tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17616384546783559182024-03-05T19:02:07.228-08:00The TimblogReporting on Timorabilia since 2009Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger202125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-88678311242669907272015-10-22T19:21:00.000-07:002015-10-23T10:24:00.398-07:00The Steps to WalkingOur baby boy was 9 months old when he first pulled himself up to a standing position.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVugbrf1KThBp41JEN-_KRoY5mq2t-w_1dwaM2cL6Ery0wDTZuDZnC02RQbi9g6GV5YnrNkYSB4MZ2Dy-ErsgP3vKjAWYx0XPwpqlyLgRmgop6fk2NpCw0hiw8wo3-lbsN-5C7u8XfK20/s1600/standing.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVugbrf1KThBp41JEN-_KRoY5mq2t-w_1dwaM2cL6Ery0wDTZuDZnC02RQbi9g6GV5YnrNkYSB4MZ2Dy-ErsgP3vKjAWYx0XPwpqlyLgRmgop6fk2NpCw0hiw8wo3-lbsN-5C7u8XfK20/s320/standing.bmp" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing with that other baby in the mirror</td></tr>
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Considering how good he was at crawling, and how quickly he took to standing, we figured it wouldn't be long until he was walking. <br />
<br />
Four months later he is still not walking.<br />
<br />
There's nothing wrong with him-- this isn't that kind of post. He's doing the normal things that babies do, and they all have different timetables. He happens to be an excellent crawler. He crawls faster than other kids walk. He crawls so fast that his little rump wiggles like a dog's tail.<br />
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In fact, I suspect that his delay in walking has to do with how well he crawls. He has no incentive to walk because he gets around so well on all fours, and once he reaches his destination, he can pull himself up to any surface. He gets into plenty of trouble, thankyouverymuch. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYB3Ts6-hqS0n11VSvZxF2pwxQi6p0T1UUDWXP5NoozO1xN110NcRm9jxiFP_0te083wv_edbIq0YyOas4Qq6QzjIMhbnvH-0zbta3Iz90VFs8mFuclIZgZQYkoCbMIfmMdpLpoR6S_k/s1600/standing+tp.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYB3Ts6-hqS0n11VSvZxF2pwxQi6p0T1UUDWXP5NoozO1xN110NcRm9jxiFP_0te083wv_edbIq0YyOas4Qq6QzjIMhbnvH-0zbta3Iz90VFs8mFuclIZgZQYkoCbMIfmMdpLpoR6S_k/s320/standing+tp.bmp" width="174" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crawl & destroy!</td></tr>
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This long period of almost walking has given me a lot of time to
consider the myriad stages between crawling, standing, and walking.
It's not something I ever would have thought about if he'd started
walking earlier. <br />
<br />
At around 11 months is when I started to ponder the steps that lead up to walking. He could walk if we held his arms up and sort of pulled him forward like a puppet on a string (and with exactly that much finesse and grace.) But he didn't show any interest in walking on his own without support. And I couldn't quite see how he would turn any of his current skills into walking. It's like there was a missing link between crawling and walking and I couldn't imagine what it looked like. I asked other parents about it, and they didn't remember: "They just sort of do it." <br />
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What do a baby's first steps look like? It wasn't something I could picture. <br />
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Now that I've become obsessed with this issue, I've started noticing a lot of the intermediate steps, and so I can sort of imagine how he gets from crawling to walking. Here are the steps as they've played out with my little munchkin:<br />
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June 27 (9mos, 12days): Can pull himself up to a standing position when leaning against objects.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEnBKFVK6jSXn_Y-JE9DQAX9Ry391p3BzIScbJJoYAqpfptnI9USISRizT1qVvr-3AKDZF-pdKPQXYKG12NhJdfui7i9yC-UATvEmTkMcXjRLE02a6Tp91DAZUtrVQMxMogJYszVoscI/s1600/standing+carseat.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEnBKFVK6jSXn_Y-JE9DQAX9Ry391p3BzIScbJJoYAqpfptnI9USISRizT1qVvr-3AKDZF-pdKPQXYKG12NhJdfui7i9yC-UATvEmTkMcXjRLE02a6Tp91DAZUtrVQMxMogJYszVoscI/s320/standing+carseat.bmp" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing in the car seat. We're horrible parents.</td></tr>
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July 15 (10mos): Stands up in the crib to greet me in the morning.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlnql_kzMONUYV5yjskwBQsK-yrtIRVzgdKZ7h8LsishyphenhyphenlRQTGc3_mpezw4TZai8hzHNn0f08BUlybW79rKsb1UTgDV_ItDq57T9a3za_ILo8Aiu0QOL5H0GYXpk7UUO3tGd-e-DpF_4/s1600/crib+standing.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlnql_kzMONUYV5yjskwBQsK-yrtIRVzgdKZ7h8LsishyphenhyphenlRQTGc3_mpezw4TZai8hzHNn0f08BUlybW79rKsb1UTgDV_ItDq57T9a3za_ILo8Aiu0QOL5H0GYXpk7UUO3tGd-e-DpF_4/s320/crib+standing.bmp" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good morning, Daddy!</td></tr>
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Aug 15 (11mos): As I sing him the "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OORsz2d1H7s" target="_blank">Put One Foot in Front of the Other</a>" song, he "cruises" along the couch, walking while holding on to the sides. <br />
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Aug 25 (11mos, 10days): He's getting better at assisted walking, where I hold onto his hands and he stumbles forward
awkwardly like a zombie puppet on a string. He thinks this is hilarious, but
he has no interest in doing it on his own. <br />
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Sept 3 (11mos, 19days): He can half-walk, half-crawl up the stairs.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOfmt6hBBwaZGIgca-yY_3DU3cwvWMTbDMQjLpt7-3V75ruIQwBg1ZF_DyPaflcYS6JJCBaDruJ4JiKfi9EO5DYKAp0j1DOAGrVAgYSRCpMai7vgHLMADYCdn6nO1EW1O4Bp8DqTj6w0Y/s1600/stair+walking.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOfmt6hBBwaZGIgca-yY_3DU3cwvWMTbDMQjLpt7-3V75ruIQwBg1ZF_DyPaflcYS6JJCBaDruJ4JiKfi9EO5DYKAp0j1DOAGrVAgYSRCpMai7vgHLMADYCdn6nO1EW1O4Bp8DqTj6w0Y/s320/stair+walking.bmp" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stairmaster!</td></tr>
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Sept 4 (11mos, 20days): From my notes: "Walking update: He’s not. Not even close. I keep trying to get him to
stand on his own, but although he’s great at standing while holding on
to something, when I try to let him go of my hands, he immediately falls
down."<br />
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Sept 8(11mos, 24days): He’s cruising a lot more now. He can go almost all the way around the
coffee table.<br />
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<br />
Sept 14(11mos, 30days): Standing! For the first time he stood unassisted for a good three seconds, shattering his previous record. In ensuing days I can usually get him to stand for a few seconds before he falls on his butt—in front of other people even! <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LJ4eqmb3JFP1o0nASIp-KatjdX2jLn2ldV_OznECD4N4c5bTrkT5tgFysXriwQNqBOYuhG2oMWQkJ5YBrgY5jYNvpiidiDfxJ_BIT9i15_J5OLWXTHdEfjQ7VX5xY1cs9Yfoi9PHHoU/s1600/standing+unassisted.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LJ4eqmb3JFP1o0nASIp-KatjdX2jLn2ldV_OznECD4N4c5bTrkT5tgFysXriwQNqBOYuhG2oMWQkJ5YBrgY5jYNvpiidiDfxJ_BIT9i15_J5OLWXTHdEfjQ7VX5xY1cs9Yfoi9PHHoU/s320/standing+unassisted.bmp" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look, Ma! No hands!</td></tr>
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Sept 17(12mos, 2days): Made about 3-4 laps around the coffee table.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqlcMtvtX-LymkLZYTgW1eJWj4VkQ_qy_8gikO87dX7CKpDDbh_lh9pzl85IRDtZcvZtUDZuHPDKYd9gu5LQ9OHyOutawXJgXoJc3XcVaiuIzFagl_H7vKWyil7SP8kknaTXpKeIOSA4/s1600/table+walking.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqlcMtvtX-LymkLZYTgW1eJWj4VkQ_qy_8gikO87dX7CKpDDbh_lh9pzl85IRDtZcvZtUDZuHPDKYd9gu5LQ9OHyOutawXJgXoJc3XcVaiuIzFagl_H7vKWyil7SP8kknaTXpKeIOSA4/s320/table+walking.bmp" width="195" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Around the table in 30 seconds</td></tr>
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Sept 18 (12mos, 3days): One year checkup at pediatrician. She asks if he walks pushing things, like laundry baskets, and I say, "Yes, that's exactly what he does! He pushes the laundry basket all over the room." This satisfies her, as she says the mechanics are fine, he just doesn't have the confidence to walk on his own yet.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnwdd69Pep9XfLBeZtfN5gjoUqnV8hIVYzllo8X-cLmPdWFU75nC-5k-DL3HuYwyeSsRPfXOIDMKesOcx6GVFx0C-MJHRCWQWtnGQTscx99u4co-qYri3o4qBO9MF3SgOzlGgwUA7XVg/s1600/pushing+basket.bmp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnwdd69Pep9XfLBeZtfN5gjoUqnV8hIVYzllo8X-cLmPdWFU75nC-5k-DL3HuYwyeSsRPfXOIDMKesOcx6GVFx0C-MJHRCWQWtnGQTscx99u4co-qYri3o4qBO9MF3SgOzlGgwUA7XVg/s320/pushing+basket.bmp" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's been using laundry baskets as a walker since he was 11 months.</td></tr>
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Sept 27 (12mos, 12days): Now every time I put him down, I do it on his feet, and he usually stands for a few seconds.<br />
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Oct 2 (12mos, 17days): The weather has turned cold, and for the first time in 6 months, he's wearing socks with shoes. It seems he’s taken a “step back” (pun intended) on his walking progress. He doesn’t like the shoes, or standing in them, and so often refuses to try. And when he does stand, it’s not for as long as before.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiFvIvqhavXy9abygbOt0X7FfsV8dv_-VXroHetuTf1MgvMAHXKJm-MRhCsetcohLURKwuWoSrYvIZq3t8LonI1TZMFBB6EFXrFEqwrhb-zVtHoZhb-JRGH-GPhv4q34PihEhu9wL0oI/s1600/standing+windowsill.bmp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiFvIvqhavXy9abygbOt0X7FfsV8dv_-VXroHetuTf1MgvMAHXKJm-MRhCsetcohLURKwuWoSrYvIZq3t8LonI1TZMFBB6EFXrFEqwrhb-zVtHoZhb-JRGH-GPhv4q34PihEhu9wL0oI/s320/standing+windowsill.bmp" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">He prefers to stand in bare feet<br />
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Oct 5 (12mos, 20days): Once I was holding him standing near the fridge and he took a half step on his own toward it. A few times now when I’ve held his arms, he’s initiated walking on his own. He didn’t need me to manipulate his arms at all. I can sometimes get him to start walking if I sing, "Put one foot in front of the other..." <br />
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Oct 7 (12mos, 22days): Tonight he pulled himself up to the tub, and then stood up on his own with no help from me. I was in the bathroom at the time, and wondered if I was going to experience his first steps while sitting on the toilet.<br />
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Oct 14 (12mos, 30days): First steps! My baby took two steps without any support as I held a bag of pasta out in front of him. The power of carbs!<br />
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Oct 22 (13mos, 7days): Although he took his first two steps over a week ago, I have not been able to replicate the feat. (Not for lack of trying, though.) As of this writing, he still seems to be uninterested in walking, or lacks the confidence to take steps on his own. When I stand him up and coax him toward me, he stands for a while considering his options, and then drops down and crawls to me. <br />
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I imagine the next big step, besides walking, is the ability to stand up from a sitting position without the aid of some horizontal or vertical surface. But I don't know if that will come before or after walking. <br />
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I don't really have a good conclusion to the this post, so here's another picture of him standing:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8hwQLMay0wJLhMPMvw5HW0IwCKK3GiFbcy6X6S5q7GDAXXEsvdve4qcy7mvAkLVHGI6XBJofTB6jY1ARTjk5hrU7P0-5UPiYTEo3ZAPhmI-selMwzBXhmBYMuHylQZy-SzEbDjJPP0Lg/s1600/standing+hat.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8hwQLMay0wJLhMPMvw5HW0IwCKK3GiFbcy6X6S5q7GDAXXEsvdve4qcy7mvAkLVHGI6XBJofTB6jY1ARTjk5hrU7P0-5UPiYTEo3ZAPhmI-selMwzBXhmBYMuHylQZy-SzEbDjJPP0Lg/s320/standing+hat.bmp" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note his hand holding onto the table for support</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-69184845895125288222014-10-27T11:57:00.000-07:002014-10-27T11:57:09.849-07:00FatherhoodSo, it happened. On September 15, 2014, at 1:17pm CST, I became a father to a beautiful baby boy. I hate to be such a cliche, but the moment I first held my son in my arms was transformative in a way I can't describe.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UVDZzqqHSt_7VY5S_-uejYyRu3icIHMWNgY2-sRliNi6dYr3aNMnVXwnk1bshIUdrAULuA1hTQ8BgzjgrgKgEUgtxBU2cM24-e558ggTSpt_8q9-gU6DueyfaC4xVgAZ6jR11inpVMQ/s1600/DSC08216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UVDZzqqHSt_7VY5S_-uejYyRu3icIHMWNgY2-sRliNi6dYr3aNMnVXwnk1bshIUdrAULuA1hTQ8BgzjgrgKgEUgtxBU2cM24-e558ggTSpt_8q9-gU6DueyfaC4xVgAZ6jR11inpVMQ/s1600/DSC08216.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the world, heir to my vast empire.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
But I'm not here to gush about that stuff. In the short amount of time I have free while my son is taking a post-lunch nap, I want to jot down a list I've been compiling over the past six weeks. It's a bunch of things I've learned since I became a father.<br />
<br />
Being a father is both harder and easier than I thought it would be. I've been pleasantly surprised at how easy and natural caring for an infant comes to me, and how much I've bonded with my little progeny. It turns out I actually love my son, and really like being a father. (I know that each phase of child-rearing will bring new challenges, so I'm not so cocky as to predict how I'll feel about it in 6 months, or 2 years, or 16 years.) But there are also challenges I didn't expect, like not having the time to pee. <br />
<br />
A sample of what fatherhood has taught me so far:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Babies get the hiccoughs A LOT, but they don’t seem to bother them. My boy never cries and hiccoughs at the same time. [Scratch that: I have since experienced him not only crying while hiccoughing, but also eating while hiccoughing. He’s a more versatile hiccougher than I thought.] </li>
<li>As the father of an infant, I routinely forget to eat breakfast. </li>
<li>I can function on 5-6 hours of broken sleep. The body adjusts. When I do finally get 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep, I wake up too tired and cranky, as if my body can’t handle all that sleep at one time. </li>
<li>Being an infant is the last time your parents will revel in your burping. “Well-burped, sir!”</li>
<li>The only difference between a bib and a cape is 180 degrees. </li>
<li>Infant boys get erections. I had no idea. And when you see that little baby boner, it's a warning that projectile pee or poop is coming, so take cover! </li>
<li>A baby’s fingernails are soft and thin and pliable, like an onion skin. This makes them really hard to cut with nail clippers. </li>
<li>When I try to burp him, I burp more than he does.</li>
<li>You will beg for the time to fold laundry. One evening I tried for three hours and never touched one piece of clothing. I had to wait until he was asleep, then I stayed up late (till 11pm) to finish it. </li>
<li>New infant weight loss plan: eat as much as you want during the day, get a little less exercise than normal, and get up every three hours in the middle of the night (stay up for about an hour.) After a few weeks of this, I was down to a lower weight than I'd been in 3 years. Alas, this plan stopped working once we started alternating night feedings, and Baby started sleeping 4-5 hours at a time. Now that I'm getting about 8 hours of sleep a night, my weight has drifted back up.</li>
<li>Infant poop doesn't smell like real poop, but it does have a smell. Once you start giving them formula, even a little, it starts to smell like Velveeta.</li>
<li>A sound-asleep baby can sense if you 1.) turn on the phone, 2.) watch TV, 3.) leave the room, or 4.) whisper to someone. They require 100% attention on them, and they can tell if your mind wanders. "I sense you're taking oxygen for yourself, so I will cry now." </li>
<li>One of the creepiest things ever is to look down the barrel of a pacifier as a child sucks on it. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CaD0NNw8PAuPPwayUjHXmTncYPkB8bSiePpphYwXOyAwlkPB6NlZiJGEyKnI_RfFHWshL1GgXdY_oO3yL8kgr6FmZeElSp5xo5OwNK8MTdrdSU95tQ4D8f8nKqOGLsaTH8SImEq48xw/s1600/20141027_110621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CaD0NNw8PAuPPwayUjHXmTncYPkB8bSiePpphYwXOyAwlkPB6NlZiJGEyKnI_RfFHWshL1GgXdY_oO3yL8kgr6FmZeElSp5xo5OwNK8MTdrdSU95tQ4D8f8nKqOGLsaTH8SImEq48xw/s1600/20141027_110621.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When that little circle pulsates, it's creepy in a way I can't explain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
<li>Going to the bathroom or blowing your nose become way more complicated when you’re holding a fussy baby.You may think, Oh, I'll just put him down for two minutes. Well, how well can you pee when there's a screaming baby right outside the door? Talk about pressure! </li>
<li>The first time he slept for six hours straight, 10pm – 4am, I was worried that he wasn’t crying loudly enough. Is he sick? </li>
<li>Infant formula powder is very sticky when he get it on your hands. Is it made of sugar? </li>
<li>Daddy’s little furnace: sometimes when I hold him it’s like holding a bag of hot coals. When he cries, his little red head emits so much heat you can almost see the wavy lines coming off of it. </li>
<li>Infants grunt like weightlifters, and move their arms and legs around as if they’re straining against invisible bonds. </li>
<li>And just like weightlifters, they are surprisingly strong. Trying to hold his arms down in order to swaddle him takes quite a bit of muscle. </li>
<li>Among the 50 different faces my son makes, a good 20% of them make him look like he’s trying to puzzle something out. (My brother once said that infants look “presidential.” I think it’s the furrowed brow.) </li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloJbCFZxFpZpddZtDD36zEWwe1cq3swmP46RKkuDX1pGYZCgyBCpTV0CZv54cB5tT7gt9F07J0l0cqWGErboikTFVYEXe9rZM7CBQQKfRepvx4oO5qjX44ulPV0Pf7mbbP2iEy4b66w0/s1600/10704017_579235018849349_4369687772939098902_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloJbCFZxFpZpddZtDD36zEWwe1cq3swmP46RKkuDX1pGYZCgyBCpTV0CZv54cB5tT7gt9F07J0l0cqWGErboikTFVYEXe9rZM7CBQQKfRepvx4oO5qjX44ulPV0Pf7mbbP2iEy4b66w0/s1600/10704017_579235018849349_4369687772939098902_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken over 5 minutes, these are some of the 42 faces of my baby. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-63772669965628124312014-09-10T12:16:00.000-07:002014-09-10T15:22:45.470-07:00A Tribute to Mr. Kittenman It's been five years since I wrote about adopting Jinxy, my boy cat. My life was way different then-- I even had a different blog! You can read the story of how I found Jinxy on that old blog: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://tim-alone.blogspot.com/2009/05/best-in-pound.html">http://tim-alone.blogspot.com/2009/05/best-in-pound.html</a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WqvHpDsce30/Sf8FgIVw4zI/AAAAAAAAATo/ISoT6uZ0KuA/s1600/Jinxy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WqvHpDsce30/Sf8FgIVw4zI/AAAAAAAAATo/ISoT6uZ0KuA/s1600/Jinxy.bmp" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jinxy's pubicity shot from the shelter. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The official name I gave him was Roger Jinxy Methodius d'Claude Onioncat. <span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"*G","type":45}" id="fbPhotoPageCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Since then he's gone by Jinxy, Jinxboodle, Jinxman, Kittenman, Boodleman, Jinxy von Boodle,
