Here's an interesting "mad science" story for you, just in time for Halloween.
Medical science marches on, and the stuff of yesterdays science fiction continues move into the realm of possibility. Today, there's good news for people in the government witness protection program, as well as anyone who has been horribly disfigured:
First human face transplant, Ohio clinic starts screening patients: "The Cleveland Clinic, Ohio, USA, is to start screening patients for what will be the first ever face transplant. A review board has given the clinic permission to carry out the procedure."
The cynical side of me wonders what someone would pay to wear a dead celebrity's face -- the ultimate piece of memorabilia. On eBay we've already seen people auctioning their vote, even their kidneys. Will we ever be able to sell options on our body parts in event of our premature deaths? I've learned never to say "never."
Seriously: this hospital truly ought to fire the public relations firm who advised them that this was an appropriate time to release this story: who can take this seriously on Halloween?
Watch the late night comics to see how long it takes them to latch on to this story. They will not be able to leave it alone.
What an interesting world my kids will inhabit in 50 years.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Happy Halloween
Just a short note to wish you all a Happy Halloween. It's a holiday that my in-laws in the UK find a bit peculiar, but they enjoy getting pictures of the kids dressed up in their costumes. They lament that the holiday seems to be catching on the UK with the younger folks.
My kids love Halloween for all the obvious reasons: it means dressing up, horse play and lots of candy. Mom and Dad, who are usually stingy with candy treats, have to back down during this time of the year. High glucose rules!
This year the daughter has chosen to be Tinkerbell the Fairy; the oldest son wanted to be a puppy so his mother custom made him an original puppy outfit; the youngest must wear the Bumble Bee costume, which has already been worn by the other two. That darn bee costume was so expensive, I'm determined to get my money's worth out of it, even if I have to have a fourth kid!
Tonight is a costume party for Jane and I. I can't remember the last Halloween costume party that we went to. She'll be a Barbie Doll and I'll be my usual Mad Scientist. Nights out are always a big deal for us, since there haven't been that many since the third child came along almost a year ago.
Have a spooky evening dear reader. And enjoy a piece of candy for me.
My kids love Halloween for all the obvious reasons: it means dressing up, horse play and lots of candy. Mom and Dad, who are usually stingy with candy treats, have to back down during this time of the year. High glucose rules!
This year the daughter has chosen to be Tinkerbell the Fairy; the oldest son wanted to be a puppy so his mother custom made him an original puppy outfit; the youngest must wear the Bumble Bee costume, which has already been worn by the other two. That darn bee costume was so expensive, I'm determined to get my money's worth out of it, even if I have to have a fourth kid!
Tonight is a costume party for Jane and I. I can't remember the last Halloween costume party that we went to. She'll be a Barbie Doll and I'll be my usual Mad Scientist. Nights out are always a big deal for us, since there haven't been that many since the third child came along almost a year ago.
Have a spooky evening dear reader. And enjoy a piece of candy for me.
Friday, October 29, 2004
The Best Man
One nice thing about getting older is that you have fewer weddings to attend, or at least fewer weddings to participate in. It is an honor to be in someone's wedding, certainly, but it's also an expensive proposition and time consuming in most cases. When it comes to weddings, I've discovered that I'm a better spectator than participant.
Way back in 1989 came my first request to be a best man. A buddy from high school, Glen was engaged to a woman he met in college, and who didn't altogether like me. I've never been certain as to why she didn't like me, but in the end, whether she did or didn't would not matter.
The wedding was to be held in her hometown in suburban Chicago. I was living in New Orleans at the time, a nearly 18 hour drive to Chicago. Dutifully, I showed up at Glen's apartment right at the appointed time, but he was not there. I didn't have anywhere else to go, since I would be staying at his apartment. So I crossed the street to a local pub, and there I found another member of the wedding party. "He hasn't been here all day," he said, still groggy for having driven up from Kansas City. He was clearly annoyed at being locked out.
Hours later, a light went on in Glen's apartment. We quickly downed our beers and crossed the street. The door was open, so we let ourselves inside. We were whooping it up! Hey buddy! Great to see you! Where you been? Not much longer now, eh? The old ball and chain, etc. etc.
But the revelry was not returned, and we noticed that Glen was in a lot of distress. The wedding had been called off by the bride, he said. I didn't believe him, and it would be just like him to joke about something like this. He dialed the bride and handed me the phone, and she confirmed she couldn't go through with it. Why? I never did find out. He never did tell me. All these years later, I still haven't been able to find out from other friends.
I hung around for a few days, as I was planning to do anyway. On what would have been his wedding night, we went clubbing downtown. It was a pathetic evening, but probably better than staying at home.
Glen really changed after this experience, or perhaps he had changed before but it took this incident to make me see it. He became more aloof, less trusting, and less available. Two years later after I had moved permanently to Chicago, he would run off with my girlfriend (I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the biggest favor anyone had ever done for me. More on this in a later post).
Today's lesson: Life goes on.
Way back in 1989 came my first request to be a best man. A buddy from high school, Glen was engaged to a woman he met in college, and who didn't altogether like me. I've never been certain as to why she didn't like me, but in the end, whether she did or didn't would not matter.
The wedding was to be held in her hometown in suburban Chicago. I was living in New Orleans at the time, a nearly 18 hour drive to Chicago. Dutifully, I showed up at Glen's apartment right at the appointed time, but he was not there. I didn't have anywhere else to go, since I would be staying at his apartment. So I crossed the street to a local pub, and there I found another member of the wedding party. "He hasn't been here all day," he said, still groggy for having driven up from Kansas City. He was clearly annoyed at being locked out.
Hours later, a light went on in Glen's apartment. We quickly downed our beers and crossed the street. The door was open, so we let ourselves inside. We were whooping it up! Hey buddy! Great to see you! Where you been? Not much longer now, eh? The old ball and chain, etc. etc.
But the revelry was not returned, and we noticed that Glen was in a lot of distress. The wedding had been called off by the bride, he said. I didn't believe him, and it would be just like him to joke about something like this. He dialed the bride and handed me the phone, and she confirmed she couldn't go through with it. Why? I never did find out. He never did tell me. All these years later, I still haven't been able to find out from other friends.
I hung around for a few days, as I was planning to do anyway. On what would have been his wedding night, we went clubbing downtown. It was a pathetic evening, but probably better than staying at home.
Glen really changed after this experience, or perhaps he had changed before but it took this incident to make me see it. He became more aloof, less trusting, and less available. Two years later after I had moved permanently to Chicago, he would run off with my girlfriend (I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the biggest favor anyone had ever done for me. More on this in a later post).
Today's lesson: Life goes on.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
The Pumpkin Launcher
Can we talk? Today I'm going to set aside my usual pseudo-philosophical waxing about middle class family life and my insightful social observations so I can vent a little. I'd like to tell you something that kept me up last night: a pumpkin launcher.
Yesterday, Jane and I met with Jorgen's kindergarten teacher. It's never a good a sign when the teacher leads off with, "I wish I had more good news for you than bad..." She proceeded to tell us about how he is having trouble making friends in his new class. How he sometimes will not listen or do the required work. How he has received the occassional time-out. How he likes to be alone sometimes. In other words, he's a little too much like his dad.
