Simian Farmer

Balrogs beware!!

Who would have thought hardware shopping could be so serendipitous.

Here's what happened:

I came home from work like usual and told my wife that I wanted to go to Home Despot after dinner to use up the last of a leftover Christmas gift card.  There were a few things I wanted to get so I could install a home made pull-up bar in our unfinished basement.

Amy wanted to head out as well, so I said I'd take both boys with me.  They're at the stage where they love riding in shopping carts, and I'm at the stage where I love the attention I get pushing two cute kids around in one.  We all win.

I bought what I needed, came home, and put Tavish to bed since he fell asleep during the return trip.  One of the items I picked up was a hefty wooden dowel that I'll use as the aforementioned pull-up bar.  Dex got his hands on that...

...and I got a great idea for child exploitation a whimsical video snippet.

What follows is probably the best 25 seconds you'll ever experience.  I'm considering giving up blogging after today.  I can't top this.

Delayed funnyfication

Last year about this time I came back to work after two week's holidays.  I took the time off because of my second son's birth.  I took vacation rather than parental leave because 75% pay for two weeks or so just wouldn't cut it in our house.

Upon my return to the office, I was shocked and amused to find several hundred infant diapers strewn liberally about my work space.  It took me about an hour to find and stuff them all into a big bag to take home that evening.  My co-workers got a very good laugh at my expense.

They got bigger laughs over the next couple weeks when I'd find some of the more ingeniously hidden diapers and shout out my faux angst for all to hear.  Good times.

The biggest laugh of all came today.  I was an hour away from the office on a site visit for a prospective job we may want to bid.  This job is on an existing industrial plant site for a large petro-chemical company.  Any of that sort of work requires visitors to be properly attired in standard safety gear like hard hats, safety glasses, steel-toed boots and the like.

When I parked by the security office at the main gate, I pulled my work boots out of the back seat, flicked off my shoes and found that I couldn't put my boots on because there was an infant diaper stuffed deep into the toe of each.  It took me a moment to realise why they were there, and another to appreciate that I was getting this a full year after the initial infiltration.  I laughed, and then felt grateful that it happened in the parking lot and not in the middle of the conference room I was headed to.

*****

Random bit:

One of Declan's favourite shows on the Treehouse network is Emily Yeung.  A six year-old girl who interviews adults in their jobs and is just cute as a button, and she should stop doing it before too much longer because she'll eventually end up IN one of those jobs and it won't be very cute then, will it?

Whenever the show comes on, or even if Dex hears the opening strains of the theme music, his eyes get big and round, he throws his arms up in the air, and he shouts out to the entire house, "YUMMY YOUNG!!"  Which is so deliciously inappropriate that I laugh every time.

Bride of Frankenstein

Now she's gone and done it.

As if one man's grossly inaccurate mimicry of real life wasn't enough -- my wife has decided to address the world on the internet.

I don't know yet what her story's going to be, but at least she's prettier and looks better in a mini-skirt.

Amy has told me that she reads my site and rarely ever comments because she likes knowing exactly what's going on behind the scenes and then reading my interpretation, or take, on events in our lives.  Now I get to do the same sort of thing. 

It figures that her first post is about a dirty donkey.

Go.  Say 'hi'.

SHAKE IT OFF

Writefully so

I love books.  My earliest memories of reading are those of being coaxed through the Dick and Jane books by my mother.  Once I had enough ability to figure out new words in context for myself, I was flying and never looked back.

My mother sometimes had to come into my room late at night and force me to turn my light out and go to sleep.  I was able to circumvent her authority in winter though; we had electric blankets with a tiny orange light as an indicator on the 1-to-9 temperature gauge.  After she left the room I would pull that off my head board and scan the dim glow across each line of my book as I read, squinting.

When you're passionate enough about something, it's really hard for anybody to thwart your pursuit.