Captain Swishytail, Jinxtopher (Jinxtofur), Mr. Boo, and Jinxtopher
Boodle.</span></span><br />
<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"*G","type":45}" id="fbPhotoPageCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"> </span></span><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"*G","type":45}" id="fbPhotoPageCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"> </span></span><br />
<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"*G","type":45}" id="fbPhotoPageCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">When I first got him, I took a lot of pictures. He's got a beautiful
big bushy tail and thick black fur that he leaves everywhere. It's hard
to get a picture of his tail, which he swishes around as he walks,
because it's always moving.</span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiad5rhfaN4-iuhcNxB6D6bTKIVPg7VQnn4svfnBoUV1CbZTEnm8XAwyBKBJAVMlOMhogMzA2ogmAB1yMxDYhSASkS2FlAHkPC2VKnJHuS3lXAM1HGfRZ38-jQlQQeURGsRzsfQiG83fI0/s1600/Dig+Cam+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiad5rhfaN4-iuhcNxB6D6bTKIVPg7VQnn4svfnBoUV1CbZTEnm8XAwyBKBJAVMlOMhogMzA2ogmAB1yMxDYhSASkS2FlAHkPC2VKnJHuS3lXAM1HGfRZ38-jQlQQeURGsRzsfQiG83fI0/s1600/Dig+Cam+001.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first picture of the Jinxman.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUqoMNzQzezXAJsxKvzdIvIZN3AUYobUrRROrE8gMabU5HPwFU1itZbUoC0BAIeBf7Oim5s7g9-Jz3D7q_7HGGYLY2bqBx4SeLvJsCpzPFjTlp52OwaRE_QmAGbxBpBumVDI8DrP2mFI/s1600/Dig+Cam+014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUqoMNzQzezXAJsxKvzdIvIZN3AUYobUrRROrE8gMabU5HPwFU1itZbUoC0BAIeBf7Oim5s7g9-Jz3D7q_7HGGYLY2bqBx4SeLvJsCpzPFjTlp52OwaRE_QmAGbxBpBumVDI8DrP2mFI/s1600/Dig+Cam+014.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGXaizJyRC9P1S9XbvLQUcT24gtXjmbv3n8EUP08NLYbXn4q3K-Ttg8u0R3SyBw_WBFDMi0lTXZkqouvWI4Y8fRi6cRWdwkjW1CylOlrCEGYTr5KHeiO8HG3FkBAm3wN1c5oWhd_ScQg/s1600/Dig+Cam+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGXaizJyRC9P1S9XbvLQUcT24gtXjmbv3n8EUP08NLYbXn4q3K-Ttg8u0R3SyBw_WBFDMi0lTXZkqouvWI4Y8fRi6cRWdwkjW1CylOlrCEGYTr5KHeiO8HG3FkBAm3wN1c5oWhd_ScQg/s1600/Dig+Cam+006.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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He and Hermione, my other cat, got to know each other pretty quickly. They played together:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhel9cAxmVAaosPLtc8-mkhBgB-lrOhOOaNPUdUgFs5ifvLVA8V4S-4435QLyKkOS09WL9k9mCUxkSIPK_GXpPJk937H2B8sBX12m9WvMkV3-vOeD6HtT2OKNwrFJA4ESxvU3m8zLP69c/s1600/Dig+Cam+039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhel9cAxmVAaosPLtc8-mkhBgB-lrOhOOaNPUdUgFs5ifvLVA8V4S-4435QLyKkOS09WL9k9mCUxkSIPK_GXpPJk937H2B8sBX12m9WvMkV3-vOeD6HtT2OKNwrFJA4ESxvU3m8zLP69c/s1600/Dig+Cam+039.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
ate together, <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimLgrXOpkv07nREmVgsM6qfWL6NEKy_x5xHIc6q8LRZh0DIen87cyT6TuUHfc5H6Se3QQSOoOYgbxS0vi9p2qQeASIMuUdFH4FavPHNW84z_t7lg_dU78cUFbKg0k2QwwUAW6r32_d8kA/s1600/Dig+Cam+044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimLgrXOpkv07nREmVgsM6qfWL6NEKy_x5xHIc6q8LRZh0DIen87cyT6TuUHfc5H6Se3QQSOoOYgbxS0vi9p2qQeASIMuUdFH4FavPHNW84z_t7lg_dU78cUFbKg0k2QwwUAW6r32_d8kA/s1600/Dig+Cam+044.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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laid around together,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl310JddU6Uwz8RHqDa83P3_CZOqv78sqkeDQMlqfGDMchWTIgbXE-MJN-RmwTFO3l0tDeteuETxi5kysermiXvtEf7t27Cz4xZNbtfKzB4RGlWMJUgaU5ERVSxMWveKl6UMUZr6tj3Hw/s1600/Dig+Cam+048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl310JddU6Uwz8RHqDa83P3_CZOqv78sqkeDQMlqfGDMchWTIgbXE-MJN-RmwTFO3l0tDeteuETxi5kysermiXvtEf7t27Cz4xZNbtfKzB4RGlWMJUgaU5ERVSxMWveKl6UMUZr6tj3Hw/s1600/Dig+Cam+048.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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and fought together. (For the first time in her life, Hermione had another cat who would chase <i>her </i>around the house. Ah, the hunter becomes the hunted.) <br />
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Jinxy had a weird way of laying his front paws out in front of him when he lounged. I'd never seen a cat do that before. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsOelcpb01FAdQ2YeskOw4e_GA-WpDL4GetSM2b7nKbFGPgxl4NOkrQPRjV4UduSfwFk1n7JdnyAFfe3sUuGqkycMhW61vC0vXs7TpLDzsAsFpPuluF44RHhoAcClw2zIVqgiP2TWito/s1600/Dig+Cam+029.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsOelcpb01FAdQ2YeskOw4e_GA-WpDL4GetSM2b7nKbFGPgxl4NOkrQPRjV4UduSfwFk1n7JdnyAFfe3sUuGqkycMhW61vC0vXs7TpLDzsAsFpPuluF44RHhoAcClw2zIVqgiP2TWito/s1600/Dig+Cam+029.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I bought my first house, my sister decorated the (pink-tiled) bathroom in a black and white pattern. I didn't realize til afterward how well Jinxy matched it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYVgKacQcZIbtU6kpqDvwZRkNcNJaIGRJmkQOUG2lqr-28RM-WWijhvY6uqdtlhhDhYqiKRWFFD2fs88e1hbARPPY6TW9Ljne1S7XYAgQSy40XVJMNzGfVo6_v8HU7Aup6H1z6Ge8XD4/s1600/Dig+Cam+216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYVgKacQcZIbtU6kpqDvwZRkNcNJaIGRJmkQOUG2lqr-28RM-WWijhvY6uqdtlhhDhYqiKRWFFD2fs88e1hbARPPY6TW9Ljne1S7XYAgQSy40XVJMNzGfVo6_v8HU7Aup6H1z6Ge8XD4/s1600/Dig+Cam+216.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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One day I caught Jinxy and Hermione sharing a chair:<br />
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To this day I still don't know which one of them was there first, and which was one joined the other.<br />
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Jinxy is a cat, so of course he loves to perch on all kinds of things:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3I15Fz46j5U_KpTyBrL2X1MgzE9QbIVv5DbjYen0KmAFxIZ3lM9jSwUiPeboUwm5b-lI6fO7LXfX0Es_900VRQQ_fm2GgSsYsbNQOk_5jQ9FHX_ui84KgRSOa3YT6qoYcxrLEqPkbhg/s1600/Dig+Cam+326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3I15Fz46j5U_KpTyBrL2X1MgzE9QbIVv5DbjYen0KmAFxIZ3lM9jSwUiPeboUwm5b-lI6fO7LXfX0Es_900VRQQ_fm2GgSsYsbNQOk_5jQ9FHX_ui84KgRSOa3YT6qoYcxrLEqPkbhg/s1600/Dig+Cam+326.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On top of laundry</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On a secretary desk</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the dresser</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Helping" me pack</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJpIaCCQ3xTlU2Rrj35R3fPBkltABhWWElfeb5HPvBGeJ5m62yUzIw49g_74llV50D7q0VwQuiE2-NFymo6BK0X5ZfFcBw_XCHB6awjd0BvVx4qNNmQ2PJqXMHLGbpQw_K7uQdbT2ZK8/s1600/E.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJpIaCCQ3xTlU2Rrj35R3fPBkltABhWWElfeb5HPvBGeJ5m62yUzIw49g_74llV50D7q0VwQuiE2-NFymo6BK0X5ZfFcBw_XCHB6awjd0BvVx4qNNmQ2PJqXMHLGbpQw_K7uQdbT2ZK8/s1600/E.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On my printer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When he grooms, he leaves huge clumps of his thick black fur all over the place: <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZpog5rnJv_DXUWZYIF0fxiBqqqXXXp6sfsR1YboZqKSJWRnhEtt_8QF7YKVEiEpW7YA3yyArxny-naYOEAcyurB2TI3z53zFJwMvYX-rDC_O4CiA9bOos0f95eh8ZgADWOcsQdE9_A0/s1600/10383679_10152564622852290_4107004956551907586_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZpog5rnJv_DXUWZYIF0fxiBqqqXXXp6sfsR1YboZqKSJWRnhEtt_8QF7YKVEiEpW7YA3yyArxny-naYOEAcyurB2TI3z53zFJwMvYX-rDC_O4CiA9bOos0f95eh8ZgADWOcsQdE9_A0/s1600/10383679_10152564622852290_4107004956551907586_n.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I could knit myself a new cat out of that</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Last year, when Katherine and I moved in together, there was a third feline in the house:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwk24gkdPCVTin5yGL83eHQPcX4qLhXggOpTVXfYBWorIhhwwOFyBOO5F3W96FQnH25f0stoQk5D8dWZMn0KttrJ98tOqzRpJP8iDp6E0nEbgm1J47jWVcS27AIygt0ucEt1ttWLJyxag/s1600/IMG_7063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwk24gkdPCVTin5yGL83eHQPcX4qLhXggOpTVXfYBWorIhhwwOFyBOO5F3W96FQnH25f0stoQk5D8dWZMn0KttrJ98tOqzRpJP8iDp6E0nEbgm1J47jWVcS27AIygt0ucEt1ttWLJyxag/s1600/IMG_7063.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Dicey did not get along with my two cats. We always felt like three cats were too many, but we could never conceive of getting rid of any of them.<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
About that same time, we had some issues with pee. Someone, and we didn't know who, was peeing where they weren't supposed to. I don't know if you've ever smelled cat pee outside of a litter box, but it is rank. It's like having a skunk in your house. Even after the smell is gone, the sensory memory of it stays with you for hours, sometimes days.<br />
<br />
Most of the pee incidents happened in the back bedroom, on top of Katherine's old bed. We removed the thick comforter, which helped for a little while. Then someone peed on the thin blanket. We removed that. They peed on the sheets. <br />
<br />
We took Jinxy to the vet for his annual check up. We mentioned the peeing. We had no proof it was him, but he was the only boy, and they are usually the spayers. The vet suggested a few things which we tried. We put a litter box in the back bedroom. We bought a cat pheromone dispenser. We kept changing around the bedding. The peeing would stop for about a month, but just when we thought it was safe, it would happen again. I started a spreadsheet to see if I could spot a pattern. <br />
<br />
Over the course of a year, there were only about a dozen peeing incidents. It wasn't horrible, and we could live with it. But it was annoying not being able to use our back bedroom. We thought about using it for a nursery, but you can't put a baby in a room where cats pee all over.<br />
<br />
The situation took a dramatic turn a few weeks ago. As we set up the front bedroom to be the nursery, we filled it up with baby accessories. Katherine told me that she smelled cat pee in the room. I went in there and inspected everything: the rug, the crib, the pile of baby clothes. What I found was that the brand-new, never-been-used infant car seat was wet. When I took it apart, there was a puddle of yellow piss that had soaked through the fabric to the plastic bottom. <br />
<br />
This was no longer something we could patiently tolerate. This was in a different room, on the baby's turf. For the first time I considered that it was time to 1.) figure out who the phantom pee-er was, and 2.) consider finding a new home for him/her. <br />
<br />
+++++ <br />
<br />
You know how this ends, right? Using a simple experiment where we separated the cats, we discovered that Jinxy was the pee-er. We caught him red-bladdered on top of the bed, a pee stain beneath him. It was time to make some hard decisions.<br />
<br />
But it gets worse than that. After contacting two shelters and talking to the vet, it turns out that the chances of finding a new home for a 9-year-old cat with peeing issues are very, very low. (One shelter wouldn't even take him. They had a <i>two-year</i> waiting list!) So then I was faced with a difficult decision: put him up for adoption, with the chance that he could spend the last few months (or years) of his life in a cage, or just have him put down myself. <br />
<br />
I'm going with the latter decision, along with all the guilt and shame that goes along with it. We have an appointment this afternoon. <br />
<br />
On the baby front, our doctors recommended that we induce labor next week. So that means that within one week we have an appointment to kill our cat and birth our baby. Talk about emotional roller coasters. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjvkVLa5eIQ37KIX6VsL0Rj_MxzxxEBrOjzv_hMkg8jK-A-JgRQCH8yp1GSZbkOWOh8lQwoocwaBMEAsSV8BsqOrtOPo8I0YTg-weoQKkhyphenhyphenyj9_FelnV47YTeQffW-0XRvqVL8T2pWVQ/s1600/tumblr_mik9w1kGnT1r8eh24o1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjvkVLa5eIQ37KIX6VsL0Rj_MxzxxEBrOjzv_hMkg8jK-A-JgRQCH8yp1GSZbkOWOh8lQwoocwaBMEAsSV8BsqOrtOPo8I0YTg-weoQKkhyphenhyphenyj9_FelnV47YTeQffW-0XRvqVL8T2pWVQ/s1600/tumblr_mik9w1kGnT1r8eh24o1_400.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Jinxy's been in my life for over five years now, and considering I got
him when he was four, he's spent over half his life with me. <br />
<br />
I just realized this week that although I've taken dozens of pictures of my little kittenman, I have none of the two of us together. So Katherine got out her expensive fancy camera and took our portrait:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IY2PqSqBZRVmSIta2-xSNJasVb_aMiNrrfAR73QDZK2Na6F0UmksuS7Nmr7MhX6xlP_00quarepTDlTFJ5KprpFyBuPCy8ZCzI8JHJKP5Hd-8qAfgStuOcJJ4tjEdTifDVAfiEXSO8A/s1600/N+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IY2PqSqBZRVmSIta2-xSNJasVb_aMiNrrfAR73QDZK2Na6F0UmksuS7Nmr7MhX6xlP_00quarepTDlTFJ5KprpFyBuPCy8ZCzI8JHJKP5Hd-8qAfgStuOcJJ4tjEdTifDVAfiEXSO8A/s1600/N+(2).JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dbCsRRUDwPfjNCiXjZjzue_APxWMq-wa-zGOkt_Ag7FDAhtTa4BT6ZNBN8TAXqbmlCm0g_o_-E7B5s8YLWoLxsHo0n-cumm-aNmu_wxXoX2-i2p0IrJqIN3DW62dI5srYaZTaB3pwys/s1600/N+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dbCsRRUDwPfjNCiXjZjzue_APxWMq-wa-zGOkt_Ag7FDAhtTa4BT6ZNBN8TAXqbmlCm0g_o_-E7B5s8YLWoLxsHo0n-cumm-aNmu_wxXoX2-i2p0IrJqIN3DW62dI5srYaZTaB3pwys/s1600/N+(6).JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-48010083078604601012014-08-13T14:51:00.000-07:002014-08-13T15:03:44.802-07:00Gene PoolThere's an old joke about different definitions of heaven and hell:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">Heaven Is Where:</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">
The French are the chefs<br />
The Italians are the lovers<br />
The British are the police<br />
The Germans are the mechanics<br />
And the Swiss make everything run on time</span></div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">Hell is Where:</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">The British are the chefs<br />
The Swiss are the lovers<br />
The French are the mechanics<br />
T<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Times New Roman; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">he
Italians make everything run on time<br />
</span>And the Germans are the police</span></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
I was reminded of this joke recently when I thought about what traits and characteristics I would like our baby to inherit from Katherine and me. There's a very good way to mix our genes, and there's a very bad way.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZi0xDwV5JxlLnPKODMCjda7yBeO9XN61QguV-YqHXjBoP6ico8yrKbq3DVF5vjW53CQ57LmhSrcbGjEJFZhVLtSPDdRFUxtvRSmsm8DSftQasTiHlRLuSb-1Lg5_D1AbCXxnKkDJJtk/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZi0xDwV5JxlLnPKODMCjda7yBeO9XN61QguV-YqHXjBoP6ico8yrKbq3DVF5vjW53CQ57LmhSrcbGjEJFZhVLtSPDdRFUxtvRSmsm8DSftQasTiHlRLuSb-1Lg5_D1AbCXxnKkDJJtk/s1600/index.jpg" height="250" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do we want our kid to have white boxes or black ones?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I hope our spawn has: <br />
<ul>
<li>Katherine's temperament </li>
<li>my immune system </li>
<li>her work ethic</li>
<li>my appreciation for leisure</li>
<li>her quick thinking</li>
<li>my sense of humor (because despite what Katherine thinks, I am hilarious)</li>
<li>her musical ability</li>
<li>my sports ability </li>
<li>her organizational skillz</li>
<li>my dishwashing skillz</li>
<li>her patience</li>
<li>my enthusiasm</li>
<li>her initiative </li>
<li>my morning person-ness (I don't want more people at the breakfast table who won't talk to me)</li>
<li>her math ability</li>
<li>my writing ability </li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmthX91NI1_3cGkj0CUaSoJqu592TPK1i3AqZsTfltUwNernT0TXHtSSc-awPWrAVbuhszbjzUWnqGKR8WbrFpnpPv6YBmIJicr9iSJ0WW_mkxhN556hiIkvoFD1jRjHzw2bb0aKaoRqg/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmthX91NI1_3cGkj0CUaSoJqu592TPK1i3AqZsTfltUwNernT0TXHtSSc-awPWrAVbuhszbjzUWnqGKR8WbrFpnpPv6YBmIJicr9iSJ0WW_mkxhN556hiIkvoFD1jRjHzw2bb0aKaoRqg/s1600/images.jpg" height="320" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There are also things that I hope our baby inherits from both of us: intelligence, analytical thinking, independence, a sense of fairness, our nerdy love of spreadsheets.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpPo_wv-u1tkMgKUegzULARZN1MlRZHeT8AG44iRS_iOVBEjlY1Yw977q0aYxlpI4Y8nfA-CdxAKIN0_Zzg69sKvJCF7Gk7cbpUwadJA9MqWSFziRcheKX9vldJjhcUlm33psBoabX8k/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpPo_wv-u1tkMgKUegzULARZN1MlRZHeT8AG44iRS_iOVBEjlY1Yw977q0aYxlpI4Y8nfA-CdxAKIN0_Zzg69sKvJCF7Gk7cbpUwadJA9MqWSFziRcheKX9vldJjhcUlm33psBoabX8k/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our little nerdling?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And then there are traits that we both share that it would be nice if the kid could mutate away from: short, pale, paddle-like feet, our inability to dance, our (sometimes) social awkwardness. <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Of course you can't customize your baby. You get what you get, and you love it as best you can. As I said in my <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/08/random-thoughts-on-impending-parenthood.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, I have no idea how I'm going to take to parenting. But it would be a challenge for me if our child had a wildly different personality than me. What if s/he grows up to be shallow, stupid, materialistic, or cruel? What if our kid grows into a <i>Republican</i>? <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-26185431105719720862014-08-03T18:07:00.002-07:002015-10-23T10:27:48.093-07:00Random Thoughts on Impending ParenthoodThis package was waiting on the porch when I came home from work:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyXVxeRrsSMMQlZFBOjTFwAFgTjDdIJIL0cqucW-y20e9gvTsYHZuhSSpNMYqsnbrghpllZyrnqVBIIql_WW146UmZyhf7JDAe12TN072eeH7orw7dKOUmKNMwM04P2C4PnIeKeLxAKs/s1600/1609712_10152571242667290_1574958883534841619_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyXVxeRrsSMMQlZFBOjTFwAFgTjDdIJIL0cqucW-y20e9gvTsYHZuhSSpNMYqsnbrghpllZyrnqVBIIql_WW146UmZyhf7JDAe12TN072eeH7orw7dKOUmKNMwM04P2C4PnIeKeLxAKs/s1600/1609712_10152571242667290_1574958883534841619_n.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snugride Classic Connect 30: Only the best for my spawn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Shit just got real up in here. <br />
<br />
I was really looking forward to having a weekend this week.
For the first time in two months, I'm not traveling or working.