His teacher is a nice young lady. I believe she means well. She has a tough job, with twenty five kids ages five to six to teach. But the way she approached the subject of my boy put me on the defensive. Pissed me off, really.
I pressed her on certain facts, trying to gain some perspective, and she did admit that he was not the worst kid in the class, that there are others she struggles with even more. She admitted that he is a very intelligent kid who scored very high on tests he had been given. The problem is engaging his cooperation and attention.
To illustrate her point, she unveiled a crayon drawing that he had made. For lack of a better description, it was a drawing of a pumpkin launcher, assumably capable of launching pumpkins great distances. It was a pretty cool idea my boy had, and not such a weird one actually. On the top of the frame was the launcher, and at the bottom were a dozen or so pumpkins that he told his teacher been blasted out of the launcher. In case you're wondering, this was not a picture of bloody pumpkin destruction and mayhem, suggesting violence and deeper psychological problems. It was not the kind of picture that I suspect Jeffrey Dahmer might have drawn as a kid. No indeed. I'm happy to say that all of my boys pumpkins appeared to have landed safely on the ground. The kid loves pumpkins, what can I say.
"Hey, that's pretty good. He's in kindergarten and he's designed a pumpkin launcher!" I said. "I remember when a college engineering class did that..."
"Yes, its 'good.'" she interrupted, slightly annoyed. "BUT, the problem is that he was supposed to draw a picture of himself doing something. He's not following directions."
Jorgen is a great kid, very popular in his daycare class, even if not so popular among the kindergarten set. He is capable of great generosity, and when he is interested in a subject, he goes deep. He's very creative. If he's not making friends in her class, if he's not joining in, there is obviously something wrong. He's clearly not engaged. Whether this is due to his own emotional maturity or that of a stressed out teacher, I haven't yet decided.
So this morning, my son and I went to Quality Bakery, our favorite doughnut shop. We sat at our usual table, and through the window we watched three big trains rumble by (he just loves trains - see my Oct. 17 post). Gently, I brought up the topic of school. And through mouths stuffed with chocolate covered doughnuts, and we talked. The first of many discussions I want to have with him over the next few weeks about he importance of cooperating and listening.
No closure to today's story. Just a lesson learned: be your child's advocate, and listen even when what you are hearing doesn't seem to make sense.
Yesterday, Jane and I met with Jorgen's kindergarten teacher. It's never a good a sign when the teacher leads off with, "I wish I had more good news for you than bad..." She proceeded to tell us about how he is having trouble making friends in his new class. How he sometimes will not listen or do the required work. How he has received the occassional time-out. How he likes to be alone sometimes. In other words, he's a little too much like his dad.
His teacher is a nice young lady. I believe she means well. She has a tough job, with twenty five kids ages five to six to teach. But the way she approached the subject of my boy put me on the defensive. Pissed me off, really.
I pressed her on certain facts, trying to gain some perspective, and she did admit that he was not the worst kid in the class, that there are others she struggles with even more. She admitted that he is a very intelligent kid who scored very high on tests he had been given. The problem is engaging his cooperation and attention.
To illustrate her point, she unveiled a crayon drawing that he had made. For lack of a better description, it was a drawing of a pumpkin launcher, assumably capable of launching pumpkins great distances. It was a pretty cool idea my boy had, and not such a weird one actually. On the top of the frame was the launcher, and at the bottom were a dozen or so pumpkins that he told his teacher been blasted out of the launcher. In case you're wondering, this was not a picture of bloody pumpkin destruction and mayhem, suggesting violence and deeper psychological problems. It was not the kind of picture that I suspect Jeffrey Dahmer might have drawn as a kid. No indeed. I'm happy to say that all of my boys pumpkins appeared to have landed safely on the ground. The kid loves pumpkins, what can I say.
"Hey, that's pretty good. He's in kindergarten and he's designed a pumpkin launcher!" I said. "I remember when a college engineering class did that..."
"Yes, its 'good.'" she interrupted, slightly annoyed. "BUT, the problem is that he was supposed to draw a picture of himself doing something. He's not following directions."
Jorgen is a great kid, very popular in his daycare class, even if not so popular among the kindergarten set. He is capable of great generosity, and when he is interested in a subject, he goes deep. He's very creative. If he's not making friends in her class, if he's not joining in, there is obviously something wrong. He's clearly not engaged. Whether this is due to his own emotional maturity or that of a stressed out teacher, I haven't yet decided.
So this morning, my son and I went to Quality Bakery, our favorite doughnut shop. We sat at our usual table, and through the window we watched three big trains rumble by (he just loves trains - see my Oct. 17 post). Gently, I brought up the topic of school. And through mouths stuffed with chocolate covered doughnuts, and we talked. The first of many discussions I want to have with him over the next few weeks about he importance of cooperating and listening.
No closure to today's story. Just a lesson learned: be your child's advocate, and listen even when what you are hearing doesn't seem to make sense.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The Middle Child
My second child, now nearly 4, was conceived in Paris, across the street from the Louvre, in a comfortable hotel (this is already probably more than you ever wanted to know). We were visiting Jane's parents in England. The trip to Paris was thrown together rather hastily, after Grandma and Grand Dad suddenly volunteered to watch the little boy for a couple of days, giving us our first bonafide vacation in about two years.
Our three days and two nights in the city of lights was a whirlwind. We found time to enjoy many of the touristy things that were on my agenda: to bask in the gaze of the Mona Lisa, look upon the Venus de Milo, climb the steps to the Sacre-Coeur, enjoy the view of the city from atop the L'Arc de Triomphe, relax on a boat tour on La Seine, stand before the Eiffel Tower, and wander through the ever present cafes and galleries in this great city. So it was fitting that we brought back to America a souvenir of this wonderful trip. We came as two, and we left as three.
My daughter and second child is a beautiful, healthy little girl who loves to be in charge. In a group, she will be the one handing out assignments: "you be the mommy, you be the baby..." Once she's got you in her program, its hard to get away.
Her table prayer each night goes like this: "Come lord Jesus, be our guest, and let Big Gifts, to us be blessed, Amen!" I've tried correcting her in the past, that its "these gifts, not big gifts," but I no longer try. I have my table prayer, she has hers, and I delight in hearing her say it.
There is something very special to a father about having a daughter. I like to think I treat all my kids the same. But here is what I suspect of myself: I suspect she gets away with more, and that she receives the benefit of the doubt more often than the boys. I suspect that when I'm in a store and see a nice dress, I'm more apt to buy it for her than I am to buy clothes for the boys. I also suspect that I am more likely to do little favors for her than for the boys, like carry her up some steps. Try as I might to treat all the kids the same, as my only girl, she always seems to get a little extra special treatment.
