely important part of my childhood... and adulthood, if I'm ging honest.

So Argos was Tammy's Christmas/Birthday present from me the year Cordelia turned 1 (Cordy's birthday is Dec 23, Tammy's is January 19, so the three kind of lump together when discussing past events). However, since Tammy is violently allergic to life animals, primarily those that tend to live with people, choosing a dog required a great deal of planning on my part. And I had to do it in secret, too.

So for several months prior to Christmas, I spent countless hours on www.dogbreedinfo.com and other websites researching dogs. In addition to Tammy's allergies, I wanted a dog who could be kept indoors (I grew up with outdoor dogs, and it always broke my heart to leave them outside without real company), and we needed a dog we could be comfortable having around small children.

Once the cat was out of the bag... or more precisely: the dog secret was revealed, Tammy and I started looking, together, at the list of most viable options for hypo-allergenic dogs that I had made. Since this was not just any old gift, but an actual living, breathing, potentially thinking creature who would be with us for many many years to come, we did not want to rush into it, and since it was going to be Tammy's dog, she certainly needed to have a say-so in just exactly what dog we got.

As we narrowed down the search, we also picked up season one of The Dog Whisperer on DVD and watched every single episode. We learned a lot about dogs, why they behave the way they do, and a bunch of techniques and tricks to help keep your dog happy. And it is unbelievably easy to do, with a little patience, and a lot of self-control.

Here are some basics:

1. Dogs are not people, and no matter what you may interpret, dogs do not think that they are people. At most, dogs think that their 'masters' are dogs.
2. When a dog is frightened or nervous, soothing sounds and cuddles do not reassure them and make them feel better. They are not people (see number 1). Soothing and cuddling them is interpretted as a reward for their behavior. It actually encourages them to be frightend or nervous! Yikes!
3. Dogs are instinctive walkers. They need to walk, to roam. A majority of behavioral problems in dogs can be averted simply by taking the dog for a brisk daily walk for 30-60 minutes (depending on the breed). And it isn't about exercise. A dog can get lots and lots of exercise playing fetch, frisbee, or just running around the back yard, but exercise doesn't physiologically trigger whatever it is the dog gets psychologically from a good walk.
4. Dogs are pack animals. They see their family as their pack. And as such they need a very clear understanding of the pack hierarchy. If there are other dogs in the house, they'll figure out which dogs fall where in the hierarchy all on their own, naturally. But because people are primates, our hierarchies form differently than those of canines, and we have to consciously make an effort to establish a pack order for the dog's benefit. It isn't hard to do, but it does have to be consistent. It is simply a matter of learning a little about pack behavior and then incorporating it:

• Whoever is physically in the lead during a walk, is the alpha dog. Do not let your dog walk you. Keep him/her beside or behind you. Use a leash that actually allows you to do that.
• The higher up in the hierarchy you are, the sooner you get to eat, in relation to the rest of the pack. Dogs should not eat before or while the rest of the family is eating.
• If a dog shows dominance towards a child, that dog should immediately be disciplined by getting him/her in a submissive position (aka, lying on its back), and the child should be placed standing above the dog, even straddling it, for a few seconds to allow the dog to imprint that the child is dominant.

Some of this stuff sounds heartless, or mean, or even stupid to us as humans; but it's because we are humans. We have empathy and compassion and all kinds of emotions that either dogs don't have, or experience differently than we do.

Now, about Argos and his psychology. Today's main event.

We finally settled on an Australian Labradoodle. There are two Labradoodle breeds, one of them is just any cross between a Labrador Retriever and a Poodle. And then there are Australian Labradoodles, which are considered a pure breed. They are the result of professional dog breeders working to breed together specific traits of two separate breeds in order to create a new breed altogether. Whereas a "Labradoodle" is a mixed breed, an Australian Labradoodle is pure.

The breeders were looking to create a new breed of dog that could be used as a service animal for people with dog allergies.

Poodles are hypo-allergenic dogs, Labs are not. Both are very intelligent dogs. Both are traditionally "water dogs," which is to say their original breeding was as bird-dogs - the dogs that go and retrieve the duck after the hunter shoots it from the sky.

If I understand correctly, Poodles are just a little too independent for the service animal tasks (as a breed on the whole, though I'm sure some animals as individuals could do the job just fine). So the good folks down under started working on getting some of the submissive love from the Labs and mixing it in with the allergy-free coats of the Poodles. The result, several decades later, is a wonderfully obedient dog with all the energy a small family can handle. He's clever (sometimes sneaky), very friendly, very very patient with small children who poke him in his eyes, and he never barks. Well, never used to bark. Something has happened and I've caught him barking a couple of times in the past two months. But even with that... he's not a barker.

Oh, and he doesn't shed. At all.