And what did we spend most of the weekend doing? Setting up the
nursery, moving furniture around, cleaning things out, putting together
the crib. <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
I thought that once all our summer travels were over (we've visited five different states since Memorial Day), I'd have some time to chill out before the baby comes. But after this "free" weekend, I look ahead to the next week:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Tomorrow we're finally having our new <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/05/homeowner-blues-times-two.html" target="_blank">sewer line</a> put in. This means we had to clear out a section of our basement so they could jackhammer up our floor. It also means that for an entire day I won't have access to my computer or TV, or indoor plumbing. How am I going to get anything done? HOW DO PEOPLE LIVE LIKE THIS?</li>
<li>Tuesday morning we have a routine appointment with our regular OB/GYN to check on the progress of Cletus Fetus.</li>
<li>Thursday morning we're meeting for the first time with our new pediatrician. </li>
<li>Thursday evening we have the first of our two-session class, Caring for Newborns. </li>
<li>All day Saturday and half the day on Sunday we signed up for a childbirth class at the hospital. (Goodbye, Weekend. I hardly knew you.) </li>
</ol>
If you're counting, that's four separate baby appointments this week. It's not even here yet, and this baby is already taking up all of my time. I was hoping to cram in more leisure time before it got here, since I know that once it comes my life will be over. <br />
<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
We're taking classes, re-arranging our house, visiting daycares, and thinking about things like <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/05/disposable-stereotypes.html" target="_blank">cloth diapers</a>, but the truth is there's no good way to prepare yourself mentally for a baby. I know that it will be a lot of work. An unrelenting, incessant amount of work. Like, way more work than I've ever had to do in my easy life. I know I will never get any sleep again. I know that I will never have any free time again. I will never get any privacy again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSqMvjrlIOHqk9oJPIcxG3ISlxUgjHfjylEpmFEutAl0VnYx9negfIoYqsARCGUVzH31GDkDN35LuWRJTyAlM8qWjYsjg9LuvJ4zWlq6wO-tMdg6FxTT6Z-uWGMQK77tBdzcQn23Z4o1M/s1600/kids2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSqMvjrlIOHqk9oJPIcxG3ISlxUgjHfjylEpmFEutAl0VnYx9negfIoYqsARCGUVzH31GDkDN35LuWRJTyAlM8qWjYsjg9LuvJ4zWlq6wO-tMdg6FxTT6Z-uWGMQK77tBdzcQn23Z4o1M/s1600/kids2.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I hear that it can also be fulfilling and rewarding, but the truth is I have no idea how I will take to parenting-- if I will like it, find it redeeming, or be any good at it. It's a huge block box, sitting right on the calendar, dominating my future.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmgBFi4oIER5vJaffuxbJjRJhzWdqJPccca5VLx63W_8spljq4qqOzyfWk6gUgOYYGc5FO46p9pwziExcB1XULO4LQ7zPQeRJByG5299MWrh4KY-1Mawx9fcYPlip9q3UZNzwiUie2Hs/s1600/bad_parenting_12_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmgBFi4oIER5vJaffuxbJjRJhzWdqJPccca5VLx63W_8spljq4qqOzyfWk6gUgOYYGc5FO46p9pwziExcB1XULO4LQ7zPQeRJByG5299MWrh4KY-1Mawx9fcYPlip9q3UZNzwiUie2Hs/s1600/bad_parenting_12_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Am I eager to meet the new human who comes out of my wife's hoo-haw? Sure. I'm ready to meet the challenge. And to feel the love. But I don't have any delusions about it being all baby breath and pixies. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiO6qRp_Dpq6cbTj6m4b4MBecMbFru3-6z9eNy3Z83QrjWyQxd77xLpGeOf113Z1FIHCQTENsZL7aVmO6jIzD8JMtPTDWTbUeIkPV-l6Gxp_iY6O-RbSLhVEYXO130hU7meIWwEIxUV9k/s1600/MjAxMi04NDk2ZjAzYjAwZWQzNGQ5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiO6qRp_Dpq6cbTj6m4b4MBecMbFru3-6z9eNy3Z83QrjWyQxd77xLpGeOf113Z1FIHCQTENsZL7aVmO6jIzD8JMtPTDWTbUeIkPV-l6Gxp_iY6O-RbSLhVEYXO130hU7meIWwEIxUV9k/s1600/MjAxMi04NDk2ZjAzYjAwZWQzNGQ5.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
From all the posts on FB on Father's Day, I understand there are a lot of people who respect, admire, and adore their father.<br />
<br />
I wonder what that's like. <br />
<br />
Not to get all Dr. Phil here, but I do not have a very good relationship with my father. I don't have much respect for him.<br />
<br />
So it makes me wonder what my future kid, now due in less than two months, is going to think of me. It's a fascinating and frightening proposition that there will be someone out in the world whose image of "Dad"-- what they think of when they hear that word-- will be <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvds_ZpjfHQJnRC2GxJJS2COJJie1QFHDJxdHkOYn1L9nz8mJoFPOA-il_mfmpaZKg7h2Nhi67L0NqDnHULNUy1dEY-WVzDEWob9OZ4Ae_R5NHk0F17KSELTA3mEL42id-GvR2QxamNyU/s1600/1422540_10151966161912290_88457642_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvds_ZpjfHQJnRC2GxJJS2COJJie1QFHDJxdHkOYn1L9nz8mJoFPOA-il_mfmpaZKg7h2Nhi67L0NqDnHULNUy1dEY-WVzDEWob9OZ4Ae_R5NHk0F17KSELTA3mEL42id-GvR2QxamNyU/s1600/1422540_10151966161912290_88457642_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"What did you learn in school today?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-48016075553831176182014-07-16T14:18:00.000-07:002014-07-16T14:18:23.504-07:00Librarians in VegasHow does a librarian in Las Vegas cross the road?<br />
<br />
You go through 14 casinos, 28 shops, 56,234 flashing lights, out
into the 105-degree heat, walk half a mile to the nearest foot-bridge, wait
15 minutes for all the people in front of you to cross the bridge,
avoid the guys on every corner thrusting hooker trading cards in your face (I swear I'm not making that up), then repeat the process as you walk back to the spot directly across the road from where you started.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHtstfcIaicAbcaVV9quv3Vj9qnzi_1mlGYwDmtiRLF-0j8Du7-p8w1d5RLT83ha7Z_f8DzN04S6U5-UeQbvgseWXEj7LVWKqL-Y1KqGsj0iJCYRxWzbReVOSOIgDLuNEhA7zkK3XTaY/s1600/20140629_215541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHtstfcIaicAbcaVV9quv3Vj9qnzi_1mlGYwDmtiRLF-0j8Du7-p8w1d5RLT83ha7Z_f8DzN04S6U5-UeQbvgseWXEj7LVWKqL-Y1KqGsj0iJCYRxWzbReVOSOIgDLuNEhA7zkK3XTaY/s1600/20140629_215541.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It's just across the street."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
++++++<br />
<br />
My frustrations with Vegas started before I left the tarmac in Chicago, where our plane was grounded for an hour and half because of "paperwork issues," according to the pilot. I'd never heard that excuse before. As we sat in a hot, crowded, stuffy, un-moving plane and the pilot announced every 15 minutes or so that we'd be cleared to go in about 10-15 minutes, it set the tone for the whole weekend. <br />
<br />
<br />
Actually, let me back up three months. Perhaps this trip was doomed soon after the moment, three months earlier, when I booked my tickets to the American Library Association (ALA) Annual Conference '14 in Las Vegas. I wouldn't have even considered going, but my old ALA-roommate friend Dallas was going and had a room to offer, I hadn't been to <a href="http://tim-alone.blogspot.com/2008/07/ala-haul.html" target="_blank">ALA</a> in five years, and I'd never been to Vegas. I thought this would be a good opportunity to see old friends and visit a place I'd never been to. And maybe get some "professional development."<br />
<br />
Anyway, two days after I booked my flight, Dallas took a bad spill on some ice in the parking lot at work (another victim of this year's <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-shoveler.html" target="_blank">shit-tastic winter</a>), broke his leg/hip, had emergency surgery with four new "forever pins" in his hip, and was laid up for the next three months. He was hoping he'd be healed enough to go to Vegas, but had to bail a week before we were to leave. <br />
<br />
That was probably a good decision for Dallas, but a bad one for me.<br />
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7svmPci5hoPREEsoYEgA-VFUlQ6kkzkQkK8rIZowWFIsqVbDa6lwtn2M7uItObS75T3bJToq3jU6u1TGPaYrpJcHI87k0nrbjJUo4eWn_E0YLmHcpx0KYI-9qDuFwtjGS7HeeKMwHQ8o/s1600/20140627_140038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7svmPci5hoPREEsoYEgA-VFUlQ6kkzkQkK8rIZowWFIsqVbDa6lwtn2M7uItObS75T3bJToq3jU6u1TGPaYrpJcHI87k0nrbjJUo4eWn_E0YLmHcpx0KYI-9qDuFwtjGS7HeeKMwHQ8o/s1600/20140627_140038.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just outside Vegas is the world's largest pothole. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
It turned out that a friend of mine from work, Tom, was not only only my flight, but staying in the same hotel as me. That was one ray of (hot, blinding) sunshine for my Vegas trip. Once we arrived in Vegas-- two hours late-- Tom and I were able to share a shuttle to our hotel. <br />
<br />
Because of how our hotel (The Flamingo) was laid out, the shuttle stop was about a quarter mile from the entrance. We walked in the hot, 105-degree Vegas sun with our luggage into the building, and although we were relieved to be in the cool air conditioning, we were immediately hit with other violations to our other senses. Cigarette smoke, flashing lights, souvenir shops, lingerie. It was like walking into a shopping mall on steroids. We walked down a long crowded hallway for what seemed like forever, and Tom said, "Tim, what have we done?" <br />
<br />
"Has anyone seen a hotel lobby around here?" I said to no one in particular. <br />
<br />
When we finally found the hotel part of the casino, there was a line at the check in. It was roped off into parallel queues, like at Disneyland, with rows of waiting people. The line to check in at the hotel was longer than the TSA security line had been at O'Hare! WTF??<br />
<br />
About that time I checked FB and read what a friend of mine just posted: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I've been trying to keep an open mind but I think vegas is the most horrible place I've ever been and I hate it and I hate ala for making me come here and I can't believe people like to come here."</blockquote>
It was a theme I would hear from every librarian I talked to in Vegas.<br />
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
Because of our plane delay in getting to Vegas, and then the wait in line to check in, by the time I finally got to my room it was too late to go to any of the ALA events that day. But a new problem presented itself. <br />
<br />
My phone battery was dying. After spending all day traveling, I was down to about 25% power. I was planning to go out that night, and I knew I'd need power to contact people and meet up with them. Plus I wanted to call my wife. But the network connection in my room sucked ass, and it drained power just having the phone on (as it constantly searched for a connection.) And when I tried to turn on the wi-fi in my room, they wanted to charge me $13.99 a day for service. Screw that. I've never been in a hotel before that CHARGED for wifi, and I'd be damned if the Flamingo was going to profit off of that. <br />
<br />
So I had to turn off my phone and charge it up. I couldn't leave, I couldn't surf the web, I couldn't catch up on email, and I couldn't even check the conference app to plan my day. I was held hostage in my room by a useless phone. <br />
<br />
So I watched crappy TV for an hour and a half. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKycbYcVHbwfNrHblw71Y9IWPdYTwZJz25-pRXX28Amqx37q-Dpmoc5q44TdKBhNwmY-XGWciG_5LbI3UDcdu4kXIjvbkdE6hNuyLPk2L1LJt5ERlFNO9kbZT7lQcpinEtApJQr-3pJQ/s1600/20140627_165110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKycbYcVHbwfNrHblw71Y9IWPdYTwZJz25-pRXX28Amqx37q-Dpmoc5q44TdKBhNwmY-XGWciG_5LbI3UDcdu4kXIjvbkdE6hNuyLPk2L1LJt5ERlFNO9kbZT7lQcpinEtApJQr-3pJQ/s1600/20140627_165110.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view outside my hotel room was not bad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
When I was finally charged up enough to leave the hotel, I encountered the second most frustrating thing about Vegas: finding shit. <br />
<br />
I usually have an excellent sense of direction. But I got lost in Vegas more times than I can count. On the first night in Vegas, I had dinner plans with an old friend, but first I wanted to go to the convention center and check in at ALA. I looked at a map in the hotel "lobby" and thought I had oriented myself correctly. But when I left the hotel, I had no idea where to find the shuttle bus stop to the convention center. I made an entire circle around this huge, ginormous building, walking for 50 minutes in the hot sun. Finally I went back into the hotel and asked the bellhop, who did a lot of pointing and explaining, but couldn't show me a map.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyhhF-mcBfXF3PH_agHVaImzIC57Xt4Heotb-SszHoqovcGdtvuUpA7CX9OlvZuO15LHmhGZWJrbKHn5-urfPyZ06c7iallmQfwlG0eCxJ_3_uGdh0JUOJTvrk__5MV2XtEFugbKxk1w/s1600/20140628_072000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyhhF-mcBfXF3PH_agHVaImzIC57Xt4Heotb-SszHoqovcGdtvuUpA7CX9OlvZuO15LHmhGZWJrbKHn5-urfPyZ06c7iallmQfwlG0eCxJ_3_uGdh0JUOJTvrk__5MV2XtEFugbKxk1w/s1600/20140628_072000.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A "map" of the hotel. And no, it doesn't get any clearer if you make it bigger.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I did eventually find the bus, and took it to the convention center, a monstrosity of a building that resembles an airport without any planes. After further administrative headaches to register for the conference and get my badge (with a lanyard!), I was ready to party. Sort of. <br />
<br />
After dinner with my friend, I decided to walk the 1.9 miles along the famous Las Vegas Strip back to my hotel. When we exited the building after dinner, it felt like walking into a blast furnace. For a second I thought that there was a bus blowing exhaust in our face, or we were right in front of an external air conditioning unit blowing hot air. Nope. This was just an evening breeze in Vegas, where it's 101 degrees out. <br />
<br />
I was trying to meet up with some other friends of mine, so I walked 2.5 miles, beyond my hotel, to find them. I kept trying to use the map app on my phone, but guess what? My mobile connections on the street in Vegas also suck ass, so my map app kept spinning and spinning, loading in vain. After pushing through throngs of people along the strip, when I got to the place my friends had been, they were gone. So I walked back home to my hotel: hot, sweaty, tired, alone, and ready to end an overall shitty travel day. <br />
<br />
That was my first day in Vegas.<br />
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
Saturday, Day Two of Vegas ALA, started at 5:22 am, when I woke up and could not get back to sleep. This would be my first day of the convention: let's class up this place, librarians! <br />
<br />
I was able to "connect" to the convention center's wifi, but I then spent most of the next two days waiting as my phone told me: "Obtaining IP address..." The wifi was spotty and unreliable, and although I kept having brilliant insights and snarky observations to make, I couldn't post them on Facebook. It was torture! I couldn't even use the convention planning app <i>while I was in the building where the convention was happening</i>. <br />
<br />
I attended some sessions, one titled "Boba Fett at the Circ Desk: Leadership Lessons from the Empire Strikes Back" (I swear I'm not making that up) and in the afternoon returned to my hotel for a quick nap and to call my wife. I was in contact with some old library school friends about meeting for drinks the next night, but figuring out a meeting place was difficult. We couldn't just say, "Let's meet at Bally's" because Bally's is about the size and shape of the Death Star. We couldn't even say "At the big entrance to Bally's off Flamingo Ave" because there are, like, four of them. So I actually had to take a walk across the street (see above: librarian crossing street in Vegas) to scope it out and suggest a meeting place. Then I had to go outside on the street because I couldn't send any messages from inside the fortress of any casino. <br />
<br />
One bright spot on Saturday was that we went to dinner at Bobby Flay's restaurant in Caesar's palace and had an excellent meal.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD24Hy9obwOgrrvf71qNst22_mQS2kBL0AFuA4C-hcn_pXnVlAAK3jncHDt_RYy-IGZy5q-eSMXnJmDnukAj8YK5cb7Gj5Zl9kYknbBt3r2Z7uYRsLs0cL28UqTm1mRyJ0H7C8Lc-hNdk/s1600/scallops.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD24Hy9obwOgrrvf71qNst22_mQS2kBL0AFuA4C-hcn_pXnVlAAK3jncHDt_RYy-IGZy5q-eSMXnJmDnukAj8YK5cb7Gj5Zl9kYknbBt3r2Z7uYRsLs0cL28UqTm1mRyJ0H7C8Lc-hNdk/s1600/scallops.png" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bobby Flay's Scallops: a high point of my weekend </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Sunday, Day Three, was both the worst and best day of the convention. It started out crappy and got worse. The morning session I wanted to attend was in the Paris hotel, which has a huge replica of the Eiffel tower growing out of it.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4PvnBxmyLS6YaZuaMfmp_gENxO-DHYurE0FbFwAKHnI7qm89x1k3CAhspL543v2bNM5OZ95gqVPmHoG0K3OvpTKt-ajkGZkGzrYSb9PqVDP3RJsXYjFX7lIJc3mE3zpFfoe6fHMze2U/s1600/20140627_210327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4PvnBxmyLS6YaZuaMfmp_gENxO-DHYurE0FbFwAKHnI7qm89x1k3CAhspL543v2bNM5OZ95gqVPmHoG0K3OvpTKt-ajkGZkGzrYSb9PqVDP3RJsXYjFX7lIJc3mE3zpFfoe6fHMze2U/s1600/20140627_210327.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Eiffel Tower along the Strip at night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Once inside "Paris," it took me forever to find the entrance to the meeting rooms. On my way I tried to stop for breakfast, but all the cafes and food shops had lines out the door. Two things you should know about me, which might explain why I hated Vegas, is that I hate crowds and I'm not a patient person. Especially when my blood sugar is low. So I went to a little convenience kiosk and bought the crappiest breakfast ever: a bottle of orange juice, a small bag of snack mix, and a Hostess cupcake. I paid $9.40, and afterwards I felt the opposite of nourished. <br />
<br />
I went to my session and then was excited to take the Las Vegas monorail to the convention center. (Monorail!!) But I wanted to pick up some lunch before I went, so I stopped at the food court in the casino. Bad idea. I got a fancy cheese and bacon hot dog with fries and a drink. I took it to the convention center in the monorail, which turned out to be a disappointment. At the convention center I sat on the floor, while my useless phone told me "Obtaining IP address..." and ate my crappy food alone. The food didn't taste good, was bad for me, and afterwards my stomach felt bad.<br />
<br />
After two awful meals in a row, I got lost trying to find my afternoon session. Finally I just said, "Fuck it," and decided to play hooky. I made my way to the exhibit hall in order to get my SWAG on. I scored a bunch of free pens and fought off one aggressive salesperson who was determined not let me leave his booth without buying a $399 cell phone charger. (It was down to $99 by the time I walked away.) <br />
<br />
When I returned to my hotel in the afternoon, I stepped off the air-conditioned bus into the afternoon sun and could literally feel the heat bubble up in the veins in my hands. Is my blood actually boiling? I thought.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGej6SOCOyQGeDdMD1UaeLLWv4YaOx1ZjzpnU2_5g72U3k-Zfq-oMrfVXX1-DkhRldiLfL1hgQIIJLwgwnRk4MdbtQhoIqmvRmjIuTHpVFgHOzvzjGSFEfoMyDVhCfAo51Zn0F7Wba58A/s1600/20140630_061726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGej6SOCOyQGeDdMD1UaeLLWv4YaOx1ZjzpnU2_5g72U3k-Zfq-oMrfVXX1-DkhRldiLfL1hgQIIJLwgwnRk4MdbtQhoIqmvRmjIuTHpVFgHOzvzjGSFEfoMyDVhCfAo51Zn0F7Wba58A/s1600/20140630_061726.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual weather report on my hotel TV</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
Sunday got a whole lot better late afternoon when I met with some of my old friends from library school. We had drinks, bitched about Vegas, and went to our library school reunion at Bally's Skyview room, which did indeed have a kick-ass view. I loaded up on hor d'oeuvres, mingled with a lot of old acquaintances, and even hobnobbed with the mayor of the city where my library school was. (Seriously, we had like a 10-minute conversation.) <br />
<br />
After that a friend and I walked along the Strip, saw the fountain show at the Bellagio, and then had some ice cream inside. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgJsnWLVn2cg-H1Lz1NK5iH1FugzuPuXYxuzVPRBtvxcGTXAG1HZkyYArU3hyphenhyphen7LuCSU_eafyVCcGbz_tmuTbvsWJ95xCBHlBh94cq-8oBAR72TSJC4Cwp8-2oK2IzD1L7J7SCXARlzTQ/s1600/20140629_201608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgJsnWLVn2cg-H1Lz1NK5iH1FugzuPuXYxuzVPRBtvxcGTXAG1HZkyYArU3hyphenhyphen7LuCSU_eafyVCcGbz_tmuTbvsWJ95xCBHlBh94cq-8oBAR72TSJC4Cwp8-2oK2IzD1L7J7SCXARlzTQ/s1600/20140629_201608.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Famous dancing fountain show</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
My friend went back to her hotel, but I was not done with Vegas yet. It was my last night in town and I didn't want to leave without seeing some of the famous buildings I'd heard so much about. I wanted to see the faux NYC skyline at New York New York. (And feed my <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2012/04/massive-erections.html" target="_blank">skyline/skyscraper</a> obsession.) <br />
<br />
From my perspective, here's the best thing about Vegas: <span class="userContent">there are some
pretty amazing buildings here. I can't imagine the architectural effort
that can create an enormous structure that looks like a skyline from
the outside, but inside is a cavernous casino. Where else can you see
the Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty, Magic Kingdom, a Roman palace,
gigantic elabotate fountains, and funky modern skyscrapers all along
the same street?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvqbinrWtJjPoMo3oYCjE8Sun8W6YgibU39lRlMETt75jJ4nSDbafOdQTfBkKWkCrm-WoA53Qsq3uLAbgcaL76cESwTic93W46rcEkyZZcJLbeUSZViSGb-KOqDDP24ki22jLt_EiPBg/s1600/20140629_215650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvqbinrWtJjPoMo3oYCjE8Sun8W6YgibU39lRlMETt75jJ4nSDbafOdQTfBkKWkCrm-WoA53Qsq3uLAbgcaL76cESwTic93W46rcEkyZZcJLbeUSZViSGb-KOqDDP24ki22jLt_EiPBg/s1600/20140629_215650.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
I went inside New York New York, and it was incredible. What on the outside looks like a row of smaller buildings in front of a huge mini skyline is actually one huge building, with possibly the most incongruent walls in the world. (Although I did not know that the Jefferson Memorial was in New York, right next to the Statue of Liberty.) <br />
<br />
One could argue that it's cheesey and tacky to have all these replicas of famous landmarks in one place, but I have to admit the replicas are damn impressive approximations. If you walk into the Paris hotel, the grid-like base for the Eiffel tower goes through the walls, as if the tower is growing out of the building. That's pretty fucking cool. And these are interspersed with just the garden-variety cool skyscrapers. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV1zCVUGUC_hoEaEs5zuMmNBM_-w4hMjlz75-mf4BKpxDUeiqFW_WaJO8_SRKxUTBKSWPGcDyrzcHiqQoPemUWesduAN0wAEuq_O6MpkGKbd_bmxz1KJofC0U34z-CoJUVspl0Ul7vys/s1600/20140629_221402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLV1zCVUGUC_hoEaEs5zuMmNBM_-w4hMjlz75-mf4BKpxDUeiqFW_WaJO8_SRKxUTBKSWPGcDyrzcHiqQoPemUWesduAN0wAEuq_O6MpkGKbd_bmxz1KJofC0U34z-CoJUVspl0Ul7vys/s1600/20140629_221402.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cool leaning cartoonish buildings along the strip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfP-q25fy_sCG0dgsToR-V_ewwHfPrAWdY77y_K3fk47wXaq0h3UrGMQCewnGxwH0tf4rgG0ZedRspK1fcv-08hqFLheV05bX2OYjxcmrkFtQvjwdYZcpufPFJf4Khd2UCFwhRHAqbag4/s1600/20140630_172128_cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfP-q25fy_sCG0dgsToR-V_ewwHfPrAWdY77y_K3fk47wXaq0h3UrGMQCewnGxwH0tf4rgG0ZedRspK1fcv-08hqFLheV05bX2OYjxcmrkFtQvjwdYZcpufPFJf4Khd2UCFwhRHAqbag4/s1600/20140630_172128_cropped.jpg" height="276" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Strip from the airport. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
+++++<br />
<br />
There was some further travel drama in getting home, but I'm tired of writing this post and you're tired of reading it, so I'll end here. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-20914097198697744522014-06-23T08:28:00.001-07:002014-06-23T08:31:09.660-07:00Spending TimeI think I spend the majority of my time thinking about, planning, and managing how I spend my time. Aside from all the energy I use to plan things, set up appointments, make to-do lists, and manage my calendar, there's all the time I <i>talk </i>about what I've done or what I'm going to do. How was my weekend? What did I do last night? What are my plans for today? What are we doing tonight? What's your week look like?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzp27A0XkHtXHjknyU67OHE8aLSw5YXYBIGvQ_R7OQjrStUEr5_CFPq9KKxATZHHvP0SzEWwHyWpPRwbP0CKbyZmuNG0xu2D_WmPk7_SQa4-O-mrXxiy84ixl9qxzWQN7VAfkZZ55jSc/s1600/tupperware_oatmeal.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzp27A0XkHtXHjknyU67OHE8aLSw5YXYBIGvQ_R7OQjrStUEr5_CFPq9KKxATZHHvP0SzEWwHyWpPRwbP0CKbyZmuNG0xu2D_WmPk7_SQa4-O-mrXxiy84ixl9qxzWQN7VAfkZZ55jSc/s1600/tupperware_oatmeal.png" height="279" width="320" /></a></div>
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The words we use to talk about time-- <i>spending </i>it, <i>wasting </i>it, <i>managing </i>it-- are the same words we use to talk about money. Because time really is like a currency. And to me, at this stage in my life, it feels even more valuable than money.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDYZlkxSpXXvOq7_w8d9ZWv7zANfqddQ7NuGjrdOf3B9P7J6Tetqh_CeSBtaBzTBbNV9OX8Aiy9KkPR11xMVFMO6B_UvaUyrPtm3ojx4-UlwRUXhwRs9EgVt1qslKRdONHWlcgonzLLo/s1600/Cartoon_Larson_Einstein_1_0.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDYZlkxSpXXvOq7_w8d9ZWv7zANfqddQ7NuGjrdOf3B9P7J6Tetqh_CeSBtaBzTBbNV9OX8Aiy9KkPR11xMVFMO6B_UvaUyrPtm3ojx4-UlwRUXhwRs9EgVt1qslKRdONHWlcgonzLLo/s1600/Cartoon_Larson_Einstein_1_0.gif" height="320" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Einstein discovers that time is actually money."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm very fortunate to be at a point in my life where money is not a major source of worry-- because of my frugal tastes, simple pleasures, and enjoying a standard of living in a 21st-century First World country, I can pretty much afford anything I want-- but time has become that thing that I feel I never have enough of. (And this is before we have any kids. Once Cletus Fetus bursts into our lives, I know I will never ever feel caught up on anything ever again. So I
have that to look forward to.) <br />
<br />
One thing I loved about working in academia was all the time off I got. I might have been able to make more money in the private sector, but what I used to tell people was, "You can't buy vacation time." What's the point of working all the time and accumulating wealth, if you never have time to spend it?<br />
<br />
There's one crucial difference between time and money, though. With money, you can save it, invest it, accumulate more of it, and then spend a whole mess of it at one time. You can also get loans and pay it back. You can't do that with time. Everyone has to spend time at the same rate as everyone else. You can't save it up. You're going to spend time whether you sit on the couch watching TV or buy groceries or hike the Andes.<br />
<br />
So why haven't I blogged in almost a month? I'd say that I haven't had enough time, but that's not exactly true. I had enough time to watch TiVo, play upon the Interwebz, play tennis (even play my new tennis <i>computer game</i>), as well as keep up with all the regular work, chores, and errands that a working middle-aged house husband who's dealing with <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/05/homeowner-blues-times-two.html" target="_blank">two homes</a> has to deal with. Among all that other stuff, writing my blog has dropped near to the bottom of the list. (Just above calling our plumber about scheduling house repairs.) <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpR9dEyeCgANSvdgysLWPcyI0KtGapWIwvEagjby0W7VhVbGGoErjgCCRm0wyP5Tfb9YftLlYVkuIqVFkMkTb7BfAqPQlf1EI3ex0ueUmLtQupG8oh3CaVmb5DsnmbFVXMPGmCPVhcZAQ/s1600/spending-time-with-jesus_0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpR9dEyeCgANSvdgysLWPcyI0KtGapWIwvEagjby0W7VhVbGGoErjgCCRm0wyP5Tfb9YftLlYVkuIqVFkMkTb7BfAqPQlf1EI3ex0ueUmLtQupG8oh3CaVmb5DsnmbFVXMPGmCPVhcZAQ/s1600/spending-time-with-jesus_0.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um, I think I'll watch LOLcat videos instead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One thing that always annoyed me is when people use the flip phrase,
"You have too much time on your hands" to judge how someone spends their
time. Look, just because I keep a spreadsheet of all my tennis
matches, or our grocery list, or how often my cats pee on the spare bed
in the back bedroom (yes, I swear I'm not making that up, but it's
really just a diagnostic tool to see if I can figure out patterns)--
just because I have hobbies that other people think are silly doesn't
mean my time is any less valuable than someone who's going to a quilting
convention or studying stock quotes or watching Honey Boo Boo on the
talkin' picture box. We all have different things that capture our attention, different ways we choose to spend our time. Some of us need a lot more down time. Some of us need to stay active all the time.