I'm glad she was the second child. I have to admit, I wanted a boy for my first child. I think every man does, even those like me who always told their pregnant wife, "it doesn't make any difference to me whether its a boy or a girl Honey, just as long as its healthy!" The truth for me was, deep inside I wanted a boy for the first child, and even felt some pressure to have one. Is it rational to feel that way? Of course not -- I had no kingdom that needed an heir. But there was that nagging little feeling deep inside that I needed to recreate myself. As though somehow it was up to me, and if I secretly rooted for a boy I could impact the outcome. It certainly doesn't mean I wouldn't have loved her any less if she was my first child. But I've always felt that she somehow did me a favor, enlisting to be the second child.
Today's lesson: kids are just like people, only smaller, or, Paris is a great place to conceive kids.
Our three days and two nights in the city of lights was a whirlwind. We found time to enjoy many of the touristy things that were on my agenda: to bask in the gaze of the Mona Lisa, look upon the Venus de Milo, climb the steps to the Sacre-Coeur, enjoy the view of the city from atop the L'Arc de Triomphe, relax on a boat tour on La Seine, stand before the Eiffel Tower, and wander through the ever present cafes and galleries in this great city. So it was fitting that we brought back to America a souvenir of this wonderful trip. We came as two, and we left as three.
My daughter and second child is a beautiful, healthy little girl who loves to be in charge. In a group, she will be the one handing out assignments: "you be the mommy, you be the baby..." Once she's got you in her program, its hard to get away.
Her table prayer each night goes like this: "Come lord Jesus, be our guest, and let Big Gifts, to us be blessed, Amen!" I've tried correcting her in the past, that its "these gifts, not big gifts," but I no longer try. I have my table prayer, she has hers, and I delight in hearing her say it.
There is something very special to a father about having a daughter. I like to think I treat all my kids the same. But here is what I suspect of myself: I suspect she gets away with more, and that she receives the benefit of the doubt more often than the boys. I suspect that when I'm in a store and see a nice dress, I'm more apt to buy it for her than I am to buy clothes for the boys. I also suspect that I am more likely to do little favors for her than for the boys, like carry her up some steps. Try as I might to treat all the kids the same, as my only girl, she always seems to get a little extra special treatment.
I'm glad she was the second child. I have to admit, I wanted a boy for my first child. I think every man does, even those like me who always told their pregnant wife, "it doesn't make any difference to me whether its a boy or a girl Honey, just as long as its healthy!" The truth for me was, deep inside I wanted a boy for the first child, and even felt some pressure to have one. Is it rational to feel that way? Of course not -- I had no kingdom that needed an heir. But there was that nagging little feeling deep inside that I needed to recreate myself. As though somehow it was up to me, and if I secretly rooted for a boy I could impact the outcome. It certainly doesn't mean I wouldn't have loved her any less if she was my first child. But I've always felt that she somehow did me a favor, enlisting to be the second child.
Today's lesson: kids are just like people, only smaller, or, Paris is a great place to conceive kids.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
The Test
Today we took Pete (number 3) to the hospital for a hearing exam. He was such a great little kid, keeping himself busy and being no trouble at all for his dad. To my surprise, the audiologist called us in 5 minutes early. He stuck some kind of instrument into each ear, and that was it. He was done with us.
15 minutes later, the ENT called us in. He began explaining the results of the test. Looks like the left ear has some kind of fluid. Since Pete has had six ear infections already during his 11 months on this planet, he suggests getting tubes placed in the ear so that the mucus behind the ear drum can drain. To parents who have literally been up all night (and I mean ALL FREAKIN' NIGHT!!) comforting Pete during his bouts with ear infections, this is a great idea. Besides, we've already been through all this with number 1.
Since I had the opportunity, I ask the ENT about something my oldest boy said to me: he's been complaining about a buzzing sound in his ears. Indeed, he has awaken in the night screaming, convinced that he is being attacked by bees. This is not normal, the ENT says. I suspected as much. He recommends bringing the boy in for some tests and another 20 dollar co-pay.
An hour later I picked up the oldest from Kindergarten, to bring him to his afternoon day care. I ask about the buzzing sound. Yes, its still there. "How often do you hear it, son." All the time, he says.
Adding to the to-do list.
Pete's surgury is scheduled for Monday.
15 minutes later, the ENT called us in. He began explaining the results of the test. Looks like the left ear has some kind of fluid. Since Pete has had six ear infections already during his 11 months on this planet, he suggests getting tubes placed in the ear so that the mucus behind the ear drum can drain. To parents who have literally been up all night (and I mean ALL FREAKIN' NIGHT!!) comforting Pete during his bouts with ear infections, this is a great idea. Besides, we've already been through all this with number 1.
Since I had the opportunity, I ask the ENT about something my oldest boy said to me: he's been complaining about a buzzing sound in his ears. Indeed, he has awaken in the night screaming, convinced that he is being attacked by bees. This is not normal, the ENT says. I suspected as much. He recommends bringing the boy in for some tests and another 20 dollar co-pay.
An hour later I picked up the oldest from Kindergarten, to bring him to his afternoon day care. I ask about the buzzing sound. Yes, its still there. "How often do you hear it, son." All the time, he says.
Adding to the to-do list.
Pete's surgury is scheduled for Monday.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Deluxe Barber Shop
My 11 am appointment cancelled today, so I decided to get a hair cut. Lately I've been going to the Deluxe Barber Shop, rather than my long time stylist. Why? Well, I can be in and out of the Deluxe Barber Shop in about 15 minutes, and the cost is about one third that of my stylist.
The shop is not open on Mondays, I've discovered, despite what the sign on the door says. If you come right at noon, or around 4:30, there will be a wait. But between 10 to 11 am, they'll sit you right down.
Places like the Deluxe Barber Shop were never very interesting to me, and I probably wouldn't have ever tried them if it weren't for a hair emergency one day: a big potential client scheduled a meeting, and I had a mop of hair that I was sure would kill the deal. It would have killed my self confidence at the very least. So I walked in, sat down, and before long I had the hang of the place. Dan knew just how to cut my hair -- he didn't even ask me how I wanted it. You sit, and he just starts cutting.
Dan is the older old guy who has been running the shop for the past 40 years. He knows everyone in town, and can gossip about whats going on in city hall and in local development. Barry is the younger old guy. If you walk in to the shop and neither Dan nor Barry is busy, and if you do NOT ask for Barry, you'll get Dan. That's the pecking order. I don't know that one of them is better than the other.
At the Deluxe Barber Shop, you will not find women. I take that back, because once I saw a women there who had brought in her 12 year old son to get a buzz cut. But still, to see a woman there is unusual, and unofficially, they seem to need a male escourt; even a 12 year old will do.
There are deer mounts on the wall in the Deluxe Barber Shop, and some old Playboy magazines in the rack next to old hunting mags. A big old woodcased television sits on the floor, but I've never seen it turned on. They sell those bright red, oval shaped "pocket combs" for 99 cents. A row of chairs lines the east side of the shop, and that's where the regulars come and sit and talk to Dan (and sometimes Barry). Regulars can hang out there and need not necessarily have their hair cut. I haven't figured out all of the regulars yet, but from the chatter in the shop, I take it that some kind of old-guy right wing political group has made the Deluxe Barber Shop their base of operations.
