#272 In which our hero receives a message from the past.

I’ve previously mentioned this cool website, Futureme.org, in which you can send messages to yourself in the “future,” that is, these messages are stored somewhere and not delivered until the future date you set.

I had sent future-me a message at one point, but I forgot how long I set it to wait. Every once in a while this website would bubble up to the surface of my mind and I’d wonder if that message would ever come. But it had been so long I assumed the service just didn’t work.

But I got my past message yesterday!

I had completely forgotten what I had written, and it was really funny to (re)read. Message follows with commentary.

Hello Future Craig!

It is June 10, 2004 as I write this. The kinda cool website futureme.org says it will send this to you any time in the future... I'm going to set it for five years. I wonder what'll be different by then.

Right now, Lily is only seven months old. Just in the past week has she started to really crawl, she can get around now! By the time you read this she should be walking and talking (something she can't do at all now), and will be even more a real little person. I hope to God she finally grew some hair.

Wow, it’s amazing how little I knew about kids then. I though she’d be walking and talking at age 5? Holy crap, this kid can run like a demon. And talk? She spins these amazingly elaborate tales that never fail to surprise and delight me. She’s so much more of a real person at age 5 that I could ever of imagined.

And it’s hard to remember that it took Lily so long to grow hair. Now she has thick, luxurious red hair halfway down her back.

You're working at ADPRO right now... it's not terrible.

Well, it certainly got terrible. This would have been my first year there, and it was, as reported, okay. Not terrible, not wonderful. That would come later. As an aside, I’m going to censor some of the names that follow, but I don’t have to obscure the agency name since it went out of business less than a year after firing me. No real surprise there… it was struggling financing well before I started working there.

Your boss is XXXX XXXXXXX, who isn't a horrible boss, but he's clearly out to cover his own ass first, and screw everyone else. At the beginning of the month you were turned down for a raise, even though XXXX (says he) wanted to give you one. You're still more than a little bitter about that.

This was the first sign that ADPRO was not a healthy place to work. My boss outright lied about compensation, making it sound like it was likely that I would get a raise at 6 months, 12 months, 18 months… while the truth was that no one in the agency had received a bump in compensation in YEARS. So yeah, I was bitter… and still am. This is alleviated somewhat by the information I received a while back that my former boss is now working for an extremely small shop (like 5 people) and the two principals work him into the ground and don’t appreciate his work. This may or may not be true, but I choose to believe that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine now.

You work with XXXX XXXXXXX and XXXXX XXXXXXXX, graphic designers.

The first of which was fired four months before me, the second of which quit several months after me. I’m not in touch with either any more.

AE XXXX XXXXX is one of the bigger assholes you've ever had to work with.

Man, that was the truth. In a weird twist of fate, this guy came in to interview at my current agency. I really wanted to run to the general manager and torpedo any chance he had to actually getting hired… but I didn’t. I guess I believe that what comes around goes around, and I’m not willing to roll those dice. Man that guy was a dick. He wasn’t hired here anyway.

You and [The Scientist] and just starting to pack up the house in preparation to moving. Actually, [The Scientist] has started, and you're dragging your feet because you fucking hate moving. I hope you guys found a nice house... bigger, nicer room for Lily, bigger kitchen, PLEASE.

This must have been when we were just moving stuff into a storage area to de-clutter it and make it feel bigger. We ended up selling our house much quicker than expected, and had to scramble a bit to find a new one. Which we did in short order. But not without first having to deal with a bunch of bullshit which is chronicled here.

And a bedroom for Lily's new brother or sister? S/he should be born by now, huh? Wonder how that went. Another C-section for [The Scientist]? I hope it was less stressful for you guys this time.

Let me do the math. This was sent June 10, 2004. Macey was born June 9, 2005. So, The Scientist wasn’t even pregnant yet, by a couple of months. I don’t really remember this, but The Scientist and I must have planned when we were going to try for #2 pretty carefully.

[The Scientist] just started the job at XXXXXXXX. Knowing her, she'll be at this job for 10 years. I hope she still likes it... after hating her job for so long, she deserves one that she likes at least a little.

She still likes it. So, yah!

You're still driving the Neon. I really hope by the time you read this that you have a new car.

Ah, my old red Neon. How I loved that car. I really wanted to get another manual, but The Scientist insisted that I get an automatic. Which has worked out for the best, I suppose. But I miss that zippy little 5-speed.

You love your wife very much. Looks like[REDACTED].

This section detailed some personal stuff that my wife and I had to work through which you--nameless, faceless Internet--need not know about. Suffice it to say that we did indeed work it out.

Man, she's one hot piece of ass.

That sentiment is no less true now than it was five years ago.

Hope all is well with you and yours,

craig, circa 2004.

The Scientist thinks I should write another one. If I set if for another five years, that would make Lily 10 and Macey 9. I can’t even imagine what those kids will be like then. And The Scientist and I will have been married 13 years.

Here’s hoping that her ass remains as hot as it is now.

***

#267 In which our hero discusses a movie that he may have mentioned his desire to see in passing, pt. I

I spent a fair amount of time obsessing about the Watchmen movie on this site before its release and now people (and by “people” I mean my brother-in-law) are busting my balls about not commenting on it. So, my thoughts on the Watchmen movie follow.

A little aside first: The Scientist and I planned on seeing it opening day. I’m really not an opening day sort of guy, but I was extremely curious about the movie and -ahem- eager to see it, so we made plans. In fact, I took a half-day off work so we could see a matinee. Seemed like the best way to avoid the crush of unwashed fanboys. So we planned on meeting at a theater that’s about halfway between home and my work.

I left work a little later than planned, so I was rushing to get to the theater. Thankfully, the route is a little four lane divided highway that doesn’t see a lot of traffic outside of rush hour. But, of course, since I was trying to get to a movie, it suddenly became s a huge stop and go traffic jam. The road rage immediately wells up inside me. I call my wife to say something like, “Well, I’m suddenly stuck in a FUCKING traffic jam for no GODDAMN good reason and I’m not even FUCKING sure if I can get to the COCK-SUCKING theater in time now!”

Another aside: I’m very particular about where I sit in a movie. I like to be three-quarters of the way back, and as centered as possible. And it’s not just that I’m a prima donna… if I sit too close to the screen it strains my eyes (and if I have to sit in the first couple rows, it strains my neck). I hate it. This most likely stems from going to movies with my friends in high school and screwing around so much ahead of time that we got crappy seats. So now, anytime we’re running even slightly late for a movie, I, well, I turn into a dick. Because I want good seats! The Scientist is well aware of this propensity to dickness, and does what she can to keep us on time.

So, taking these two factors into consideration, I was nearly beside myself trying to get to the theater. And, as it turns out, I got there on time, and even had time to pee before it started (it is 3 hours long, y’know). So when we finally entered the theater we found maybe 10 other people in there. THEN we sat through 15 minutes worth of coming attractions. All my stress was for nothing.

So, on to the actual movie. And here’s the part where I have to say SPOILERS AHEAD, and if you haven’t seen the movie and don’t want to have anything ruined stop reading now and blah, blah, blah. Frankly, if you’ve read this far, I’m going to assume you’re a big enough geek that you say it opening day like me.

In general, I enjoyed the movie. I knew there was going to be some major changes from the graphic novel, especially the ending (more on that later). So I went in with expectations managed, and by and large, it didn’t disappoint. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t LOVE the movie, but I did enjoy it. There were things in it that I liked very much, things I didn’t like but understood why they changed them, and things I didn’t like and didn’t understand.

THINGS I LIKED.

The sets.