<br />
<br />
Since I've already spent two hours of time on this crappy new blog post, I'll have to end it here without a brilliant conclusion. (Yes, two hours is way too much, but I stopped and started this post several times because I couldn't decide what to do with it.) Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-71168918650725295412014-05-27T19:37:00.001-07:002014-05-27T19:49:28.569-07:00Homeowner Blues Times TwoThere was a small window of time last year when we owned three homes: My house in Champaign, Katherine's condo in Evanston, and the house we bought together in Evanston. The condo was already on its way to <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/04/schadenfreude.html" target="_blank">being sold</a> then (and that sale went through without a hitch), and we hoped that my house in Champaign would sell soon after. It didn't.<br />
<br />
I like to joke that we had a vacation home in Champaign, but the joke is as tired as my rotting roof. <br />
<br />
We own too many houses. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivajAAgU_yBrRrnCj32A8HgXfEhc6jXKjnUEDxlMchaysQ5y8-qjOg-ddjlsbTcQI8gmmFt9h49PqUUit-T4mfVQbmJRPdLmTLbE2srDx1RgesLC181rBfuCd-uz7fNQE-bYpLl-xSi9w/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivajAAgU_yBrRrnCj32A8HgXfEhc6jXKjnUEDxlMchaysQ5y8-qjOg-ddjlsbTcQI8gmmFt9h49PqUUit-T4mfVQbmJRPdLmTLbE2srDx1RgesLC181rBfuCd-uz7fNQE-bYpLl-xSi9w/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're like Donald Trump, but with better hair</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Since my house didn't sell last year, I hired a property management company (realtor #3) who found a tenant for me and rented out the house over the winter. So in addition to all the ways I've made money over my life (grocery bagger, meat department clerk, pizza driver, library clerk, scholarship winner, busboy, typist, receptionist, fellow, teacher, librarian), I became a landlord. I even changed my banking password to some variant of my new role. (slumloard666? 99givememymoney? You'll never guess it!)<br />
<br />
I was a reluctant landlord, though, and renting out my house was just a way to stem the bleeding of mortgage payments and utility bills for a house I wasn't even using. Although the rent I receive from my tenants is not enough to cover my mortgage, it helps a lot, and it also makes me feel better to know that someone was sort of house-sitting for me over the winter, when the already horrible house-selling market froze up completely. I took the house off the market. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2s_jJdBTLsJbmAQgFE_VPmNnkl9sP7jJlsDyGdYIsJv6nyQygJWqhWgvyu7VvsS8gS4TfyLi8ofqA1s5nWxANLJrxQvkogMaB-To2fRLzvD6bKNX0QBDrHDK1fmZsvZU7q9ogZOCWsA/s1600/ice-house-detroit-04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2s_jJdBTLsJbmAQgFE_VPmNnkl9sP7jJlsDyGdYIsJv6nyQygJWqhWgvyu7VvsS8gS4TfyLi8ofqA1s5nWxANLJrxQvkogMaB-To2fRLzvD6bKNX0QBDrHDK1fmZsvZU7q9ogZOCWsA/s1600/ice-house-detroit-04.jpg" height="326" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would you like to buy my frozen house?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This spring I've been trying to put the house back on the market. We were about all ready to list the house at the end of March, but the realtor I'd been working with (#4) wanted me to sign a year-long agreement, which was way too long and everyone said was a red flag. So I fired her and got a new realtor (#5) who I'm not crazy about but it doesn't matter because <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/04/lies-damn-lies-and-real-estate.html" target="_blank">all realtors suck</a> and if I'm going to work with one, I might as well choose one I have low expectations of from the beginning.<br />
<br />
We were just about to list the house at the end of April, but at the advice of my latest realtor I got the home pre-inspected (I think it was probably good advice), and it came back with a whole bunch of issues. We put the listing on hold until I could deal with those things. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrgSYZwQjlYdtZA6bwV1c74dDsdDe1f5_qaABDnA-BA6F2Et7jEfCB6zs_ffzK_hH21PROwioVFCkENlMOmksRWNfi9VQ1BpBPZI-pKF5898jjOZ02XYSrMPK1mIMD6oXvbziUGCsPR4/s1600/AOB1346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrgSYZwQjlYdtZA6bwV1c74dDsdDe1f5_qaABDnA-BA6F2Et7jEfCB6zs_ffzK_hH21PROwioVFCkENlMOmksRWNfi9VQ1BpBPZI-pKF5898jjOZ02XYSrMPK1mIMD6oXvbziUGCsPR4/s1600/AOB1346.jpg" height="263" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apparently, this is how the inspector saw my house. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So now it's the end of May and I'm hoping the house will get listed this
week. Right now, as I type, they are tearing off my old roof and
putting a brand-spanking new roof on the house I will never live in
again. And new gutters. Then we'll tackle the smaller stuff.<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
In the past year, we have put a new roof on both of our houses. We've also had sewer issues at both houses, requiring excavation and new pipes. That's four major house repairs at the top and bottom of our houses. We're getting screwed at both ends of both houses.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7yZS762YvS7-8OslCWWUwfBinZuWnbaQrO7B2q1dfqkslo3cIBLodXhOtT5zxUY5Qli69ZkG0o1S-71qkZc1WbDpmnGfQJOyzLPGtoHY2jwD077UXLAWwIJu-AYCcoQF_44V0Gz18zk/s1600/tops_and_bottoms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7yZS762YvS7-8OslCWWUwfBinZuWnbaQrO7B2q1dfqkslo3cIBLodXhOtT5zxUY5Qli69ZkG0o1S-71qkZc1WbDpmnGfQJOyzLPGtoHY2jwD077UXLAWwIJu-AYCcoQF_44V0Gz18zk/s1600/tops_and_bottoms.jpg" height="365" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have no idea what this book is about, but I couldn't NOT post this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The repair issues have gotten so bad this spring that I actually created a spreadsheet for all of our house repairs, renovations, costs, estimates to see how much we can actually afford. For both houses.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqOaWB2baupKm6aULvlrwoSBV0sZ3rJiVZKp3q2STA1AUWBdxZv8nctZQR3dqKxzHUAw8drQ2Aew1MQl-POw5pVhLtsi7L20pc-71dZ26Es_YfUu6kq7RfQcBn-dJzPhZGoWhSzijlV4/s1600/New+Picture.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqOaWB2baupKm6aULvlrwoSBV0sZ3rJiVZKp3q2STA1AUWBdxZv8nctZQR3dqKxzHUAw8drQ2Aew1MQl-POw5pVhLtsi7L20pc-71dZ26Es_YfUu6kq7RfQcBn-dJzPhZGoWhSzijlV4/s1600/New+Picture.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After all our home repairs, we will have $1.59 left over for our retirement</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One of the things on the list is simply selling my house. Just getting rid of my house is going to cost us several thousand dollars, because the market has dropped so much in Champaign that despite my down payment and the fact that I've been paying down the mortgage for five years, we'll be lucky if we sell the house for what I owe on it. Even then, I'll have to pay the 6% commission to my realtor, hence the cost of selling my home.<br />
<br />
I know we're fortunate enough that we can afford to sell it, because many people simply don't have the money to sell a home that's underwater. (For the record, mine isn't necessarily "underwater", but it's hovering around the water line. We won't know for sure what it's worth until we get an offer.)<br />
<br />
For reasons other than financial, I love owning my own home, but anyone who tells you that owning vs. renting is a "slam dunk" financial decision is full of shit. Every experience I've personally had with real estate has been a huge
money suck. I've lost a shit-ton of money on my house, both with
repairs and re-sell. So did Katherine with her condo. And now our new
house keeps asking for money like that plant in Little Shop of Horrors.
("Feed me, Seymour!") <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljx1ZPx2eD5QPnDHIZ0iRItXbSdaLPPKWXmhc7i9GAQsCUvR5tgU9-aIcVxw-xXgqaVrvW-p8mgxiZsqJGbl30Rq07xpRGMviL65I3w3Fil5oZQO64n-1DLQNDu4biJidG1iuA2aNbEo/s1600/3831380-feed-me-seymour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljx1ZPx2eD5QPnDHIZ0iRItXbSdaLPPKWXmhc7i9GAQsCUvR5tgU9-aIcVxw-xXgqaVrvW-p8mgxiZsqJGbl30Rq07xpRGMviL65I3w3Fil5oZQO64n-1DLQNDu4biJidG1iuA2aNbEo/s1600/3831380-feed-me-seymour.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This actually looks a lot like the thing growing in our sewer pipes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
So every day I have to call a new repair person and get a new estimate on one of our many projects. I'm drowning in estimates and it's a little overwhelming. I've instituted a rule that I will only call one repair person per day. Otherwise I would go crazy. <br />
<br />
Here's one big decision we need to make. Our new home needs a new 4-foot stretch of sewer that has been run over by tree roots. (Over the past year our sewer has backed up into the basement several times, and we've had to get it "rooted out" twice.) The section that needs replacing is three feet underneath the concrete in our basement, which means they have to jackhammer through the (carpeted) floor in our basement, dig out the old broken clay pipes, put in new PVC pipes, and then re-cement the floor. For this privilege of premium indoor plumbing we get to pay $2800. (First World Problem, I know.) <br />
<br />
However, I've hated the floor in our basement since we moved in. The carpet is thin and cheap, and underneath it is uneven concrete that resembles rolling hills. All the desks, bookcases, and filing cabinets in our basement are up on shims because the floor is so uneven. One of the renovations I'd like to do some day is to level out the floor. I called a floor guy, but he said the floor is too uneven for him to fix. He said I need a concrete guy. So I called a concrete guy who came out and said, sure, he can fix it. For $7300.<br />
<br />
One complication is that the ceiling is pretty low in our basement
already, and I worry that evening out the floor would make it even
lower. It's fine for short people like us, but when it comes time to sell someday, no tall people could
ever buy this house because the basement ceiling is so low. So for an extra $3800 the concrete guy can lower the floor another 6 inches, giving us more ceiling clearance. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaeGrakHQe0e56MUazk7DEtVq2ASUFjKDdZcHObDz0vpR_4RKSOtTqZI8azZWclRqa84r_k89UUdjrJVNrhvkBSqmNG9OWlBGG2InCvv988uyb9c4D4v4WYjjAJzCjyEFBspcr1mnsncc/s1600/being-john-malkovich.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaeGrakHQe0e56MUazk7DEtVq2ASUFjKDdZcHObDz0vpR_4RKSOtTqZI8azZWclRqa84r_k89UUdjrJVNrhvkBSqmNG9OWlBGG2InCvv988uyb9c4D4v4WYjjAJzCjyEFBspcr1mnsncc/s1600/being-john-malkovich.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ceiling in our basement: perfect for us, bad for talls.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Here are our options w/r/t the basement floor:<br />
<br />
1. Do nothing. This will require us to have the sewer line rooted out every 5-6 months ($300 each time) so that it doesn't back up into the basement, which I don't need to tell you is DIS-GUS-TING.<br />
<br />
2. Just fix the sewer line and nothing else. This will involve blocking off our computer desks and most of the finished basement so that they don't get covered in concrete dust, and then having the plumber jackhammer our floor, which will shake the whole house and probably cause it to come crashing down. Oh, and will cost $2800.<br />
<br />
3. Since they're going to be opening up our basement floor anyway, this seems like the ideal time to have them fix the whole thing. But not only is this a VERY EXPENSIVE option, it will also require an assload of work on our part, and a major inconvenience akin to moving. We will have to move everything out of the basement, which includes both of our desks and desktop computers, printers, modems, telephones, etc., our entire TV/entertainment system, couches, filing cabinets, book shelves, and storing all of it in the small corner of the basement that is unfinished (i.e. the workshop.) Then we will be without all said computer, telephone, and entertainment options during the renovation, which could take a while because we will need to coordinate between the sewer excavation guy, the concrete guy, and the carpet guy, which we haven't even gotten an estimate for yet because the first two steps are so overwhelming to contemplate.<br />
<br />
4. The same as #3 but lower the floor six inches, which would be a better long term renovation but would add a LOT MOAR MONEY onto the project, and possibly also time. <br />
<br />
5. Bury ourselves in the sewer and let the new owners pay to excavate our rotting corpses.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIkSs6OYFQkCVkQiea0v-C8e3rbd70XG46M1CpkV9MUZ2PdEQnm2XPKkz_fFHeJLIHGeld25awN79yZy7tntq_kzI0bz3UHhweTBvGrLTKPXLRtJwDUij-cMgnVBQTlYWIsTVrWnFmVI/s1600/New+Picture+(1).bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIkSs6OYFQkCVkQiea0v-C8e3rbd70XG46M1CpkV9MUZ2PdEQnm2XPKkz_fFHeJLIHGeld25awN79yZy7tntq_kzI0bz3UHhweTBvGrLTKPXLRtJwDUij-cMgnVBQTlYWIsTVrWnFmVI/s1600/New+Picture+(1).bmp" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An actual image of the roots growing into our sewer line. That's what homeownership looks like, kids!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-41570643109669608252014-05-19T12:09:00.000-07:002014-05-19T12:09:25.964-07:00Disposable StereotypesSo we're <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/04/pulling-goalie.html" target="_blank">having a baby</a>. <br />
<br />
Slowly we are preparing ourselves for the arrival of our little bundle of replicated genes. We've officially started Moving Furniture in Anticipation of the Baby. If this were an 80's movie montage, right now there'd be scenes of us painting the nursery and trying to put the crib together.<br />
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<br />
<br />
As a librarian and a teacher, of course we're getting our fair share of reading in, too. Every week Katherine asks me to pick up some new book on baby rearing at my library. We have 341,653 decisions to make, and we want to be prepared. <br />
<br />
One decision is whether to use cloth or disposable diapers. Considering we're both crunchy hippie granola types, it seems pretty self-evident that we'll use cloth diapers. I use my own cloth <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2010/12/miracle-snot-rag.html" target="_blank">handkerchiefs</a>, for snot's sake!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms1AuEHT98OBdZWyKiImhmiWcnNmC6tJMuyf4SghqAOY-9a695T8pV0PeOj1QwBZZ6AGrz3BxkHUtAW9aqDMCEtGnHYy8YClUHb91bO3wD6UxS-TOVL_ZUfwVbG6qVbCzWFPw4jf05rc/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms1AuEHT98OBdZWyKiImhmiWcnNmC6tJMuyf4SghqAOY-9a695T8pV0PeOj1QwBZZ6AGrz3BxkHUtAW9aqDMCEtGnHYy8YClUHb91bO3wD6UxS-TOVL_ZUfwVbG6qVbCzWFPw4jf05rc/s1600/index.jpg" height="203" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
So Katherine asked me to check out the following book from my library: <i>Changing Diapers: The Hip Mom's Guide to Modern Cloth Diapering</i> by Kelly Wels. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFPwFS0LnqsyXD9G8YOzdREHeFohrvsyZj6MCrUmX9R-i5cnqRxIZJMCgwxSmPpi5Ry-kvi2MAYI6M42A2aNOduzRtYGd3oeZpSC8FqCMkzWyCzXzVQIeXID8fPoVpiX1cjQXUuB199I/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFPwFS0LnqsyXD9G8YOzdREHeFohrvsyZj6MCrUmX9R-i5cnqRxIZJMCgwxSmPpi5Ry-kvi2MAYI6M42A2aNOduzRtYGd3oeZpSC8FqCMkzWyCzXzVQIeXID8fPoVpiX1cjQXUuB199I/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
It's a small square book, novelty-sized, and we thought it would guide us in all the things we need to know about using cloth diapers.<br />
<br />
But the second page of the introduction already turned us off with this disclaimer:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Hey, Dads! Just so you know, this book is for you, too! Please swap out "mom" for "dad" wherever appropriate.</i></blockquote>
<br />
And then it goes on to address the whole book toward "mom." Why can't they just use the gender-neutral "parent" if they want to appeal to dads, also? <br />
<br />
Our hackles were already raised, but then when Katherine flipped through the book she found this passage, in a chapter called "Daddies and Diapers":<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If Dad needs convincing (because he's going to be doing his fair shair of changing diapers too), start your conversation with this: "Honey, how would you like to save $2,500?" <br />
<br />
As his head swims with the idea that he really might be able to get that big-screen TV after all the unanticipated costs of having a baby are added up, he could be brought on board rather quickly.... Don't force the issue. Why don't you leave this book near his favorite spot (maybe in the bathroom or by the TV remote) and put a bookmark right here on this chapter.</blockquote>
Um, no. This book advertises itself as "hip" and "modern", but its attitudes towards men are neither. Manipulate your man with money-- he doesn't care about the environment! Men have to be reminded (parenthetically) that they might have to change a diaper or two. Men have a raging boner for big-screen TVs. How could a book on such a progressive, environmental topic be so openly sexist?<br />
<br />
I realize that my wife and I are not mainstream in our gender roles and beliefs, but surely we're not that far off the norm, are we? The same year that Wels' book was published (2011), the Census Bureau reported that <a href="https://www.census.gov/newsroom/releases/archives/children/cb11-198.html" target="_blank">One-Third of Fathers with Working Wives Regularly Care for Their Children</a>. That's a pretty large population to ignore. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmQuPvG69Y7jWya-4e3FYrv6jqiRctLWgGDuB1uXCwozvJjZkXsTP94zfMyeL9JbyIYBTCZvymtsuOeBiYxeoPxE9BcIBp85Nwh0tXGhs6afI1FOjypC69CdP06X8XiglgxEPrwsYIHQ/s1600/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmQuPvG69Y7jWya-4e3FYrv6jqiRctLWgGDuB1uXCwozvJjZkXsTP94zfMyeL9JbyIYBTCZvymtsuOeBiYxeoPxE9BcIBp85Nwh0tXGhs6afI1FOjypC69CdP06X8XiglgxEPrwsYIHQ/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-12989550648753986832014-05-10T18:51:00.002-07:002014-05-10T18:55:41.921-07:00More on Lying and Questionable NarratorsI seem to be unusually preoccupied with <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2012/03/liar.html" target="_blank">liars</a> and <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2012/09/unreliable-narrators.html" target="_blank">unreliable narrators</a> and <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2011/12/things-i-want-you-to-know-about-eva.html" target="_blank">fishy witnesses</a>. It's a theme that I write a lot about.<br />
<br />
Because the truth is always so important to me, I'm both appalled and fascinated by people who seem to make shit up, get the facts wrong, or exaggerate excessively. I guess I'm in the right profession for that, being a reference librarian and all. Information Literacy is my business and my passion.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm obsessed with lying the same way sexually-repressed conservative Christians are obsessed with pornography. It gives them "disapproval boners," as Jon Stewart would say. In the same way, I get truth boners. <br />
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
The latest thing to give me a truth boner is the book <i>The Informant: A True Story</i> by Kurt Eichenwald. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNw-TcykjoSo2oO_Q8kMGXkrze3SCeqfPhOARSu3-mSobgXBZLNSPAxG-dLdxIJpyN9FopEKzER7RTKi-h1oHiDpOcWVyQ1JxqL-OOgQGuyrlC4G6CXEkGIqU1U3v2u8XOlCAyGPWUIY/s1600/51aMTi6wXbL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNw-TcykjoSo2oO_Q8kMGXkrze3SCeqfPhOARSu3-mSobgXBZLNSPAxG-dLdxIJpyN9FopEKzER7RTKi-h1oHiDpOcWVyQ1JxqL-OOgQGuyrlC4G6CXEkGIqU1U3v2u8XOlCAyGPWUIY/s1600/51aMTi6wXbL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" height="320" width="208" /></a></div>
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<br />
When I first picked up this book, which is over 500 pages long, I almost put it back on the shelf. I don't have time to read a 500-page book, I thought. I knew there was a movie about it, so maybe I'd just watch that instead. But Katherine convinced me to read the book.<br />
<br />
Wow, am I glad I read it!<br />
<br />
I spent an entire weekend doing almost nothing but reading this book. And I'm not a marathon reader. I haven't read a book this fast since the last Harry Potter came out, and the only reason I read that one so fast was that I wanted to avoid spoilers. <br />
<br />
Why was it so fascinating? I wanted to get to The Truth. I knew that the book was full of lies-- foreshadowing in the first few pages practically promises it-- but I wanted to know what were the lies and what was the truth. <br />
<br />
It's a quick read, with lots of very short scenes and paragraphs that glide along. Aside from great stories of the world of white collar crime and law enforcement bureaucracy, the book is<span class="userContent"> a fascinating study of a champion liar.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">I don't think I'm giving away too many spoilers by saying that Mark Whitacre, the main character in the book, is a lying piece of shit. He lies to everyone. Constantly. His lies are stuffed with lies, sauteed in lie sauce, smothered in lies, with lie sprinkles on top. </span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDCWFxpnHUR9IS6SC_6Pmp145lsfG-2BUlttLQtlMOUjDeue0F9HVBWvHUcrDBDk6ae0kOpWzv10U-4E1feo2PPsC-7kU69OXoOycz5fLQNK5hhfNxGCLOQvETJ-s2Ga1BVN07unyry0/s1600/lying-i_hate_a_liar_540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDCWFxpnHUR9IS6SC_6Pmp145lsfG-2BUlttLQtlMOUjDeue0F9HVBWvHUcrDBDk6ae0kOpWzv10U-4E1feo2PPsC-7kU69OXoOycz5fLQNK5hhfNxGCLOQvETJ-s2Ga1BVN07unyry0/s1600/lying-i_hate_a_liar_540.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span class="userContent">Even when Whitacre is caught in all the lies, and colleagues, investigators, prosecutors, even his own lawyer, say, "Enough! YOU MUST TELL US THE TRUTH NOW OR VERY BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN!" Whitacre promises-- absolutely promises!-- that this time he's going to come clean. Even then... he lies. About a dozen times this process repeats itself. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">The man is pathologically incapable of telling the truth. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">He lies to himself as well. He deludes himself into thinking that after this is all over, he will be the hero of this story, vindicated and loved by everyone. The few times when he does decide to reveal the truth, he does it in a spectacular way with the most inappropriate people, which only lands him in deeper trouble. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSIcZPznOL33Rpjvz2EboNvoTobQvHVK2OvXwTAQmD7aUrduYOG1beWXCsOo7984Nl9sW41ewWru3IjQXsv4JPVV_tEfIgBq_W_9Xmu3xHhAgQlMDlVcTy9Nl3MX5z0PfgF_2-pMk8GU/s1600/train-wreck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSIcZPznOL33Rpjvz2EboNvoTobQvHVK2OvXwTAQmD7aUrduYOG1beWXCsOo7984Nl9sW41ewWru3IjQXsv4JPVV_tEfIgBq_W_9Xmu3xHhAgQlMDlVcTy9Nl3MX5z0PfgF_2-pMk8GU/s1600/train-wreck.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span class="userContent"> Fascinating. I just can't look away! </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">+++++<br /> </span><br />
<span class="userContent">Of course, lying is not always so cut and dry. Sometimes people see the same event from two different perspectives, and it's not so much about the truth, but perceptions. For example, did I <i>yell </i>at my wife for making a mess at breakfast, or did I lovingly point out to her that there are crumbs all over the table?</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Pat Conroy has written a lot of bestselling books (the most famous is <i>The Prince of Tides</i>), but the one that made the biggest impression on me was <i>The Great Santini</i>, where he gives a fictionalized account of his father, a marine fighter pilot who terrorized Conroy's whole family with his violence and detachment. (He's written about his father in some non-fiction books as well. The portrait is always the same.) </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Now Conroy has published a new book, <i>The Death of Santini</i>, a non-fiction memoir/biography that directly addresses his family's issues.</span><br />
<br />
