lung infection and strep fallout

I don't recommend it, but at least it's an enforced weight-loss program.

And I think I passed some sort of threshold in that respect because some random person on the street yesterday asked me if I was on TV. I was in a bit of a hurry, so I truthfully said "No."

And he apologized. Why would you apologize after an indirect compliment like that.

Wait.

Maybe the lack of food is just making me optimistically light-headed. You see all sorts of characters on TV, don't you?

Shoot.

ack-kpflt

I'm not saying you should feed your cat pop-rocks on purpose, though you may want to just in the name of science.

My sister and nephew sent Coco some German Spongebob lollipop-to-be-dipped-in-sour-pop-rocks treat. (Thanks, Tina and Jannik!) Unfortunately, the lollipop broke during shipping, so I poured everything out on a plate so Coco could still enjoy the sweetness and the head rush.

The cat, of course, bode (really? not bided, spell-check? hm.) his time and sneaked a little taste later in the day. I missed the initial face he made because I was out of the apartment, but I came home to the cat racing around with a puffed tail, and the kids and Julie suppressing laughter.

Who's keeping track? Was that life number three for our cat?

countdown

I'm not saying it's parents vs. kids, mind you, but sometimes...

Parenting, like the last two minutes of a basketball game, has a lot of set plays ready, depending on what the score is. And, in general, the whole day is structured to get into a good position for those crucial last moments.

I'm talking about getting the kids into bed. Daily activities, meals, school work, treats, baths, etc. all line up for that crucial final struggle to bed. On regular days I have things in place for the following exchanges:

Can I still...?

No.

But I just...

No.

But I have to...

Well, you had plenty time earlier. Lesson learned, right?

But I'm still hungry.

You didn't seem hungry at dinner.

And so on.

But when the parents are sick, all of our answers tend to be a mix of "unh" "ack" and "okay, whatever," making bedtime more and more prolonged and the kids less and less rational.

"I wanna sleep in my swimsuit on the dining table."

"ack"

"Can I have some brownies now? And then use the rest of the brownies as my pillow?"

"unh"

"I'm cold. Do you have some fives I can set on fire?"

"Okay, whatever"

In other words, don't ask about last night.

dang me, dang me, they ought to take a rope...

I'm as sorry about Alexander McQueen's death as anyone who has never met the guy and doesn't really know much about him.

But something like that does set you thinking: why is there a difference between hanged and hung.

Both refer to a similar physical act of suspension, right?

Hanged, I looked it up just to make sure, refers to the execution of a death sentence. Then, I don't know when, suicides got tacked on. At least that's how it appears in the dictionaries I've seen. Is it because so many suicidal hangings occurred in jail cells? Or because it is a death sentence to oneself?

Either way, saying "hung" instead of "hanged" seems - nowadays - to be a victimless grammatical crime. I mean, the person whom it most affects is not around to complain. It's like those people who tell me not to call a spider an insect, "It's an arachnid!"

I'll bet spiders don't give a flying filament either way. They probably call themselves a collection of clicks that means "the tribe" or "winners" or some such.

Back to hanging. Sure, it could offend those who passed the death sentence by suspension, but those days are gone, we have more sophisticated methods now.

It makes me wonder, though, having kids, how that word came about.

I'm guessing in the days of the Wild West the lynch-mob justices were as grammatically savvy as Coco when he was three, and when they came home after a hard day of justice-dispensing and were asked what they did, they answered,

"Oh, we hangded a cattle thief."

Latinists Help Out, Please

I'm trying to come up with a truthful family motto, and I think it should be

abbas poena est umquam ridiculus.

But my knowledge of Latin is limited to Asterix comics, so I'm not sure if that works. It's supposed to mean: It's always funny when daddy gets hurt. I tried to make it sound more Latin-y by making it "father's pain is ever laughable" and typing that phrase into an internet translator. Any of you remember Latin from school, those of you who took it and didn't skip too often?

Anyway, yesterday I was listening to my iPod while the kids were watching Star Wars (the one with the Ewoks, III or VI or whatever you want to call it) because Madge was home, sick, and deserved a treat. (Why she chose Star Wars remains a mystery.) I was feeling chilly, so I got a fleece blanket and pulled it over me and

ZAP!

the freaking blanket generated static that shot through the wires into my left ear with a KAPATKAPOWPATANG and a stream of expletives from my mouth and guffaws from the kids.

I'm also taking suggestions for the family crest under which the motto shall appear.

I'm thinking of a silhouette of a man hopping on one foot while holding the other that got injured by a stray toy or table leg. Simpler is better, so I think the crest will avoid children and spouse convulsing in laughter.

(Seriously, do any of you know Latin enough to help out? Should it be semper ridiculus? Is there a way to leave out the inelegant-looking "est"?)

sorry to do this, but:

take a deep breath and listen to this

you're welcome

skating party

I'm going to get my skates today so I can go on the fifth grade field trip to the skating rink in the park. I like having my own skates because only my feet have been in them.

But carrying them around all over the place just to save $5 is a pain.

Also, it gives the impression that I can skate when, clearly, my performance on the ice says everything but. (Actually, it says all butt, because that's what has the most contact with the ice.)

