Simian Farmer

Simon's terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad night

I'm stressin' at work this week.

There's this bid that has to go in to the client by Monday at noon and the regular estimator who would have taken the lead on it is out of commission with something very much akin to the flesh-eating virus contaminating one of his legs -- he's been away from work for nearly two months.  He's fine, though.  He had to have antibiotics intravenously every eight hours for the first couple weeks, and has been medicated and resting at home ever since.

There is currently no risk of him losing a limb.  Which is a good thing, as a co-worker of ours quipped, because then he'd be forced into Quebec politics.  (If you're familiar with Canadian politics, that is very funny.)

This has created a dearth of estimating talent around the office and I got saddled with a job a little over my head.  I have been mentored by a more experienced fellow, but it's a comedy of errors in that he has the old-school experience and I have the technical capability, but the twain ain't been easy bedfellows and so the product of our union is less than it ought to have been.  An underdeveloped bastard child; will probably end up in juvie.

From the stressing, a nasty head cold descended upon me yesterday afternoon, and I've been battling back with a regimen of Cold-fX.  I'm pretty good today, but a little shaky.

Last night, in addition to my all-natural remedy, I quaffed a beer (for the stress) and a hot mug of Neo Citran (for the cold).  I went to bed feeling like I might do all right. 

Before midnight the stove timer went off in the kitchen.  WTF?!  I stumbled out of bed and padded my way across the hardwood to crank the timer back to zero.  But the TV was also on.  (Another WTF?!)  The timer must have woken up Declan, and in his stupor he walked out to the living room, turned on the TV, crawled onto the comfy chair in the foetal position, and threw a blanket over his head to go back to sleep.

I cranked off the stove timer, turned off the TV, and tucked the boy back into bed.

That wouldn't have made the night all that bad.  But we have a fiddly stove timer.  I turned the dial back to zero, but just a wee hair too far to the left.  60 minutes later I again got up to turn it off.  And again, peering though my blurry eyes and squinting in the glare of the suddenly too-bright stove light, accidentally reset it.

This happened FIVE TIMES between midnight and four AM.  And then my alarm went off at five, sounding remarkably like the stove timer, though I have it set to the radio.

So this morning I am exhausted, grumpy, stressed, and have a head cold with a small touch of the shakes.  But that could also be my large coffee first thing on an empty stomach.  Maybe I'll feel better after my apple-banana-granola bar breakfast.

If you're happy and you know it, eat a rock!

Spring has sprung,
The grass has riz,
Do you know where your two sons is?

At the park!

(As Amy already posted, the wee boy got his first ever haircut Wednesday.  Fun!)

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Daring the little girl to come down the slide. 
Dex looks on in horror.

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Kneel before Zod!  Err, Tavish.

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And a video clip that covers about two hours of our evening between supper and bath time on Wednesday.  The very end won't make much sense, but that's quite all right.  It was just fun. 

Five-syllable words!!

High five

In his Monday post, Mark mentioned five blogs he reads that share the common trait of making him think.  Mine was one of them.  He offers, at the end of the post, for those selected to do the same.

OK, here are my picks.  The only rule I've set myself is that I'm not going to repeat any he mentioned.  These are all worth checking out if you haven't already.

In no particular order:

Paul at Aurora Walking Vacation lives, appropriately, in Aurora, Ontario, a stone's throw from Toronto, soul-sucking centre of the known universe. He regularly posts very well thought-out skeptical rants that cast light on ill-conceived, poorly substantiated, and sometimes confusingly popular notions and practices.  (Sometimes mercilessly, though he's really a very nice man.) The scientific method is an unbiased tool, and he wields it with a pretty steady hand.  Homeopathy and astrology are favourite targets.  As is the existence of a God, though he and I differ slightly on that one. This is bafflingly complemented by junior-high quality internet memes and quizzes like "Which Pirates of the Caribbean Character are YOU?"  There are sporadic updates on family life involving a monstrous dog, a teenage son, and a wife who insisted they buy a futon for the ONE NIGHT I spent at their house a couple years ago.  My only real criticism is that he chooses to blog at an AOL Journal.

