Oh my!
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Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Flashback Weekend
Fuss is two, the anniversary marked by a fun party Saturday afternoon.
After last year's anarchic bacchanal we took a more low key approach, trimming the guest list and turning catering over to our culinary genius pal Marcus, who grew up in a family restaurant in Switzerland with a dress code featuring Lederhosen and Swiss Guard uniforms. Asparagus frittata, salmon and goat cheese bruscetta plus a lovely pile of olive oil drenched crostini flanked by bowls of savory spredable delights. I kept my hand in by grilling a mountain of hot dogs for the toddler army.
My camera's battery went dead so the only documentation is video. The inverse of last year, when the video camera's battery went dead and I barely had enough juice to get the cake presentation.
Fuss was in good spirits, still not really clued in to the concept of premeditated celebration but happy to see all his favorite people in one place.
He's been sick with a cough for a week or so and last night provided a window on how far we've come from the bad old days. The human brain being how it is, we've both mostly already forgotten what it was like for the first year and change when it it took an act of God to make him sleep more than an hour at a stretch.
The cough gets worse at night, and he occasionally hacks so hard he pukes. So last night was punctuated by several coughing, howling, vomiting interludes of the sort where you end up fully awake with the light on, a distraught little man thrashing and screeching on your shoulder, wondering what the fuck you're supposed to do now.
The Wife sought refuge on the couch, but Fuss is wise to the trick and fetched her back a little before 5. I gave up on sleep and sat reading with him for a while while she dozed, before another coughing/puking bout woke her up and necessitated a hazmat cleansing of the area.
After, I parked him on the couch where he requested "baby panda!", an episode of Curious George set in a zoo and his current favorite. I put on the kettle for coffee and as I was filling up the dishwasher remembered that in the not so distant past this awful night was the rule rather than the exception. Well, except for the vomit.
And if some representative of the Sandman Guild had offered it to me in trade for any average night during Fuss' first six months, I'd have snatched the offer from their gloved hand before they came to their senses then howled over my coup in semi-hysterical triumph.
After last year's anarchic bacchanal we took a more low key approach, trimming the guest list and turning catering over to our culinary genius pal Marcus, who grew up in a family restaurant in Switzerland with a dress code featuring Lederhosen and Swiss Guard uniforms. Asparagus frittata, salmon and goat cheese bruscetta plus a lovely pile of olive oil drenched crostini flanked by bowls of savory spredable delights. I kept my hand in by grilling a mountain of hot dogs for the toddler army.
My camera's battery went dead so the only documentation is video. The inverse of last year, when the video camera's battery went dead and I barely had enough juice to get the cake presentation.
Fuss was in good spirits, still not really clued in to the concept of premeditated celebration but happy to see all his favorite people in one place.
He's been sick with a cough for a week or so and last night provided a window on how far we've come from the bad old days. The human brain being how it is, we've both mostly already forgotten what it was like for the first year and change when it it took an act of God to make him sleep more than an hour at a stretch.
The cough gets worse at night, and he occasionally hacks so hard he pukes. So last night was punctuated by several coughing, howling, vomiting interludes of the sort where you end up fully awake with the light on, a distraught little man thrashing and screeching on your shoulder, wondering what the fuck you're supposed to do now.
The Wife sought refuge on the couch, but Fuss is wise to the trick and fetched her back a little before 5. I gave up on sleep and sat reading with him for a while while she dozed, before another coughing/puking bout woke her up and necessitated a hazmat cleansing of the area.
After, I parked him on the couch where he requested "baby panda!", an episode of Curious George set in a zoo and his current favorite. I put on the kettle for coffee and as I was filling up the dishwasher remembered that in the not so distant past this awful night was the rule rather than the exception. Well, except for the vomit.
And if some representative of the Sandman Guild had offered it to me in trade for any average night during Fuss' first six months, I'd have snatched the offer from their gloved hand before they came to their senses then howled over my coup in semi-hysterical triumph.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
update on the crazy
So, the imputes for crazy mother in law's work call turned out to be the blessed demise of their scraggly, fleabitten one-eyed Irish Setter, a beast they'd worn around their necks for several years like the Ancient Mariner's albatross. Purchased in a fit of misguided nostalgia as a replacement for a family pet of the distant past, it failed dismally in its role as talisman uniting the shattered clan.
First, the Wife's virulent allergies to anything with fur guaranteed we would never again set foot in their house. Second, the beast itself was unwelcome anywhere outside their domain, as it proudly bore the spastic DNA of its species and was completely untrained, discounting violent fits pitched by the rage-o-holic father in law.
It never presented a tremendously appealing visage, but took a sharp turn for the worse after a bout of Valley Fever a few years back. It survived in zombie form, withered and with one eye transformed into a milky orb. It hobbled along unstoppably until unceremoniously keeling over at the foot of the stairs last week, becoming a prop for one last spasm of mawkish parental manipulation.