I read ahead of time about the amount of detail they put into the sets, and it really showed. Every room was packed with little details, most of which flashed by far too fast to really appreciate. I imagine that once out on HD DVD, there will be plenty for fanboys to pause and admire. I especially enjoyed the care they took to match the color schemes from the comic. Dave Gibbons (the guy who drew Watchmen) took care to choose colors that were fairly non-traditional… most comics, at least old-school comics, use primary colors: reds, greens, blues. Watchmen used a lot of secondary colors, especially oranges and purples. By the way, the original comic was colored by a man named John Higgins, who rarely gets any credit for his contribution to Watchmen.

The costume updates.

Comic book costumes rarely translate well on the screen; that’s why you’re not seeing Wolverine running around in yellow and blue spandex in the X-Men movies. And remember that this comic came out in the 80’s, so the costuming aesthetic is a little different. By and large, the costume updates were cool (with two notable exceptions in my mind, see below). It’s no secret that Rorschach is my favorite character, and he looked great. Niteowl’s update was a rather big change, but it stayed true to the original, I thought. Also: the Owlship was dead on. And I really liked how they handled Doctor Manhattan. I sure at some point some studio head said, “Um, does this guy really need to be naked the entire time?” But naked he was, and unabashedly so. In the comic he clearly had some sort of odd texture to his skin, and I think they made a real effort to convey that… even if it just ended up making him look dirty most of the time, in my opinion.

Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach.

Holy crap, this guy did a fantastic job. I was a little iffy on him from some of the trailers I saw, but in the movie he completely pulls it off. I think I enjoyed him as the unmasked Rorschach even more than when he was wearing his “face.” The voice, the stiffness of his movements, the emotion in the end… incredible. I would have liked to see a whole lot more of him.

The ending.

Not that I didn’t want to see the giant squid, we ALL wanted to see the giant squid… but there’s just no way that was going to happen. I mean, in the end this still had to be a movie with broad appeal. If, after spending 2 ½ hours in a movie theater, the typical non-fanboy was suddenly presented with a giant intra-dimensional squid monster, there would have been hell to pay. I’m sure many people were confused as it was, but the WTF? reaction coming out of the theater would have been off the charts.

I thought the ending as presented still embraced the spirit of the comic (not that there aren’t problems with it, again, see below) but presented it in a fashion that was easily explained and digested by the non-obsessive fan.

This is getting really long. Think I’ll break it into two parts.

###

WIFE STRIFE

The other day The Scientist was in a mood. Which affected me only slightly, being that I was leaving to go do something or other.

THE SCIENTIST: Man, I am pissed off.
ME: Why? What happened?
TS: Nothing that I can think of… I’m just in a mood. I mean, I am pissed!
ME: Okay.
TS: Seriously, I am not fit to be around people right now.
ME: Well, you know I still need to go out, right?
TS: Yes, yes, that’s fine.
ME: Don’t murder the children or anything, okay?

An hour later, I got this text:

Oh no! What happened?!

Dear God! What have you done? What have you done!

Nooooo---!!!

So yes, an evening of murder/suicide. Or was it... the little feet in the final photo are a little ominous, don't you think?

###

#264 In which our hero is just trying to get through the end of the year.

I am done with 2008.

As we entered the ass-end of the year just about everything became, fittingly enough, shitty.

I turned 40. More on that in later posts. But bigger than that was The Scientist’s looming surgery. You can read all the gory details starting here, but be warned, it’s all about stuff south of the border. And while thinking about my wife’s ass is generally a pleasurable experience, this is anything but.

There was also Christmas shopping which, once again, I promised myself I’d jump on early but, once again, did not. It was a very gift cardy Christmas for my family; which always makes me feel like I made no effort. I guess my sisters actually get to buy whatever they really want, and that’s a good thing, but it seems so lazy.

So, anyway, The Scientist had her surgery and, contrary to all her/my fears ahead of time, went pretty smoothly. Well, if you can call unexpectedly finding a grapefruit sized ovarian cyst smooth. But I guess it could have been a whole lot worse… if the cyst wasn’t found, then she’d have to have surgery all over again, and that would SUCK. But, that’s not the real problem, of course. The real problem, of course, is the butt.

For the first two days all was good. No real pain down there, meds were working, hunky-dory. Then, just about the time The Scientist had a couple of real poops, everything whet to hell. She was in a lot of pain. And not just while she was sitting on the pot, but all the time. The Vicodin constipated her a bit, so she stopped taking it. Instead she took Klonpin, which made her sleepy, but didn’t really touch the pain. She took lots of Motrin which, as it always does, roaches her stomach and makes her feel nauseous. Which all goes back to the puke thing and anxiety and holy shit this year cannot end fast enough.

Christmas day was nice. The girls got lots of good stuff. They seemed satisfied, and there was no belly-aching about not getting what they wanted--which, if you listened to Lily while she watched Cartoon Network commercials, was everything. Lily’s big gift was a Leapster hand-held, which she adored.

Then, a day later, the Leapster’s display stopped working. Customer service instructed us to send it back to Amazon for a replacement. Amazon, in turn, told us they don’t stock that particular hand-held any longer, so they could only refund our money. Then I started to run a low-grade fever, and was still coughing up green glue from my lungs; the antibiotics I was on be damned!

Then mom went home and I was left to entertain these rambunctious children all on my own. Which normally isn’t a problem, but when I was feeling crappy, it was a little challenging.

The house quickly feel into a Lord of the Flies condition.

I tired to keep up with laundry and dishes general keeping shit picked up while answering the every-five-minute calls of “Daddy! Can you help me?” “Daddy, what’s this do?” “Daddy, come look at this!” Oh, and this was also about the time that a tree limb fell in our back yard, knocking our cable/high-speed Internet line off the pole. So no TV or on-line games, my two biggest hold-outs to entertain these children.

And all was going on while I was reassuring The Scientist that all was well, and she needed to stay in bed. It was taxing.

And while this all sounds very ha-ha-stupid-husband-can’t-deal-with-a-little-housework TV sitcom bullshit, the real issue was that my wife was in pain. A lot of pain.

The meds she was on weren’t really doing it, and she was in constant pain all day long. I tired to do what I could but, really, this was nothing I could do. I ran out and got her prune juice and fiber cereal and dried cranberries and Slurpees, but they did nothing at all to really ease her pain.

And that just about brings us up to date. Couple of days ago I woke up at midnight to hear my wife softly weeping next to me in bed. It was heartbreaking. I didn’t have anyone to get pissed at, anyone to demand relief from.

Her first follow-up appointment was with her OBGYN, and I gotta tell you, as the only other man that views my wife's vagina on a regular basis, I like him a lot. He is all business. When he finished with the ablasion, he came out into the waiting room, talked me through what he had done, showed me pictures, explained the entire cyst thing and asked if I had any questions. Total pro. So, anyway, during the follow-up appointment with him, The Scientist mentioned how much pain she was in, and basically how much life sucked, and he told her to find her butt doctor and demand to be seen. Immediately. Fucking-A. This guy's on the right page.

So, she took his advice. The following day, when she knew her doctor would be in the building during surgeries, she came to work, put on scrubs, and confronted her outside the operating theater. Well, confronted is a strong word (that's what I would have done, as in, "Hey, I call your nurse, I page you and you blow me off? What the fuck?!") it was more like she firmly asked to be seen. And she was. Immediately. Which is good.

So, bottom line (for now) is that everything looks fine. She's in pain, especially pooping pain, but that's kinda the deal with this type of surgery. And actually, The Scientist says that it seems to have tapered off a little today. So maybe we're turning a corner. I hope so.

It would be great to start the new year with smiles, and not tears.

###

PAIN GAIN

The Scientist was in an accident last week.

Nothing serious; she was stopped at a red light at the guy behind her slid on the ice and rear-ended her. He was only going five miles per hour or so, and other than a smashed-in bumper there was no damage to her car.