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<span class="userContent"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGaWs0CHokD1R61IZTp3pzr3hZiytMahuVokjblLEZ0_IoHd9L3wB1qcR1KeH_xJYDNu9uU_n-2lyjCRFMJ7TFPFdFVh2JxEMUEyd6RSxLPKQuvztlahAi85H0eyv22UQUspCINYXyk1U/s1600/death-of-santini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGaWs0CHokD1R61IZTp3pzr3hZiytMahuVokjblLEZ0_IoHd9L3wB1qcR1KeH_xJYDNu9uU_n-2lyjCRFMJ7TFPFdFVh2JxEMUEyd6RSxLPKQuvztlahAi85H0eyv22UQUspCINYXyk1U/s1600/death-of-santini.jpg" height="320" width="210" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">I'm reading the book now, and although many of the stories in it are interesting, about halfway through I started to get a funny feeling. I started to question the narrator. Things didn't make sense. Everything seemed to be so overwrought, with bad dialogue and behavior that didn't seem authentic to me. I couldn't understand why these characters (real people) were reacting the way they were, and it felt like facts were being manipulated to fit the narrative. And a lot of things seemed to contradict earlier events.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Conroy writes about how his father, and many members of his family, dispute his account of his childhood. And it's not just small things they can't agree on, like what year they visited Disneyland, but big things, like whether or not his mother, during a savage beating at a birthday party, stabbed his father in the back in self-defense. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">Conroy's account of his childhood is that his father administered regular beatings to every member of the family. Not only was he physically abusive, he taunted and bullied them mercilessly. They all lived in mortal fear of their father, and Conroy cannot summon one memory from his childhood where his father showed any love, concern, or tenderness: "It never occurred to my father that part of his job description was to love his children." </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">His father, on the other hand, claims that Pat always had an overactive imagination, and that he never laid a finger on his wife or children. The senior Conroy claims his son exaggerated his awful childhood for literary effect. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">How can these two "truths" be so far apart? </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">While it's interesting, and even admirable, that Conroy includes these wildly differing perceptions in his memoir, I can't tell if he includes them in order to show that his father was, on top of everything else, dismissive and unapologetic, or if he wants to cast doubt on his own memories. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">+++++ </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">This reminds me of a story I heard once on <i>This American Life</i> about a <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/485/surrogates?act=2" target="_blank">woman whose father adopted a 27-year-old ex-convict who had murdered his own parents</a>. In the course of telling this story, the narrator recounted how her father had been abusive to her and her sister throughout their whole childhood. He had essentially terrorized them, the same way that Pat Conroy's father did. She was so traumatized by the experience that when it came time to interview her father for the story, she had to have a colleague do it. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">When asked directly if he had ever physically abused his daughter, her father flat-out denied it. He even claimed to have a wonderful relationship with his adult daughter. It was surreal, because his daughter believed she was estranged from him. Clearly, someone was lying. Or had such deluded perceptions as to be unrecognizable as truth. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Both of these stories involve abuse, and both of them have fathers denying horrible things their children said they'd done. I know that men of a certain generation didn't think anything of hitting their children (even my father did it on occasion.) I also know that parents of past generations didn't talk about certain things.</span><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> You didn't air your dirty laundry in public.</span></span><br />
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<br />
So I don't know what actually happened in Pat Conroy's family. Was his father really as brutal as he says he was? Or was he just your typical authoritarian father from the 50's whose oversensitive son resented his "discipline"? <br />
<br />
Is Pat or his father lying? Or is one of them deluded? Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-61184067551955215792014-05-01T08:41:00.004-07:002014-05-06T09:08:34.471-07:0044 ReasonsI got 44 reasons to hate "spring" in Chicago. <br />
<br />
It's May 1st, and it's 44 degrees out.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClCceK2vpjw7LlzT3Fkq0HY4ASi9IlIkDft7fOfXFf2Ok-g-xSYoG4FozIDQiHFq7d7l5ZkFNOtP4zrFlcFXuSYweVhBlVKch6ekIaFo9URsDYvFax3gPAcpRWzE9EM7eL5j4CP-cilE/s1600/%7BC5069127-DFFE-44C3-B5B7-5EDEBF4A6D26%7D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClCceK2vpjw7LlzT3Fkq0HY4ASi9IlIkDft7fOfXFf2Ok-g-xSYoG4FozIDQiHFq7d7l5ZkFNOtP4zrFlcFXuSYweVhBlVKch6ekIaFo9URsDYvFax3gPAcpRWzE9EM7eL5j4CP-cilE/s1600/%7BC5069127-DFFE-44C3-B5B7-5EDEBF4A6D26%7D.JPG" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Meanwhile, in my old home of Champaign, it was 70 degrees last weekend. Here, it was 44.<br />
<br />
Katherine warned me that there was no spring in Chicago. She told me that every year when she visits Champaign for the state math meet (she's the math team coach) in early May, it would already be warm and springy there, while Chicago was still cold and dreary.<br />
<br />
You wouldn't think that 150 miles further north would make much of a difference, but when the radio people in Chicago talk about a beautiful spring day being in the 40's & 50's, I yell at them, "THAT IS NOT SPRING!!!" Spring is in the 60's and 70's. Anything below 60 degrees is just an addendum to winter. <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
I bring up the weather because I think it may be one of the...<br />
<br />
<b>44 reasons why I suck at tennis</b>. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGCvA-uqmFpD4BGSpSGH_jSazLgc9iKtg7YqgRz2Cldogm2T4nmghFtzNKoEpAOH3zkUyHT7sFdlP2CT7GyMdnqg1PGUjnXiKRn27ehc6AdvOmnxh3yPC4id0LWz6TmVhcXnXWXPWKyQ/s1600/412113bf5bdc811fc4419a3f0a1d11f8.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGCvA-uqmFpD4BGSpSGH_jSazLgc9iKtg7YqgRz2Cldogm2T4nmghFtzNKoEpAOH3zkUyHT7sFdlP2CT7GyMdnqg1PGUjnXiKRn27ehc6AdvOmnxh3yPC4id0LWz6TmVhcXnXWXPWKyQ/s1600/412113bf5bdc811fc4419a3f0a1d11f8.png" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I know I'm supposed to be a <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-power-of-ring.html" target="_blank">big tennis stud champion</a>, but the truth is that I'm average. In my 7-year tennis career I've had moments of supreme triumph and moments of utter humiliation. And everything in between. In 2011/2012, I had a stretch where I lost 21 out of 24 matches, including 10 in a row. Last year, after losing three straight matches, I went on the longest winning streak of my life, with 18 straight victories, including winning the playoffs in my new league. That was the pinnacle of my career.<br />
<br />
My winning streak ended, and since that time I've lost 7 matches and won 6. But the wins have been hard to come by, and the losses have been humiliating. I've been "bageled" (lost a set 6-0) four times. <br />
<br />
Lately, in particular, I've been in a bad streak. Those four bagels I've suffered were all in the past 2 months. I play the same people I've been playing, but with worse results. I've been playing poorly, it feels like my rhythm is off, and I don't have the confidence I used to have. What is wrong with me?<br />
<br />
I'm a problem solver and a curious person. I want to know WHY I don't feel like I'm playing well. Here are some possible reasons:<br />
<br />
<b>Leftitis</b><br />
Every year near the end of winter I notice that the <a href="http://tim-alone.blogspot.com/2009/03/left-leaning-timicitis.html" target="_blank">left side of my abdomen twinges</a>. I hesitate to even call it pain, but I notice it and sometimes it's uncomfortable. Maybe it's even more mentally painful than physical, because... what is it? It doesn't prevent me from doing anything, I still play tennis, do my pushups/situps, and take walks and stuff. But I wonder if it might have a very subtle effect on my tennis. And it always shows up around this time of year. (Actually, it's usually earlier in the year, but since winter lasts longer in Chicago, it's happening later this year.) <br />
<br />
So now I'm curious: do I always get in a tennis slump this time of year? I do remember it was February two years ago that I in a horrible slump that I thought would never end. So maybe it's just this time of year?<br />
<br />
In addition to being a huge tennis stud, I'm also a huge spreadsheet nerd, so I have a record of every (official) match I've ever played in an Excel spreadsheet. So let me look back and see if my record in February/March is worse than usual...<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1kQW_NS4NVI3RiSQE_OhhL9tGDifVzF1K_PeBvVSe8qPF2lgZHObCUeqGxHhVUaF5gI56fhFhCxaTTXijpvOHC0-QKOdQITMsIfcuKDwtsjSsO2S77VVpopMJpLp7fhMeV40TQ9gTzk/s1600/New+Picture+(1).bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1kQW_NS4NVI3RiSQE_OhhL9tGDifVzF1K_PeBvVSe8qPF2lgZHObCUeqGxHhVUaF5gI56fhFhCxaTTXijpvOHC0-QKOdQITMsIfcuKDwtsjSsO2S77VVpopMJpLp7fhMeV40TQ9gTzk/s1600/New+Picture+(1).bmp" height="291" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
...and it's not. There really is no statistical correlation to my winning % in February and March than there is to the warmer months like July and August. I think there are simply too many other factors at play. Like for, example: <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Tougher Competition</b><br />
Of course the biggest factor of whether I win or lose a match has to be my opponent. Certain people will always beat me, because they're just the better player. That's how it should be. And some guys I will always beat, because they don't match up well against my style. I play in a lot of different league with a lot of different types of guys, and when I play in the tougher leagues at the tougher levels, I'm going to get my butt kicked. <br />
<br />
Of course, there are also people that I match up well against, and we trade wins back and forth. It is in those cases where I should probably measure how I do this time of year, but frankly I don't have the time or inclination to tease out those numbers.<br />
<br />
<b>New Glasses</b><br />
A few months ago I got my very first pair of bifocals. They're progressive lenses, and they took some getting used to. The first few weeks I wore them they felt weird and I didn't like them. Any time I moved my head my sight was blurry. And you'd be surprised how often I move my head! But somehow, I got used to them, so now I don't notice it.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLAooopbuRJ7Ra2AhmEFUghWx2EYsXCnZHC-aJhFKIN04F74WP-WkKA_zhVY96oIyfrw6gjCSB-EhNLsoWxjjQxpKEBsNxFun1WSgltguQ8h4dQsWCVRymmw5dq9fL5DSaVIA8RhIxaQ/s1600/10308094_10152351155682290_6086780080416582403_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLAooopbuRJ7Ra2AhmEFUghWx2EYsXCnZHC-aJhFKIN04F74WP-WkKA_zhVY96oIyfrw6gjCSB-EhNLsoWxjjQxpKEBsNxFun1WSgltguQ8h4dQsWCVRymmw5dq9fL5DSaVIA8RhIxaQ/s1600/10308094_10152351155682290_6086780080416582403_n.jpg" height="271" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new bifocals: Hipster Nerd.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I first got my new bifocals I tried to play tennis with them, and it was a disaster. I move my head around A LOT in tennis. My far-side vision hadn't changed at all, so I could still use my old glasses to play tennis. I kind of liked the idea of having my own set of glasses for tennis. But now that my brain has gotten used to the new bifocals, I wonder if I need to play tennis with them on. But with so many other factors, it's hard to know... <br />
<br />
<b>New Strings</b><br />
When I lived in Champaign, I had my own racket guy. He was awesome. We played together a lot, and I'd ask him what kind of racket to get, and he'd give me a long analysis of which kind of racket matched my style. He was also my racket stringer. He would recommend which kind of strings I needed and string my racket for me. Since moving to Chicago I haven't found a good, personal racket stringer like that.<br />
<br />
I recently had my racket restrung here in Chicagoland, and I can't tell if the new strings are good for me or not. I need my racket guy! <br />
<br />
<b>The Baby</b><br />
I know that once I become a father, my life will be over and my tennis will suck because I'll get no sleep and have no energy and the baby will consume my life. (It's true, <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2011/03/singles-tennis.html" target="_blank">single men</a> have more tennis success.) But it's worth noting that ever since we even found out <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2014/04/pulling-goalie.html" target="_blank">we're pregnant</a>, my tennis has gone downhill. Maybe mentally I've already begun the slow slide toward playing tennis with a baby strapped to my back. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQkLt-RoEhvMUn0P4byvl_Mvbqws12WwgAPL-3Xu11zRza2DzcJZwf-I4pNkJCxA9LIzb7neLKxMY5yNbQun-FO-5IeFNBAv_u8_uk9jF9FHBe6hRGJFnusv7v-iFovY_zNZwpw3hxXk/s1600/DSC00006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQkLt-RoEhvMUn0P4byvl_Mvbqws12WwgAPL-3Xu11zRza2DzcJZwf-I4pNkJCxA9LIzb7neLKxMY5yNbQun-FO-5IeFNBAv_u8_uk9jF9FHBe6hRGJFnusv7v-iFovY_zNZwpw3hxXk/s1600/DSC00006.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This could really limit my game</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-45317625564251780282014-04-13T11:54:00.002-07:002014-04-13T12:03:13.893-07:00Pulling the GoalieWhen my sister-in-law asked me if we'd "pulled the goalie," I knew exactly what she meant. I laughed, and hemmed and hawed, and tried to answer. The answer was yes, but without getting too graphic and personal, we weren't exactly taking direct shots at the net.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEijR1TvCfsLlGWTlV9Kfp5LKtQLGuMWgsMCxAtjoswYw0fXfteGgMc3W59ttsakZfWT75hE3fugpJKuSvL0H0pn5Lc-P4cAKDmT5MWCcBYmcUz2O75jvNF2iwNPuWA60hfM26QXv8uI/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEijR1TvCfsLlGWTlV9Kfp5LKtQLGuMWgsMCxAtjoswYw0fXfteGgMc3W59ttsakZfWT75hE3fugpJKuSvL0H0pn5Lc-P4cAKDmT5MWCcBYmcUz2O75jvNF2iwNPuWA60hfM26QXv8uI/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
After 42 years of hemming and hawing, I'm ready to fulfill my biological purpose: to replicate my genes.<br />
<br />
I've been reading lots of books on evolutionary biology lately, because I love it and it's awesome. Our bodies evolved in a very different environment than we live in today. We are "built" to maximize survival and reproduction under much more precarious conditions. Once we got really big brains and learned how to create tools, we started to change our environment to suit our needs, rather than evolve to suit the environment. This fascinates me. <br />
<br />
It also fascinates me how easily evolution and natural selection is misunderstood, even by people who believe in it and support it. The single most important determining factor in natural selection is making babies. Whichever individual makes more babies, and those babies survive to make more babies of their own, will most influence the course of its species' evolution. People love to argue about the evolutionary value or purpose of certain traits or features. But not every trait or feature has a purposeful "design." A lot of them are side effects that don't necessarily affect evolution one way or another. At the heart of it is making babies who continue to pass on your genes. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDavV3AkeRuETOmZ7o3U5ofNN3bG71kGu5Gz05O913ZXEoFRr551npib0LJKnnpWddqvIHADow3YL4ET4Q23ghYCGKO6G3pdeoBwqAtTCsMIMoyvDK-5XIXvgJcjxYCN9uKk0hE1CeA4/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDavV3AkeRuETOmZ7o3U5ofNN3bG71kGu5Gz05O913ZXEoFRr551npib0LJKnnpWddqvIHADow3YL4ET4Q23ghYCGKO6G3pdeoBwqAtTCsMIMoyvDK-5XIXvgJcjxYCN9uKk0hE1CeA4/s1600/index.jpg" height="276" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many people like to label others' stupid activity as "Darwin Awards." The only criterion for whether a stupid action would relate to Darwin is if that stupid action prevented you from making, or having made, babies.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
With our enormous brains, humans tend to overthink it (like everything), but we are subject to biological forces just like the bears, birds, and bees. We've devised all these tools that enable us to cheat a little-- to satisfy many of our biological urges without having to deal with the biological consequences. <br />
<br />
For example, take sex. (Please!) <br />
<br />
We now have tools and knowledge that enable us to enjoy sex without ever having to fulfill its primary biological purpose, which is to make babies. <br />
<br />
For my entire adult life, I've been trying to have sex. On many happy occasions I've been successful, but I've also spent my entire sexual life trying as equally hard NOT to make a baby. Sometimes I've used two or three non-baby-making strategies at the same time. I really did NOT want to make a baby. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc2Lq8LWAzogJh2prda8XGm7BeqjOLFckFQiPTYpfE3fta-nzipiFZj_gnrO551XeNGySMKBLhzbVsrZRrcU5pQNmSgL5M-dv0uA8sbnkG40OzNVF-_13OvDfg0Jwmgta-k5Kxsvot-jc/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc2Lq8LWAzogJh2prda8XGm7BeqjOLFckFQiPTYpfE3fta-nzipiFZj_gnrO551XeNGySMKBLhzbVsrZRrcU5pQNmSgL5M-dv0uA8sbnkG40OzNVF-_13OvDfg0Jwmgta-k5Kxsvot-jc/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Now my wife and I are trying to make a baby. All those precautions, all that meticulous attention toward NOT making a baby, has not only been thrown out the window, but I'm actively going AGAINST that impulse. It's a very strange attitude reversal. It's like spending your whole life trying to avoid heroin, only to decide, "Alright, let's do as much heroin as we can!!!" <br />
<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
With our advanced ages, and knowing so many other people who've had trouble conceiving, Katherine and I devised many baby-making strategies and prepared ourselves for several months of baby-making fun and toil. In January we got into a quasi-argument about our different approaches (clinical vs. spontaneous.) Oh, well, we said, we'll do better next month. In preparation for that, we bought an "ovulation kit" at Walgreens. <br />
<br />
A few weeks later I asked Katherine where she was in her cycle and when we should break out the ovulation kit. She mentioned that she was three days late with her period.<br />
<br />
"Maybe you're pregnant," I said.<br />
<br />
I was totally joking.<br />
<br />
The ovulation kit came with a pregnancy test, so she took it. Here's what it showed:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7yg7596PnH96aNBi3oPiKL38w5C3l6OL4VwpVSvUCVvpos79nN6CEFXcF63KwryveOJeBUDzRJbpQlqWtOkI9RibcUVekT9oNd0_iDO_z0aXdFGn0GMeaJGBSCkmRYQcrHKTYkDpH6A/s1600/pregtest.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7yg7596PnH96aNBi3oPiKL38w5C3l6OL4VwpVSvUCVvpos79nN6CEFXcF63KwryveOJeBUDzRJbpQlqWtOkI9RibcUVekT9oNd0_iDO_z0aXdFGn0GMeaJGBSCkmRYQcrHKTYkDpH6A/s1600/pregtest.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Now, you might notice that the horizontal line is not as blue as the vertical one. All the pregnancy tests (and books) say, "It doesn't matter how faint a line is." But we didn't believe it. The next day, she took another test with the same result. <br />
<br />
We were in shock. How could we possibly be pregnant? There were literally like only three times that we could have conceived. It's not supposed to happen this quickly. It's supposed to be harder than this. <br />
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
There's a saying that you can't be a little pregnant-- you either are or you aren't. That's not actually true, though. There ARE degrees of pregnancy. The further along the pregnancy gets, the more real it becomes. Many people don't tell others they're pregnant until after the first trimester, when the chances of miscarriage decrease substantially. But I think we can say that Katherine is definitely more pregnant now than she was 8 weeks ago. Or at least in our minds, the pregnancy is more real than it was then. <br />
<br />
We told a few select members of our families immediately, but we decided not to make it public until week 12. We're finding it very difficult not to tell people, though. [This post was started in January, but I wasn't allowed to post it til now.]<br />
<br />
The first week we found out, I accidentally told a guy I played tennis with. He asked me if I had kids, and I said, "No, but my wife and I are starting the process." I meant this to mean we were trying (i.e. "pulling the goalie"), but he responded with, "Congratulations!" Oops.<br />
<br />
That same week I was at work and feeling dizzy. One of my co-workers joked, "Maybe you're pregnant." Then she added, "Men can have sympathetic symptoms, you know." I laughed and bit my tongue.<br />
<br />
As time has moved on Katherine found it harder and harder not to tell some of her best friends. We amended our rule to: only tell people you would be comfortable telling about a miscarriage, too. <br />
<br />
Now we're 16 weeks in, and the doctor has advised us that we can make it public. "You can post it on Facebook now," she said, reading my mind. After three ultrasounds and some genetic testing, the baby appears to be healthy so far. I have named it Cletus Fetus, since it is the only name I know of that rhymes with "fetus." <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfoTqLoRy8cTLC7AIKTrOF4m8rs7Nf9VlohFpBQK_06LgsqPGOUx70OlJx2my2KSiDXYS_PGnyVmYFaqqH7t2tN9zp4FdGJ_-xtiwgZ0qysgPlHOCJpgeYiQxaDZYvkqE3wtcncjKDtQU/s1600/20140217_154102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfoTqLoRy8cTLC7AIKTrOF4m8rs7Nf9VlohFpBQK_06LgsqPGOUx70OlJx2my2KSiDXYS_PGnyVmYFaqqH7t2tN9zp4FdGJ_-xtiwgZ0qysgPlHOCJpgeYiQxaDZYvkqE3wtcncjKDtQU/s1600/20140217_154102.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Here's the very first picture of Cletus. At the time it appeared that we were spawning an alien crab-like pinto bean. Since then it has grown a head and a body and arms and legs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4oGSbzTazgSO0bTlZHRUBXwpBX_p-TkSSbj5iOTUX3cfFfUBDQ-egzJtsTJaLwYe0nm9fc95uH3_YCGb-xbv3sL91lOl8HClV3WoOrnaYq50Ny5i80SRU9ecQ24OY4fN4qJH05LNUjdQ/s1600/03_19+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4oGSbzTazgSO0bTlZHRUBXwpBX_p-TkSSbj5iOTUX3cfFfUBDQ-egzJtsTJaLwYe0nm9fc95uH3_YCGb-xbv3sL91lOl8HClV3WoOrnaYq50Ny5i80SRU9ecQ24OY4fN4qJH05LNUjdQ/s1600/03_19+(1).jpg" height="169" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcR_iHj1xNUigjA5CH5EmN8Ufm1F9fmzYP77Z90hm2pgz97VD0M0CHxRN-o4UGx7lHof6EqpS2dvPXLb4lkv0dOraVuRCYVbH1ffMcboy1E9ypvB01BOay7fL0zJWZ-hFSVF0t-X29LN8/s1600/03_19+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
Although the baby has doubled in size with each new ultrasound, the pictures themselves don't look as good. Here is Cletus at 12 weeks. <br />
<br />
It will be interesting to see what a mix of our genes comes out as. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-3811239071034343142014-04-09T13:48:00.000-07:002014-04-09T13:50:21.005-07:00Public Radio's Perfect PrankI've written <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2010/04/april-honest-day.html" target="_blank">before</a> about how I feel about April Fool's Day, the day when you're supposed to <i>lie </i>to your friends and loved ones. (I can't believe it's been four years since I wrote that! No joke.)<br />
<br />
My point back then was that April Fool's is a stupid tradition that is often executed in a lame way that's not even very fun or interesting. I still feel that way. This year I was supposed to get "fooled" by George Takei's announcement on FB that he was hosting Saturday Night Live. And then... ha ha! It was all a joke! He's not hosting SNL! I love Takei's page dearly, and it probably makes up about 40% of my FB reading, but c'mon George, you're better than that. I didn't really care that you were going to host SNL, so revealing it as a big prank was just lame. <br />
<br />
There were, however, two clever exceptions I saw this year. One was from <i>Inside Higher Ed</i>, a nerdy education journal that posted a <a href="http://www.insidehighered.com/quicktakes/2014/04/01/bryn-mawr-decides-drop-vowels" target="_blank">story about Bryn Mawr College deciding to stop using vowels</a>: "Bryn Mawr College is announcing today that it is dropping the vowels from its name and questioning the use of vowels generally. The college will now be known as Brn Mwr."<br />
<br />
This is a good joke because it's so obviously fake that it's not trying to trick anyone. And it makes fun of the college's name, which already looks like it's missing vowels. This is humor worthy of <i>The Onion</i>.<br />
<br />
But the best April Fool's joke I saw this year, perhaps the best one I've ever seen, was published by the NPR's FB page last week. They published a story with the headline, "<a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/04/01/297690717/why-doesnt-america-read-anymore?utm_medium=facebook&utm_source=npr&utm_campaign=nprnews&utm_content=04012014" target="_blank">Why Doesn't America Read Anymore?</a>" If you followed the link to the actual article, it said:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Congratulations, genuine readers, and happy April Fools' Day!<br />
<br />
We
sometimes get the sense that some people are commenting on NPR stories
that they haven't actually read. If you are reading this, please like
this post and do not comment on it. Then let's see what people have to
say about this "story."</blockquote>
<br />
However, the clever people at NPR knew how some people would respond to this. (They've probably experienced this phenomenon enough times to know how it would turn out.) They knew "readers" would dive in with their angry and opinionated comments without having read the article. And that's <a href="http://gawker.com/npr-pulled-a-brilliant-april-fools-prank-on-people-who-1557745710" target="_blank">what they did</a>. "I still read!" they shouted at the misleading headline.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChipXfHS6qidwVyhPCAfavW2p8uZomFUpXldLmSOvcyjTxctCWQq6Dr6FxFMUEvaDlxzhsSQjOphgVd4hjh3Odgbq3KfvveaFi8OAAMTxajib_Jz36NjVpztMcV_p5-qGBIksqXXtNRM/s1600/iacxalxz7wd1uwosnbdy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChipXfHS6qidwVyhPCAfavW2p8uZomFUpXldLmSOvcyjTxctCWQq6Dr6FxFMUEvaDlxzhsSQjOphgVd4hjh3Odgbq3KfvveaFi8OAAMTxajib_Jz36NjVpztMcV_p5-qGBIksqXXtNRM/s1600/iacxalxz7wd1uwosnbdy.jpg" height="300" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This was not just a sophomoric prank to show how smart NPR is and what a fool you are. It actually proved a serious point: that people need to actually read the details of what they're up in arms about before they start bloviating about it.<br />