Today, Dan was complaining about the last guy whose hair he cut. "Do you smell that?" he asked, sniffing the air? There was something there, but I couldn't guess what. "That last guy must smoke 'bout a dozen cigars a day. I never smelled it so strong in 40 years of cutting hair." The conversation quickly turned to a proposed local ban on smoking in all workplaces, including bars and restaurants.
After my haircut, we went to the till. I gave him a 20 and he pulled out a stack of ones. "Geezus!" He said, waving the bills from the till in the air. "Smell these!" I sniffed, and sure enough, there was an unmistakable, very strong smell of cigar. "These were from that smokey bastard," he said, setting the pile of ones to the side.
Today's lesson: Not sure. Cigars stink?
The shop is not open on Mondays, I've discovered, despite what the sign on the door says. If you come right at noon, or around 4:30, there will be a wait. But between 10 to 11 am, they'll sit you right down.
Places like the Deluxe Barber Shop were never very interesting to me, and I probably wouldn't have ever tried them if it weren't for a hair emergency one day: a big potential client scheduled a meeting, and I had a mop of hair that I was sure would kill the deal. It would have killed my self confidence at the very least. So I walked in, sat down, and before long I had the hang of the place. Dan knew just how to cut my hair -- he didn't even ask me how I wanted it. You sit, and he just starts cutting.
Dan is the older old guy who has been running the shop for the past 40 years. He knows everyone in town, and can gossip about whats going on in city hall and in local development. Barry is the younger old guy. If you walk in to the shop and neither Dan nor Barry is busy, and if you do NOT ask for Barry, you'll get Dan. That's the pecking order. I don't know that one of them is better than the other.
At the Deluxe Barber Shop, you will not find women. I take that back, because once I saw a women there who had brought in her 12 year old son to get a buzz cut. But still, to see a woman there is unusual, and unofficially, they seem to need a male escourt; even a 12 year old will do.
There are deer mounts on the wall in the Deluxe Barber Shop, and some old Playboy magazines in the rack next to old hunting mags. A big old woodcased television sits on the floor, but I've never seen it turned on. They sell those bright red, oval shaped "pocket combs" for 99 cents. A row of chairs lines the east side of the shop, and that's where the regulars come and sit and talk to Dan (and sometimes Barry). Regulars can hang out there and need not necessarily have their hair cut. I haven't figured out all of the regulars yet, but from the chatter in the shop, I take it that some kind of old-guy right wing political group has made the Deluxe Barber Shop their base of operations.
Today, Dan was complaining about the last guy whose hair he cut. "Do you smell that?" he asked, sniffing the air? There was something there, but I couldn't guess what. "That last guy must smoke 'bout a dozen cigars a day. I never smelled it so strong in 40 years of cutting hair." The conversation quickly turned to a proposed local ban on smoking in all workplaces, including bars and restaurants.
After my haircut, we went to the till. I gave him a 20 and he pulled out a stack of ones. "Geezus!" He said, waving the bills from the till in the air. "Smell these!" I sniffed, and sure enough, there was an unmistakable, very strong smell of cigar. "These were from that smokey bastard," he said, setting the pile of ones to the side.
Today's lesson: Not sure. Cigars stink?
Sunday, October 24, 2004
2 Days With 3 Kids
Jane was at a conference this weekend, and I was watching the kids by myself. Yesterday was a lot of rushing around: swimming lessons for number 1, a birthday party for number 2. A haircut for number 1 and grocery shopping with 1 and 3 while 2 was at the party. Number 3 needed a lot of attention, being only 11 mos. old. Lots of poops, thank goodness.
I really can't minimize the role of the second parent in raising kids. No offense to single parents intended, but raising kids without a partner sure can't be easy.
Today was church and then mostly play indoors. The rain shortened the list of options. A veggie tales DVD helped fill the void. Number 1 built a huge Thomas the Tank Engine track that stretched from his room to the living room, and Number 3 enjoyed taking it apart. I'm very tired tonight. Jane came home about 7 pm, after baths and just in time to help with tuck in. It was nice to talk to another adult. Teacher conference on Tuesday for number 1. Fingers crossed. Good night.
I really can't minimize the role of the second parent in raising kids. No offense to single parents intended, but raising kids without a partner sure can't be easy.
Today was church and then mostly play indoors. The rain shortened the list of options. A veggie tales DVD helped fill the void. Number 1 built a huge Thomas the Tank Engine track that stretched from his room to the living room, and Number 3 enjoyed taking it apart. I'm very tired tonight. Jane came home about 7 pm, after baths and just in time to help with tuck in. It was nice to talk to another adult. Teacher conference on Tuesday for number 1. Fingers crossed. Good night.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
The Call
At 1:05 am this morning, shortly after local bars close, our phone rang. I grabbed the receiver and grunted out a "'lo?". A strange voice asked for my wife. "Who is this?" The answer was garbled. Confused and not quite awake yet, I handed the phone to Jane. The call was a crank, and quite threatening and vulgar.
I did the *68 thing, but of course, the number had been blocked. This morning I called the Sheriff to see what could be done; nothing. One would think in this day of caller ID that there would be some recourse, but no, there really isn't. The only way to catch these people is if they screw up and forget to block their number or if they become too persistent.
I'm a light sleeper to begin with, and its so hard for me to get back to sleep once disturbed. And this really disturbed me. So the next hour of prime sleeping time was spent wondering who would have done such a thing. I was surprised at how many potential people I came up with after a little thought.
When I was 20, calls in the middle of the night were often good news, sometimes an invitation to a party or a lonely girlfriend. But when you're 40, a phone call in the middle of the night is never good news. Never.
Today's lesson: Bad news can wait till the morning.
I did the *68 thing, but of course, the number had been blocked. This morning I called the Sheriff to see what could be done; nothing. One would think in this day of caller ID that there would be some recourse, but no, there really isn't. The only way to catch these people is if they screw up and forget to block their number or if they become too persistent.
I'm a light sleeper to begin with, and its so hard for me to get back to sleep once disturbed. And this really disturbed me. So the next hour of prime sleeping time was spent wondering who would have done such a thing. I was surprised at how many potential people I came up with after a little thought.
When I was 20, calls in the middle of the night were often good news, sometimes an invitation to a party or a lonely girlfriend. But when you're 40, a phone call in the middle of the night is never good news. Never.
Today's lesson: Bad news can wait till the morning.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Pleasant Surprise
Today brought an unexpected, but pleasant surprise. I received an email from Lisa, a former girlfriend, and someone I have not seen in nearly 20 years. She didn't offer much detail, just a "hello, remember me?" kind of note. She found my email address on the company website.
Here is the email:
"I'm sorry to bother you at work. I was on campus this Sat. for class and I
walked by the hall where we would have those meetings-it prompted me to
remind myself to search google for any movies that you may have produced- I
had conferences this week, a kind of enforced reflection time, so I put your
name in search and...20 years is a long time! You may not remember me, but I
wanted to say "hi."
