What the Hell was That?

Some of you may be wondering what the hell that last post was about. Well, a buddy at work was asking about the Blog, and I said “there isn't that much to write about.” “So why don't you make something up.” It was like an epiphany! As long as I'm not trying to convince anyone of some absolute blarney & jive, I figured it could be a lot of fun!

So what is happening? Plenty, and it's damn exciting, but it's hard to translate it to text. For example, not only is she grasping things now, Calli has realized that smacking certain toys will produce sounds and melodies. I find it absolutely amazing to watch her develop these skills that we take for granted, and to lay the mental ground-work necessary for everything else she'll learn, but who reads a Blog to find out that a six-month-old smacked a plastic tea pot to hear a jingle?

We've also learned that she doesn't like peas. Carrots are fine, but she makes quite the face when we try feeding her peas. Then she forgets, tries another mouthful, and makes the face that reminds me of the time a friend found a moth in a cookie. (that part's true, she was house-sitting, so had no idea how long those cookies had been in the cupboard. That'll learn ya!) Soon, Calli would just spit on the spoon.

She's really developing into quite the character. It's amazing how she'll light-up when she sees one of us. There's nothing better for making me feel like a million buck, especially after work when I feel like a million bucks just ran over me.

And there you have it, several weeks of development, and that's as entertaining as I can make it. Is it any wonder I presented some bullshit about Faeries and paper mache hippo's?

The Truth About Red Heads

Have you ever wondered why red-heads tend to wear a lot of greens and browns? I mean, the colors are naturally complimentary, but I've recently learned that it's much more sinister.

As it happens, most natural red heads are half-breeds, cross-bred with Faeries about 3000 years ago to infiltrate humanity. The green and brown clothing is a nostalgic homage to their Celtic roots. The infiltration campaign was spear-headed when the Faery were driven underground by the Druids, who were quite upset when the Faery gold they received in exchange for their carpet cleaning services disappeared, as Faery gold tends to do.

The Druids then scared them into hiding with a giant paper mache hippopotamus. It was several generations before the Faery re-emerged to breed with the inhabitants of isolated communities of farmers and cat herders in Ireland and Wales. After several attempts involving countless keggers and sappy plays, the Faery finally bred enough human/Faery hybrids to send throughout the known world and learn the secrets of paper mache.

For reasons unknown, they have yet to find the right flour-to-water proportions to make their own paper mache hippopotamus. Most of the natural red-heads in the world today are not consciencely aware of the agenda, but they will be. Their Fae allegiance is encoded into their DNA, and will be triggered soon, as the leaders of the campaign are painfully aware that their window of opportunity is closing with the death of print-media, and the subsequent end of easily available newsprint.

If you were wondering how I came across this information, a Fairy (a smaller breed than Faery) got caught in fly paper, and divulged these secrets on the promise that I'd stop making stupid Lucky Charms jokes. The only thing Fairy's (and Faery's) hate more than paper mache hippopotamus's is being mistaken for Leprechauns

Witless Wonder

Good Lord in Heaven, has it really been more than a week since I've written? Well, I've got a good reason: I'm witless.

I first realized this last Tuesday. I packed-up Callie and took her to my parents for a visit (about a 40 min drive). I always enjoy the drive because my work-commute is 4 Km (about 2 ½ miles, I think) with about 10 stop lights. No shit, it's ridiculous. Plus My wife's car is set-up with the child seat, and she has a CD player (my '94 Cavalier only has cassette – remember cassettes?). So my little girl and are are barreling north, enjoying sunshine and Stevie Ray Vaughn, nothing could go wrong with this plan.

When I got there though, I realized that I had nothing to offer for conversation. “So, what's new?” “Well, we had a two-poop day last week...” It was a little embarrassing, I'm glad it was family. Just to show that I'm still a shit-disturber, I left a diaper under my dad's pillow. It was un-used; I'm not a complete asshole!

Speaking of which, I found a balled-up diaper in the parking lot at work, and I thought, “Really? Did someone really leave a sewage-pack for someone else to pick up?” Ph'kn rude! But just when you think that can't be topped, others have found used condoms in our parking lot. Nothing says 'Romance' like nookie in a retail parking after hours. No wonder Darwinian Natural Selection seems far-fetched when such ignorant bastards still try to breed.

I only looked away for a second.

These are the words that make a parent's stomach drop into their shoes, and turn their blood to ice. One father told of how his daughter slipped down and out of her high-chair, and he came back into the room to find her on the floor. She was fine, but he got a professional opinion at the emergency room, since he didn't see if there had been and head impact. Better believe that I'm using the straps religiously!

So why start with this most cryptic of statements? I found out that she can roll over in my arms, but I was paying attention, and had my other arm under her by the time she got there. She also exercised this new trick in the bath. Not only was I right there to keep her face above water, I could seize the opportunity to clean her neck – the worst lint/sludge trap since my navel!
It was in traffic that my diverted-attention cost me, though not badly. It wasn't worse than the scuffs that black sneakers leave on a gym floor, but it got the adrenaline flowing, none the less! Lord knows I'll be doing double-time on watching traffic from here on in.