<br />
Well played, NPR. Well played. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-5238982070845906222014-03-26T10:59:00.000-07:002014-03-26T19:20:36.557-07:00How to Have a Proper First World Problem One of the many links I visit regularly is this one:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/firstworldproblems">http://www.reddit.com/r/firstworldproblems</a><br />
<br />
It's a list of different people's First World Problems. Some of them are very funny, poignant, and appropriate.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbx4OBQjCb4fJp8sp5frgQkDjYepdi23QLt_cxFiDVQpq76YjKCzJiSbcGeF9HzJevhNkpMqSuWqUh1IAuPlIcdRJeB4mBqWFar4oP0AuVFBayF3lm5oVq2FP07d9JguCwZI3uwGN1Bdo/s1600/tumblr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbx4OBQjCb4fJp8sp5frgQkDjYepdi23QLt_cxFiDVQpq76YjKCzJiSbcGeF9HzJevhNkpMqSuWqUh1IAuPlIcdRJeB4mBqWFar4oP0AuVFBayF3lm5oVq2FP07d9JguCwZI3uwGN1Bdo/s1600/tumblr.jpg" height="241" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
But every once in a while someone will post something that shows they just Don't Get It. A First World Problem is not something that focuses on the big picture. It doesn't shine an obvious light into the differences between you and the unwashed masses.<br />
<br />
Take, for example:<br />
<br />
"We have so much healthy, nourishing, delicious food that it won't all fit in our refrigerator."<br />
<br />
"My house is so large that the wifi won't reach my room." <br />
<br />
"People who don't vaccinate their kids." <br />
<br />
"My garage is too small for my collection of Ferraris."<br />
<br />
These are trying too hard to illustrate the difference between the First World and the Third World. (The last one, BTW, is not a First World Problem but a One-Percenter Problem. A lot of those often get mixed in with the FWP page.)<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhdqWy1zhOIuClbR-gIREPAE9vU_febQJBNEvEgwzOGRcIxvyKG9hOVnikuVRQcsSgNTNH3UiGmzIZVi7KvDsO8pZRBcu4yIIWvmw0yNo_0YpqLtupg3Tm1YTDU60HWasMgnhhIL1dzg/s1600/4f94ca12400398ca5f2fc53d0fb67ef2311b5a795e60cecdfe11c5af40964b85.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhdqWy1zhOIuClbR-gIREPAE9vU_febQJBNEvEgwzOGRcIxvyKG9hOVnikuVRQcsSgNTNH3UiGmzIZVi7KvDsO8pZRBcu4yIIWvmw0yNo_0YpqLtupg3Tm1YTDU60HWasMgnhhIL1dzg/s1600/4f94ca12400398ca5f2fc53d0fb67ef2311b5a795e60cecdfe11c5af40964b85.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A good FWP is something so minor and trivial that it could only be an issue to someone who has all their basic needs taken care of. It doesn't illustrate the kinds of things that people in the Third World covet, it's something they wouldn't even understand. <br />
<br />
Here's a good one:<br />
<br />
"The
automatic flush sensor at my work toilet is too sensitive and always
flushes too soon. I routinely get a splash of cold water while i'm
still sitting on the toilet."<br />
<br />
That's one that I experience <i>all the time</i>, and it drives me nuts. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4WF7qWdqJSuB4dRIlv5OpICKyPBbJCdaO0O62HVt7odPUvu_GTJHwxdr-fXVciSYo7nQCU38nsqo1IKUXlPOhJ_nONlD4bgFvEcVGF3zHYkYD7SbGkczmoacOxDc_i7Gr3hJ5fYA0KUU/s1600/Screen-Shot-2012-08-04-at-10.41.52-PM-300x225.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4WF7qWdqJSuB4dRIlv5OpICKyPBbJCdaO0O62HVt7odPUvu_GTJHwxdr-fXVciSYo7nQCU38nsqo1IKUXlPOhJ_nONlD4bgFvEcVGF3zHYkYD7SbGkczmoacOxDc_i7Gr3hJ5fYA0KUU/s1600/Screen-Shot-2012-08-04-at-10.41.52-PM-300x225.png" /></a></div>
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Here are some of my personal First World Problems:<br />
<ul>
<li>The organic orange juice containers at Whole Foods are always sticky on the outside. </li>
<li>I cleaned up cat puke 3 times today.</li>
<li>My break at work is never long enough to go eat a snack, go to the bathroom, and clean up. I feel bad that I usually take about 18-20 minutes instead of the allotted 15.</li>
<li>Now that I finally have time to write a blog post, I can't think of anything good to write about. </li>
</ul>
<br />
+++++ <br />
<br />
I've been working on one post for a few weeks, but it's kind of stupid so I'm not inspired to finish it. <br />
<br />
It's based on this First World Problem:<br />
<br />
Shopping in Chicagoland is way harder than it was in my old home. Stores here (mostly groceries), for some reason, <i>never </i>have what I'm looking for. And what I mean by <i>never </i>is... occasionally. I can <i>never </i>(occasionally) find something on my list, and then I have to buy some poor substitute. <br />
<br />
Since I've moved here I've sometimes had to drive to four different
stores to find one single product. This is unacceptable! I'm an
American consumer. <br />
<br />
Whole Foods in particular is a constant disappointment to me. They often have the same brands that my Co-op in Champaign had, or a similar product, but never the exact same thing from the same brand that I came to love in my old home. So after much whining and wailing about how Whole Foods sucks, I will buy some replacement item. I'll get used to the replacement item and buy it for a few weeks, and then... they stop selling it. Repeat the cycle. <br />
<br />
Why, God, why? Why is my life so hard?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-59288849614084112272014-03-04T08:56:00.000-08:002014-03-07T09:30:04.230-08:00Lucky BastardI've long felt like luck and chance have a much greater influence on our lives than we care to admit. Humans like the illusion that they are in control of their fate, and it's a necessary belief for us to be happy, but that doesn't make it true. <br />
<br />
Here's an interesting story I heard on NPR the other day that uses social science to show how chance plays a very strong role in the success of a certain piece of art: <a href="http://www.npr.org/2014/02/27/282939233/good-art-is-popular-because-its-good-right">http://www.npr.org/2014/02/27/282939233/good-art-is-popular-because-its-good-right</a><br />
<br />
It's a fascinating study. They created 9 different online "worlds" for teenagers to download a group of 48 songs that they'd never heard before. It turned out there was no pattern to which songs were more successful in each world. The "hits" in one world were not hits in another world. In each world, "history evolved slightly differently." In other words, which songs became hits were a matter of chance. <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
I've gotten into lots of arguments with people about the role of luck in our lives. For example, I don't believe you can "choose to be happy" any more than you can choose to be healthy. Why didn't you just <i>choose </i>not to get sick? I think you can choose to put yourself in situations that give you a better <i>chance </i>of being happy or healthy. You can increase your odds. But you ultimately can't choose your fate. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBJo68e7wlAzK_N3ANEvwrxPIt1thozRAnuhmo1Jk1n1eek8fw8VmgQz0wKhNjkrYcpTaG_HiuN5zeNMB4lZE97Ope_xjk3SR_A2CDDi-isd2HbgQy8obmlQI7aOrdGyTpEFvzZwQ6o0/s1600/luck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBJo68e7wlAzK_N3ANEvwrxPIt1thozRAnuhmo1Jk1n1eek8fw8VmgQz0wKhNjkrYcpTaG_HiuN5zeNMB4lZE97Ope_xjk3SR_A2CDDi-isd2HbgQy8obmlQI7aOrdGyTpEFvzZwQ6o0/s1600/luck.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
There are way more forces at work on you than you are aware of, or even care to admit. If I'm successful at something, I could attribute it to my hard work, smarts, dedication, and resourcefulness. And maybe those were all factors. Aside from the million other factors that gave me the opportunity to succeed, where did my ethic for hard work come from? My capacity to learn? My discipline? I didn't choose any of those things. I was lucky that someone or something instilled them in me. My genes, my environment, my family, my time, my place. I didn't <i>choose </i>any of those things. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82kMBWjnbmqXpyWUfQMphqvjpLKvJ9nJTsAcY9w0IBperQG3ZSl4UXKIaMW_3UmfSDH3mbfnp6lV9kxan-4g9u48kuY2dPMKp7l3h8hLOuVlcwLx54qPpqoZZNjbh83Dq2MM_lU0drmQ/s1600/luck2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82kMBWjnbmqXpyWUfQMphqvjpLKvJ9nJTsAcY9w0IBperQG3ZSl4UXKIaMW_3UmfSDH3mbfnp6lV9kxan-4g9u48kuY2dPMKp7l3h8hLOuVlcwLx54qPpqoZZNjbh83Dq2MM_lU0drmQ/s1600/luck2.jpg" height="296" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
I'm reading a book. Yes, another one. I picked this one out while browsing the Humor section of our public library's new books shelves. It's Nick Offerman's<i> Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Principles for Delicious Living</i>. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdwxvhaBLX69DHJfgT9Mgwk-_Ll7x5HMhmGFKntZZgzftTWLDQKnU2lyAVUOvy459v5zptDa7Nb6-Sk0D5B7XZKtpw5PMlIg7lz93yaEsnZ5d3EJgHJ2xf-4GKdq4NueXyK806ZwBtJM/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdwxvhaBLX69DHJfgT9Mgwk-_Ll7x5HMhmGFKntZZgzftTWLDQKnU2lyAVUOvy459v5zptDa7Nb6-Sk0D5B7XZKtpw5PMlIg7lz93yaEsnZ5d3EJgHJ2xf-4GKdq4NueXyK806ZwBtJM/s1600/index.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Offerman is the actor who plays <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Swanson" target="_blank">Ron Swanson</a>, the rugged, stoic, fiercely independent libertarian on the show <i>Parks and Recreation</i>. Even if you don't appreciate his politics, it's hard not to love Ron Swanson. <br />
<br />
So I picked up the book and am reading it. It's really not very well-written and is only mildly interesting, which is why it's taking me so long to slog through it. However, what is really, really refreshing about the book is how much Offerman appreciates his blessings. Here's a guy with a strong work ethic who is wildly successful in his chosen field, but goes on and on about what a lucky sonofabitch he is.<br />
<br />
He gets it.<br />
<br />
Unlike real libertarians, he understands that you can be fiercely independent and make good decisions that lead to success, but ultimately that success is never entirely your own. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-87210582461694016052014-02-23T08:00:00.000-08:002014-02-23T08:00:56.552-08:00Happy Facebook Notification Day!Sorry, I will not be posting "Happy Birthday" on your Facebook wall. It's nothing personal.<br />
<br />
I just don't do FB birthdays.<br />
<br />
Facebook doesn't know when my birthday is, and I don't want to know when yours is unless you personally tell me. I don't know if this makes me a birthday purist or just a curmudgeon, but for me, birthdays are for people who don't need a social networking site to tell you when they are. <br />
<br />
I know the exact birthdays (day, month, year) of all the important people in my life. When I see a date, i.e. April 17, I'll think, "Hey, that's my sister's birthday!" I may neglect to send her anything, but I always do remember the date. <br />
<br />
When my (other) sister had a birthday a few years ago (Dec 17), I sent her this ecard:<br /><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhsxyW1U7mik-blOEN76R-Qn1HHaLITlX-HS7Yo7lrkGZUrc41EasqZ4zZwPl9YImh8IV2LXL6wkOzrKT_uOLS3qOm-zRVNobtmYdZWeTmHVaprnn2l4-kdC-EyGwyXeRU3wrHBruzdw/s1600/happy-one-few-people-birthday-ecard-someecards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhsxyW1U7mik-blOEN76R-Qn1HHaLITlX-HS7Yo7lrkGZUrc41EasqZ4zZwPl9YImh8IV2LXL6wkOzrKT_uOLS3qOm-zRVNobtmYdZWeTmHVaprnn2l4-kdC-EyGwyXeRU3wrHBruzdw/s1600/happy-one-few-people-birthday-ecard-someecards.jpg" height="222" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And when my brother had a birthday (May 24), I sent him this: <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFeZzCxD5jYBJg8DRQGzp4IAyVhIV0RlsLatUmavLYCjuLoHac7RvmE0WiMsXJcx-uGRtiFBQ09pngqPMkaoUFqLapmy_MJhX2BxUYnsSZ7kKDl-fIfGY8hRwlVBr5xhFTFBcM4h9xSeI/s1600/facebook-notifications-social-network-birthday-ecards-someecards.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFeZzCxD5jYBJg8DRQGzp4IAyVhIV0RlsLatUmavLYCjuLoHac7RvmE0WiMsXJcx-uGRtiFBQ09pngqPMkaoUFqLapmy_MJhX2BxUYnsSZ7kKDl-fIfGY8hRwlVBr5xhFTFBcM4h9xSeI/s1600/facebook-notifications-social-network-birthday-ecards-someecards.png" height="222" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
He responded, "Oh God, that Facebook thing is so true. What an awkward way to spam
up my facebook wall."<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnNPtmN4gTXApcANP4c2nJWtQbWUBv75LIpeqnQ4LmmlO9FBFTcqNRvNa5bBL16ULbXU1YBGXBlah1XDhpuasQRWqLRXwkJ-6Ir3tu06EM1mYCSp0X6_n3Fz1r4Bdt1cXc0tBME9bnIA/s1600/MjAxMi0yYmNmYWM0YmEyMDg2YWYy_5205132527771.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnNPtmN4gTXApcANP4c2nJWtQbWUBv75LIpeqnQ4LmmlO9FBFTcqNRvNa5bBL16ULbXU1YBGXBlah1XDhpuasQRWqLRXwkJ-6Ir3tu06EM1mYCSp0X6_n3Fz1r4Bdt1cXc0tBME9bnIA/s1600/MjAxMi0yYmNmYWM0YmEyMDg2YWYy_5205132527771.png" height="280" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I noticed just this week (Feb 20) that my other brother, who has a FB account but is never, ever, EVER on Facebook, received a bunch of Happy Birthdays! on his wall. This is like yelling happy birthday in an empty room to someone who lives several states away. He's never going to hear it. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9TDQc9c_bWvzdQ6cxCmatqrpy_Xo3r4wTOinpG_m_DfueBWARtE4-LnFi8f6mk7DHoStZ5IduAhpM-0OhhK1fyiggnlH3_YiSm5MvX2Z0BOtKVrvxPLtEuIbo2FIf_7jKJsXPGqADg0/s1600/1329504313235_1190207.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9TDQc9c_bWvzdQ6cxCmatqrpy_Xo3r4wTOinpG_m_DfueBWARtE4-LnFi8f6mk7DHoStZ5IduAhpM-0OhhK1fyiggnlH3_YiSm5MvX2Z0BOtKVrvxPLtEuIbo2FIf_7jKJsXPGqADg0/s1600/1329504313235_1190207.png" height="280" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As you may have figured out by now, instead of FB, I prefer to send Someecards to people in my life on their birthday. They have a lot of really great snarky sentiments. <br />
<br />
So if I know you on FB and don't post to your wall on your birthday, don't take it personally. Just remember that this is my wish for you: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnNPtmN4gTXApcANP4c2nJWtQbWUBv75LIpeqnQ4LmmlO9FBFTcqNRvNa5bBL16ULbXU1YBGXBlah1XDhpuasQRWqLRXwkJ-6Ir3tu06EM1mYCSp0X6_n3Fz1r4Bdt1cXc0tBME9bnIA/s1600/MjAxMi0yYmNmYWM0YmEyMDg2YWYy_5205132527771.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhqc6OFQx43iBUoSE2sp9GT7gXltYxXghmGRr6m16OudHknA1C6GhPGueTFOwkh9pDg52RorjcWy7lQCWgHGg-HnZu4m2IgOtinlbtM7ZwfUqbgy2-ja0OYT7lHG_9YPH2RjSd38_NzU/s1600/ce13952e444549261e2917025cddb5fd_52f13be867c0d.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhqc6OFQx43iBUoSE2sp9GT7gXltYxXghmGRr6m16OudHknA1C6GhPGueTFOwkh9pDg52RorjcWy7lQCWgHGg-HnZu4m2IgOtinlbtM7ZwfUqbgy2-ja0OYT7lHG_9YPH2RjSd38_NzU/s1600/ce13952e444549261e2917025cddb5fd_52f13be867c0d.png" height="280" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
For other fun birthday cards, see <a href="http://www.someecards.com/search-cards/most-sent-today?t=facebook+birthday&x=0&y=0&sv=true" target="_blank">Someecards</a>. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-9443138379654632292014-02-17T17:15:00.000-08:002014-02-17T19:15:56.413-08:00Crockpot GlopIf you read my blog back in the Dark Ages (2008), you might remember the story about my ex-wife who, when she moved out, <a href="http://tim-alone.blogspot.com/2008/09/bachelor-feed.html" target="_blank">took all but two of the cookbooks with her</a>. One of those two cookbooks she left was a "slow cooker" cookbook, which led me to discover that <a href="http://tim-alone.blogspot.com/2008/09/art-and-food.html" target="_blank">I had a crockpot</a>! (See part two of that post, "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bachelor Feed, Part Two: Return of the Crockpot." </span>Also see how tiny my beer bottle collection was back then: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGVR_6pHIlumMW9F55MW-p6jqBL1ETxPyZ20xnYgU5W19W2M7UYWtucVRyyOgohTNdRrciXbb-X96t493yEh76vG_WYAtaeZLN1mBbPHM04GlSPt2TaDxG6nZR8zTAAStt3j3XuEi2w8Y/s1600/Dig+Cam+142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGVR_6pHIlumMW9F55MW-p6jqBL1ETxPyZ20xnYgU5W19W2M7UYWtucVRyyOgohTNdRrciXbb-X96t493yEh76vG_WYAtaeZLN1mBbPHM04GlSPt2TaDxG6nZR8zTAAStt3j3XuEi2w8Y/s1600/Dig+Cam+142.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Compare that to now:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62eFZOn404uJgEPwwxRyAL6NYIF3wkVBJnSi-NLs4mh7pAP3VB2WnqXTvqQli0mLzOzaXWGk5EvhVEMmGzBgtpz8wUKF1zmp15mwnVg7bSwus3g5Q4Afwe-NhmYUpNTQQM87R_j4I7sc/s1600/bottles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62eFZOn404uJgEPwwxRyAL6NYIF3wkVBJnSi-NLs4mh7pAP3VB2WnqXTvqQli0mLzOzaXWGk5EvhVEMmGzBgtpz8wUKF1zmp15mwnVg7bSwus3g5Q4Afwe-NhmYUpNTQQM87R_j4I7sc/s1600/bottles.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's grown so much. [sniff]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
).<br />
<br />
Well, a lot has happened in my life since then. (See <b>every blog post</b> from 2009 - 2014.)<br />
<br />
In the past five years I've changed a lot of the ways that I shop, cook, and eat. Now I buy food at farmer's markets, co-ops, and Whole Foods. I've learned to make my own granola bars, croutons, and avocado spread. I eat salad, fruits or veggies almost every day. Arugula is on my weekly shopping list, for Granola's Sake!<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdy5ry31_zFCdEuCJ81TES8Ac_XnDZ22gjYN552pB4tzM-lK3Lf5RCSLyuhLba70GIZsj27mNGB1lPApAlJgoF3f9felxUKEFvnf0oGDMF6hGmU-DRi7pEtjDQCTYvtDLH2lFCbReIolk/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdy5ry31_zFCdEuCJ81TES8Ac_XnDZ22gjYN552pB4tzM-lK3Lf5RCSLyuhLba70GIZsj27mNGB1lPApAlJgoF3f9felxUKEFvnf0oGDMF6hGmU-DRi7pEtjDQCTYvtDLH2lFCbReIolk/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I can barely recognize that newly divorced Tim from 2008.<br />
<br />
++++<br />
<br />
When we moved in together last summer, Katherine discovered my crockpot. (Yes, I still have the same crockpot from my first marriage. Is that wrong?) And she is determined to put it to good use. We've made three or four things in it over the past few months. But they've all been huge disappointments. I think it's because my tastes have changed.<br />
<br />
As I wrote back in 2008: "A crockpot is something you throw a bunch of ingredients into and then
let it cook all day and make your house smell like food. What a
brilliant invention." It still makes the kitchen smell nice, but it turns out that putting high-quality, fresh ingredients into a pot and cooking them all day takes all the flavor out of them. Despite all the spices we throw in there, the food that comes out seems listless and bland.<br />
<br />
So my theory is that crockpot cooking is not compatible with the crunchy granola organic local (expensive) diet we enjoy. Crockpot recipes involve ingredients that are canned or frozen or otherwise, uh, cheap. You can't replace those things with fresh local foods and expect them to taste as good. Because the crockpot will cook the hell out of whatever you put in there.<br />
<br />
Katherine is not convinced. She keeps looking through crockpot cookbooks (that she makes me check out of my library) to find recipes that will work. Last week we tried another dish: something with chicken and wild rice and veggies that looked promising. At the end of 8 hours in the crockpot, it sure made the kitchen smell good.<br />
<br />
But what came out was bland gray glop:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-vTSch2BoZ-jHzvq-Eh6QgBW2NJe10obSO8p3n1mbLyAPCc0ArHEWeOzvPSIaZkUd6_Cfkyy_cn5XaCIEHOR3SQq84p0-g-OjaOvrDBFQZIW7R16Kmh54C4ZTvb9hxpMFUVmEsua7jw/s1600/20140215_155617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-vTSch2BoZ-jHzvq-Eh6QgBW2NJe10obSO8p3n1mbLyAPCc0ArHEWeOzvPSIaZkUd6_Cfkyy_cn5XaCIEHOR3SQq84p0-g-OjaOvrDBFQZIW7R16Kmh54C4ZTvb9hxpMFUVmEsua7jw/s1600/20140215_155617.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicken and Rice Glop: it's what's for dinner. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It wasn't <i>bad</i>. It certainly nourished our bodies. It just wasn't... great. We didn't look forward to eating it, so the leftovers sort of hung around in the fridge, getting passed over for other stuff. As of this writing, it's still there. <br />
<br />
So my theory remains. The crockpot is no longer relevant to the way we cook and eat. I thought this last batch of glop had convinced Katherine, too, until I caught her this morning online at the library website. She was looking at yet another crockpot cookbook.<br />
<br />
Not even an Act of Glop can deter her. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-19147176796374110422014-02-09T14:59:00.001-08:002014-02-09T15:02:27.670-08:00The ShovelerHere's something I never expected when I turned my life upside down, quit my job, moved 150 miles away and got married.<br />
<br />
My new main purpose in life seems to be to shovel snow off the driveway. I've become The Shoveler. That's what I do. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDvDXa5SLg_ZvDu-N07RwYa7PSPJDdOKVRHYiT0qooUSNZcbwteSaCOg-O92NHSz1kleNrc36ZTdktt5WUXC59F4b2vTJkpAXv6MS86EVXuDdH13snBr50cxEWtJbicmjuVUSzCSbcgA/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDvDXa5SLg_ZvDu-N07RwYa7PSPJDdOKVRHYiT0qooUSNZcbwteSaCOg-O92NHSz1kleNrc36ZTdktt5WUXC59F4b2vTJkpAXv6MS86EVXuDdH13snBr50cxEWtJbicmjuVUSzCSbcgA/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Lucille, God gave me a gift. I shovel well. I shovel <i>very</i> well."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I remember when the snow started, back in December, I thought it was noteworthy that I had to shovel 5 times in two weeks. Ah, I was so young and naive then.<br />
<br />
I took pictures:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_S_SxJx6WRFQeNRq1PGfJFexHkTXWMBfoZ5L9NM8Sug4Nw56dWbBUWPi7YEIScmviKMV7AF4fvPrjL5SUd03e92AZLCNt7DJHaY2yZS_mQ3VZwgRcXut2WozVZMkvBIdB4QV0jzu2wCg/s1600/IMG_8269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_S_SxJx6WRFQeNRq1PGfJFexHkTXWMBfoZ5L9NM8Sug4Nw56dWbBUWPi7YEIScmviKMV7AF4fvPrjL5SUd03e92AZLCNt7DJHaY2yZS_mQ3VZwgRcXut2WozVZMkvBIdB4QV0jzu2wCg/s1600/IMG_8269.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing proud with my shovel. I had no idea this was only the beginning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHwi2-zd2YZqvtHBAOuLz66jVqJ72kGXfwUHqvjKGokoHfBLaa2lbloinZTBS3V_ThDtrcRkGiSWWc7yAgTogBc0JAmQQuusTajewTk9nQ9rF8A2g3ZWUGNVkZRAhX_ylcD5k6yhbTnE/s1600/857145_10152060627462290_101685075_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHwi2-zd2YZqvtHBAOuLz66jVqJ72kGXfwUHqvjKGokoHfBLaa2lbloinZTBS3V_ThDtrcRkGiSWWc7yAgTogBc0JAmQQuusTajewTk9nQ9rF8A2g3ZWUGNVkZRAhX_ylcD5k6yhbTnE/s1600/857145_10152060627462290_101685075_o.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look how tiny those icicles are! At the time I thought they were big. (See below)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But the Winter kept on coming. And coming. And coming.<br />
<br />
Since 2014 began we have alternated between bitterly frigid temperatures and snow. The only "snow days" that Katherine has had at the school where she teaches were not because of snow fall, but because of cold. One day the HIGH for the day was -12 Fahrenheit (-24 C). The other time she got off the low was -16 F (-26 C), but the high for that day was a balmy 0 F (-17C), which really didn't seem like it warranted a day off. <br />
<br />
For the past 4-5 weeks, it's only gotten above freezing one time that I can remember, and that was in the low 30's. Usually it gets into the 20's, which is warm enough for it to snow, and then Mother Nature takes a huge, wet, white dump all over us. Again.<br />
<br />
I'm starting to feel like the guy in <a href="http://www.snopes.com/humor/follies/snowdiary.asp" target="_blank">this funny old story</a>.<br />
<br />
I've lost count of the number of times I've shoveled this winter, but I can tell you that I've shoveled at least four times this week. (Twice on Wednesday.) I'm getting really OCD about keeping my driveway clear.<br />
<br />
Want to see what a month's worth of snow and frigid temperatures look like?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwb0_Ju3bQVA4JHMvTQBDXGTA_AHjjWLFHkVU5sj-2OZmCKn1b4hNJm2PDeGtBQRc61ooX4Yh4AwqD8nNqnfCbFaPwj3j7n8YJpfU1BHAW9pEvrBXEMt8QSJCM5NyLL7kE1POHY-WhG6s/s1600/1655573_10152176948312290_1713822445_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwb0_Ju3bQVA4JHMvTQBDXGTA_AHjjWLFHkVU5sj-2OZmCKn1b4hNJm2PDeGtBQRc61ooX4Yh4AwqD8nNqnfCbFaPwj3j7n8YJpfU1BHAW9pEvrBXEMt8QSJCM5NyLL7kE1POHY-WhG6s/s1600/1655573_10152176948312290_1713822445_o.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See those huge piles? I'm running out of places to throw the snow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvPZCXf9KbgnytcCKM06_9yNP09z1qG6ftdla-mbHCUCZfdMOAYMuEVWLsKoygmqh3v5gqj9vpSmMJD-k836bqcu9zD3US8LJw1T6AooNnIcnXZ68f9MutAmV465kQaQFDvc8sJ43IWQ/s1600/1836740_10152176948277290_1522712705_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvPZCXf9KbgnytcCKM06_9yNP09z1qG6ftdla-mbHCUCZfdMOAYMuEVWLsKoygmqh3v5gqj9vpSmMJD-k836bqcu9zD3US8LJw1T6AooNnIcnXZ68f9MutAmV465kQaQFDvc8sJ43IWQ/s1600/1836740_10152176948277290_1522712705_o.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You want icicles? THOSE are icicles. If you cut them open you can count the ice rings. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Despite all my grumbling, I actually enjoy shoveling... <i>when I have the time</i>.