Overall, not a bad symbol of the family dynamic.
First, the Wife's virulent allergies to anything with fur guaranteed we would never again set foot in their house. Second, the beast itself was unwelcome anywhere outside their domain, as it proudly bore the spastic DNA of its species and was completely untrained, discounting violent fits pitched by the rage-o-holic father in law.
It never presented a tremendously appealing visage, but took a sharp turn for the worse after a bout of Valley Fever a few years back. It survived in zombie form, withered and with one eye transformed into a milky orb. It hobbled along unstoppably until unceremoniously keeling over at the foot of the stairs last week, becoming a prop for one last spasm of mawkish parental manipulation.
Overall, not a bad symbol of the family dynamic.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
bloggy link
Adding my internet boxing pal Inty to the blogroll.
All of you slackers who measure update frequency in geologic terms take heed, you can be replaced!
All of you slackers who measure update frequency in geologic terms take heed, you can be replaced!
When Crazies Collide
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy was browsing the .25 cent rack when the weird born-again dude I kicked out for trying to shoplift a few months back rolled up on him.
Evangelical Shoplifter: Hey I see you on my bus all the time!
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: Oh yah?
Evangelical Shoplifter: Do you listen to country music?
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: All kinds, all kinds.
(customer comes up with a book and I miss some crosstalk)
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: Hey, why are you asking all these questions?
Evangelical Shoplifter: Uh...
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: Are you doing police work?
Evangelical Shoplifter: No, not right now I'm not.
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy, leaving cart and entering store: Good, cause I hate cops!
Evangelical Shoplifter: Hey I see you on my bus all the time!
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: Oh yah?
Evangelical Shoplifter: Do you listen to country music?
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: All kinds, all kinds.
(customer comes up with a book and I miss some crosstalk)
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: Hey, why are you asking all these questions?
Evangelical Shoplifter: Uh...
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy: Are you doing police work?
Evangelical Shoplifter: No, not right now I'm not.
Dirty Bunny Ear Guy, leaving cart and entering store: Good, cause I hate cops!
Monday, July 19, 2010
today's book find
While sorting through a huge buy of mostly junky evangelical religious tracts & law books from the 70's I chanced across an amusing title: Larson's Book of Cults.
Listed under MAJOR CULTS with the subheading Pseudo-Christian Cults are Mormonism, Jehovah's Witnesses and Christian Science.
Under Occult/Mystical Cults we find astology, yoga, UFOs, Scientology, martial arts(!) and Theosophy.
In the synoses of 'minor cults' we find none other than THE FARM, home to Ina May Gaskin as well as young Ivan in his pre-futurist days. And also the Unitarians.
A gem of insight from the cover blurb:
When cult shopping it's important to choose the right one!
Listed under MAJOR CULTS with the subheading Pseudo-Christian Cults are Mormonism, Jehovah's Witnesses and Christian Science.
Under Occult/Mystical Cults we find astology, yoga, UFOs, Scientology, martial arts(!) and Theosophy.
In the synoses of 'minor cults' we find none other than THE FARM, home to Ina May Gaskin as well as young Ivan in his pre-futurist days. And also the Unitarians.
A gem of insight from the cover blurb:
Most important, author Bob Larson details precisely how each cult deviates from CHRISTIAN TRUTH.
When cult shopping it's important to choose the right one!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
true customer tales
guy and gal pause at the sale cart.
guy, reading from promo blurb: "Ten young ex-addicts tell their tales of addiction to coke, heroin and other drugs."
gal: oh that's cool. *rummages through cart* Man, I wish they had some children's books!
guy, reading from promo blurb: "Ten young ex-addicts tell their tales of addiction to coke, heroin and other drugs."
gal: oh that's cool. *rummages through cart* Man, I wish they had some children's books!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
buy of the day
goes to the gal who took home a volume of lesbian cowboy erotica to go with her tome of Biblical advice.
Ride 'em, Cowgal!
Ride 'em, Cowgal!
oh hey, FYI crazy mother in law
Don't call me at work with "important messages" for the Wife, mmk?
There's this thing called an answering machine, which we got pretty much just to spam-trap your bipolar ranting, so feel free to use it!
The only genuinely important message you could deliver is the one you never will, that you've started taking your meds and stopped your inexorable march down the rutted path that leads to pushing a shopping cart around town and yelling obscenities at the clouds.
Yeah, look, it's too bad nobody wants to talk to you and now you've apparently worn out even God's welcome at your church. I feel bad for you, honestly. I remember when you were only insane some of the time and I could see flashes of the person you could have been if your parents hadn't been hopeless alcoholics and if you hadn't married an abusive lunatic, or if you'd left him and taken your kids with you when the opportunity presented itself.