Émilie is at Émilie Online. Family life in La Belle Provence, and all that. She has an adorable baby boy and a swell husband. I've met all three. What stupefies me about her blog is that regardless of the length of her posts, she does each in English AND French, and it's not like there's a babelfish doing the translating for her. Ye gods! (Go ahead, click the "Francais" link at the top of one of her English posts. Her bilingual fluency makes me positively sick!)

Marian just (like a couple weeks ago) started up her new blog called Choose Again. It focuses on thought-provoking introspection filtered through her learnings drawn from A Course In Miracles. (I have the book of The Course - sent to me by her - sitting on my night stand, and it's getting harder and harder not to pick up.)  I loved her last blog, and the intervening months of her silence were hard to take. Her family and personal wisdom is something I've come to value highly.

Gordon is the preacher behind Real Live Preacher. A baptist minister in San Antonio, Texas. If ever there was a church I'd willingly attend, it's his.  (They have bongo drums!) This is religion - spiritual community - without the trappings and affectations.  Not a holy man up on a dais preaching the Way, the Truth, and the Life to a herd of bleating sheep, but simply another man in amongst the crowd of wondering humanity who states his questions and observations with a simple eloquence and a humility that awes me.

Amy is my wife.  You'd think I included her site here out of marital obligation, but that's just not the case.  She started up Shake It Off very recently, and for me it's a previously unknown and semi-terrifyingly intriguing look into various parts of her mind that have, until now, been mostly silent.  We are blessed with a wonderfully communicative marriage (and a tendency to smack each other's bum at inopportune times -- don't think those two aren't related), but she is a worldlier woman than I'll ever be (*ahem*), and the opportunity to learn more from her in this funky medium is, mathematically speaking, Funktastic raised to the power of Sexy squared!

OPP = (Fun)^Sexy2

*****

If you want to do the same sort of thing, go right ahead.

Basket case

It was mostly a weekend of domestic extravagances and filial frivolity, and I its Dionysian overseer.  I can say this now because John Sleeman has generously volunteered to soften the landing of a Sunday evening, which often comes more abruptly and more harshly than warranted or desired, but which is today mercifully cushioned by a couple clear glass bottles of Cream Ale, my bare feet kicked up on the couch while the dishes by the kitchen sink are subjected to the natural convenience of evaporation.

This brings to mind a favourite quote:

"We can't for a certainty tell
What mirth may molest us on Monday;
But at least, to begin the week well,
Let us all be unhappy on Sunday."
~Charles, Lord Neaves

I am not, for the record, unhappy.  Quite contented this Sunday eve, actually.

My wife absented herself from her men for a good part of the weekend, which I rarely begrudge her, given how frequently she has to put up with us, the demands placed upon her by the younger two, and (marginally less frequently) those I place on her.  She went to a silent auction for a girlfriend's community league on Saturday and didn't come home until late.  At least, I'm assuming it was a silent auction.  She said it was.  For all I know it could have been yet another Home Pleasures Party under the thin guise of a harmless auction.  (Our most recent HPP receipt was another board game called "Who's the Biggest Pervert."  For 2 to 6 players.  Now THAT will be interesting when cracked!)

She spent a chunk o' Sunday helping craft birth announcements for another girlfriend's sister's incoming kid.  I think I bemoaned the fact, Friday over supper, that I rarely make plans for myself for any given weekend.  I cited domestic obligation as the prime culprit who regularly catalyses that little social fiasco; this was after Amy asked me if I felt "tied down".  I sure as hell do NOT feel tied down.  As a husband and father I am smack dab in the middle of where I want to be.  It can, though, sometimes be an exclusionary endeavour.

The weather started to turn this weekend.  The sun never shone through until late Sunday, but it was decent enough for Amy to bag all the leaves I'd raked earlier in the week - 10 bags' worth - and for me to get the boys out for a couple of good long walks after our suppers.  Sunday's walk was particularly invigorating since my domestic Bacchanalia had encompassed four loads of laundry, two baby's naps, way too many hours of Treehouse TV, grocery shopping, a blueberry chocolate chip pancake breakfast (with bacon!), watching the baby try to strangle himself with the vacuum cord (again), and discovering that we really do need seven soothers in the house because there are never more than two clean or un-lost at any one time.