A few times I've had to get up at 5am or 6am so that I could shovel the
freshly fallen night's deposit before I leave the house. Those days
suck. But when I am blessed with a morning off work, and I'm caught up
on all my other chores, it's kind of nice to bundle up, get out into the
fresh air, get some physical exercise, and feel a sense of
accomplishment when I'm done. And to play with my new yellow shovel. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-ebm-CZHjrLuPSS6MvUxZIVrsqiNSRT7lhnHICn4Y3evIAD-X-XYaPbHPw0v3bl9OIBFvaWuvwdG_NjM0UPqHKmeUuwlY-rcXpKNTdHScSCzZZrhFSQojlWMJWTvuB6s2K4cMR0SYwo/s1600/1417503_10152176948162290_889073549_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-ebm-CZHjrLuPSS6MvUxZIVrsqiNSRT7lhnHICn4Y3evIAD-X-XYaPbHPw0v3bl9OIBFvaWuvwdG_NjM0UPqHKmeUuwlY-rcXpKNTdHScSCzZZrhFSQojlWMJWTvuB6s2K4cMR0SYwo/s1600/1417503_10152176948162290_889073549_o.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I've moved mountains (of snow) with my new yellow shovel!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-76017545923425186802014-02-05T11:35:00.002-08:002014-02-05T11:37:11.084-08:00Screw You, RafaI don't ask for much in this life: a nourishing tasty meal, a warm shower, a cat on my lap, a dependable car, a secure job, people who love me. Oh, and I want Rafael Nadal to cry. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYVufyYwhH0FbBCkmMO-dQVbvZPCyojJ-BBSgCx8a9RlPWRMiE-q6K3eLYBD1cnj8BbJGTP2bdWW_ZA8hyphenhyphenvsBA-Iic1RtDPr4NUXe_2DHYimGHZH9wiwAaw1UxvH0R-H_HF_jZY2Bhi4/s1600/2014-01-26T121056Z_687589184_SR1EA1Q0XTV86_RTRMADP_3_TENNIS-OPEN.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYVufyYwhH0FbBCkmMO-dQVbvZPCyojJ-BBSgCx8a9RlPWRMiE-q6K3eLYBD1cnj8BbJGTP2bdWW_ZA8hyphenhyphenvsBA-Iic1RtDPr4NUXe_2DHYimGHZH9wiwAaw1UxvH0R-H_HF_jZY2Bhi4/s1600/2014-01-26T121056Z_687589184_SR1EA1Q0XTV86_RTRMADP_3_TENNIS-OPEN.JPG" height="182" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
For those of you who don't know him, "Rafa" (as he is known to those of us who know him so well) is the #1 men's tennis player in the world. As far as I can tell, he is a perfectly nice person. He's not a rude player, he doesn't cheat, he doesn't talk trash, he doesn't torture puppies (as far as I know.) He works hard and loves his mama and wins and loses with grace. <br />
<br />
But there are some legitimate reasons why I don't like to watch Rafa play.
He grunts, which is a habit that a lot of pro players have gotten into, and I find it obnoxious. He plays with a scowl on his face,
like he's constipated or something. Every time it looks like he might lose, I get my hopes up, and then he stubbornly comes back to win. He takes FOR-EV-ER to serve the
ball. After every point, he leisurely towels off his face, arms, and hands. He stands there and pulls his shorts out of his butt crack, wipes
his face, fixes his hair (left side, then right side), and I start yelling at the TV, "Serve the [VERY BAD WORD]
ball, Rafa! I have shit to do!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsMh5EL8x2Mqj4OzcI29GvSxdcOd8p5K5NOjf73NRodtzAyoP5TM1AGaEPlRnAfZn24Yf9CjiKoRKN1n0fty4obQDkzMCkTwJ2JARfF97YAE6Q8aI6CoCHfAKWkWt8GT4DgFrE-clAQc/s1600/pickassnadal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsMh5EL8x2Mqj4OzcI29GvSxdcOd8p5K5NOjf73NRodtzAyoP5TM1AGaEPlRnAfZn24Yf9CjiKoRKN1n0fty4obQDkzMCkTwJ2JARfF97YAE6Q8aI6CoCHfAKWkWt8GT4DgFrE-clAQc/s1600/pickassnadal.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rafa picks his butt. Before. Every. Serve.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Seriously, his matches take about
twice as long other matches, and I have limited time to watch
tennis. Serve the ball already!<br />
<br />
But most importantly, Rafa's mean. He keeps beating Roger Federer, one of my favorite players, when all Roger wants to do is win a major tournament. He's only won 17 of them. Rafa keeps preventing Roger from winning his 18th, which would be four more major tournament championships than any other man in history. But poor Roger just can't get past Rafa. He hasn't won a major tournament in two years, and his time is running out. He's already 32. It's ridiculous to feel pity for a guy who has 3 more championships than any other tennis player in history, but Rafa is just so mean to Roger.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTEA2Dsh8YdxJPQhVh1XTl_rTRg3I4AIbcirRx1PNeIQHVZXxdv_6oP_vNHvWJ_fMHu1KEpWtWY4iny7EJ4GcxXY1w2VPUuWeBawoqserTi-d2tch6wXffD4gV0MeL4qBGnTyS7h1iME/s1600/nadal_1462025g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTEA2Dsh8YdxJPQhVh1XTl_rTRg3I4AIbcirRx1PNeIQHVZXxdv_6oP_vNHvWJ_fMHu1KEpWtWY4iny7EJ4GcxXY1w2VPUuWeBawoqserTi-d2tch6wXffD4gV0MeL4qBGnTyS7h1iME/s1600/nadal_1462025g.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roger gets second place to Rafa. Again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
One of the reasons I haven't blogged in a while is that for two weeks in January I followed the Australian Open, which filled up my TiVo with eight hours of tennis a day. On a good day, I might have two hours of time to watch, so I had to fast-forward through most of it. (There were other things going on in my life to keep me away from blogging, but following the Australian Open didn't help.) <br />
<br />
My basic rooting strategy when I watch pro tennis is to root for 1.) Roger Federer, and 2.) Anyone But Rafa. So when Rafa and Roger play each other, my rooting interest is doubled. Or squared. Or exponentially increased. Or something like that. I don't know the math behind it, I just know I love Roger and hate Rafa. I'm not proud. I'm a sports fan. <br />
<br />
So when Rafa and Roger met in the semifinals of the Australian Open, I made a deal with the Universe. I would give up all my Christmas presents for the next five years if Roger would just beat Rafa. And make him cry. <br />
<br />
++++ <br />
<br />
Alas, Rafa did what he always does and overpowered (the aging) Roger. Again. My dream of someone making Rafa cry would have to wait for the next tournament, I guess. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZKhIduGA36OfSCIG0XlYWhouV1nSl3O9wz0QL2Mcy62TNkV5TvXSMTIrZZM74O7NnKp0-F44P7Xnx6Bhgf8mpaCiSRvm81YuslZ9NMT-7HdF7ELiBYzctESLyIhiT2b4sK7zQ7sbpaiA/s1600/jpeg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZKhIduGA36OfSCIG0XlYWhouV1nSl3O9wz0QL2Mcy62TNkV5TvXSMTIrZZM74O7NnKp0-F44P7Xnx6Bhgf8mpaCiSRvm81YuslZ9NMT-7HdF7ELiBYzctESLyIhiT2b4sK7zQ7sbpaiA/s1600/jpeg.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someone please wipe that victorious smile off his stupid face</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sadness. <br />
<br />
+++++ <br />
<br />
And then an Australian Open miracle happened! <br />
<br />
Nadal's opponent in the finals was Stan Wawrinka. Stan is a 28-year-old pro who's spent his entire career as a top 20 player, but only the 2nd best player from Switzerland. He's Roger Federer's friend, hitting partner, protege, and countryman. (They won the Olympic Gold in doubles together.) <br />
<br />
Lately Stan has broken into the top 10, and has been challenging some of the best players in the world. Earlier in the tournament he had upset the #2 player in the world, Novak Djokovic, someone he'd lost 14 straight matches to.<br />
<br />
Stan's career record against Rafael Nadal was 0-13. He'd never even won a set against him. But Stan did the unthinkable in the Australian Open final. Stan played amazing and breezed through the first set. Then Rafa hurt his back, which ironically changed the momentum of the match, but Stan was able to fight back and win the match. He beat Rafa! And bonus: because Rafa's back was hurt, he even squirted some tears! <br />
<br />
I'm almost as happy for Stan's success as I am for Rafa's failure. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNx3IUcZYd072Zeb1Kd4yx__6S9o4DHvYUlijO-WVvPw0ijr8sMaAKPfXG-D_RsXVDTLQoT6nIFUUgMqLy-8I81-4QBZVWCCtxti9GEWy6StVokTtWRTwKW4FavS40722LT8xtpAKAg4Y/s1600/australian-open_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNx3IUcZYd072Zeb1Kd4yx__6S9o4DHvYUlijO-WVvPw0ijr8sMaAKPfXG-D_RsXVDTLQoT6nIFUUgMqLy-8I81-4QBZVWCCtxti9GEWy6StVokTtWRTwKW4FavS40722LT8xtpAKAg4Y/s1600/australian-open_9.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Thank you, Stan Wawrinka, for doing what Roger Federer couldn't. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-82898386639463733472014-01-09T18:18:00.000-08:002014-01-09T18:20:00.369-08:00The Year of Dental Work, And Other StuffFor me, 2013 will always be the Year of Dental Work: My poor cat Jinxy had five teefers pulled in March, and then in December I had six fillings replaced. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYAyN7l8_Bbr9WQcGFkpA6QhKoUwGWxBNeSkPt6Do3KGI91aj8PgE3392b-Zj6Px-SZ4FBLTXmvWOHRTEtNiLtGOmH_bvM-I63vG7L7Vmp8_PP3oVnAySGJv_4diKBhYR7PHVmI_pdJc/s1600/horse_teeth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYAyN7l8_Bbr9WQcGFkpA6QhKoUwGWxBNeSkPt6Do3KGI91aj8PgE3392b-Zj6Px-SZ4FBLTXmvWOHRTEtNiLtGOmH_bvM-I63vG7L7Vmp8_PP3oVnAySGJv_4diKBhYR7PHVmI_pdJc/s1600/horse_teeth.jpg" height="308" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Yep, that's about the highlight of the year. The reason I had six fillings pulled is that I saw a new dentist (who I
suspect is way more aggressive than my last dentist, who for 10 years
always said everything looked fine.) The reason I had a new dentist is
that I moved. The reason that I moved is that I got married. Oh, yeah, I guess there were some other things that happened this year.<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
I started this blog in November, 2009, and at the time I put the tagline "Reporting on Timorabilia since 2009" under the title, because I thought it was funny. Well, now that it's 2014, the "since 2009" tagline is no longer ironic. In the world of blogs, having one that goes back five calendar years is pretty impressive. Granted, only about two people read this one, and I don't post as often as I like, but I've had at least one post a month (avg: 3-4) for the past 50 months. (In fact, I just noticed that this is my 200th post!) <br />
<br />
This will be the third year (<a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/01/2012-review.html" target="_blank">2012</a>, <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2012/01/packed-into-one-year.html" target="_blank">2011</a>) for which I've posted a bulleted summary. I've done it enough times that now I can go back and see patterns of what I post each year: travel, tennis, new experiences. Consider this my annual Holiday Card to my blog readers (both of you.) <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
2013 was a strange year, because there were so many huge, life-changing events, and a lot less of the smaller bulleted things I would put in a list. Here it is anyway:<br />
<ul>
<li>Welcomed in the new year watching fireworks over the Mississippi River in <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/01/new-orleans-new-year.html" target="_blank">New Orleans</a> with my fiance. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKKvNtKf_QJf0mU35BbVuRRkbObUjviQ0Z5CQ7EUePmxDxevW5SqHAqeAgWcRwkwEAGAaHmDMGqhJ2xeAsRCX12v5XzY-1JPjX6rg0E80IZu8mhkvK2mpFAfHE9I_W92uN2fxR_tckxU/s1600/1149_10151331899102290_664956202_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKKvNtKf_QJf0mU35BbVuRRkbObUjviQ0Z5CQ7EUePmxDxevW5SqHAqeAgWcRwkwEAGAaHmDMGqhJ2xeAsRCX12v5XzY-1JPjX6rg0E80IZu8mhkvK2mpFAfHE9I_W92uN2fxR_tckxU/s1600/1149_10151331899102290_664956202_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</li>
<li>Continued to plan for a wedding and honeymoon.</li>
<li>Tried to learn Icelandic</li>
<li>Put my house up for sale. Learned that <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/04/lies-damn-lies-and-real-estate.html" target="_blank">all realtors suck and lie</a><span id="goog_1776211347"></span><span id="goog_1776211348"></span>. </li>
<li>Vicariously lived through the <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/04/schadenfreude.html" target="_blank">selling of Katherine's condo</a>.</li>
<li>Looked at houses. <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/04/a-den-of-lies.html" target="_blank">Bought one</a>. (Bought the same house twice in one week, in fact.)<br /><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JO-w5EO11p82JV58YN5aO8vZbtiSN5aseWpuOVjlHppXAoIMh4b4AHhj2IJq3cxNLBzKJ9Jei8wKs1K-MLSr_mk_FHRcD_uz_YNLAgsotfPvZF-LpMtFC52eQMBooCKav-MX9FUUZ_U/s1600/1277902_10151836504927290_1598718275_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JO-w5EO11p82JV58YN5aO8vZbtiSN5aseWpuOVjlHppXAoIMh4b4AHhj2IJq3cxNLBzKJ9Jei8wKs1K-MLSr_mk_FHRcD_uz_YNLAgsotfPvZF-LpMtFC52eQMBooCKav-MX9FUUZ_U/s1600/1277902_10151836504927290_1598718275_o.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /> <br />
</li>
<li>Applied to <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/05/oh-humanity-resources.html" target="_blank">oodles of jobs</a>. Got a few interviews. Finally <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/06/25-applications.html" target="_blank">got hired</a>.</li>
<li>Started a Google calendar for all my appointments, which replaced the pretty one on my wall with all the nature scenes, but which I could use to share my schedule with Katherine. </li>
<li>Left a job I'd been at for <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-next-time-i-think-i-suck_12.html" target="_blank">10 years</a>. Moved out of a house I'd lived in for four years. </li>
<li>Said goodbye to lots of people. Ended my tennis career in Champaign with a strong 2nd-place finish in the Gold League. </li>
<li>Moved.</li>
<li>Got <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/07/wedding-toast.html" target="_blank">Married</a>.</li>
<li>Went on a honeymoon to Iceland. Started to blog about the vacation but never finished it-- there was too much to say. Maybe I'll still finish it some day. <br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWe1psT8EWqZO1TXCr5d181Bzt2_wYdu_YaGmUif_nXDzjnaVXrVRY-I7A2sMwPSz3_V1CK1QeGBUlNgiagEI8kSOB_oLiAKvtWDGu53jRSQUV5ysiAMcvFhjjCMd5N4lUK5Zj1fv6pe8/s1600/184+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWe1psT8EWqZO1TXCr5d181Bzt2_wYdu_YaGmUif_nXDzjnaVXrVRY-I7A2sMwPSz3_V1CK1QeGBUlNgiagEI8kSOB_oLiAKvtWDGu53jRSQUV5ysiAMcvFhjjCMd5N4lUK5Zj1fv6pe8/s1600/184+(4).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too beautiful to write about!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
</li>
<li>Started a <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-old-lonely-and-crazy.html" target="_blank">new job</a>. </li>
<li>Bought my first smart phone. </li>
<li>Told a <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-story-about-story.html" target="_blank">story</a> in front of strangers. For fun. </li>
<li>According to Goodreads, read 32 books. </li>
<li>Joined a new <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-power-of-ring.html" target="_blank">tennis league</a>. Won 18 straight matches, including the <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2013/10/validation.html" target="_blank">playoffs tournament</a>. <br /><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DYQKu6M67Nbu1EgZ5Pum6Izf_JxJXttXfnY2zfQ7yvfs5N4hKvQF4aZBafPuvsTjQHBuq6CJRzuVml9wS0X8_8Q-z4rg3qY1AM6jHXVtU9ObnMaw8HnI8Mua8KDXL32iy5zjfG5A4tI/s1600/GladiatorTourney1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DYQKu6M67Nbu1EgZ5Pum6Izf_JxJXttXfnY2zfQ7yvfs5N4hKvQF4aZBafPuvsTjQHBuq6CJRzuVml9wS0X8_8Q-z4rg3qY1AM6jHXVtU9ObnMaw8HnI8Mua8KDXL32iy5zjfG5A4tI/s1600/GladiatorTourney1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Champion!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
<li>Met lots of new people in my new home. </li>
<li>Being the boring married suburban couple we are, ended the year at another couple's house in the suburbs playing board games. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-2791996091400297832013-12-18T19:40:00.000-08:002013-12-18T19:40:25.835-08:00The Fourth DimensionSpace!<br />
<br />
I read another book. So once again I've got stuff like time and <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2012/02/scale-of-universe.html" target="_blank">space</a> and the nature of the <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2012/10/universe.html" target="_blank">universe</a> rattling around my brain like a dried pea in a maraca. This one was called <i>A Universe From Nothing: Why There Is Something Rather Than Nothing</i>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiILtfYFsKTyGrpJSbAV7pD2aqF1WAFbNb3qUyyir7nzX3XZ09FZ9WL75gD_xY_vySVS_P4icAevFd1jzzXKWGsxcVgkLojJXKI2gWInS13Ap4k1-KaSub8dbwMzEwEHhfCrx2dp3eWHik/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiILtfYFsKTyGrpJSbAV7pD2aqF1WAFbNb3qUyyir7nzX3XZ09FZ9WL75gD_xY_vySVS_P4icAevFd1jzzXKWGsxcVgkLojJXKI2gWInS13Ap4k1-KaSub8dbwMzEwEHhfCrx2dp3eWHik/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
It explains the Big Bang to lay people. Sort of. I got lost a lot in the specifics, but all I can say is that there are a whole lot of really smart physicists and astronomers who have figured out a lot of really amazing things. I'm glad they're there, doing what they do. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi67IZ2YFgZ_iAiHq0u9iTkOsM83OyvwUBiaqFFYHRkbVPzbPnc3aY-RrEtHYcp9xgwzZi_ZVw2GN8Fd8xvlXKJtZftyzDdlmnbRYzKJcoGswAJGkuGskMgg-O0_Gx3V1xAqJ17mZrvbVU/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi67IZ2YFgZ_iAiHq0u9iTkOsM83OyvwUBiaqFFYHRkbVPzbPnc3aY-RrEtHYcp9xgwzZi_ZVw2GN8Fd8xvlXKJtZftyzDdlmnbRYzKJcoGswAJGkuGskMgg-O0_Gx3V1xAqJ17mZrvbVU/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To astrophysicists, this is like 2 + 2</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One amazing thing I learned is that the evidence we have of the Big Bang is only temporary, and as the universe continues to expand, eventually all the stars in the sky will be too far away for us to see, and in 5 billion years or so, any other astronomers on other planets (our solar system will have blown up by then) will not have any evidence there ever was a Big Bang. We are living a very unique time in the universe's history where we can figure these things out. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7FjE9jVIycyaz__b_9iK2SNvi4991Zcz7nnTg6yhpgjQ-WkjWsLnzjDeLnWQ26m-zkHrtM7JwGECn1FChkzf3sSdMZ36RjWOmyB4e6BzO9ndijjI4Wi7Pm_5k7Dw_cUIxNFvYrEspVJw/s1600/380px-CMB_Timeline300_no_WMAP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7FjE9jVIycyaz__b_9iK2SNvi4991Zcz7nnTg6yhpgjQ-WkjWsLnzjDeLnWQ26m-zkHrtM7JwGECn1FChkzf3sSdMZ36RjWOmyB4e6BzO9ndijjI4Wi7Pm_5k7Dw_cUIxNFvYrEspVJw/s400/380px-CMB_Timeline300_no_WMAP.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See, it's all very clear. Now. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The quick answer to the book's central question (Why is there something rather than nothing?) is that nothing is unstable. That is to say, nothingness can not sustain itself-- it needs something-ness to balance it out. <br />
<br />
Mind = blown<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">+++++</span><br />
<br />
I remember when I was a kid hearing a "wild theory" that time was the<i> fourth dimension</i>! It totally blew my mind. Time? A dimension in space? <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9DmWBn-e9W96UmV67YBGH3KVLRDypqBNyj4gRQSQ1txLO5vKk0blrs2tbhEIp0T1QfYRESaLiqDtjSTQSJ-brTx0wWeb_no1XGgj3l23JZ3luI31Y7ew-KCMK_RrUQFpE_SXEGcNA5Y/s1600/mind-blown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9DmWBn-e9W96UmV67YBGH3KVLRDypqBNyj4gRQSQ1txLO5vKk0blrs2tbhEIp0T1QfYRESaLiqDtjSTQSJ-brTx0wWeb_no1XGgj3l23JZ3luI31Y7ew-KCMK_RrUQFpE_SXEGcNA5Y/s1600/mind-blown.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
[WARNING: I may be talking out of my ass here.] <br />
<br />
But today when I read books on astrophysics and the nature of the universe, they seem to take it for granted that time is the fourth dimension. It's not some wild theory but a scientific given.<br />
<br />
It makes sense when you consider that in order for two objects to intersect, not only do you need space coordinates, but a time coordinate as well. When two cars collide, it just means they are occupying the same space (3 dimensions) at the same time (4th dimension). If one car appeared in that space a second later (or earlier), there would be no crash. So time is a crucial element in determining an object's location.<br />
<br />
Of course, time is unique (to us) in that we are moving through it at a constant rate and we have no control over it. Within the first three dimensions, we can move up and down and side to side, but you can't do that with time. <br />
<br />
Here's how our journey through time was first described to me in a metaphor from Kurt Vonnegut's <i>Slaughterhouse Five:</i><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But among them was this poor Earthling, and his head was encased in a steel sphere which he could never take off. There was only one eyehole through which he could look, and welded to that eyehole were six feet of pipe.<br />
<br />
This was only the beginning of Billy's miseries in the metaphor. He was also strapped to a steel lattice which was bolted to a flatcar on rails, and there was no way he could turn his head or touch the pipe. The far end of the pipe rested on a bi-pod which was also bolted to the flatcar. All Billy could see was the little dot at the end of the pipe. He didn't know he was on a flatcar, didn't even know there was anything peculiar about his situation
</blockquote>
We move through time at a constant rate. But as we learn more about the universe expanding, on a grand scale we don't really have control over where we are in space, either. Our ability to move through space is quite minuscule on a universal scale. We (our planet and solar system) are all moving apart from the rest of the universe the same way we move through time. We can't control that, either. <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, I can even tie this fourth dimension stuff into my job as a librarian. One of the main components of evaluating sources that I teach students is to always look at the publication date. <i>When </i>something was written is just as important as who, what, or where it was published. <br />
<br />
The <i>when </i>has always been a vital part of information for me. Whenever I read a book, or watch a movie, or hear a piece of information, I want to know how old it is or what time period it represents. Whether a story takes place in 1870 or 1970 or 2005 or 2013 will be just as important as whether it took place in India, Italy, or Iowa. <br />
<br />
<i>When </i>is intertwined with <i>where</i>.<br />
<br />
Space! <br />
<br />
Time! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-65116771036308297832013-12-13T09:10:00.000-08:002013-12-13T09:10:24.456-08:00The Sleep SlalomOn cold nights, all the warm bodies in the house like to huddle together.<br />
<br />
So when I have to get up to pee, getting in and out of bed is an exercise in twisting and turning, leading to something I like to call the Sleep Slalom, illustrated here:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpim6cqK7Pq5VYsxSwUy420UeJxJWhxBxBqy3efCnaXx5opWQGORWMbW3N4PPBPKXOumJ54apUH4kOTHZGgUGrnsu2oIjbRjMb74NaYDPs_Ptx8AcwcyR1_wVs2B6ySochmuM0w9tY-io/s1600/sleepslalom3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpim6cqK7Pq5VYsxSwUy420UeJxJWhxBxBqy3efCnaXx5opWQGORWMbW3N4PPBPKXOumJ54apUH4kOTHZGgUGrnsu2oIjbRjMb74NaYDPs_Ptx8AcwcyR1_wVs2B6ySochmuM0w9tY-io/s400/sleepslalom3.jpg" width="396" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-58991211700380931042013-12-11T08:47:00.000-08:002013-12-11T08:47:12.474-08:00Last Day Alive!This is the email I received at work (all italics, capitalization, underlines, bolds, exclamation points, and otherwise annoying punctuation theirs):<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We will be having a <u>Trivia Question </u>at our [staff] meeting next week...!<br />
<br />
<i><b>“If you knew that you had <u>one day left to live</u>, how would you spend your last day??”</b></i><br />
<br />
It could be enjoying a certain place or destination, or doing a specific activity, or eating a favorite meal at a special restaurant, or spending time with family or friends, or meeting a particular person??? You get the idea!!