But life being how it is, we've all got to play the hands we're dealt. Like for example your kids.
They'd like a sane, loving mother, but they've got you. So you're not allowed to martyr yourself on their acts of self preservation.
If you want to have relationships deeper than harassing various clerks around town and accosting strangers on the sidewalk who aren't alert enough to avoid your dead-eyed stare or rude enough to cut you off mid-rant, you need to start taking meds. Fuck new diets, new churches, new 'alternative therapies'. Your brain doesn't work right, and until you address that fact in a constructive way I'm not putting up with another ounce of your bullshit.
There's this thing called an answering machine, which we got pretty much just to spam-trap your bipolar ranting, so feel free to use it!
The only genuinely important message you could deliver is the one you never will, that you've started taking your meds and stopped your inexorable march down the rutted path that leads to pushing a shopping cart around town and yelling obscenities at the clouds.
Yeah, look, it's too bad nobody wants to talk to you and now you've apparently worn out even God's welcome at your church. I feel bad for you, honestly. I remember when you were only insane some of the time and I could see flashes of the person you could have been if your parents hadn't been hopeless alcoholics and if you hadn't married an abusive lunatic, or if you'd left him and taken your kids with you when the opportunity presented itself.
But life being how it is, we've all got to play the hands we're dealt. Like for example your kids.
They'd like a sane, loving mother, but they've got you. So you're not allowed to martyr yourself on their acts of self preservation.
If you want to have relationships deeper than harassing various clerks around town and accosting strangers on the sidewalk who aren't alert enough to avoid your dead-eyed stare or rude enough to cut you off mid-rant, you need to start taking meds. Fuck new diets, new churches, new 'alternative therapies'. Your brain doesn't work right, and until you address that fact in a constructive way I'm not putting up with another ounce of your bullshit.
Monday, July 12, 2010
games without frontiers
A while back Aunt Hen gave us this big tub full of plastic magnetic letters and numbers. We stuck a bunch on the fridge for Fuss to mess around with, but that was just siphoning off a few cups from the ocean. The bulk of them stayed in the tub behind the couch until Fuss spilled them all over the floor, where they persisted for several days.
Last night I got the bright idea to make a game of the cleanup, enlisting Fuss at minimum wage and forbidding the use of breathing masks in case curious reporters managed to breach the police cordon and snap incriminating pics.
In my mind, it would go like this: I'd demonstrate the process of putting letters and numbers back into the tub, he would follow suit, I would make with the effusive praise, then we'd lay out a picnic on the newly cleansed carpet and sing the old songs.
The reality was somewhat different.
I would dump a few handfuls into the tub, he'd grab this or that one back out with a cheerful "OOoooh, whasssat??", I'd say "it's a purple O" or "it's a red I" or whatever, he'd provide some salient counterpoint commentary; "OOoooh....BIG!" or "YELLow!", and then place it carefully back on the floor.
His patience for these things is for all practical purposes infinite. He'll periodically tire of an obsession, but the process is geologic, like watching South America drift away from Africa. Happily for Fuss my tolerance for repetition, while falling short of his, is mightier than The Wife's, who's eyes reliably begin rolling to the accompaniment of resigned sighs around the third iteration of his latest passion.
I spent most of an hour engaged in the Sisyphean task of refiling the bin and identifying the objects of his curiosity, until it was time to read books and go to sleep.
Last night I got the bright idea to make a game of the cleanup, enlisting Fuss at minimum wage and forbidding the use of breathing masks in case curious reporters managed to breach the police cordon and snap incriminating pics.
In my mind, it would go like this: I'd demonstrate the process of putting letters and numbers back into the tub, he would follow suit, I would make with the effusive praise, then we'd lay out a picnic on the newly cleansed carpet and sing the old songs.
The reality was somewhat different.
I would dump a few handfuls into the tub, he'd grab this or that one back out with a cheerful "OOoooh, whasssat??", I'd say "it's a purple O" or "it's a red I" or whatever, he'd provide some salient counterpoint commentary; "OOoooh....BIG!" or "YELLow!", and then place it carefully back on the floor.
His patience for these things is for all practical purposes infinite. He'll periodically tire of an obsession, but the process is geologic, like watching South America drift away from Africa. Happily for Fuss my tolerance for repetition, while falling short of his, is mightier than The Wife's, who's eyes reliably begin rolling to the accompaniment of resigned sighs around the third iteration of his latest passion.
I spent most of an hour engaged in the Sisyphean task of refiling the bin and identifying the objects of his curiosity, until it was time to read books and go to sleep.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Freakday
Many competitors today, here are the two best offerings.
Sketchy quivering dude in black fatigues and a red beret:
"Uh hey, what day is it?"
"Excuse me?"
"What day is it? Is it sunday?
"Yeah, it's sunday."
"Oh, it's sunday...uh, sorry about that!"