We have two tall, white bookshelves in our basement that house most of the books Amy and I own.  Mostly mine on one and hers on another.  Mine tells a tale dominated by fantasy and sci-fi, peppered by some of the classics, spiritual questing, as well as hard science.  A few university text books I hang on to for some reason.  Hers bursts with V.C. Andrews, Janet Evanovich, Diana Gabaldon, Catherine Alliott and others outside my own sphere of preference.

Some books have migrated one way or the other and we've forgotten who they originally belonged to.  Nearly spilling off one of my shelves is a copy of John Gray's Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.  It might be mine, but I know I've never finished it.  It might be Amy's -- I know she's finished it.  And I know now I'm never going to finish it after Amy once summed it up for me in a single sentence: Men Are From Earth, Women Are From Earth; Deal With It.

One of the small details that helps bind our marriage together is our mutual respect for books.  I'm mostly joking when I say I can't respect someone who habitually cracks the spines of paperback novels, but that's a bridge we've never had to cross in our relationship.  I had a difficult time in university when I decided to sell my entire collection of Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms fantasy novels.  They played a huge role in what hooked me into reading, but I convinced myself I'd outgrown them and needed the shelf space.  The Wee Book Inn would pay no more than 75 cents per paperback, and only if each was in perfect shape.  I walked out with more than 50 bucks in my pocket and an unquiet sensation in my soul.

One of the touchiest areas in literature is those books that purport to delve into spirituality.  I have some I've gone back to again and again as trusted guides.  Then there's Deepak Chopra.  I ordered his How To Know God via a now-defunct book club membership, and gave up in disgust after a couple chapters.  (thwip, thwip, thwip.  "What the f......?!"  *fling*  *THUD!*  *smack*)  I can't even go into my reasons for abandoning it since it no longer stirs any memories other than a deep-seated aversion to inflicting it upon myself ever again.  What amuses me now is that I inadvertently ordered the LARGE PRINT copy of the book, so I feel like - if I still wanted to - I could get to know God REALLY LOUDLY.

I have four different copies of Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.  I've only read two.  One is a paperback I bought years ago, whose spine is still crease-free.  The other, published on Tolkien's 100th birthday, a gorgeous hardback whose pages are interspersed with 50 full colour illustrations by Alan Lee.  A stunning volume.  The other two are boxed sets received as gifts, in which the book is broken out into its component parts -- three books in one set, seven in the other.  But if I'm going to read it (as I've done six times now I think), I prefer to pick up the full tome and feel the heft of such a master work, rather than a chunk at a time.

I used to feel a little embarrassed at some of the books I clung to over the years.  Almost as if I should have turfed them like I did the Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms series.  I grew up and out of the Dick and Jane days; so too should I cast aside my pulp fantasy and adolescent whimsy.  I don't feel that way any more.  My dad got me the first three books of Piers Anthony's Xanth series for Christmas many, many years ago.  All I really remember from it are names like Bink, Dor, Princess Irene, and Good Magician Humphrey.  And acres and acres of really bad puns.  I think I gave up on it after the twelfth or so book, but I still see new ones sometimes when I wander through Chapters.  I look at them fondly and then walk by.

No, I'm going to hang on to all my books from now on.  For the same reason that big cardboard box full of Star Wars toys will always come with me.  I value the place each had in its time, and I can look at them as mile-markers to help see the path behind me.  And if one day my boys feel like plonking down on the side of the road and picking one up for a spell, that would be kind of cool too.

Good to get out again

The whole family went for a long walk after dinner last night.  It was delightful.  This week has officially opened its arms to spring, and the season has obliged by providing at least a hint of the pleasant weather to come.  It was sunny, no hint of wind, and teasingly warm.  Several degrees above freezing, so of course I wore shorts.

Before we left the house Amy was sure to put on her sunglasses.  I'm not convinced it had nothing to do with my wearing shorts.  I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm pasty after a winter cooped up indoors and swaddled in layers of insulating cotton, fleece, and synthetic flammable materials, but the angle of the evening sun glancing off a shin moistened by spring melt water kicked up by churning dog paws could pose a danger to casual passers by.

