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!
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