The kids, I think, get to bring in their music to be played. This being Park Slope, I'm looking forward to ice dancing to Isolde's Love Death, followed by the Chipettes cover of Single Ladies.

wildlife photography

Our fun with pre-production photo-shopping. That's why we have digital toys around, so we can make random air-collages.

(I'm especially proud of the one with the cat, even though that stinker turned his head and is still partially in the photo - blows your mind, right?)

Hairdresser and Me

I don't seem to be physically appealing to too many people.

Wait. Stop. Let me rephrase that.

I am totally clueless about how physically appealing I might or might not be to most people. I'm not fishing for compliments, though it really sounds like it right now.

Occasionally it's glaringly obvious, though. For instance when I got my haircut and my "stylist" was sweeping up, he said, "What should I do with all this hair? Maybe I should sell it. Maybe I should make a Philipp doll."

And I said, "Yeah, like a voodoo doll. I'll be walking along and, OW! Who did that?"

He laughed and then he stopped laughing and then he gave me a once over and laughed in a different way.

Let me just say it made me miss living in San Francisco.

cohohold

I didn't often feel sorry for cops, only having experienced them as the people who hand out speeding and parking tickets. But there's one who is patrolling the playground across the street and, man, I was freezing my toesies and fingersies (and, yes, gonads) while watching the kids play.

The cop had been there a while and was bound to be there longer. He was of substantial girth, so I can only imagine how huge is when fully thawed.

Granny Fleece Nose Shock

That's the note on my desk reminding me to write something about the gift that keeps on giving.

Julie got a fleece jacket from my mom for Xmas and likes to wear it around the house to keep warm.

This is well and good, except when I try to kiss her: invariably it results in a quick zap between the tips of our noses.

Interpretation A: My mom has hatched an evil long-distance plan to interfere with our kissing.

or

Interpretation B: It's not the fleece. We've still got the spark, baby!

(I prefer B)

The holiday

Julie reported that Conrad thought MLK was actually a king. And, when she told him MLK wasn't, Coco said that he acted liked one because he wanted things to be better for his people.

Just shows that he hasn't learned about the American Revolution yet. Or French or Russian or ...

But still, sweet.

On a different note, I'd never given much thought to Juniors - in the sense of sons burdened by (or blessed with) the name of their father - until I read Roy Blount, (surprise, surprise) jr.

I think I remember him making a point about a higher percentage of Juniors becoming something (president, maybe?) than the percentage of the independently named population. Sounds fair. Bit of an Oedipal challenge going on in the naming process, I guess. One step short of calling a son "Sue" (like that Shel Silverstein - and Johnny Cash, yes - song).

But with today's holiday the whole thing flips the whole JFK / JFK jr. thing on the head, because we tend to celebrate the father whom we don't actually know by being too lazy to append the whatever-it's-called: suffix, postnymic, diminuator, take your pick (or look it up and tell me in the comments).

Happy MLK, jr. Day.

Fun with first grade dictation

Coco has dictation homework.

I've noticed lately that the sentences sound like some Cold War spy code, and we've started reading them like that.

It's my free parenting tip to you. Makes it more exciting, especially if you make your kid write it like it's a secret and you keep looking furtively over your shoulders as you're whispering the sentences.

For example (these are from his homework):

The kids will nap on the cot. I repeat: on the cot.

or

The shells are red. I repeat: The SHELLS are red.

or

The dogs have been fed. The DOGS have been FED.

And yesterday I added the flourish that, when I see him crossing out a word, I jump up and shout, "Abort! Abort!" and run away.

Ah, good times.

Daddy's weird songs

I have so many soft spots for so many things, I feel like an old banana, ready to be mashed up and baked into Daddy-bread.

One of my many soft spots if for witty, yet maudlin country songs like "The Last Word in Lonesome is Me."

Another is this one:

I was playing it on the guitar tonight but was struggling to remember the second verse, so I went through the beginning a few times to see if I could get the hang of it, and after the second time, Madge started singing along. And believe me, it's strange to hear your daughter sing, "It was always to easy to find an unhappy woman till I started looking for mine."

I asked her if she knew what she was singing and I think she said something about there being a lot of unhappy women, but you can't find them or some such, it didn't make much sense to me. But, then again, the actual lyrics and the explanation I gave (which is clearer in the second verse) didn't make much sense to her. Luckily.

I drove to the park

Lord I searched all the bars

where I made out with love too many times

It was always to easy to find an unhappy woman

Till I started looking for mine.

Some beer-drinking devil

is holding my angel*

and I know what he'll do if he's my kind.

It was always so easy to find an unhappy woman

Till I started looking for mine.

Her note on the door

said, "I warned you before

"what I'd do if you cheated one more time."

It was always so easy to find an unhappy woman

till I started looking for mine.

Some beer-drinking devil

is holding my angel

and I know what he'll do if he's my kind.

It was always so easy to find an unhappy woman

till I started looking for mine.

*At this point Coco said, "Ha-ha. Get it? Devil - angel. Like the two figures on your shoulders." Works for me.