In an oral parody of the season, Tavish's mouth is making like a budding tree and sprouting new growth too.  He cut his first eye tooth this week, giving him five so far.  His contagious grin is made more so by his increasingly prominent two front teeth with the gap between them.  When combined with both his arms straining mightily up at a father just returned from a day at the office, he presents an irresistible lure.  I'm hooked.

I love spring for the promise of more pleasant weather, but I've never been a fan of March and April.  They are easily the dirtiest months of the year.  The melting snow sloughs away to reveal the layers of dirt accumulated over the past five or six months, a new one sprinkled after each major snow fall to give traction on the icy roads.  The roads themselves now riddled with potholes, forcing drivers to bob and weave around traps lying in wait for unwary suspensions.  The figure I heard on the radio earlier this week was something in excess of 125,000 potholes to be filled this spring.  It's rare times like this I silently curse the aberrant behaviour of ice.

Declan is showing signs of leaving his infancy well and truly in his past.  When I talk to him it stuns me to realise I just had a conversation with my son.  He's an incredibly lucid little man.  It's almost unnerving.  He's not even three yet.  He'll announce to the house that he has to go pee, and then shun all offers of help - warning hand upraised - as he saunters into the bathroom and strips from the waist down before clambering onto the toilet and going about his business.  No potty for this boy; no sir!

He also frequently insists on completely dressing himself for bed.  He only wears Pull-Ups to bed now.  (He's a tighty-whitey boy by day.)  He climbs into those and then his pants, always his left foot first for each.  He pulls on his pyjama shirt and finds the arm holes with practised ease.  My favourite part comes at the last when he smooths both hands down the front of his belly several times, looks up from his effort with a huge, toothy grin, jumps up and down, claps, and quietly proclaims, "I did it!" before launching himself at me for a hug.

Amy got very nearly as excited as that last night too.  Only it happened during the boys' bath when she realised, with just about an hour to air time, that Thursday was Ugly Betty night!  She almost forgot!  I'm well advised never to trigger conversation unless it's during commercial breaks for no more than two minutes.  Plus?  She's going to start up a blog next week.  Will wonders never cease?!

A touch of the home life

In lieu of actual content, I offer up pictures!  And a video!  And a dinner time conversation!

Fun!

*****

Years of innuendo yet before the kids start to pick up on it.

Simon (rhetorically): Are you enjoying your meal, Tavish?

Tavish: [Blank stare.  Drools.  Gums another french fry.]

Declan: What's dat?

Simon: What... a meal?

Declan: Yeah!

Simon: Well, your chicken nuggets, and your french fries, and your orange slices -- those make up a meal.  A different word for everything put together.

Declan: Oh!

Simon: Sort of like how Daddy, and Mommy, and you, and Tavish -- we make up a family.  Only nobody eats us.

Amy: Well...

*****

I like having txt with my wife

From: 1780721XXXX
11:32 AM
3/20/07

You need to update your blog.  It is getting pretty boring.

Under cover of darkness

Has the bed warmed up yet?  I'm freezing!

You're always freezing.  When do you think you're gonna warm up?

Gawd... I don't know.  Menopause?

Oh.  I was thinking more along the lines of 'May'.

Oh.

Barnanucks*

Here's a random clip of the wee lad on the couch after I got home from work yesterday.  Dex is providing commentary from behind the camera and gives a subtle signal towards the end that we're done.  I didn't realise until after, but you get a good reflection of me and the spastic Jack Russell in the window.

* The title has nothing at all to do with the video content, but we were watching Discovery Channel the other night and saw footage of a sunken ship covered in barnacles.  Amy and I tried to get Declan to say 'barnacles', but 'barnanucks' was the closest he could (or was willing to) come.  He's been chanting it as his own personal mantra since the weekend and it's still funny -- hasn't yet crossed over into being annoying.  Probably will by this weekend though.