But on the child front, a friend recently told Andrea that when a child begins verbalizing, they practice all of the sounds they could possibly need for any language. From there, they're conditioned into the local dialect. Apparently, our child is rehearsing for the event that we should teach her to speak Kettle. Oh yes, she's nailed that delightful pitch that can make dogs divulge their secrets. We're delighted.

I mentioned that it was Andrea's Birthday last week. I tried cooking Beef Wellington and Crab Cakes. Both tasted great, both looked like they had been served with a pitch fork. The crab cakes were too wet, and fell apart. The BW should have been made in individual portions, but I did it roast-size. Between the pastry sticking to the pan, and the slicing of servings, it too fell apart. Chalk it up to the learning curve.

Happy Birthday Baby!

I'm going to guess that most of you don't know what a special day this is; it's the birthday of my darling wife, Andrea. Which birthday? 29, of course. Has been for awhile, and will be for the foreseeable future. The cool thing about this date is that it's also a command: Mar. 4/March Forth! Neat, eh?

We've been together for almost 5 years now, and since then, we haven't stopped making each other laugh, think, and occasionally yell. She is the etiquette to my brashness (though she can out-crass a sailor when the mood takes her), and the action to my “analysis paralysis.”

As I'm sure you've gathered, I hold-up my end of the functional parenting – bathing, diapers, and feeding at all hours, but it's Andrea that brings the style to the family. Not only does she keep Calli in clothes that fit and match, but made sure that she had an appropriate room to start her life in.

She has opened my eyes to different worlds, secular and otherwise, and most importantly, never let me forget this powerful magic: “Whatever you can laugh at can have no power over you.”

Happy Birthday, Andrea! I love you, and hope you have a wonderful day, only slightly less wonderful than all the days to follow.

Attempted Regression Therapy

Last Friday, I did something I haven't done in years; went to see a live band. A buddy at work gave me his CD a while back, and I really enjoyed it, so I was looking forward to seeing them.

The only draw-back was that I couldn't find anyone to go with me. Most people at work had other things going on, one guy who wanted to go couldn't spare the cash, and another who planned to go wound-up in the ER with a bruised knuckle (she's a boxer who has broken knuckles before, and didn't want to risk having it unattended if it were broken – fair enough).

So here I am, a 35-year-old, going to an indie-metal show by himself, knowing no one but a singer in one of the bands. You may recall me mentioning that I'd played in bands before, and I remember a character at one of the bars, mid-30's, who spent the night chatting with the sound-man before riding his bike home. I kinda felt like that fellow.

The drink specials were well-advertised, so I thought I'd do the responsible thing, and take the bus down. When I got to the terminal, I continued my responsible thread, and checked when the last bus would be leaving. 11:15. On a Friday night. PATHETIC! So I only got to spend an hour there, but, kind fates, it was the hour when my buddy's band was playing.

In theory, spending a night enjoying live music in a setting I spent so much time in during my 20's should have been delightful. For the afore mentioned reasons, I was kinda glad to have an excuse to leave after an hour. Hopefully, I can muster a little more support the next time they play.

The next day, we fed Calli rice pablum for the first time (they're calling it “cereal” now, apparently). It was great to see our little girl developing into the next stage, and funny to see her with paste caked from neck to nose, and beyond. We're only a couple months away from goo-ified carrots & peas. This is my life now; not much applause, just as much puke, and less critique of my 'singing' (she heckles plenty, but loves my singing). As much as I miss playing in bands, I wouldn't trade for anything.

Micro-Managers: Bane of the Workplace.

My wife introduced me to the term “Micro-Managers.” They are the folks who who always know the right way to do things, and jump at the opportunity to share this wisdom with you. They are often seeking these opportunities while their own duties are neglected.

A prime example came when one such pain-in-the-posterior got a reprimand from a manager. What she caught shit for could have been considered a joke if she wasn't so full of self-loathing and bitterness. It came off as “herding the customers.” She spent about about half an hour telling every staff member she came across to not “raise your voice to customers.”

The disease these people suffer from (are they suffering, or just insufferable?) is closely related to the one some charity workers get: “Do as I say because The Cause is bigger than any of us.”
Therefore, it's difficult to call these people on their bullshit, their main defense being “I was just trying to be helpful.” So what's the difference between a Micro-Manager and someone who's trying to be helpful? (I'm saying this rhetorically, but any insights would be welcome) I think that truly helpful people wait to see if you need help, as opposed to jumping to coach people 3-7 times a day. Helpful people also speak more quietly, and don't broadcast their wisdom.

Does anyone else have defenses for these pompous asses? I think the main issue is their unassailable arrogance. That's why they hide behind Causes (charitable or corporate), to dodge arguments. Can't wait to hear what you have to say!