Lisa "
Lisa was very special. An attractive girl of scandinavian heritage, tall, thin, with beautiful golden blonde hair and a modest personality. The first time I saw her was in an astronomy class at the University of Minnesota. I would sit as close to her as possible, hoping for a chance to be her lab partner (never happened), or in the hopes of lending her a pen (also never happened). One night at a fraternity party, I saw her again, and gathered up enough courage to talk with her. After that we dated off and on, eventually separating when I graduated and moved to Atlanta to take a job. I remember her as a very kind person. She was the kind of person who would stop on the street to talk with a homeless person, wanting to know in earnest if there was anything she could do to help. And she was great with children. She was the kind of person who would always do the right thing, and I hope she still is. If she is a mother, I am sure she is a great one.
Over the years, I had often wondered what had become of her, just as I have wondered about other people I had been close to. There are other people whose fates I would like to know. But are we better off not knowing? There is a danger in being too curious, of holding on to tightly to the past, especially if one begins to lament would could have been. Godspeed to the people who have passed me by (or vice versa). I wish you all well on your own life's journey. I'm sorry if I hurt you, and I forgive you if you had ever hurt me.
For me, things have always worked out for the better -- even during times when the pain was very real and stayed a very long time, in the end, it always has worked out for the better. I have missed out on many opportunities, only to discover a new opportunity just over the horizon. If I had made different decisions 20 years ago, my life might be much different than it is right now. Perhaps I would have married Lisa eventually. But then again, I like things the way they are, I love my wife and the children in my life, and I wouldn't change my current situation for anything.
Here is the email:
"I'm sorry to bother you at work. I was on campus this Sat. for class and I
walked by the hall where we would have those meetings-it prompted me to
remind myself to search google for any movies that you may have produced- I
had conferences this week, a kind of enforced reflection time, so I put your
name in search and...20 years is a long time! You may not remember me, but I
wanted to say "hi."
Lisa "
Lisa was very special. An attractive girl of scandinavian heritage, tall, thin, with beautiful golden blonde hair and a modest personality. The first time I saw her was in an astronomy class at the University of Minnesota. I would sit as close to her as possible, hoping for a chance to be her lab partner (never happened), or in the hopes of lending her a pen (also never happened). One night at a fraternity party, I saw her again, and gathered up enough courage to talk with her. After that we dated off and on, eventually separating when I graduated and moved to Atlanta to take a job. I remember her as a very kind person. She was the kind of person who would stop on the street to talk with a homeless person, wanting to know in earnest if there was anything she could do to help. And she was great with children. She was the kind of person who would always do the right thing, and I hope she still is. If she is a mother, I am sure she is a great one.
Over the years, I had often wondered what had become of her, just as I have wondered about other people I had been close to. There are other people whose fates I would like to know. But are we better off not knowing? There is a danger in being too curious, of holding on to tightly to the past, especially if one begins to lament would could have been. Godspeed to the people who have passed me by (or vice versa). I wish you all well on your own life's journey. I'm sorry if I hurt you, and I forgive you if you had ever hurt me.
For me, things have always worked out for the better -- even during times when the pain was very real and stayed a very long time, in the end, it always has worked out for the better. I have missed out on many opportunities, only to discover a new opportunity just over the horizon. If I had made different decisions 20 years ago, my life might be much different than it is right now. Perhaps I would have married Lisa eventually. But then again, I like things the way they are, I love my wife and the children in my life, and I wouldn't change my current situation for anything.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
The Daily Dilemma
Lunch time poses the a daily dilemma for us middle class workers: where to eat? There are probably thirty place to eat within a 10 minute drive of my office. Here in my small midwestern town of 180,000 people, food choices can be easily grouped into 1) tacos/Mexican, 2) hamburgers, 3) Chinese buffets, 4) chicken, 5) subs/sandwiches, and 6) full service chain restaurants.
Today I chose chicken. Being somewhat adventurous, I selected a place where I had never eaten before. This place is famous among a few friends of mine not only for their 'broasted' chicken, but also for providing the added convenience of self-service gasoline and lottery ticket sales. The fact that I needed gas and only had a few minutes for lunch may have influenced my decision.
I chose a seat near a window so I could watch people filling up their big cars with gas ($1.98/gallon today). I noticed some older folks seated nearby who noticably lowered their voices when I came in. A little self conscious, I began to eat my "broasted" chicken in this gas-traunt (I believe that broasted is a word derived by combining 'Bad' with 'Roasted'. If they can call their chicken broasted, I guess I can call their establishment a gas-traunt, can't I?). These senior folks were obviously regulars and could spot an interloper like me. After awhile, they settled down and would occassionally meander up to the cashier (who greeted them by name) to buy some scratch tickets. On the return trip they stopping by the soda fountain to top off their drink cups. Back at the table they used a lucky spoon to scratch off the stuff on the card. Occassionally the man would show his companion the fuits of the scratching and they would both sigh a little sigh, and then back to the scratching.
Many thoughts crossed my mind as I watched their show. I began to wonder what my own senior years would be like. Would I have enough money to do the things I wanted to do, or would I be frequenting a gas-taurant, scratching lottery cards for dollars. Yet who is to say what I will want to do when I am 2X my current age -- perhaps they were doing exactly what they wanted to do: perhaps they had learned a lesson that I had yet to learn, that life doesn't need to be so complicated, that if my wife and I both survived to retirement and could both appreciate a simple pleasure, maybe that should be enough. Check back here in 40 years and I'll let you know.
Todays lesson is that adventure is not always to be found, but searching for adventure is a way to express your optimism for the future.
Today I chose chicken. Being somewhat adventurous, I selected a place where I had never eaten before. This place is famous among a few friends of mine not only for their 'broasted' chicken, but also for providing the added convenience of self-service gasoline and lottery ticket sales. The fact that I needed gas and only had a few minutes for lunch may have influenced my decision.
I chose a seat near a window so I could watch people filling up their big cars with gas ($1.98/gallon today). I noticed some older folks seated nearby who noticably lowered their voices when I came in. A little self conscious, I began to eat my "broasted" chicken in this gas-traunt (I believe that broasted is a word derived by combining 'Bad' with 'Roasted'. If they can call their chicken broasted, I guess I can call their establishment a gas-traunt, can't I?). These senior folks were obviously regulars and could spot an interloper like me. After awhile, they settled down and would occassionally meander up to the cashier (who greeted them by name) to buy some scratch tickets. On the return trip they stopping by the soda fountain to top off their drink cups. Back at the table they used a lucky spoon to scratch off the stuff on the card. Occassionally the man would show his companion the fuits of the scratching and they would both sigh a little sigh, and then back to the scratching.
Many thoughts crossed my mind as I watched their show. I began to wonder what my own senior years would be like. Would I have enough money to do the things I wanted to do, or would I be frequenting a gas-taurant, scratching lottery cards for dollars. Yet who is to say what I will want to do when I am 2X my current age -- perhaps they were doing exactly what they wanted to do: perhaps they had learned a lesson that I had yet to learn, that life doesn't need to be so complicated, that if my wife and I both survived to retirement and could both appreciate a simple pleasure, maybe that should be enough. Check back here in 40 years and I'll let you know.