She was on the phone with me when it happened. Ironically, she was saying, “Be careful on the drive home. It’s snowing and EEEEK! I just got hit!” She called the cops and they waited around for the police report. Apparently Mr. Sorry-I-Just-Smashed-You-Bumper was in a hurry to leave, and said that since they had exchanged information there was no reason for him to stay. My wife, who is wise, begged to disagree, and made him stick around.

Being that he wasn’t driving his own car and he had bare-bones GEICO insurance, we’re happy that we have a police report.

After the initial “Holy shit! I just paid this car off!” it’s all seemed to turn out okay. His insurance company is paying to have The Scientist’s truck repaired. They’re paying for the rental car she’ll be driving while that happens. And they’re paying the cost for her chiropractor visits.

About that. She felt fine the day of the accident, but her neck started to hurt the day after. She was able to get in to see her guy right away. He took x-rays and told her she has minor whiplash. He’ll see her twice a week for about a month; after which he thinks she’ll be fine.

In discussing the accident, most people ask, “Are you going to sue?” This isn’t something that we had really considered. But, it seems, everyone else has. Including the two lawyers who sent nice letters to my wife the day after the accident. Helpful sorts. Even The Scientist’s doctor said he has connections with a lawyer who could help her if she wanted to sue. “You could probably get a couple thousand dollars for pain and suffering.”

Now, we could certainly use a couple thousand dollars. And my wife is in pain. Not a huge, debilitating amount of pain, but her neck hurts her. But we’re not going to sue.

It just feels like an underhanded thing to do. I mean, the insurance agency should pay for damages, including doctor visits--and they are. That’s what you have insurance for. And if this guy who hit her didn’t have insurance, then maybe we would sue him directly to recoup these costs. But for “pain and suffering”?

I’ve heard that litigation is the new lottery. In other words, more people think they have a chance of making some big money by suing than by playing the Pick5. And that just seems shitty. I mean, if you’re really hurt and can’t work, that’s one thing. But a fender-bender and sore neck? Not the same thing.

I bet the insurance company wouldn’t blink at a $2K settlement. The lawyer would get $700 or so, and we’d pocket enough to put a big dent in our credit card bills.

But we just don’t want to feed into that system.

I don’t want to come across as holier-than-thou, but we’re all grown-ups, right? The guy had insurance. He wasn’t driving recklessly. It’s early in winter, so I can even forgive him for not recognizing an icy patch. My wife will recover. To abuse the system by suing--even when most other people might do it--isn’t something we’d do. I suppose it’s not a dishonest thing to do, but it certainly doesn’t feel honest.

Maybe you think we’re dumb for not cashing in on an easy paycheck. And maybe we are. But if we sued this guy, it just wouldn’t feel right.

Then again, two grand could go a long way toward easing that sting.

###

#259 In which our hero discusses fairies, hard-boiled eggs, big-eyed anime girls and Benito Mussolini.

I love Halloween.

I like dressing up, I like eating candy, and I like seeing all the little spankers in costume. And, since I’ve become a father, I absolutely love dressing up our kids. Last year Lily went as a chicken (her choice, don’t ask me) and Macey went as an egg. It was very cute.

This year, Lily decided she wanted to be a fairy and Macey decided she wanted to be a deviled egg. This was her stated choice… I have no idea where it came from or, more importantly, my youngest would choose such an odd food choice.

So we went to the Halloween store to get Lily a fairy costume. We were looking at the standard: gauzy shirt, butterfly wings and a magic wand. Why do fairies carry magic wands? Aren’t they inherently magic? Anyway, once we started looking around, Lily fell in love with another costume on the rank: Stephanie from Lazy Town. Unless you have kids around the age of four, you’ve probably never heard of Lazy Town. It’s a odd show that stars Magnús Scheving, an Icelandic gymnastics champion as the back-flipping Sportacus, who patrols Lazy Town high above in his tricked out blimp (oh yeah, you read that right).

The show features a mixture of live action actors and dough-faced puppets fighting arch-villain and incompetent Robbie Rotten. It’s truly odd (and strangely watchable). His young sidekick is the pink-haired Stephanie.

So we ended up paying $30 for a pink stripped polyester dress and a pink wing. But, I have to say, she looked good. We also picked up a pair of devil horns for Macey (“deviled” egg, get it?) to go with the rest of the costume we recycled from last year.


And since the girls get to dress up, it’s only fair that The Scientist and I get to have fun, too. We were invited to a Halloween party and were excited about getting a sitter and both of us getting to go for a change.

This particular friend of ours throws a party every year with a theme. Last year it was “Steampunk,” and I had fun dressing up for that (my wife couldn’t go for some reason). This year the theme was “Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny” or “Bad Cosplay.” Hilarious.

The Scientist dug out her old prom dress (which looks more like a wedding dress) and I made her a giant foam sword. The result was both bad cosplay and a new force of good to fight bland food and ne’er-do-wells: Wasabi Bride!


Her eyes were awesome.


She basically closed her eyelids and painted giant anime eyes overtop them. Fantastic effect that really freaked out people at the party.

I managed to find an amazing deal that day on an old military jacket that fit me remarkable well. I went as Mussolini:


The medals I’m wearing? The bars are from high school band, the medal is my 3rd place Voice of Democracy award, and there’s a couple anniversary pins from when I worked at Max & Erma’s.

The party was a blast. And so was trick or treating.

###

#257 In which our hero desperately attempts to forget the goings-on of the past 24 hours.

Bad day, yesterday.

It started late Tuesday night. While The Scientist and I were still high from watching Obama’s resounding victory in the presidential election (aside to Ohio: thanks for not fucking this up) our three-year-old, Macey came into the bedroom. Earlier she told me that “I drank too much water” and I sat her on the potty, where she successfully peed. But now she was back for more. Which is her way… she seems to like to pee, then wait a half hour or so, then come back to poop. Which is fine; as long as everything is going in the potty and not her pants, I don’t care.

So I take her back into the bathroom and sit her on the potty. She sits there for a moment, then pukes, big-time. It hits the wall, it covers the floor; a significant amount covers my hands and arms. I’m a little slow in whipping her around to face the toilet, but much of the second round ends up in the bowl. And it’s a lot. Poor kid ate a big dinner, and here it was all coming back.

I strip her down and The Scientist takes her into the shower with her to clean her up. Now, this is amazing… that my wife is able to function in this situation. See, she has a puke phobia. She doesn’t like to see it, hear it or smell it. Watching it on TV is okay, I guess, but in person is right out. She’s warned me about this endlessly in the nearly 10 years we’ve been together, but it’s never really been an issue (baby spit-up didn’t seem to fall into the no-puke category). I knew she didn’t like it (who does?) but I wasn’t really clear on the extent to which she’s not okay with it--and wouldn’t be until the next morning.

Anyway, so The Scientist can take our kid into the shower--crossing over the puke zone--without incident, so I figured everything was okay. I mean, Macey wasn’t okay, clearly, but it was probably just a stomach bug and now that she threw up we were hoping the worst of it was over.

I cleaned up the puke in the bathroom, we got Macey all changed into clean jammies, and all seemed well. And all WAS well, until the next morning.

I got Macey out of bed, and she made some comment that she felt sick, and then she was. But I was ready with a basin, and her barf was completely contained. The Scientist came in and got clean clothes for her and we started the morning getting-ready-for-school routine. Then, the smell hit her or she saw it or something, but she sat down on the floor and said, “Craig! I’m not doing okay!”

I came back into the room and she was laying down saying, over and over, “I’m not doing okay! I’m not doing okay!” And I’m a little pissed because this is her stupid puke phobia, and there’s no real reason to be freaked out about puke, and little kids puke all the fucking time, so it’s dumb and you should really just get over it. But, I’m not a complete asshole, so I say, “What’s going on?”