</blockquote>
<br />
Um, no. I'm sorry, I don't "get the idea!!"<br />
<br />
First of all, this is not a "<u>Trivia Question</u>". It's a hypothetical. And not a very good one. If I'm supposed to come up with a very personal answer of how I would spend my last remaining hours on Earth, I don't need you to make suggestions as if I'm ordering dinner at Olive Garden. "So what do you recommend for my last day alive? Is the eggplant parm good?" <br />
<br />
My first reaction was: this is not a question I can answer candidly in front of my co-workers. Because on my last day in this body, I would surely want to get my freak on. <br />
<br />
But after thinking about it, the question became even more absurd. <i>My last day to live</i>? How morbid is that? Did I just find out I was dying? I'd probably spend the whole day weeping and processing my own mortality. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwsHgFPCrtC9gOMDdJjZBNsR8IeFBZRGNP1RQb46EYrDtvueW8JdnRAV2E_jZyRUqgKYQxl-qHv3iX1LMXnIkKRMRWCfqja7tXZ_6gEe2IuAg3meHkVwww5VGEua0NmadDcKlwPScf-0/s1600/dying_tomorrow-4339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwsHgFPCrtC9gOMDdJjZBNsR8IeFBZRGNP1RQb46EYrDtvueW8JdnRAV2E_jZyRUqgKYQxl-qHv3iX1LMXnIkKRMRWCfqja7tXZ_6gEe2IuAg3meHkVwww5VGEua0NmadDcKlwPScf-0/s320/dying_tomorrow-4339.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Which leads to a lot of logistical questions. Am I the only one dying, or is the whole world going to end? Because it would change the answer if everyone else had to get up for work the next day.<br />
<br />
Also, am I healthy? Is tennis an option? If I'm healthy, then why am I dying? How much time did I have to prepare? There are a lot of activities you can't really put together in one day. Have I already "got my affairs in order?" If not, I'd have to write out a To-Do list and spend most of the day running errands and tying up loose ends. Just contacting all my loved ones to say goodbye would probably take most of the day. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPkiPUn9wSxdMm18v9ZsH6tsmUCi4NbCX263XCZhbk6vK-iXg_653NZf1vJ-mtteC1jAA6SBMVfUFIoPPmrgTEnGp_NF4RcA2npE8UXYeqUOkGQDb19EtdvVD3mlgSZMaZveug9WRS38/s1600/Things-To-Do-List-Press-N-Stick-Pad-Thru-8-1-09-_20090779554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPkiPUn9wSxdMm18v9ZsH6tsmUCi4NbCX263XCZhbk6vK-iXg_653NZf1vJ-mtteC1jAA6SBMVfUFIoPPmrgTEnGp_NF4RcA2npE8UXYeqUOkGQDb19EtdvVD3mlgSZMaZveug9WRS38/s320/Things-To-Do-List-Press-N-Stick-Pad-Thru-8-1-09-_20090779554.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't leave all those chores for your loved ones!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I could have responded with something smart-assy like my questions above, but instead I just ignored the email (and the 17 subsequent email reminders.)<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
So the meeting was yesterday, and we received a sheet with everyone's answer. The "trivia" part of the game was to guess who said what, but the answers were so generic that hardly anyone guessed who said what (there were 22 submissions.) Most people said they'd spend the day with their family (duh!) and enjoy some favorite hobbies, food, or vacation destination. <br />
<br />
People mentioned visiting the Grand Canyon or Italy or Spain or someplace warm. That's all fine and good, but that must mean that you spent your second-to-last day traveling, because you can't get to any of those places (and enjoy it) in a day. Which gets back to my question of how much planning time we had, and if we're dying, HOW are we dying? You have to be in pretty good shape to travel and enjoy a vacation spot. But I can't imagine many people who are out on the jet-ski on the day before their body closes down, unless the plan is to commit ritual seppuku.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRLWj0EThWhfK8smbDQ2wXXhKF4uc5zNByjs6fi-m420yZloM1jE7k1LGr2K_QtTBEFuNdnTYUvphyphenhyphenju7dhR7VUHfKO0swnxRheMpesLsy_O2lqpqpE62vReiPcKnX0cX1cGnb6SjRos/s1600/saturday-night-live-rye-by-the-sword1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRLWj0EThWhfK8smbDQ2wXXhKF4uc5zNByjs6fi-m420yZloM1jE7k1LGr2K_QtTBEFuNdnTYUvphyphenhyphenju7dhR7VUHfKO0swnxRheMpesLsy_O2lqpqpE62vReiPcKnX0cX1cGnb6SjRos/s320/saturday-night-live-rye-by-the-sword1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
People also mentioned all the people who would be there with them. It's nice that everyone assumes all your family and friends would drop everything to go along with whatever plans you have on this special day. But what if your family and friends live far away? You know how long it takes to put together a wedding to get all of your family and friends in one place? Some people mentioned meeting with celebrities. Um, is this a <i>fantasy </i>last day live? I didn't realize that death grants you a bunch of wishes on your last day. In that case, I'd like to change my answer. I'd like to start off the morning by winning Wimbledon, and then see where the day takes me from there. <br />
<br />
My favorite answer was the person who said, "My wish isn't rated PG, but I would spend the day with my family." There's really only one thing I can imagine someone doing with a family member that's not PG, and I really hope it's with a spouse. <br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
One last annoying/interesting thing from this exercise. When we received the sheet with all the answers printed out, EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE ended with an exclamation point. Even entries with multiple sentences-- there were no periods whatsoever. Every! Single! Sentence! Why are people so excited to be dying?<br />
<br />
I pointed this out to the lady sitting next to me, and she said she didn't put an exclamation point when she wrote hers. So the organizers of this game inserted exclamations into every entry. Are they that excited about the prospect of all their colleagues dying?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-84129055157314415672013-12-04T08:15:00.000-08:002013-12-07T15:02:02.527-08:00Supersized VegucationMy wife has about 16 different food-related documentaries on her Netflix queue. So last week we watched one of them, <i>Vegucated</i>. We mostly chose it because it's only one hour and 16 minutes, and we didn't have a lot of time.<br />
<i> </i><br />
The premise of the movie is that the writer/director/star, Marisa Miller Wolfson (it just now occurs to me what an ironic last name she has), recruits three New Yorkers to adopt a vegan diet for six weeks, and films the results.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUJ_WQ63n-vJCXiJklvHp3QLFh_5wXUnwdTLlu6X_AoZxguELMmfJBz2KQpOqdU0EIgTFhinQ2-wkchv7uNt_GZNXwjrjPEvmLb77ScLgpVY5orWWFFgIfWNplr6bOZ5cmRMzC9jRBhg/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUJ_WQ63n-vJCXiJklvHp3QLFh_5wXUnwdTLlu6X_AoZxguELMmfJBz2KQpOqdU0EIgTFhinQ2-wkchv7uNt_GZNXwjrjPEvmLb77ScLgpVY5orWWFFgIfWNplr6bOZ5cmRMzC9jRBhg/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
If this plot sound familiar, it's because it is. It's the exact opposite experiment that Morgan Spurlock does in his famous documentary <i>Supersize Me</i>, where he eats nothing but McDonald's food for 30 days, and shows how quickly his body turns into secret sauce.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96EmpOkWjxefM116Tp5xIEyS6Y-BvxtqufeoFVWmuxsJUlLGpNLA3OBBR8L1_qN4jMINyUcGgfcAmnBuaeGPYn3KyewijS7AC9MN8RhmhLRg6OKppfHMOUXvKp7474UrQUbrMvijof5A/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96EmpOkWjxefM116Tp5xIEyS6Y-BvxtqufeoFVWmuxsJUlLGpNLA3OBBR8L1_qN4jMINyUcGgfcAmnBuaeGPYn3KyewijS7AC9MN8RhmhLRg6OKppfHMOUXvKp7474UrQUbrMvijof5A/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Even the tone of <i>Vegucated </i>reminded me of <i>Supersize Me</i>, with cartoons and graphs and self-deprecating jokes about how much fun this experiment will be. <br />
<br />
But where <i>Supersize Me</i> entertains and informs, and lets the experiment speak for itself, <i>Vegucated </i>veers off in a different direction that feels too much like propaganda and preaching. At one point, one of Wolfson's vegan friends counsels one of the participants that she doesn't have to eat vegan <i>all that time</i>, that veganism isn't a <i>religion</i>. But that's exactly what it feels like in this movie: Vegans trying to create converts. The original tone of "let's see what happens if we go vegan" turns into something else. <br />
<br />
I didn't learn anything from this movie that I didn't already know, but the three participants in the study were amazed (and disgusted) by what they learned about factory farming. Some of the things that horrified them, however, were just normal things that happen on a family farm. It's a good illustration of how far removed most people are these days from where their food comes from. <br />
<br />
The tone and premise of the movie seemed so much like a knock-off of <i>Supersize Me</i> that I wondered if the writer/director/star Wolfson wasn't Morgan Spurlock's girlfriend. I remembered that in <i>Supersize Me</i> Spurlock's girlfriend was a vegan who was repulsed by his experiment.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBoGLNimiuY4_l0rMbmvRtOm3wgZ46sGYe2VnekiopROtP6IAnMKD9eYn4X9ztBjeFZlHe7TxaBo4bPvCe1cE1rr0kM4-NSA3Cy_R_9cvCLbyFkueKyiIqZrPLpKTdCKbmcJhuKLE75k4/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBoGLNimiuY4_l0rMbmvRtOm3wgZ46sGYe2VnekiopROtP6IAnMKD9eYn4X9ztBjeFZlHe7TxaBo4bPvCe1cE1rr0kM4-NSA3Cy_R_9cvCLbyFkueKyiIqZrPLpKTdCKbmcJhuKLE75k4/s320/index.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So I looked it up. Wolfson is not Spurlock's girlfriend, but my search brought up some interesting findings.<br />
<br />
+++++<br />
<br />
Spurlock's "then-girlfriend (now ex-wife)" (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgan_Spurlock" target="_blank"><i>Wikipedia</i></a>) is Alexandra Jamieson, a chef who ended up writing a book about the detox diet she created for Spurlock after his McDonald's experiment.<br />
<br />
Jamieson was a very public vegan, but then this blog post of hers from February of this year caught my attention: <a href="http://alexandrajamieson.com/im-not-vegan-anymore/" target="_blank">I'm Not Vegan Anymore</a>. <br />
<br />
The post is a confession, a coming out, a revelation of a personal struggle. She's been craving animal products for over a year, trying to suppress it, sneaking around, hiding it from her friends, but realizing that her body needs what it needs. She is what she is: an omnivore. The parallels to a closeted gay person-- the guilt, the confusion, the denial-- are probably a rhetorical flourish, but they work well. Aside from the annoying amount of one-sentence paragraphs, it's really a great read.<br />
<br />
Reading this confession reminds me of something I read in a social science book recently. The author talked about how for many social revolutions, the original proponents of civil rights go a little bit overboard, go out of their way to drastically break from the norm. As the social issue becomes more mainstream, objections to the previous social norm come more back to the center. For example, the first proponents of women's rights wanted to get rid of marriage altogether as a misogynistic institution. But instead of getting rid of it, the mainstream has redefined gender roles within it.<br />
<br />
That's what I see happening with veganism. There are tons of (admittedly anecdotal) stories of people who used to be vegan or vegetarian coming back to an omnivorous diet. Usually they're still more conscious of eating responsibly than before their vegan awakening, but they're not as militant about it. The best part of Jamieson's post is the end where she writes a personal credo of what she believes: <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I believe there is a middle way. There is no ONE way that everyone
should live or eat. People can still love animals and care about
protecting the environment AND honor their own animal bodies and consume
the foods that they need.<br />
<br />
I believe there are many paths to health.<br />
<br />
I believe you can love and care about animal welfare and still consume them.<br />
<br />
I believe that a vegan, whole-foods diet saved my life and is a delicious, valid, healthy style of eating for many people.<br />
<br />
I believe that a vegan diet should be promoted as one of many possible ways to get the body and life that people crave.<br />
<br />
I believe most people should be eating more vegetables and less processed, chemicalized, processed junk food.<br />
<br />
I believe we should restructure the way animals are raised so that
they live in more natural, comfortable, humane surroundings and stop
force-feeding them 80% of all antibiotics used in the US.<br />
<br />
I believe humans are animals. And some animals need to eat other animals to be healthy. Some do not.<br />
<br />
And I believe in the innate kindness of people. And that by having
compassion for each other, no matter how we eat, we are creating a new
food culture, and a better world.</blockquote>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1761638454678355918.post-28687891201159488052013-11-24T10:43:00.001-08:002013-11-24T10:44:50.272-08:00The Sound of SatireKatherine made me watch <i>The Sound of Music</i> a few months ago. It's one of her favorite movies, and I'd never seen it. Coming from a family that plays and appreciates good (classical) music, she grew up a fan of Broadway musicals. I did not. The only musical I knew growing up was the movie <i>Grease</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOw-q3qMM3NuIIMky0AcVcU-ftAqmzFNtPRede4sANoyOnKRZ5I526fdMdSiF_nbUTXP1skskSAlLjAbrCjgre8aSJA15IfKjaRNaxf4hczfjI-bXfTZHFANaIixTo1F-5jocHba38YWo/s1600/grease_ver2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOw-q3qMM3NuIIMky0AcVcU-ftAqmzFNtPRede4sANoyOnKRZ5I526fdMdSiF_nbUTXP1skskSAlLjAbrCjgre8aSJA15IfKjaRNaxf4hczfjI-bXfTZHFANaIixTo1F-5jocHba38YWo/s320/grease_ver2.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, Sandy!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It wasn't til I was in my 30's that I started to appreciate any broadway musicals, and even then they needed <a href="http://tim4814.blogspot.com/2011/07/book-of-musicals.html" target="_blank">puppets or Mormons having sex</a> to get me interested.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pYXlprTncZaSCwV-J2ekTc-f18XlGvyTBF6qwcmb9Gtn8R_0pZpixFSUUDkZfB4IuhEeroAva8ouZ5hdfFR5FyX3XhM6eMEep47xX1eQN9_fhFRTLvHW-SEfU-JW3ARJZoZOyIBIH3E/s1600/AQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pYXlprTncZaSCwV-J2ekTc-f18XlGvyTBF6qwcmb9Gtn8R_0pZpixFSUUDkZfB4IuhEeroAva8ouZ5hdfFR5FyX3XhM6eMEep47xX1eQN9_fhFRTLvHW-SEfU-JW3ARJZoZOyIBIH3E/s320/AQ.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've enjoyed <i>Avenue Q</i> many many times, but this is the first time I've seen this promotional poster for it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When we were in New York on vacation a few years ago, <i>West Side Story</i> came on cable in our hotel room. That's another famous movie that I'd never seen but Katherine had grown up with. I thought that would be a really appropriate place to watch a movie about New York street gangs, so we settled in to watch it. We had to stop about 1/3 of the way in because I couldn't stop laughing. Really, what are all these tough street kids doing prancing around, snapping their fingers, and otherwise doing very gay things? (Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it kind of undercuts their street cred.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiib63oJdc1kUoavc3XQKdxDhwHHDQ_eXd80RMmECAF57nv2Cwbvl3-WopNRii9jjE8ymb-YK9SfGzhn-rj_f761g4UYL_HU6vNFiyvtfkl3TEgiGIE6O8LVE4-ER-h5g4siWC4O4SDR3A/s1600/WestSidedance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiib63oJdc1kUoavc3XQKdxDhwHHDQ_eXd80RMmECAF57nv2Cwbvl3-WopNRii9jjE8ymb-YK9SfGzhn-rj_f761g4UYL_HU6vNFiyvtfkl3TEgiGIE6O8LVE4-ER-h5g4siWC4O4SDR3A/s320/WestSidedance.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously-- I'm supposed to think these are tough guys? Even now, I can't look at that picture without laughing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Katherine couldn't stand me laughing at one of her favorite movies, so we stopped watching.<br />
<br />
When we moved into our new house, it took a while to get our new entertainment center together, but once we did, I promised her that the first movie we'd watch together would be her favorite, <i>The Sound of Music</i>. Which I'd never seen, but I knew a lot of the pop culture references to it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXZx9QLmzBrM_jDWRh_jkkbghH2aG1s4CKWAXqXmsT-iYXXO-hfzmTJhsvv3zyBs27qnjvw2pmSLZTsJOa25SncjPTxYquUVxAwhRbHKJvFZ9G4XrB79Y_jO0-tWhnikP65eXP_Bz0Oo/s1600/sound-of-music-photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXZx9QLmzBrM_jDWRh_jkkbghH2aG1s4CKWAXqXmsT-iYXXO-hfzmTJhsvv3zyBs27qnjvw2pmSLZTsJOa25SncjPTxYquUVxAwhRbHKJvFZ9G4XrB79Y_jO0-tWhnikP65eXP_Bz0Oo/s320/sound-of-music-photo1.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hills are alive! </td></tr>
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We watched the whole thing, and I actually enjoyed it. I didn't feel impatient to get through it-- I wanted to know what happened. It was a valuable piece of cultural literacy that I should know.<br />
<br />
Then a few weeks ago someone posted this on the website McSweeney's:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/i-regret-to-inform-you-that-my-wedding-to-captain-von-trapp-has-been-canceled" target="_blank">I Regret to Inform You That My Wedding to Captain Von Trapp Has Been Cancelled</a> by Baroness Elsa Schraeder<br />
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Now I'm glad that I've seen <i>The Sound of Music</i> for another reason: I got to appreciate this brilliant piece of satire. I LOLed several times throughout, but this is perhaps my favorite line:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You’ll... be glad to know I have retained custody of the Captain’s
hard-drinking gay friend, Max. Anyone who gets tired of sing-a-longs
should feel free to look us up.</blockquote>
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