Todays lesson is that adventure is not always to be found, but searching for adventure is a way to express your optimism for the future.
Monday, October 18, 2004
The Youngest
I heard the cat hissing and growling from behind the lounge sofa in the living room. She had been cornered there, and her cries for help gave me fair warning that she was about to resort to the only self defense tactic left -- violence! I scrambled to get there as quickly as I could, but was too late. My 10 month old son, the youngest, had a solid grip on her tail with both hands and was pulling with all his might. As you might expect, the cat turned and bit him. Surprised, and not quite sure what had just happened, Pete let go of the cat's tail and then looked at his hand for a long time. I picked him up and searched him for signs a bite mark, but found none. The cat's strike had been a mere warning, probably to me as much as to Pete. Then Pete looked into my face, gave me a huge toothless grin, and grabbed my nose so hard I thought it was going to bleed.
Pete just loves the cat. He follows her around the house wearing his great big grin. Usually, just before he can reach her, she glides away and resettles, sleeping with one eye open so that she'll be prepared repeat the maneuver. But this time, the cat had no escape. She allowed herself toi be trapped in a compromised situation.
In times of trouble and danger, we should all be so lucky to get a warning like the cat gave to Pete. Then again, what good is a warning to if we don't recognize it. It will be interesting to see if this changes the way Pete relates to the cat, but knowing my happy little bundle of energy, I suspect it won't.
Todays lesson: avoid compromised situations.
Pete just loves the cat. He follows her around the house wearing his great big grin. Usually, just before he can reach her, she glides away and resettles, sleeping with one eye open so that she'll be prepared repeat the maneuver. But this time, the cat had no escape. She allowed herself toi be trapped in a compromised situation.
In times of trouble and danger, we should all be so lucky to get a warning like the cat gave to Pete. Then again, what good is a warning to if we don't recognize it. It will be interesting to see if this changes the way Pete relates to the cat, but knowing my happy little bundle of energy, I suspect it won't.
Todays lesson: avoid compromised situations.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
The Eldest Child
This morning was a tough one for my firstborn son. He started kindergarten last month, and is probably the youngest in his class. He is also probably the smallest. We thought of holding him back a year, but his pre-school teachers thought that would be discouraging since he is so bright. One of the things I admire about my son is his strong will. But sometimes, it gets him in trouble.
The trouble this morning began because his kindergarten is out for the next 5 school days for "parent/teacher" conferences. So for working parents like us, it creates a bit of a dilemma around how to care for the kids. Our solution was to enroll him back in his old daycare for a week. This did not sit well with him, as he seems to feel that this was a demotion of sorts. "I don't want to go to stupid pre-school," he says. "Pre-school gives me a headache!"
I ruffled through my bag of tricks to see how I should deal with his objection. I chose a tool that has worked well with this boy in the past: a little special attention from dad, and a doughnut. My wife took the two other kids to daycare, and I took the oldest (secretly, so as not to offend the 3 year old) to the donought shop. We have our usual seat there, where we can watch the traffic go by, and if we're lucky, a train might pass by.
About 100 trains a day rip through our town at high speed on three tracks. They've killed about 4 people so far this year, including a teenage girl. A teenage boy was mowed down last weekend as he tried to cross the trcks on his bicycle. The first train had just passed by, so he started to cross -- he didn't see a train coming on the second track from the opposite direction. Miraculously, he is still alive, although not very pretty.
I hate the trains, but to my little boy they are symbol of power, freedom and excitement. He simply loves trains. He tells me to drive out of my way just so that we can drive over the railroad tracks. Someday, he wants to ride a train far away from here, so he says.
Oddly, no trains rumbled by this morning. But a doughnut and chocolate milk with his dad was exactly what my son needed to start his day.
My eldest son is a gorgeous little boy, with large dark brown eyes and ruffled brown hair. Other kids are drawn to him as their friend. He was born five weeks prematurely in an otherwise perfect pregnancy. Perhaps because of this, he's a little short for his age. This was the child who introduced me to parenthood: he needed special attention on the day he was born, and five years later, he still needs it on a regular basis. I'm happy to give it to him.
My wife and I both work but. It would be better, we feel, if one of us could stay home. But that's not in the cards right now. We need the money.
By the way: we're paying about $16,000 this year for daycare. This is down from $20,000 last year, when the boy was in daycare a full day. Thanks to Uncle Sam for the $5,000 tax deduction.
PS - his question to me the other day: how does God keep the sky from falling down? If you know the answer, please send us your comment.
The trouble this morning began because his kindergarten is out for the next 5 school days for "parent/teacher" conferences. So for working parents like us, it creates a bit of a dilemma around how to care for the kids. Our solution was to enroll him back in his old daycare for a week. This did not sit well with him, as he seems to feel that this was a demotion of sorts. "I don't want to go to stupid pre-school," he says. "Pre-school gives me a headache!"
I ruffled through my bag of tricks to see how I should deal with his objection. I chose a tool that has worked well with this boy in the past: a little special attention from dad, and a doughnut. My wife took the two other kids to daycare, and I took the oldest (secretly, so as not to offend the 3 year old) to the donought shop. We have our usual seat there, where we can watch the traffic go by, and if we're lucky, a train might pass by.
About 100 trains a day rip through our town at high speed on three tracks. They've killed about 4 people so far this year, including a teenage girl. A teenage boy was mowed down last weekend as he tried to cross the trcks on his bicycle. The first train had just passed by, so he started to cross -- he didn't see a train coming on the second track from the opposite direction. Miraculously, he is still alive, although not very pretty.
I hate the trains, but to my little boy they are symbol of power, freedom and excitement. He simply loves trains. He tells me to drive out of my way just so that we can drive over the railroad tracks. Someday, he wants to ride a train far away from here, so he says.
Oddly, no trains rumbled by this morning. But a doughnut and chocolate milk with his dad was exactly what my son needed to start his day.
My eldest son is a gorgeous little boy, with large dark brown eyes and ruffled brown hair. Other kids are drawn to him as their friend. He was born five weeks prematurely in an otherwise perfect pregnancy. Perhaps because of this, he's a little short for his age. This was the child who introduced me to parenthood: he needed special attention on the day he was born, and five years later, he still needs it on a regular basis. I'm happy to give it to him.
My wife and I both work but. It would be better, we feel, if one of us could stay home. But that's not in the cards right now. We need the money.
By the way: we're paying about $16,000 this year for daycare. This is down from $20,000 last year, when the boy was in daycare a full day. Thanks to Uncle Sam for the $5,000 tax deduction.
PS - his question to me the other day: how does God keep the sky from falling down? If you know the answer, please send us your comment.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The Car Fire
It was a Friday afternoon, and I was on my way to an appointment. I had not driven my classic 1976 Cadillac Eldorado since that morning, when I dropped the kids off at daycare. In fact, I had only driven it about 5 miles since I picked it up from a local Cadillac repair facility, after spending about $600 on it. It ran a little rough, but the service man told me it was a "stuck lifter" and that it would get better. "Just drive it," he said. So I did.
I stopped at a red light. The light turned green, I stepped on the gas to go. But the car didn't go. It would never go again.