And my wife doesn’t answer. So I repeat myself. “Hey! What’s going on?” She’s flat on her back, her arms in an awkward position, and she’s not saying anything. A little alarmed, I crouch down and give her a little shake. And she is as stiff as a board.

This is when I realize my wife is having a seizure.

Now, this should have been scary as hell but, honestly, The Scientist has spent much of the previous decade preparing me for this very moment.

Here’s the deal: when my wife was much younger, she went through a phase where she woke up unexpectedly, felt ill, had a seizure, passed out, woke up, and vomited. This pretty much scared the hell out of me when she first told me about it. Mostly, because for the first five years or so of our marriage she would wake up feeling a little sick, then wake me up so I could be there “in case I have another seizure.”

And I was all Joe Concerned at first… then it because apparent that she hadn’t really had a seizure in 10 years… then in 15 years… then in 20 years. And at this point I said, “Y’know, I don’t think you’re going to have another seizure any time soon. Can you please let me sleep through the night?” It’s possible I was a bit of a dick about this.

So when she went all stiff, I though “Well I’ll be goddamned, she really is having a seizure.” It lasted maybe 10 seconds or so, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp. I grabbed another basin and waited for her to wake up. She recovered in about 20 seconds or so, confused. Then, true to form, she rolled over and started to heave.

The good news is that she didn’t have anything in her stomach, so she didn’t have anything to puke. The bad news is that the dry heaves suck for anyone, just recovering from a seizure or not.

So, she's heaving, and it occurs to me that I’ve never actually heard my wife puke. Well, she did puke after the horrible tattoo incident (I’ve written about that, right? I can’t seem to find anything about it in my archives) but that was fairly quick. Anyway, she heaving into the basin, and come to find out that she makes this funny noise when she’s puking. Kinda like “Uggghhh--hehk!” There's this odd little coda to her heave--and it strikes me as really funny. And I know I can’t laugh at her in this situation, so I try to stifle it. But my laugh pops out as a strangled little snort, which my wife misinterprets as me gagging.

So I just let her collapse on the floor, brought in a pillow and covered her up. She certainly wasn’t doing well, but she seemed stable.

Macey, on the other hand, was FULL of energy. Apparently the puking got out the last of whatever was bothering her, and she wanted to play, play, play! Naturally, I had to call The Scientist’s work and tell them she wasn’t going in (said she was sick, didn’t feel the need to add the seizure part) and I had to call my work and tell them I wasn’t coming in. Then I called the daycare and told them neither of the girls was coming in. Lily seemed fine, but we kept her home just to be safe.

And honestly, both girls were fine all day. They were actually overjoyed to get to stay at home and play with daddy. My wife was finally able to crawl into bed after a couple of hours. I set up the baby monitor next to the bed, and spent the next several hours running up and down the stairs to check on her, then to make sure the girls weren’t fighting. Plus I washed all the puke-covered stuff from Macey’s first round of vomiting.

The worst part of the seizure BS turns out to not be the seizure itself, but the after-effects. The Scientist was sore, but she was also nauseated and dizzy for hours afterward. Neither she nor Macey really ate anything all day. Well, Macey ate a couple freeze-pops, and The Scientist had a Slurpee.

All in all, it was inconvenient, but not horrible. The big fear, of course, is what if I’m out of town and one of the girls gets sick? That’s going to be a big problem. I think my wife would agree.

But that, like the previous 24 hours, is something I don’t want to think about right now.

###

#256 In which our hero discusses parenting methods, typically favoring the more hard-assed ones.

I’m not positive about this, but The Scientist and I might be, when it comes to parenting, what you could call “mean.” We’ve been called that by other adults (in jest--I think) and, much more often, by our children. We don’t think we’re mean, of course (mostly) but we would rather reckon ourselves “consistent.” As in, if we say something, that’s the way it’s going to be, and no amount of begging or screaming is going to change that.

Early on in the “let’s have some babies!” discussions, we both agreed that we needed to play it straight with our kids. No promising one thing, then doing something else. Or, more importantly, no promising to take away something, only to cave then they start to cry.

Our hope is that it will lead to better adjusted kids. Ones that are willing to give up the fight because they know that mommy and daddy aren’t going to go back on what they said. Theoretically (because this is very much an experiment in progress) it will lead to less screaming and fewer fights. But as of last night, the experiment hasn’t bourn fruit.

Here’s the deal.

Yesterday was Lily’s birthday (and I’ll write about that it all it’s glory later). It was a pretty low-key day, being that we hadn’t planned a big party, and The Scientist had to work, anyway. During the day I went to the grocery store with the girls.

A little aside. These grocery store trips used to be… not bad, or challenging, exactly, but just not a lot of fun. The girls would be bored halfway through, and Macey would want to get out of the cart, or get back in, or Lily would want to look at the candy, then pout when she didn’t get any, etc., etc. However! Now that both girls are potty trained (as I type this I must remember that both girls crapped their panties once in the past three days, so, maybe 99% potty trained) they can go into the most wonderful thing ever created in the history of grocery stores: the play room.

The Scientist and I were both a little iffy about the concept, in the beginning. It’s just a room where you can dump your kids while you shop. There’s a store employee there, and plenty of games and crafts and what-not. But we’re not dump-and-run sort of parents, so I, at least, wasn’t 100% sure of the concept. But, Lily got wind of all the new toys, and started asking to go in, and I finally relented one day.

Now, it’s awesome. The girls demand to go shopping with me, and they are, of course, perfectly fine in there for the 30 minutes or so it takes me to find everything on the list.

So, it’s Lily’s birthday and I drop the girls off at the playroom while I shop. I go to pick them up afterward, and the friendly attendant asks if they can both have a snack. So sure; both girls get a bag of chips and a juice box. So far, so good.

Then, it comes up that it’s Lily’s birthday, so again the friendly attendant says she can choose from the Birthday Box. Now, ever so faintly, a warning bell starting ringing in the back of my skull. But I ignored it.

A big plastic treasure chest is produced and opened, and Lily looks at the toys within. She chooses a stuffed frog. Macey tentatively reaches into the box. Of course, I say “No, Macey. Lily only gets a toy because it’s her birthday. Maybe we can come back on your birthday and you can get something from the Birthday Box.” Macey is disappointed, but simply says, “Okaaaay” in the cute fashion she does.

So. No big fight. No big meltdown.

I am patting myself on the back for being such an awesome parent, and secretly congratulating my kids for being so mature in front of the grocery store employee. As we’re putting on coats, Macey makes noise about wanting to hold Lily’s frog. Lily, who really is the sweetest kid on Earth, says they can play babysitter, and the frog can be her baby and Macey can be the babysitter. And she lets Macey hold the frog the whole way home.

Things started to go south pretty quickly from there.

Back at the house, Macey wanted to hold the frog even longer, and Lily started to get whiny that it was her frog, etc. And she’s right. So I tell Macey that it’s Lily’s birthday toy, and she let her hold it for a little big, but it’s really hers to play with, and hey! Look at all these other stuffed animals!

But Macey wasn’t having it.

As the night wore on, Macey’s demands for frog time intensified, and Lily decided that it was HER frog, and she didn’t want to share it at all. At bedtime, Macey wanted to sleep with the new frog, but naturally, Lily wanted to sleep with her new toy.

So, by 9pm, the house sounded like this:

Frogie! Frooooooogie! New froooooogeeeee! I wanna sleep with new froooooooog-eeeee!!!!
Frooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooogggggggg-eeeeeee!!!!!

Very pitiful.

These was no comforting her, or diverting her attention (I’m hoping this laser-like focus pays off with great SAT scores) and finally the only thing that calmed her down was allowing her to crawl into bed with her mother.

When I came to bed much later, she was completely sacked out.