I needed to get out of the house, so I took the boys and the dog for a walk to the liquor store.

I was delighted to find that a case of 12 bottles of Sleeman's Cream Ale fits perfectly in the basket under the rear seat of our double stroller.  A good long walk home, and all that was left was to wait until both boys were down for the count - Dex obliged by conking out early - and the beer and the couch called with their siren song.

I still have to put those dishes away.

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(random weekend pics after the jump.)

Religion is funny

*sitting in front of the computer, reading news headlines, giggling to myself*

"What's so funny, Daddy?"

"Oh Dex, I'm just laughing at the pope."

Oh yeah!  That pope is funny!"

*Simon begins to guffaw out loud*

"Now what you laughing at, Daddy?"

"You're a funny boy, Declan."

"You're a funny boy too, Daddy!"

*Joint giggling continues; Dex walks away*

"Now where are you going, Dex?"

"My bum is itchy, Daddy.  I hafta scratch it."

"You go right ahead, Son."

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The article in question:
Catholic Church sees 'hope' for unbaptized babies

(It's for hubris like this I'm no longer a practising Catholic; and neither of my sons will be baptized.)

Terrifying Friday randomness

I wanted to write something, but I didn't know what, so I thought I'd open up my "POST" window and see what happened:

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I'm the only person I know (outside of some coworkers) who can claim to have shaken the right hand of a man with two thumbs.  Harry worked for our company for years before I ever arrived, and he retired a few years later.  His right hand had a vestigial thumb, complete with a nail, directly opposite the regular one.  I don't think it had any motor function, and it was half the size of his normal thumb, but I had no warning the first day I met him and he was never shy about sharing his firm grip.  Feeling that second thumb dig into your hand where there ought to be only fleshy palm on fleshy palm is a strange sensation.

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I've never ever had to pay taxes this time of year.  I always get money back.  That's been the case since I was a student, and spring was the only time I was thankful for having student loans because that meant big deductions.  But the money we now get back always seems to have to go to some great, green monster that wants to swallow all our money, with interest to boot.  This also reminds me that I'm still pissed off that we have three car payments and only two vehicles.  When we unloaded Amy's VW Jetta last fall, the money from the transaction was only enough to cover the cost of the tranny rebuild that made it run long enough to sell.  (Yes, we felt some guilt over that.)  Never mind about the initial loan.  Thankfully, my truck'll be paid off in two months, and it's the biggest hit for us, so I plan to drive that baby into the ground before I need another vehicle.

*****

I just got off the phone with a friend down in Missouri.  We've never spoken before today, but have known each other since the fall of last year.  It was neat.  It amazes me how easily an earnest virtual friendship can translate seamlessly to a more intimate setting.  Depending on which of us you talk to, he has a southern accent and I have none, or I have a northern accent and he has none.  I think I managed to plod my way through our 15 minutes without once saying "eh?".  I'm proud of that feat.  (Well, except for that bit where we talked about me not saying "eh", but that doesn't count, eh?)

*****

Shameless

I was told that I could buy a Hottest Daddy vote if I posted the picture below.  It sort of makes me feel like a Republican in an election year, but I seem to be okay with that.  (I'm on the second page out of the 12 listed in that category, if you're looking.)

There are a couple more pics below the fold here, and then I'm done with this narcissistic exercise.  I promise.

Um... vote for me?

So, here's a weird thing.

This hip-hop grandma down there in New England has nominated me for a Blogger's Choice Award for, get this: Hottest Daddy Blogger.  (I currently have 3 votes and the frontrunner has 81.  I have some ground to make up.)

She also nominated me in a couple other categories, but I like Hottest Daddy the best, so that's the one I'm going to pimp.  See the shiny new button on the sidebar?!  And don't worry if you're a guy.  You can vote for me and totally hang on to your masculinity.  In fact, voting for me as a Hot Daddy is proof positive that you have a strong and secure sense of self, and the chicks just eat that stuff up!