An apoplexy of whimsy

Intriguingly, Mike (from Cambridgeshire in the UK) belatedly chimed in on this post wherein I briefly rehashed my week spent alone, at home, while my wife and sons visited her family five hours south of us.

I've never had any contact with the fellow before now, and I'm inclined to assume neither has he spent much time perusing any of what I've said here, other than to follow a link from another site, and subsequently misinterpret what I said.

I find it vastly amusing.

Here's his comment in full:

Yawn... do you insinuate infidelity as a ploy to draw in readers? ...pathetic. If you are cheating on your wife its just a matter of time until she finds out and leaves you - taking your two children with her. You won't feel so clever then. On the other hand if you aren't cheating on your wife surely you have some more interesting things in your life to make you feel readable? (Things that show a little more respect for your children and the woman who gave birth to them for you)

I had to re-read the post to figure out what the hell he was getting at.  My first paragraph read:

Unsurprisingly, it took a fraction of the time to get reacquainted with my returned family Friday evening as it did to settle in to the unfamiliar embrace of Solitude when she usurped their place the preceding Sunday.  I cast my gaze back at her a little longingly when Amy pulled up in the driveway, having braved a five hour drive made over eight hours, exacerbated and elongated by the blowing snow and treacherous conditions that prevailed for the first half of her trip.  But my temporary mistress cannot live easily beside my mate, so I let the former go.

I don't know if Mike thought I was sleeping around with some chick named Solitude, but what I was attempting to imply was that as an introvert I place a lot of value on time alone.  (Metaphor, baby!)  When you pause to consider that I have a wife and two sons under the age of three, that time alone is infrequent, hard-won, and highly valued when attained.  I hate to see it go, much as I love spending time with my family.

The timing of this is convenient because I commented last week on another site in regards to an anonymous visitor who left the impression of a drive-by shooting, which happens quite a lot on blogs.  Surf past a post, RAT-A-TAT-TAT with a few choice words, and peel off in a cloud of fulmination, leaving quizzical eyebrows fluttering in one's wake.  It seems to be what Mike did here.

My observation then was that those sorts of comments reveal little more than great swathes of ignorance in the person who writes them.  I don't mean that as a pejorative, but rather a simple lack of knowledge.  To infer what that person did, in the same way as what it appears Mike is doing here, is simply wrong-headed.  Making spurious judgements based on a dearth of information, and in the end coming off (in the eyes of the author at least) as a bit of an ass.

To insinuate, in me, a lack of respect for my children and the woman who bore them is so utterly ludicrous as to be laughable.  I can pronounce 'infidelity', but that's as close as my association comes.  Like I said, I do find this rather amusing.

My own habit when coming across new websites where I have the option to leave a comment is normally to lurk for a while to get a feel for the place before saying anything, or start out by making a courteous introduction and building a rapport.  Much the same way as in a real life conversation.  I'm not inclined to walk up to an engaged group of socialites and accuse them of being soulless pornographers on account of overhearing one of them mention something about an engorged labia.  They could be gynaecologists for all I know.  And then wouldn't that be embarrassing!

"It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

The internet, and more specifically the 'blogosphere' within it (though I don't really care for that term), allows a mantle of anonymity when traipsing about the place, which leads some to say things without the thought and consideration that would otherwise be given to conversation.  I appreciate that the mantle was shirked in this case, but do wish that consideration be taken when appearing as a new face.  It can leave a bad first impression.

Since Mike seems to be popping back around here at least a couple times a day, I hope that clears things up.  (Sorry if it seems I'm picking on you a bit, Mike; my comments are almost exclusively of the happy-shiny variety, so I have to play at Sam McGee and languish in the flames when the opportunity arises.  Sort of makes me feel like I've 'made it', you know?)

A benefit of this is that I now know I'm the #1 google result for 'simian farmer mistress'.  And that's something.  I don't know what, but it's something.