Of course, all of this could have been avoided just by saying to the grocery store lady, “hey, y’mind if my youngest grabs something out of the box, too?” I’m sure this $5.15/hr. babysitter wouldn’t have cared.

But I didn’t. For the same reason that we don’t buy Lily gifts on Macey’s birthday, and vice versa. It sets a bad precedent. And we’re trying to keep our eyes on the prize: more level-headed kids in the future.

But, to our children, we’re big meanies.

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#253 In which our hero throws a high-stakes party

When The Scientist was 11, her parents planned a big birthday party for her. She was allowed to invite as many kids as she wanted; so she ended up handing out 30 invitations.

One person came. The next-door neighbor.

This was crushing for an 11-year-old, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’ve probably heard this story half a dozen times, whenever a birthday--anyone’s birthday--rolls around. And even though she jokes about it, I really think there was a lasting effect on her. So much so that when we started talking about a party for her 40th birthday, I got a little nervous myself.

At this point I should admit that I’m a lousy planner. I’m much more of a “Hey! Let’s go take the kids to the park and have a picnic!” sort of guy. So even though there was this pressure to throw my wife a great birthday party, I hadn’t really given it a lot of thought. To make matter worse, we had a week-long camping trip a week before her birthday, and there was a lot of planning involved with that… so I didn’t even begin to think about it until we got back.

The Scientist’s best friend, M., volunteered to help in any way she could. And she helped mostly by sending me email that said, “Um, hey, are you doing anything about the party?” To which I lied and said, “Well, oh COURSE, I am!”

A week out I was trying to think of a theme, when it struck me to do a Tiki/luau sort of thing. That sounded fun, and it was something that I might actually be able to pull off in a week. So I sent out e-vites to everything I could think of. Then I had a guy at work whip up a printed invitation.

The good news is that The Scientist didn’t want a surprise party. She was very clear on this. NO surprise parties. Which was good by me, because I could give her a stack of invitations and have her invite her own friends.

The key here, remember, was to have a LOT of people at the party. Well, after several days of handing out invitations and emailing people, I hadn’t heard back from anyone. Not a single person. This is the point where I started to crap my pants a little. All the more so, when my wife and I had this conversation around Wednesday:

THE SCIENTIST: People are going to come to my party, right?
ME: What? Of course!
TS: Because my last birthday party didn’t work out that great.
ME: People are going to come, don’t worry.
TS: Good.
ME: Besides, that wasn’t your last birthday party, surely. You’ve had a party since you were 11.
TS: No, I haven’t. I’ve never had another birthday party since then.
ME: …

So there it was. She had a party at 11 years old, and it went to hell. TWENTY-NINE years later, she was going to try it again.

It was critical that I didn’t fuck this up.

So I got on the phone and started calling people. One guy asked if he could bring his new girlfriend; to which I said, “Hell yes! Have her bring some friends, too!” I emailed people and begged them to come. I invited the neighbors, something I hadn’t planned on doing at first.

With the number of people coming still up in the air, I soldiered ahead with the things I could control. Namely, food and decorations. I found some tasty-sounding recipes online, and printed them out. I was a little unclear about the difference between a “tiki party” and a “luau,” but I figured screw it, I’ll just pick and choose what I liked.

I got a five pound pork roast. Jerk wings. Salmon. Macadamias and pistachios (are pistachios a tropical nut? I have no idea). Roasted corn. And a metric assload of fruit.

Then I went to the party store and holy crap, that’s my new favorite place. I thought I might be able to find tiki-head plastic glasses, but instead I found everything I could have wanted, and more. I walked down the aisle, stood looking around for a minute, then went back and got a cart. I got a tiki head platter, tiki head shot glasses, paper wall decorations, a big plastic mask, grass skirting for the table, a CD of hula music and other little odds and ends. And leis, of course. Lots and lots of leis. I definitely spent more than I should have, but the party had to rock.

About Thursday, I started to feel a little better. Several people had confirmed they were coming… there would be at least six or seven people there. That’s better than one.

Also on Thursday, while I was surfing around looking for other ideas for the party, I came across this: a pineapple palm tree kit. I thought it was awesome, and instantly knew I wanted to make one for the party. But I wasn’t keen on paying $69.95 for it, and besides, there’s no way it would be delivered on time. But as I looked at the thing I thought, “I could make that! I bet it’s nothing more than a piece of rebar bolted to a board.” So I went out at lunch and got a piece of rebar. Then I went over to the craft store and bought a couple plastic ferns. I am not at all a handy guy, but optimism was high that I could pull this off.

That night I banished The Scientist from the basement as I bent rebar and bolted it to a board I had laying around. The concept was solid, I thought. Now just to execute.

So, Saturday morning comes and I put in the slow-cooked pork. I whip up the orange mustard sauce that goes along with it. Then I’m sorta at the point where I don’t have anything to do until closer to the fact. So I take a nap.

When I get up I prep the yard: tiki torches in the ground, extra chairs, a cooler with ice and cans of soda. M. comes over and helps me cut fruit. The Scientist takes the girls upstairs and promises not to peek until I call her back down.

I drag my rebar/wood centerpiece out of the basement, along with the eight pineapples I brought for it. I trim the first one and muscle it through the rebar. It seems to work, more or less. One thing I hadn’t planned on was the pineapples being so juicy… because now I had a puddle of juice on the table. I start to worry that it’s going to be a huge mess before everything is said and done.

I impale the last pineapple, and top it with the plastic ferns. And goddamn if it doesn’t look great!

Then people start to arrive. I am hardly prepared at this point, I still have to make the punch, go get the cake, shred the pork and put out the salmon. Not to mention put up the decorations. But it’s only the neighbors, and they go hang out in the backyard and play cornhole.

I call down The Scientist and she is floored by the display.

As am I. Honestly, I damn-near put my shoulder out of joint patting myself on the back about those damn pineapple palm trees.

Then more people start to show. Actually, a lot more. By the time I’m pouring the four (!!) bottles of rum into the punch bowl, there’s about a dozen people milling about. Most eagerly awaiting the chance to dive into the punch.

I finally change into my flowered shirt, and join the party. People devour the pork, put a hurting on the fruit skewers and make short work of the chocolate-covered strawberries. The revelers also do damage to the Lomi-Lomi Salmon, which is a raw salmon salad with tomatoes and onions. I didn’t expect most people to try it, let alone go back for seconds (and thirds).

Lots of people bring their kids, which is fun. The Scientist had bought some cheap toys at the dollar store to keep them occupied, and for the most part, I think the kids (all of them, not just ours) were entertained and surprisingly well-behaved.

The rum punch was a big hit, and it knocked nearly everyone on their ass. It was STRONG. But that’s how it’s supposed to be, I guess. Come 11 o’clock or so the neighbors have cleared out, as have most of the people with young kids. All that’s left is our circle of close friends. Being that the booze flows even more freely, the f-bombs and friendly ribbing shifts up a notch or five. The Scientist is pretty drunk, as is M. As they both work in an IVF lab, there’s lots of talk about semen and hairy coochies and other unsavory topics. But we’ll all friends, so I little raunchy talk doesn’t phase anyone.

No-one pukes, which is a huge bonus. One woman looks like she came pretty close, but was able to rally and hold it back.

In the end, there were around 25 people there. The Scientist deems it a huge success, and declares it to be much better than her last party. Which, to be honest, hadn’t set the bar very high.

For myself, I’m just happy that my wife had a good time. She lamented afterward that she didn’t have time to talk to everyone she wanted to--the sign of a well-attended party. We both sported mild hangovers the next morning, but again, well worth it.

But now, I have to figure out how to top this party with the next. Oh well, I guess I have another 29 years to figure it out.

Tiki God says, “Good party, mon.”