The inconvenient thing about voting is that you have to sign up to do so, and that takes, like, a couple minutes.  You could be watching a YouTube video about a really cute kiwi bird in the time it takes to register.  And I know what I'd rather do with my time!

But what the hell, in the spirit of being nominated, I present some evidence of my alleged hotness to support the nomination.  I feel no obligation to provide evidence of my Dad-ness since the past two and a half years of this blog really ought to suffice.

Herewith, Simian Farmer hotness.

Rawr!!

Baby steps

Tavish is getting soooo close to walking on his own.  Here he is trying really hard for both of his parents.

This is madness!

I flipped through my pocket calendar last night and reminded myself of something I intend to do next month.  As any card-carrying geek will know, May marks the 30th anniversary of the release of the very first Star Wars movie.  The 25th of May, 1977.  My dad couldn't have known what he was getting me into back then, but at only two and a half years old, that was the first movie I EVER saw in a theatre.  I can't really think of a better way to begin my life.

In honour of that event, every single post I make during May will be titled with a Star Wars quotation.  I have often claimed that there is a Star Wars or a Monty Python quote for ANY occasion.  May will put the first half of that assertion to the test, since I intend for each title to be topical to the post.  Today's is just a primer.

(It comes from the very first line of that very first movie where C-3PO is in a state of panic and can't shut up about it to R2-D2: "Did you hear that?  They've shut down the main reactor!  We'll be destroyed for sure.  This is madness!")

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This, too, is madness

Over the past few months, Amy has attended three (!!) Home Pleasures parties.  One of the only purchases I feel comfortable sharing is a board game disarmingly called Embrace.  It scares me that it is made with up to six players in mind.  There are three levels of question cards, and we played a round with the first level a few weeks ago.  (I think a complete game with the level three cards would take the better part of a day -- and that's with only two players.)  In addition to the cards, players can land on two different spots that elicit a Truth or Dare response.  One of the dares my wife lovingly foisted on me was to write a short story with the two of us in one of my own fantasy settings.

(She was very quick to add the caveat that at no point is a Princess Leia gold bikini allowed to play a role.)

I was given a week to write it, but that deadline passed two weeks ago.  I've written nothing yet, and really, I could be doing that instead of this right now.  Amy's puttin' the pressure on.  But I really want, uh, to perform well, you know?  And keep my mind out of the gutter.  No purple-helmeted warriors; that sort of thing.  Somehow combine my rapier wit with my rapacious appetite and come across as 'classy'.  Wish me luck.  (No, I'm not going to post it here!)

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Yet a third bit of madness

I woke up Tuesday morning to a dim filter of pre-dawn light wandering in the living room, coaxing me toward the window.  I peered through the curtains and can think of no better way to describe how I felt than to say I was utterly crestfallen.  It has been a very long time since that's applied to me.  My shoulders drooped.  My face slackened.  I think my right eye twitched.  I know I sighed deeply and mournfully.  It had snowed during the night.  It was still snowing while I watched.  It was still snowing every time I peered around the corner from my windowless office down the hall towards the glass doors of my trailer.  All day.  Big, fat, wet, mocking, fucking flakes of snow.

It almost all melted this weekend, then we got another three inches Tuesday, and I can only think it came out of spite.  Of course I'm driven to poetry:

Winterlewd

The memory of summer gambols mocks my every day;
I wish the snow that fell just now would go the fuck away.
Winter's grip was mostly loosed, the roads were dry and gritty,
But then it snowed, roads grew slick, and I feel sorta shitty.

Why, just last week I took my boys out on a shopping trip;
The sun was out, the wind was calm, I did a little skip!
I wore my shorts and running shoes, togged up fun and tasty;
I didn't pay no nevermind that my legs was dry and pasty.

But the sun it hid ere long 'twas out and winter clouds grew black,
And the spectre of unflinching cold threw long claws in my back.
I yearn and pine and crave and cry that Spring should ease my pain,
For all I see, relentless snow, where should be April rain.

Good riddance, Winter!  Get thee gone! Thy time is truly up!
Darling buds and honeydew await my earthen cup.
You can flail all you want, I see you about to pass;
And as my gambols start once more, I'll kick you in the ass.