"Damn!" I thought, as I saw what I thought was steam coming from under the hood. I reached under the dash and pulled the hood release. The hood popped up, air rushed in, and flames leaped out from under the hood. I struggled to release my seat belt, and ran a safe distance from the car. Flames were engulfing it, and I thought it would explode. Some samaritans ran up to the car to see if anyone was trapped inside; I screamed "get back!" and waved them off. I thought it was going to blow any second.
On my cell phone I called the fire department. I could see a fire station just two blocks away. Surely they would be here in a minute. 15 minutes later, they came rolling up, cut open the hood and poured water on the engine. The car was a total loss.
This vehicle had been in the family since 1976. My dad had bought it new, and it was my baby. It got a lot of attention, and about $2,000 of primping each year. I grew up driving this car, had taken my date to prom in it, had brought my newborn kids home from the hospital in it. It was the car of memories. And then in virtually an instant, it was a total loss.
My whole family was upset. The kids called it "the family car," and they knew that a ride in Daddy's caddy with the top down would inevitably end with a stop at the Tastee Freez for ice cream.
I tell you what -- now that I have some distance from this situation, I don't really miss the car. In some respects, it was liberating. I don't have to worry about where to garage it. I'll save a lot of money on repair, licensing and insurance. I think we all carry around a lot of baggage in the form of who we are or who we were, and what we own. It can be a real burden to carry these things through life, whether the baggage is emotional or physical.
Yes, I'll miss the car. But the day the Cadillac burned up wasn't a tragic day, although it could have been. It was a miraculous day. Had the car burned up with my kids strapped in the back seat-- that would have been an unbearable tragedy. The end of my life. The miracle is that it burned up and no one was hurt. I'm a lucky man!
Aerobics with Jane
Jane is my wife, and the love of my life. We were married about 9 years ago.
We met in an aerobics class in Chicago about 10 years ago. Why an aerobics class? Well, my previous girlfriend had dumped me. Very tough situation, but one that I've since learned isn't all that unique. But at the time, I was devastated when she ran off with my best friend. I was crushed. I felt bad about myself. I was about to turn 30 -- and there I was: feeling ugly, living in an apartment building, no savings to my name, and now absolutely no prospects for marriage. What a loser. So decided to change things, one thing at a time. The first thing: get in shape.
I soon discovered that Aerobics was a great place to meet women. Everyone else in the class was female.
My future wife eventually befriended me, and we had some great non-date nights out. Very low stress and easy going. Eventually I began to see in her all of the terrific traits that my friends saw in her immediately: trustworthy, kind, caring, and always up for an adventure. "Marry her, you fool!" they would tell me. Eventually I asked, and she agreed.
If I am ever asked to provide advice to those contemplating marriage, it is always this: marry your best friend.
We met in an aerobics class in Chicago about 10 years ago. Why an aerobics class? Well, my previous girlfriend had dumped me. Very tough situation, but one that I've since learned isn't all that unique. But at the time, I was devastated when she ran off with my best friend. I was crushed. I felt bad about myself. I was about to turn 30 -- and there I was: feeling ugly, living in an apartment building, no savings to my name, and now absolutely no prospects for marriage. What a loser. So decided to change things, one thing at a time. The first thing: get in shape.
I soon discovered that Aerobics was a great place to meet women. Everyone else in the class was female.
My future wife eventually befriended me, and we had some great non-date nights out. Very low stress and easy going. Eventually I began to see in her all of the terrific traits that my friends saw in her immediately: trustworthy, kind, caring, and always up for an adventure. "Marry her, you fool!" they would tell me. Eventually I asked, and she agreed.
If I am ever asked to provide advice to those contemplating marriage, it is always this: marry your best friend.
The Present Job
My present job is very hard, but very interesting. I get a glimpse into how people structure their financial lives, and their priorities become apparent. A couple of examples.
Last week I met with an 80-something couple. They are terrified of the nursing home, and want to remain home as long as possible. Could I sell them some more long term care insurance? The answer, sadly, was no. Not now that you have cancer and she had a stroke. Should have bought more coverage two years ago. Now they're going to move the house into a trust, and with a little luck, they think they can save their assets from the state and mooch off of Medicaid. Why should they pay for their own nursing home care if they can screw the state by hiding their assets? Everyone else does it, right?
Or the cop who thinks that $100,000 of life insurance is enough to take care of his stay-at-home wife and three kids. No matter what the numbers say (he would need about $1 million in coverage to replace his income at a 5% return) he's sure his family will be ok if he dies. At his age its affordable, but I guess having ESPN on cable TV is more important.
Not everyone needs a ton of insurance, and there are plenty of experts who warn about being over insured. I've been on the other side of these life insurance policies: no one has ever accused me of bringing them too much money in death claim settlement.
I'm not here to sell you any insurance. But I tell you what -- if you have kids, you owe it to them to provide for them after you're gone. The people I hate working with are those who don't care enough about their families to insure their futures. I go to bed easier each night knowing that if I don't wake up, my kids will still go to college, the house will be paid off, and my wife can take some time off to spend with the family.
I think this job is getting to me...
Last week I met with an 80-something couple. They are terrified of the nursing home, and want to remain home as long as possible. Could I sell them some more long term care insurance? The answer, sadly, was no. Not now that you have cancer and she had a stroke. Should have bought more coverage two years ago. Now they're going to move the house into a trust, and with a little luck, they think they can save their assets from the state and mooch off of Medicaid. Why should they pay for their own nursing home care if they can screw the state by hiding their assets? Everyone else does it, right?
Or the cop who thinks that $100,000 of life insurance is enough to take care of his stay-at-home wife and three kids. No matter what the numbers say (he would need about $1 million in coverage to replace his income at a 5% return) he's sure his family will be ok if he dies. At his age its affordable, but I guess having ESPN on cable TV is more important.
Not everyone needs a ton of insurance, and there are plenty of experts who warn about being over insured. I've been on the other side of these life insurance policies: no one has ever accused me of bringing them too much money in death claim settlement.
I'm not here to sell you any insurance. But I tell you what -- if you have kids, you owe it to them to provide for them after you're gone. The people I hate working with are those who don't care enough about their families to insure their futures. I go to bed easier each night knowing that if I don't wake up, my kids will still go to college, the house will be paid off, and my wife can take some time off to spend with the family.
I think this job is getting to me...
The Internet Litterbug
It just occurred to me today, finally, that there is too much garbage on the web. So I deleted some old web pages today. They were probably 2 years old, and had never been updated. My attitude had been to just leave it -- who cares. But this morning, as I was rolling the garbage can to the street, it oddly occurred to me that I was an internet litterbug.
At some point in the development of the internet and the worldweird web, did we all stop taking out the garbage? Because it's piling up on on the front porch! It becomes apparent to me every time I search Google.
Well, today I did my part to conserve bandwidth and server space: no longer will my old family pictures be turning up in some google search for information about London or diaper rash, just because I took a picture of my wife changing the little boy's bottom the London Underground (hey, it's a funny picture!). The google results will now yield just 1,092,182 pages found instead of 1,092,183, at least for a moment.