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#244 In which our hero and his lovely wife do something amazing.

Last Friday The Scientist and I went out! Without children! And met some friends! Out! This is something that we’ve done individually plenty of times, but honestly, I can’t remember the last time we went out together. It was a lot of fun.

My wife orchestrated the affair by calling me on Wednesday and saying, “Hey, do you want to go out Friday? I have a babysitter lined up.” So that was that.

A short time ago I became aware of a restaurant called “Melt Bar & Grilled” which specializes in grilled cheese sandwiches. Being that The Scientist and I both enjoy grilled cheese sandwiches, we wanted to try it out. Actually, when I told her about this place her reaction was, “Holy shit. We HAVE to go there.”

The only hitch was that it was clear across town. Now, Cleveland has this odd east side/west side thing where people don’t like to cross the river. We don’t hold any prejudices against the west side, other than it’s far away. And as soon as we step foot out of the door sans kids, the clock is ticking. In the past we’ve always stayed close to home, just so we could maximize our time. But again, grilled cheese. So we went.

On the way over I called some friends, told them we’d be on their side of the river. They agreed to meet us out and suddenly it was a party!

Melt is a tiny place. And it was already packed when we got there. However, arrived at a good time, around 6pm. Any later and it would have become a big pain in the ass to secure a table for seven. We had a drink at the bar while we waited for everyone else to get there.

Now, Melt also has an extensive beer selection… which would matter if I was a beer drinker. Which I’m not. But, they did have a hard cider on tap, which was nice. The Scientist had her heart set on a Snakebite, which is half cider and half beer (usually Harp--this is very different then the shooter we called Snakebites in college). The bar didn’t have Harp on tap, but they did have it in bottles. The bartender acted like it wasn’t at all a pain in the ass to make this thing with half cider on tap and half bottle beer, which she then stowed in the ice.

A word on this bartender. She was petite and kinda cute, in a heavily tattooed and pierced way. In fact, it seemed like it was mandated to be tattooed and/or pierced to work there, judging by the employees we saw. Our bartender wore the lowest-cut jeans I’ve ever seen in the flesh. She also had some tattoo I couldn’t quite discern on her hip running south. The combination of the two resulted in me starring quite intently at her crotch. Not that I meant to, but my eyes were drawn to it. “What the heck is that tattoo?” I thought. “Also, did I just see labia?” Obviously there was some serious shaving going on, which prompted the same old always-rejected request of my wife. I felt a little dirty about looking, but my wise wife reminded me that it was most likely calculated to generate a bigger tip. Which, now that I think about it, backfired bigger than hell because we transferred our bar tab to the table when we were sat… and unless The Scientist left some money when I wasn’t looking, I don’t think we tipped her at all. Oops. We suck.

Anyway, once everyone was there we ordered and eat an obscene amount of bread and cheese. But good Lord, was it good. At this point I was on my second pint of cider, and The Scientist was on her second Snakebite.

And here’s where I realized that sometimes I’m a bit over-protective of my wife. We hadn’t eaten anything since lunch when we got there, and the first drink was hitting me kind of hard, and I was sure it was affecting my wife ever more. Judging by her rising voice and level of silliness, I can say this with some level of confidence. By the time we had both finished our second (with food this time, thankfully) I figured we should both be done… me because I was driving, and her because… well, because I’ve seen what happens when she partakes too much.

The idea was floated of going out to another bar for more drinks and I, well, I turned into a bit of a dick. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. “Nah,” I said. “I say we hang out here for another half hour then head home.” Of course, when I went to the bathroom I was overruled in absentia. Apparently, the conversation when something like this:

THE SCIENTIST: Okay, where are we going after this?
OTHER REVELER: Um, I know this nice brew pub close to the highway…
TS: Great! Let’s go there.
OR: Well, I don’t want to upset Craig...
TS: Pfft! He’ll be fine. Let’s go!

But I’m glad we went. It was a nice place, and considerably quieter than Melt. It was nice to sit and talk and laugh too loud and annoy the diners around us. But we didn’t have time for more than a cup of coffee and pie before the clock expired and we had to get back to relieve the babysitter.

We should do stuff like that more often. Even if we have to cross a river to do it.

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#239 In which our hero receives an unexpected letter regarding education and proposing a fun vacation destination.

We received a follow-up letter from the Christian school we toured a couple of weeks ago. We actually got it just two days later, meaning the principal must have written it that night or the next morning. Usually I’d assume it was boilerplate copy… but it’s clear that this letter was written specifically for us. It follows, with my commentary.

Thank you very much for coming last evening despite the bad weather. I admit your concerns abut creationism and evolution are the reverse of what we normally receive, but they are just as important as the others.

I’ll give this guy points for getting right to the matter at hand. I find it encouraging that our “concerns” about evolution (ie., your school teaches that it is a pack of lies) are the opposite of what people are usually worried about. Meaning that the typical parent is worried that evolution might be taught to their children. They actually fret that their children might be exposed to a well-established scientific theory. This just reinforces that fact that I don’t want my kids in this school. I mean, I don’t worry that my kids will be exposed to creationism or the verses in Genesis.

And does it strike you as a little passive-aggressive when he writes that our concerns are “just as important”? Like he’s saying, “Y’know, most people I told to understand the truth… but don’t worry, your misguided beliefs are just as valid. Sure they are.”

I agree that without God in the equation evolution is a viable answer.

I’m a little put off by this. We’re not atheists, and at no point did we express that God has no part to play in evolution. We weren’t advocating taking God out of the equation. And without flying into a rant, I have to comment that this is the kind of thing that annoys me most about fundamentalists: it’s all or nothing. You believe in God the way I believe in God or you are wrong.

Both creationists and evolutionists begin with same basic presuppositions that will support their case. Creationists begin with a literal belief of the Genesis account. Evolutionist begin without the supernatural being involved. While creationists differ on how God actually did the creating, especially how long ago and the time involved, they give him credit.

My problem with rejecting the Genesis account is how do we decide what part of the Bible we accept and what part we do not. Who decides what is symbolic and what is literal? There are accepted guidelines for these decisions in secular literature, and these rules of interpretation apply for Scripture also.

Oh boy.

He’s already made it clear that he believes the story of Genesis is to be taken literally--that is, the universe was created by God in six days. No more, no less. He knows this because it is written in the Bible. Then, in the paragraph above, he states that there are “accepted guidelines” for what passages in the Bible are to be taken literally (such as Genesis 2:2 “By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.”) and what are NOT to be taken literally (such as, presumably, Leviticus 4:2-6 “2. … When anyone sins unintentionally and does what is forbidden in any of the Lord’s commands 3. … He must bring to the Lord a young bull without defect 4. … and slaughter it before the Lord. 5 Then the anointed priest shall take some of the bull's blood and carry it into the Tent of Meeting. 6. He is to dip his finger into the blood and sprinkle some of it seven times before the Lord, in front of the curtain of the sanctuary.”)

I want you to be comfortable with what we teach here. We do not require students or parents to believe as we do in many areas.

“Just the important ones.”

We serve over 40 different churches. We do stand on personal salvation through belief in Jesus’ death, burial and literal resurrection as payment for our sins. If you decide we are the best school for your family I would be glad to sit down with you and your husband to discuss this issue and others.

That would be an interesting meeting. We figure the best way to start it would be by explaining exactly what my wife does for a living. “As an embryologist, I help infertile couples have the baby of their dreams. Including lesbian couples.” I wonder if they’d still be so welcoming after that bombshell.

If you ever travel through Cincinnati I would recommend the Creation Museum. It is done by scientists, not just Christians. I have heard excellent reports on it.