Argos is, however, terrified of the vacuum. He hides under the bed, runs into the other room, gets away and gets away fast. I've tried the psychological fixes that Cesar Milan (the Dog Whisperer) uses. I refused to coddle him, and I've even commanded the poor dog to stay in the room, on the bed, close enough to the vacuum to see it, and have refused to comfort him in his fear. It hurts me (as a human) to do this to him, but it works. Or it has worked. It's kind of hard to be consistent with it, because once he's under the bed, he's not coming back out. Ugh.

So this is where I get confused. He's terrified of the vacuum, but he plays chicken with the lawn-mower!!!! What is wrong with my dog? As I mow the lawn he charges it, then dodges aside at the last second. He'll pick up his ball and make a mad dash across the path of the mower, just feet in front of me. Today he just stood in my path staring at the machine as I rolled closer. I finally had to stop and yell at him to move. He did it twice, the second time he ignored me until I started pushing on towards him.

And this lawn mower isn't safe. I had to stop letting Cordelia be outside with me while I was mowing the lawn last summer after the spinning blades threw a rock or a peach-pit (or something small, hard, and aerodynamic at high speeds) at the house at a frightening velocity. If it had hit a window it would have smashed right through. Cordelia had been on the other side of the yard, picking flowers or something. I stopped the motor right then and urged her quickly into the house, explaining to Tammy why people were not allowed in the yard while I was mowing.

I'm honestly not comfortable with Argos out there while I'm mowing, but he loves being outside so much and he usually stays clear, chewing on his toys or playing with fallen apples, that I'm not terribly worried about him. And if I'm being honest, dogs just aren't little girls, no matter how cute and cuddly they can be sometimes.

If anybody thinks they understand why vacuums = fear and lawnmowers = exciting fun toys, please don't hesitate to speculate at me. I'm interested in all kinds of whacky explanations for my dog's insanity.

Today Part II - Whilst Driving

If you missed Part I, I just want to point out that I've doubled the blog today, so anybody interested enough to read one post may be interested enough to read two.

For those of you who do not already know, I am a motorcycle rider. I love my bike, even though it hasn’t run in over a year.

I take biker safety seriously. Not just because I have a wife and little-girl who love me and want me to be safe, not just because I can’t stand the thought of my daughter growing up and not having any real or lasting memories of her daddy, and not just because biker safety is a smart thing to take seriously. I take biker safety seriously because I don’t want to put anybody through the horrifying experience of having to scrape my mangled, broken, bloody, and gory corpse up off the road. Nobody should have to see that, let alone participate in it.

With that said, sit right back and read a tale, a tale of a homeward trip. It started at a working port aboard my wifey’s car.

(abandon theme music)

As I was driving south on Bangerter Highway, approaching the 201 interchange (for those of you who are out of state or otherwise unfamiliar, you can Google Map this, and then use the little orange guy to get to street level and see just exactly what it looks like there), a motorcyclist with no protective gear – when I say no protective gear, I want to be clear: shorts, not jeans, let alone chaps; short-sleeve shirt, not a leather jacket; and bald… not one hair between him and the open road – started drifting from the far left lane into the center lane, directly ahead of me. At first I thought he was going to lane-split (definition: to ride your motorcycle between cars along the lane-dividers – legal in some states, not legal in Utah), but I was mistaken. He was changing lanes completely, never mind the fact that there was a car in the center lane.

He didn’t bother signaling and from what I could tell, he may have checked his mirror, but didn’t bother turning his head the 10º-15º it would have taken to see that there was a car next to him (directly in front of me). I prepared to brake, rather than risk adding additional trauma to my soon-to-be traumatized psyche. Fortunately, the guy in front of me was more aware of his surroundings than the nugget riding the motorcycle and moved into the right-hand lane, safely enough.

He soon made it through a light that I didn’t fight for. As he disappeared into the ever congealing mass of vehicles that constitutes rush-hour traffic, I began doubting the wisdom in taking Bangerter Hwy. I usually don’t take it, but at the hour I was traveling today, I didn’t figure traffic was going to be any better on the freeway, and the hwy was more direct between work and the in-laws (who tend my princess). I began envisioning clogged transit arteries as rubber-neckers inched, gawking, past a broken, flayed body before emergency vehicles could arrive at the scene and hide the horror from unpaid, unpaying spectators.

I caught up to him again near 4700 south (about 16 blocks from where he’d lost me), and he was still alive and, as I found out later, not planning on changing lanes again before leaving the highway.

This whole drive I had been raging internally at what an idiot this guy was. He was not only stupidly risking his own safety, but he was risking the safety of other people on the road, and being inconsiderate of the feelings of people who presumably love him, not to mention his lack of concern for how his possible ruin could adversely affect those who witnessed it.