And yet, I still can't help myself: I delete a bit of web content, but now I have to tell you about it, and in so doing I toss these bit-drops into the great ocean of the web. That anyone will actually read them is a miracle itself, perhaps a one-in-1,092,183 chance occurrence. And the fact that I have again mentioned London and diaper rash will probably mean that I have actually increased the number of Google search hits once again.
Post a comment and tell us all how you were able to find these words on the web; what freak chance brought you to this web blog? What were you really searching for?
And by the way, click here if you were actually searching for info on London or Diaper Rash.
At some point in the development of the internet and the worldweird web, did we all stop taking out the garbage? Because it's piling up on on the front porch! It becomes apparent to me every time I search Google.
Well, today I did my part to conserve bandwidth and server space: no longer will my old family pictures be turning up in some google search for information about London or diaper rash, just because I took a picture of my wife changing the little boy's bottom the London Underground (hey, it's a funny picture!). The google results will now yield just 1,092,182 pages found instead of 1,092,183, at least for a moment.
And yet, I still can't help myself: I delete a bit of web content, but now I have to tell you about it, and in so doing I toss these bit-drops into the great ocean of the web. That anyone will actually read them is a miracle itself, perhaps a one-in-1,092,183 chance occurrence. And the fact that I have again mentioned London and diaper rash will probably mean that I have actually increased the number of Google search hits once again.
Post a comment and tell us all how you were able to find these words on the web; what freak chance brought you to this web blog? What were you really searching for?
And by the way, click here if you were actually searching for info on London or Diaper Rash.
The Interview
"So, what do you do?"
That question was posed to me yesterday by the head of a film studies department. Simple as it was, I was somehow unprepared, as usual. I had gone to his office to interview for a possible part time teaching position. After all, I do have a masters degree in film, even though that career and I took separate paths years ago. Yet, I still have it in the back of my head that, some day, perhaps as my retirement career, I would teach a college class in film theory or production. Or make that film that would catapult me to instant fame and fortune (who is this great director who came out of nowhere to win an Oscar! The world wants to know MORE! Back to reality...)
Back to my interview.
"Well, I'm an advisor with a fortune 500 company," said I. Then added to fill the silence, "I sell insurance and investments."
"Interesting," said he. "What makes you think you can teach a film class?"
"Well," said I, "I have had quite a bit of film experience early on. I worked on some major film productions in New Orleans while I was getting my masters and teaching classes at UNO."
"Interesting," said he. "What kind of films did you work on?"
"Well," said I, "I worked on some features like the Cohen brother's Miller's Crossing. And Steel Magnolias. I have a credit as a production assistance in David Lynch's award winning Wild At Heart. And I once won an award from the Advertising Club of New Orleans for a best-in-class television commercial."
After we found a couple of people we had in common, he seemed to lighten him up a bit. And for the next 30 minutes he made me explain how my winding career path had taken me from David Lynch's errand boy (did you know that David Lynch likes strawberry smoothies?) to a financial planner and insurance guy. It seemed interesting to him; perhaps he was wondering how he might stray from his own career path and saw some hope in me.
He asked if I would be willing to come in and talk to his class, to explain how a film studies degree and a simple indecision and lack of focus and commitment can take a person far away from one's youthful goals.
"Sure, what the hell,' I said.
That question was posed to me yesterday by the head of a film studies department. Simple as it was, I was somehow unprepared, as usual. I had gone to his office to interview for a possible part time teaching position. After all, I do have a masters degree in film, even though that career and I took separate paths years ago. Yet, I still have it in the back of my head that, some day, perhaps as my retirement career, I would teach a college class in film theory or production. Or make that film that would catapult me to instant fame and fortune (who is this great director who came out of nowhere to win an Oscar! The world wants to know MORE! Back to reality...)
Back to my interview.
"Well, I'm an advisor with a fortune 500 company," said I. Then added to fill the silence, "I sell insurance and investments."
"Interesting," said he. "What makes you think you can teach a film class?"
"Well," said I, "I have had quite a bit of film experience early on. I worked on some major film productions in New Orleans while I was getting my masters and teaching classes at UNO."
"Interesting," said he. "What kind of films did you work on?"
"Well," said I, "I worked on some features like the Cohen brother's Miller's Crossing. And Steel Magnolias. I have a credit as a production assistance in David Lynch's award winning Wild At Heart. And I once won an award from the Advertising Club of New Orleans for a best-in-class television commercial."
After we found a couple of people we had in common, he seemed to lighten him up a bit. And for the next 30 minutes he made me explain how my winding career path had taken me from David Lynch's errand boy (did you know that David Lynch likes strawberry smoothies?) to a financial planner and insurance guy. It seemed interesting to him; perhaps he was wondering how he might stray from his own career path and saw some hope in me.
He asked if I would be willing to come in and talk to his class, to explain how a film studies degree and a simple indecision and lack of focus and commitment can take a person far away from one's youthful goals.
"Sure, what the hell,' I said.
The Apex
In 2004 I turned 40. It just sort of snuck up on me. In fact, I nearly forgot about it, and would have, if it wasn't for my medeling kids. I did not have a history of responding well to birthdays with zeros in them. For my tenth birthday, I thought I was a big kid now and promptly got into trouble for appropriating the best toys from my siblings. For my 20th birthday, I cowered at home -- what good is a 20th birthday? Too young to go drinking, and too old to date 16 year olds. On my 30th, I was in such dread that I worked myself into a sickness and stayed home alone, fielding the occassional "happy birthday!" call.
So that I was on track to forget the 40th was a blessing. But birthdays are such a big deal to kids! To kids, birthday's are not only a fun time, but a weapon to be wielded with reckless abandon! My little girl Chloe, in a fit of anger, will often scream at me "...then you're not invited to my birthday party!" Over time I've evolved an answer to this that seems to get this 3 year old thinking: I tell her, "then you won't have any candles on your birthday cake! I'm bringing the candles and mommy is bringing the cake." She's still thinking about this one, and I recently heard her ask my 5 year old boy if he knew where to get birthday candles.
Anyway, I'm 40 now, whether I like it or not. Have I passed the apex of my life? Stay tuned as I share my struggles, occassional successes, frequent foibles and insecurities. Someone once told me that blogging was cheaper than seeing a shrink -- lets find out!
So that I was on track to forget the 40th was a blessing. But birthdays are such a big deal to kids! To kids, birthday's are not only a fun time, but a weapon to be wielded with reckless abandon! My little girl Chloe, in a fit of anger, will often scream at me "...then you're not invited to my birthday party!" Over time I've evolved an answer to this that seems to get this 3 year old thinking: I tell her, "then you won't have any candles on your birthday cake! I'm bringing the candles and mommy is bringing the cake." She's still thinking about this one, and I recently heard her ask my 5 year old boy if he knew where to get birthday candles.
Anyway, I'm 40 now, whether I like it or not. Have I passed the apex of my life? Stay tuned as I share my struggles, occassional successes, frequent foibles and insecurities. Someone once told me that blogging was cheaper than seeing a shrink -- lets find out!
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