Hol-lee crap. I realize that he’s making an attempt to use “science” to sway our decision, but man, he picked just about the most pathetic example he could. This “museum” has been thoroughly ridiculed by the scientific community as garbage. And it’s not hard to see why. A quick search about its contents revels that, among other things, it displays humans and dinosaurs living side-by-side, including displays which show: dinosaurs in the Garden of Eden; a Triceratops wearing a saddle; and a stegosaurus aboard Noah’s ark.

I would LOVE to go to see this train wreak in person, but certainly not for the reason that this guy thinks.

I realize your decision is a year away, but I want you to know I value your concerns.

I doubt that.

So, he’s done all due diligence in trying to secure two new fee-paying students and perhaps save the soul of their heathen parents. But, I’m afraid the search must continue.

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#238 In which our hero visits a school and has a very illuminating conversation with said school’s principal.

The Scientist and I took the girls to an open house last week. Since Lily is four (and a genius) we need to start thinking about where we’re going to send her to Kindergarten. We’re not real keen on sending her to public school, mostly because we’ve heard that the public schools around us aren’t the greatest. The high school is actually pretty good, but the lower grades appear to be basically day cares where the teachers spend most of their time wrangling children and not so much time actually teaching them anything.

Lily’s birthday is in November, which means we have to deal with that weird thing where she just misses the deadline to enroll. However, being that she really is a pretty smart kid, we thought that she might be able to test into a program and start school this fall. However, we’ve since learned that most schools are putting rules into place that actually prohibit them from taking kids who aren’t five years old by the deadline, no exceptions.

This, as it turns out, is a good thing. Because the open house did not go well.

Here’s the thing: considering the non-stellar reputation of public schools in our area, we want to send the girls to a private school. There are two private schools quite near us that are fan-fucking-tastic, but well out of our price range. So we’ve been looking at other schools, notably private religious schools. Now, it’s not that we really need our kids to have a healthy helping of God with their studies, we just want them to have the best education we can afford. And most private religious schools we’ve looked at have small class sizes (ie., great teacher/student ratios), good resources (ie., lots of computers in every classroom) and are actually affordable for us (ie., we don’t have to choose between education or electricity). And we’re not opposed to a religious atmosphere, so in theory we don’t have a problem with a Christian school.

Except for one thing.

Being that The Scientist is, well, a scientist, and I share her beliefs in a largely rational world, we’re both concerned about how science is taught in school. Evolution is the hot button of course.

A little rant here.

I think evolution takes an unfair amount of heat in the science vs. religious war. It is, I’ll admit, the one issue in which both sides seem to have a pretty decent (if rudimentary) understanding of the difference in view points--science (“The universe was created in the wake of the Big Bang, and Earth in particular formed over billions of years”) and religion (“The universe and Earth and everything therein were created by God over the course of seven days”).

I get the vibe that people think that if we could just agree to disagree on this one point, then we would get along just fine. But, to me, it’s more than that. It’s not just that I believe that the universe is billions of years old, it’s not that I believe that all life has common ancestors in our far, far history… it’s that I look at the world in a certain way. I believe that the world can be figured out, if you look carefully enough. I don’t believe anything “is because it is.” There are answers out there, you just have to know enough to ask the right questions. And while I believe that you can rely heavily on books to find your answers, you don’t have to be limited to one book in particular.

Anyway, back to school.

We went to this particular Christian Academy because it was recommended to us by our day care provider. She had heard good things about it, so we figured we’d give it a test drive.

It was a cold and icy night, so we were one of only half a dozen families who showed up. The teachers are generally there for these kind of things, but the administration had sent them home because of the weather. We were greeted at the door by the principal.

It quickly became apparent that the principal considered himself a funny guy. But, sadly, we was not.

While I appreciate a sense of humor, I’m not looking for a stand-up comedian to education my kids. And I only wanted to get a feel for the school; not necessarily be entertained while I was touring the facilities. But, immediately upon entering the place, he introduced himself and told us, “We sent the teachers home because of the weather, so you’re stuck with the administration!” Okay by me. “Let me show you around. Usually you only get the nickel tour, but since I’m the principal, I’ll give you the twenty-five cent tour!” Oh, I get it, you’re being funny. Ha-ha.

But whatever, I don’t need this guy to be my new best friend, I just need a competent school to fill my kid’s heads with some quality learnin’. And the school is nice. Small, but nice. They have a nice gym, and a computer in every classroom, and a computer lab with 20 or so Macs. The facility is clean and colorful, and the kids’ artwork is proudly hung in the hallways.

We end up in the Kindergarten room and while the teacher isn’t there, for whatever reason the teacher’s aid is. We chat with her and learn a little about how the school runs (they teach reading with the phonics system, they have a religious ceremony every Friday morning, the students get two warnings before they are sent to the principals office, etc., etc.) It all sounds reasonable. Then, we finally get around to the Hot Topic.

The aide doesn’t know much about how upper level science is taught, but she does know that they cover evolution. Okay, good. She recommends that we speak to a particular teacher, because he teaches 5th grade science. It turns out that the 5th grade science teacher and the principal and one and the same.

Oh boy.

So we track him down and ask him some pointed questions. He tells us that yes, he does teach evolution. Good. Then he teaches his students the problems with evolution. Not good.

“The biggest problem,” he tells us, is that evolution doesn’t have a starting point. They claim that lower forms evolve into higher forms, but it’s got to start somewhere. And that somewhere, in my teaching, is God.”

Now, it’s neither the time nor place to get into it with this guy. I hold my tongue; clearly we have radically different views on the topic. The Scientist tries to talk it out with him, explaining how when she went to school she was taught evolution in science class, and creationism in religion class. And how she thought these theories could live side-by-side. The principal tells us how he’s a literal interpretationist and, even though he doesn’t come right out and say it as such, it’s pretty clear that he has no room in his life whatsoever for evolution.

And honestly, I don’t care what the man’s person beliefs are… but I do have an issue with him teaching evolution simply to discredit it. And to his credit, he is honest with us, and says that if we’re looking for a school that teaches the age of the Earth to be millions of years old, that this is probably not the school for us. Fair enough.

We have the vibe that maybe we should just keep looking, and we start heading for the doors. But right about then they announce that there’s going to be an assembly of sorts to further discuss things about the school. Plus, there are cookies and punch. So we decide to stick around.

And I’m soooo glad we did.

The administrator, a nice enough fellow, despite his simpleton grin, welcomes the parents and thanks us for braving the weather to learn more about their school. He reinforces that this is a Christian school, and as such, there are a couple things they require, including that at least one of the parents much be a born-again Christian and that each child must have and know their own Bible by age four.

He explains some of the things that happen in the school, including the Friday morning service. Each grade must memorize a Bible verse and recite it, as a class, during the service every week. This seems innocuous enough, until he tells us what some of the verses are. They memorize one verse for every letter of the alphabet, such as “A is for absolute sin, which tarnishes us all;” “B is for the blood of Christ that washes away our sins;” and so on.

This is a little doom and gloom for me. How about, “A is for Adam, whom God made in His image” or something a little more cheery like that? The administrator wraps up his spiel. Then, the principal gets up to talk to us.

And wow, does he have some stuff to say.

He starts by re-enforcing that this is a Christian school, and that our children are going to learn good values and morals along with their education. And how this is more important than ever in today’s world. “You can’t even turn on the TV any more without seeing an inappropriate, non-biblical relationship any more,” he tells us. “In fact, just last night I was watching one of those home makeover shows--and you’d think those would be safe, right?--and the people they were building a house for were a couple of lesbians. And one of them was pregnant!”

He’s clearly shocked by this, and he spits out “lesbian” with the same distaste that one might say “pedophile.” And they were pregnant, too? God forbid (literally)! And then, amazingly, the very next words out of his mouth are this:

“Not that we judge anyone here.”