But then I caught up to somebody who made that guy look like a 133t super genius. This new guy was wearing approximately the same quality of protective gear, though he did have long, thinning hair on his head, was wearing long pants, and was sporting a sweet handle-bar moustache. Despite these obvious differences, he was by far the less intelligent, qualified biker.

My first thought as I approached him from behind (I was in the center lane, he was in the right-hand lane) was, “Geez, that guy’s only got one arm? He must have a sick, tricked-out bike that only requires one arm to operate!”

Steve’s Educational Corner:

For those who aren’t familiar with motorcycle workings: A motorcycle has a front brake and a rear brake. The front is operated by the right hand, the rear is handled by the right foot. Most bikes are manual transmissions, requiring a clutch and shifter. The clutch is activated by the left hand, the shifter by the left foot. It is possible to shift gears without activating the clutch (unlike a car), but it’s not something I would recommend doing very often, and it’s true that some bikes have automatic transmissions, though I’m only aware of that among scooters.

Once that foolish thought outlived its instant of glory, reality set in and I realized he was talking on his cell phone. His CELL PHONE! On the hwy at… well… considerably less than hwy speeds… like maybe 30 mph. But still. HIS CELL PHONE!!!!

As I passed him, I toyed with the idea of honking at him, maybe interrupt his call… maybe let whoever he was talking to in on the secret that his geniusness was in traffic. I opted against it. After I passed him I ended up moving into the lane ahead of him (this was just north of 5600 south, my exit was 6200, which was the next light after 5600). The light turned red, and we had to stop. Again, I toyed with an idea. This time I considered stopping suddenly to see what happened to the phone. I didn’t.

But I did watch him in the mirror. As he came to a stop, he lodged the phone between ear and shoulder so he could clutch and downshift to neutral (neutral lives between 1st and 2nd gears). We were stopped long enough that I could have gotten out of my car and gone back to have a conversation with him. Maybe ask who he was talking to, maybe find out if they would feel terribly good about themselves if he ended up getting killed in an accident while he was on the phone with them. I didn’t.

Time to go again, and voilà, he almost biffed it right there, as he hurriedly shoved the phone back into his neck-cradle and reached for the clutch, losing momentary control of his bike. Fortunately, he got off the hwy at 5600 and I didn’t have to see his freakishly imbecilic attempt at multi-tasking continue.

It’s unsafe to drive a four-wheeled vehicle while talking on the phone. Two wheeled vehicles are considerably more difficult to drive safely while intoxicated or otherwise distracted. In a four-wheeled vehicle you have the luxury of living in a protective box.

Friggin’ idiot.

By way of cynicism, let me express this thought: If you want to kill yourself, a bullet in the head in the privacy of your own home won’t result in a traffic jam, and will likely only traumatize those who love you most. Leave the rest of us out of it.

Today Part I - The Albertsons Tale

I was going to post a single blog with twice the content today, but it got so long that I am opting for a double blog... still with twice the content. So keep an eye out for Part II, coming soon (like within just a few editorial minutes after Part I).

This morning I stopped at Albertsons on my way to work to make a very small purchase. At 6:25 in the AM, they only have their self-checkout open; which is fine with me, since I only use human cashiers when the self-checkout is closed. Thankfully that almost never happens.

So, there I am at the self-checkout, pleased with myself because the product I was purchasing which is normally $2.38 each is currently going at 3 for $4 – a 56% savings! – as long as I use my Albertson’s Preferred Card. Which I always do.

I scan the purchase and place it in a sack, waiting for the friendly self-checkout lady voice asking, “Have you scanned your Albertson’s Preferred Card?” She always asks me this, even though she knows – and I know she knows – that I have not yet scanned it. But she’s polite so I usually just say, “Not yet, but I’m on it.”

Today, she asked me, and I responded as usual, but as I checked my wallet, I couldn’t find my handy little Preferred Card. It’s small, supposed to go on a keychain, but as I loathe bulky key chains or superfluous extras dangling from my car’s ignition switch, I never put anything on the keychain that doesn’t need to be on it.

As I started sifting through the absurd assortment of Jamba Juice and Café Rio “Buy 10 get one free” cards, and a number of Wal*Mart gift cards – which may or may not actually still have any money left on them – I pulled my debit card out and shoved it between two unoccupied fingers of my left hand.

Wouldn’t you know it, I apparently have the finger dexterity of a kiwi (the bird, not the fruit… though I suppose the fruit has about as much finger dexterity as the bird). I dropped the card and it fell. Not generally a big deal for somebody who is able to see, and bend at the waist and knees.