Zing! White(r) Teeth!

This New York househusband has the secret.

Go to your dentist. When she asks if you have any concerns, tell her that you don't really, but you wouldn't mind having whiter teeth.

Then wait.

At some point she will say that their dental office is trying out different bleaches and you seem to be a good test subject.

(I forgot to mention that you might get indirectly insulted about your yellow teeth along the way.)

Say, "Okay," and forget about it.

At the next cleaning she'll tell you they're ready with the bleaches and you can come in the next day if that works for you.

(I also forgot to mention that it involves bleaching half your teeth with one brand and the other half with another, so there's a potential of coming out of it looking like you're wearing a mouth guard of some team whose colors are off-white and off-off-white.)

Bring your iPod, doze off in a chair with your mouth held open for two hours, and tadaaah!

(I also forgot to mention that she will say some things about potential temporary chemical burns on your gums in a very offhand way, making the initial sitting still period a little difficult.)

And you're done! Total cost: two subway rides and a handshake.

I went from an A3 to a B1. (Does that sound right? It's what I remember, anyway. Does that mean anything to anyone? Those were the colors of teeth that she thought matched mine.)

But if I'd been told beforehand that I'd have to sip my coffee or tea through a straw because they are sensitive to staining for a while, I'm not so sure I'd have agreed.

If I seem extra grumpy, it might be the *&%$!! caffeine withdrawal.

ripped off again

I don't know what to do now. We're not going to make another kid, but neither of our kids lost a first tooth in our presence.

Madge lost hers in first grade during class and so did Coco, today.

Lithp theathon hath commenthed.

detective story, maybe

The facts:

At 00:30 on Dec. 26th, a crash awakened Julie (and me, eventually).

Inspection revealed the Christmas Tree had fallen.

We have an annoying cat who doesn't stay away from things and has been batting ornaments ever since we got the tree.

The tree was taller than last year's tree.

It was cheaper than last year's tree, perhaps indicating that it's wood was softer.

The tree stand is (now: was) one year older than it was last year and less maneuverable and still as small.

The tree has been leaning a little more every day.

It fell in the most convenient direction for cleanup, meaning the most accessible direction. This was also the direction where most ornaments were hung, probably because it was the most accessible direction.

Other facts, less relevant to figuring out who did it:

The cleanup took about 45 minutes.

The carpet is finally dry, but still a little warped.

The needles are still everywhere.

We think we got all the ornament shards.

We appreciate that it didn't happen during the previous night.

The tree now resides in the street in front of the building.

The tree stand now resides in the garbage.

The cat still resides with us.

Conclusion:

The cat probably did it.

the gym

I went to the gym today. Yay, me. Had a brief celebrity sighting, but that's neither here nor there.

There was a guy shaving his entire head when I went to take a shower. When I was done and shaved, too, he put cream all over his head. And he sang Christmas songs in a never ending medley. Well, never ending is exaggerated, since he paused to interject with advice and commentary on life in general. During this I learned that he made $70 singing carols the other day. But he wouldn't divulge where when I asked if I might sing there, too. Also, he implied I didn't have the voice for it. (For what it's worth, he had the showmanship, obviously, but his pitch didn't stay true throughout. Just saying.) Then he pointed out he'd probably make $200 on Christmas.

This was around 1pm. At 5:15pm, when we were there for Madgie's swim class, he was still at the gym.

So, if you're looking for a career choice, you might want to follow this guy around and learn. Among his many gems of wisdom was the observation that singing for money is better than going to jail. Then he said he didn't have the body for jail. Internally, I differed (otherwise how could he be working out for 4 hours), but I didn't think I had the time to actually engage him in a debate on this matter.

Plus, I had to make sure the celebrity was who I think it was.

more snowballs

My back and legs are sore from bending and scooping, but somehow my arms are fine.

This popped into my mind after writing about the snowball fight. Not fully formed, of course. Just the first line, really. But then it wouldn't go away, so I tried to finish it. It helps if you know Goethe's "Wer nie sein Brot mit Traenen ass" from Wilhelm Meister, but you don't need to.

Wer niemals Schnee mit Traenen ass,

Wer nie nach eisigem Gefechte

Auf seinem Schlitten weinend sass,

Der kennt nicht meine vaeterlichen Maechte.

Ich fuehrt' euch in den Schnee hinein,

Ich liess euch kalt und hungrig werden,

Dann schmiss ich Schneebaelle: gemein.

(Denn Papa schaemt sich nicht auf Erden.)

Well, the last verse was a little forced. Oh, well.

snowsnowsnow

We were outside three or four times today, but never on any errands (except for me - and work for Julie). I mean the kids and I were out. So now there's extra laundry because of the snow soaked pants and gloves. They've gotten progressively better about dealing with frozen faces and fingers - and my aim has gotten better in the sense that I haven't beaned them in the schnozzle for a while. But now I'm exhausted from making snowballs for everyone and then making hot cocoa - and because I hadn't been able to go to the grocery store I didn't have Swiss Miss and had to use the good Dutch Cocoa powder and sugar and milk - Daddy's stash thrown before the masses.