"Mmmm."
Dumpy gal with an elaborate circa 1964 hairdo, big black glasses, yellow plaid sun dress and an empty birdcage in one hand:
"I HAVE A BOOK IN HERE," proffering her handbag.
"That's fine."
"I DIDN'T BUY IT HERE, IS THAT OKAY?"
"Yep, no problem."
"DO YOU NEED TO LOOK AT IT?"
"Nope."
"OKAY, THANK YOU."
The Wife dislikes the appellation 'freaks', but I'm a believer in accuracy & succinctness.
Sketchy quivering dude in black fatigues and a red beret:
"Uh hey, what day is it?"
"Excuse me?"
"What day is it? Is it sunday?
"Yeah, it's sunday."
"Oh, it's sunday...uh, sorry about that!"
"Mmmm."
Dumpy gal with an elaborate circa 1964 hairdo, big black glasses, yellow plaid sun dress and an empty birdcage in one hand:
"I HAVE A BOOK IN HERE," proffering her handbag.
"That's fine."
"I DIDN'T BUY IT HERE, IS THAT OKAY?"
"Yep, no problem."
"DO YOU NEED TO LOOK AT IT?"
"Nope."
"OKAY, THANK YOU."
The Wife dislikes the appellation 'freaks', but I'm a believer in accuracy & succinctness.
Monday, July 5, 2010
things they don't tell you
If you have a kid, and that kid gets sick...YOU'RE getting sick.
Barring some kind of extreme FEMA style emergency response like sending the kid to live in the Superdome for a week, or trading in your bathrobe and slippers for a hazmat suit and rebreather, there is no escape.
Fuss's favorite tactic is looking sweet and adorable and then sneezing in my mouth when I pick him up to exclaim over his beauty.
In some book I read when I was a kid when one child got stick the folks would make all their kids sleep together so everyone else would get sick and they could get it out of the way.
Suddenly I understand the logic...
Barring some kind of extreme FEMA style emergency response like sending the kid to live in the Superdome for a week, or trading in your bathrobe and slippers for a hazmat suit and rebreather, there is no escape.
Fuss's favorite tactic is looking sweet and adorable and then sneezing in my mouth when I pick him up to exclaim over his beauty.
In some book I read when I was a kid when one child got stick the folks would make all their kids sleep together so everyone else would get sick and they could get it out of the way.
Suddenly I understand the logic...
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Happy 4th Everybody
My abiding memory of the holiday is from a block party at mom's folks when I was five or so, long before 'safe and sane' waxed ascendant. Wandering around barefoot (nice parenting!) I stepped on an old school 'buyer beware' sparkler, the kind that were basically magnesium glued to a hunk of wire. They looked awesome, but after they burned out the wire stayed red hot for quite a while.
Ouch.
Today I'm at work in my patriotic shirt, Fuss & the crew are checking out the annual Cayucos parade and we're hitting a BBQ later for which the wife made a Neopolitan bundt cake.
In the words of my best friend from junior high, "happy birthday you adorable, messed up, ignorant country!"
i saw you in a perfect place
it's gonna happen soon but not today
so go to sleep and make the change
i'll meet you here tomorrow
independence day
independence day
independence day
Ouch.
Today I'm at work in my patriotic shirt, Fuss & the crew are checking out the annual Cayucos parade and we're hitting a BBQ later for which the wife made a Neopolitan bundt cake.
In the words of my best friend from junior high, "happy birthday you adorable, messed up, ignorant country!"
i saw you in a perfect place
it's gonna happen soon but not today
so go to sleep and make the change
i'll meet you here tomorrow
independence day
independence day
independence day
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Customaria
As many recurring themes as working retail weaves into the symphony of your day, there will always be unique cadences.
Today I sold a big pile of stuff to an older gentleman, probably twenty books total.
As I rang up each book and set it on the counter, he picked it up, riffled the pages and sniffed deeply.
What was he hoping (or fearing) to scent?
Why not smell them before bringing them up to the counter?
The oddest part was he's a guy who's been coming in for years without any previous outbreaks of strange behavior.
Apropos the gal from last week who took all the books back, today they reappeared, ferried to the counter by a roustabout with paint dappled hands who said "a lady" asked him to bring them in. A few new titles, but mostly the same buy.
People are funny.
Today I sold a big pile of stuff to an older gentleman, probably twenty books total.
As I rang up each book and set it on the counter, he picked it up, riffled the pages and sniffed deeply.
What was he hoping (or fearing) to scent?
Why not smell them before bringing them up to the counter?
The oddest part was he's a guy who's been coming in for years without any previous outbreaks of strange behavior.
Apropos the gal from last week who took all the books back, today they reappeared, ferried to the counter by a roustabout with paint dappled hands who said "a lady" asked him to bring them in. A few new titles, but mostly the same buy.
People are funny.
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