Well, it turns out, I’m extra-special. You see, I didn’t just drop the card. I dropped the card improbably into the little gap between the scanner and the edge of the scanner (see image below). At first I couldn’t believe that it had actually, somehow, managed to fall just right to end up down the narrow chasm. It had to have been at least 2 feet over it, and would have had to fall just so in order to make it.

Then the real concerns crept in. Without my Preferred Card, I wasn’t going to be able to get my awesome deal and would have to pay full price, and worse: I wasn’t going to be able to make my purchase at ALL!! Okay, that wouldn’t have been worse. It wasn’t an absolute necessity, it was a drink. But still.

After a brief lapse of judgment, my senses returned and I sought out (and found) the one employee actually working up front. She was gracious and helpful, and she showed me how incredibly limber the self-checkout lady is. You can lift her monitor screen right up and then her scanner area becomes nimble as a bee, making it easy to lift that scanner up and out, exposing the gratuitous metal bin that the scanner rests in. Lo and behold: my card was retrieved.

And to make things even more exciting, she punched in a code which delivered me the 56% savings I’d been craving! All I need is my phone number! Yay!

The observant reader will have noticed in an above paragraph "keychain" is a compound word, while "key chains" is separate. This is because Microsoft Word 2007 (my editor of choice) recognizes keychain, but not keychains. In a bid to keep Word happy, and in order to have something to criticize at this point in the story, I chose not to add keychains to the dictionary, and compromised the compound word. Enjoy.

Wells Fargo - Oh How I Hate Thee!

I came in need of no bling nor chrome

Seeking money for school and for home

You promised a low rate

Then forgot till too late

Hence shall I say, "Seek else for a loan!"

Ok, two negative blogposts in a row is unfair to everybody who reads this, so I promise to make it up to you with a happier post next time. Let's hope that happens sooner rather than later!!

Oh the Wretchedness of Being Me

After my 2-in-1 rant I thought about starting a whole new blog at www.soapbox.blogspot.com but somebody already has that one and I didn't feel like taking 3-12 hours trying to find a clever title that was both available and likely. So I'll stick with ranting on my family blog. By the way, have you ever noticed that all the really good domain names are not only always taken, but are not even being used? That's a rant for another day, I suppose.

Anyway, today's whine er... rant:

I drink Arrowhead bottled water. I like the taste (or lack thereof). But about a year ago they changed their bottles: They made the plastic thinner (I imagine they did it in some scheme to appear more green). Now I can't open one without squeezing the bottle too tight, forcing water up and out under the cap! I've tried gripping the very base - no joy; I've tried gripping around the neck where physics ensures the the narrowness of the neck will not permit the plastic to squeeze - but no, my hands are too big, the neck too small, and there is not even a phantom of leverage to speak of.

Ok, so a little water dribbling down the side of the bottle is not a big deal. However, water also gets trapped under the plastic ring (that seals the cap before it is first opened). Trapped, that is, until I take a swig. At that point, the water dribbles down my chin and onto my shirt, making me look like the latest victim of novelty-cup wit.

Who designs these things? Who approves them? Who quality-tests them? and is it wrong to want to beat them all with a wet fish?

I've taken to buying the larger bottles that have the blueish flip-top lid. I started buying them because then I didn't have to worry about the spillage, but quickly discovered that the water passing through the lid (which is made of some different plastic than the rest of the bottle) picks up a plasticky flavor that is, shall we say, less than savory. So I started unscrewing the whole cap. And you know what? These bottles are still made with the heavier/denser/thicker plastic that the other bottles used to be made out of. Now I buy them because I can unscrew the cap without fear of squirting water all over my keyboard at home or at work. Joyous day!

The Lullaby Album

So I have this friend, see, and she's a concert pianist. She used to only perform others' works, such as that of Tchaikovsky, Debussy, and the like.

But a few years ago Jenni decided to start composing her own music.

The first album, The Key of Sea, was released, oh 2 years ago, give-or-take, and I loved it. Not just because she's my friend (check out one of her many blogs through the Sleepless in Seattle link to the right, or go to her music website by clicking here: JenniferThomasMusic.com), but because it's really very good.

Well, of course, she took her time getting a second album out. I get the impression that becoming a new mom was somehow more important and required more attention than making music to appease the masses. I suppose I might agree with her.

Anyhow, her baby inspired The Lullaby Album, and from the bits and pieces I've heard, it is going to have been worth the wait. I've posted one of her YouTube promos for this new album on the right, so please give it a click, watch it, enjoy it, and if you like it...

Buy it.

I do not get any monetary compensation for promoting the album. I just love the music, and she's a really great friend. So, of course, I want her to succeed. Which she will do without me plugging her music. Still, I want to.

If you go back to one of my older posts, I have a photo montage of Cordelia, over which I dubbed some of Jenni's music from her first album.