And I’m thinking, holy shit, are you joking? That is exactly what you’re doing. You’re judging people, and you are find them lacking on a daily basis. I’m tempted to just get up and leave at this point, but I don’t want to be rude and make a scene. So I sit and bite my tongue.

He goes on for awhile longer, and the stuff he says about religion affect me as much as his dismissal of evolution. His faith sounds a little scary, a little oppressive. I mean, I don’t need my kids to learn that the Bible is all sunflowers and unicorns, but I don’t want them to think that God is an angry, punishing force. And that’s exactly what I walked away with: God is watching you, don’t screw up or you’ll regret it.

The open house wraps up and we beat a hasty retreat out of there. This is clearly not the place for us, or our children. In the car ride home The Scientist and I have to consider if we’ve made a huge mistake in even thinking about sending our kids to a religious school. Are they all like this? Would they just be better off in public school? Can we, in good conscious, send our children to a school that teaches them something so radically different than what we think and believe?

The answer to all of these questions is we don’t know. So we’re back in research mode, looking around for new solutions. We’re resolute that we’ll find someplace that works. How can we even be sure that there is a good school out there that will meet their needs and our needs?

I guess we have faith.

###

PANTS DANCE

The lovely Miss Kate recently sent me more pictures from the pants party, and I've been meaning to post them.

Yes, your honor, there were minors at my party. Is that a problem?

"Friends" share an embrace. Great kilt, by the way.

Birthday helmet provided by A. & B. Hotness provided by my wife's pants.

OMG! It's a liger!

Not as hot as I'd like to imagine.

Probably most telling is that I have no memory of that last photo being taken. Miss Kate tells me "it was late in the party." Ah, that would explain it.

Thanks again to everyone who came to my suprise birthday/fancy pants party. You're all invited back next year.

###

#236 In which our hero relates the unfortunate--and recently, all too often--contents of his daughter’s pants.

About a week or so ago Lily is playing in the family room and shouts, “I have to go potty!” I rush her off to the bathroom, as always, but this time she says, “uh-oh. Too late.”

And too late it was; she crapped her pants. When I ask her why she would do such as thing (she’s been potty trained for nearly a year now) she says, “I waited too long.” Okay, fair enough. She was playing and waited until the last possible minute to disengage, with disastrous results. I’ve been there (granted, it was in college, and I was really drunk, but I can still relate, y’know?)

Then it happened again.

Now, while The Scientist and I were trying to get her potty trained, we never pushed that hard, and we certainly never punished her for having an accident. But this time… well, it didn’t seem so much an accident as she didn’t really care that she pooped her pants. She wasn’t upset at all; in fact, she almost seemed to enjoy it. She laughed and kidded around, tried to tweak her mama’s nose while she was being changed. Clearly, she didn’t get the seriousness of the situation.

We tried to impress this upon her, but she didn’t seem to be listening. So we put diapers on her. Not the big-girl pull-ups she usually gets at night, but her little sister’s diapers.

And Lily had a fit.

She screamed and carried on and pleaded that she was a big girl, and she didn’t want to wear diapers and on and on. This is good, my wife and I thought, she gets it that there are bad consequences to this unnecessary pants-shitting. We assured her that if she stayed dry the rest of the evening she could wear her big-girl panties again in the morning. She accepted this, but clearly didn’t like it. Huh, I thought. Maybe I’m starting to get the hang of this parenting thing.

Then, an hour later, she crapped in the diaper.

It was a diaper, so it wasn’t like it was a big deal, but The Scientist and I were both like, “Shit. Now what?” Fortunately, it was near bedtime, she we just put her in pull-ups and put her to bed.

Then we had a couple good days (ie., all poop deposited in potty, not pants), and we started to let down our guard. Big mistake.

Last Saturday we were having a couple of friends over for some drinking/Guitar Hero, and about 20 minutes before they were to arrive Lily again says “I have to go potty! Oops, too late!” And once again it’s a big joke to her--but certainly not to us, since we’re trying to give the house a quick cleaning, and don’t need to deal with this of all things.

I’m at a loss of what to do (other than change her) but The Scientist, as often happens in these situations, Takes Control. She changes Lily, puts her into her PJs and says, “That’s it. You’re going right to bed. No snack. No stories.”

Lily loses her mind, of course. She’s mostly upset that she she’s going to bed before our friends get there. “But I want to see the visitors!” she screams. “You’re not being very nice!”

We set up the mothballed baby monitor outside her room, mostly to make sure she stays in bed as instructed. What follows is a pitiful and heartbreaking series of complaints/pleas from upstairs.

This isn’t fair!
I’m locked in my room!
I want to watch TV!
Why can’t I see the visitors!
I want oo-oo-oo-out!
I won’t poop in my pants again! I promise!

And so on. We go upstairs to check on her several times. She’s upset, but seems to finally understand her parents’ position on pants crapping. She tries to make several deals with us, including:

I won’t poop my pants ever again, so you should let me go downstairs!
I need a snack because I’m starving to death!
I just want to go downstairs for a minute. Just one minute!
I’ll just say hi to the visitors then go back to bed!
Can you bring the visitors up to my room so I can play with them?

We end up relenting and giving her a snack, but she remained banished to her bedroom. I told her that I understood that it was a very hard night for her, but that it was best for her to just go to sleep… tomorrow would be a better day.

Finally, after much crying and carrying on, she crashes and falls asleep. It was a little heartbreaking (more so for The Scientist than me) but we got through it.

I can only imagine that this incident will factor prominently in Lily’s therapy sessions when she’s an adult. Sorry honey, but mommy and daddy needed to get their drink on and rock out to Guitar Hero BIG TIME!

###

DISPLEASED DISEASE

We all survived the holidays.

As previously reported, The Scientist got sick, and remained sick, for days. She basically didn’t get out of bed for four days. Come day three my father-in-law, who is prone to get a little bored, started to give her some shit about it. “You can’t just lay in bed for three days,” he said. “You have to get up. Take a shower and come downstairs; that’ll make you feel better!”

Then, despite my best efforts, I got sick, too. I started to feel crappy on Christmas day, and rapidly went downhill from there. In a perfect world my wife would have started to feel much better about the time I started to get sick… but it didn’t work that way. We were both sick and cranky at the same time. Thankfully the girls never got as sick as we did.

Speaking of the girls… Christmas morning was a big event, of course. They enjoyed their presents (all of them--it’s fun that they’re still at the stage that everything is fun, even clothes. That was always the bummer present for me when I was a kid. “Oh, a box of underwear. Big deal.” But they’re girls, so maybe it’ll be different) and the dueling toy rockets were a big hit. Maybe the best gift was this dumb marble run toy I bought on a lark.


I have to say, The Scientist and I also enjoy playing with it.

The in-laws left the day after Christmas, hoping to avoid the specter of death that was lurking over our home. Can’t say I blame them. It wasn’t the holiday that anyone had wanted.

And now, nearly two weeks after Christmas, The Scientist and I are mostly recovered. I still have a head full of glue, and my wife’s lungs are still a little labored… but Lord knows we’re head and shoulders above where we were.

EPILOGUE: Both my mother-in-law and father-in-law are now sick with what we had. I wish they weren’t, we tried hard to sequester our sick selves so they wouldn’t be infected. The Scientist’s father told her, “I’m so run down, all I want to do is stay in bed.”

To which I say, “Why don’t you get up, take a shower? That’ll make you feel better!”

###

#235 In which our hero discussed his Christmas plans, and how they are not going as, um, planned.

Tomorrow is Christmas eve, and I have to admit that I'm not feeling very Christmas-y. See, I have this problem. I like to make plans, generally very casual plans, but plans nonetheless. And when these plans come together, it makes me very happy. But if they don't... well, I can get more than a little pissy about it.

And in the last four days, my plans have been thoroughly blown to shit.

The plan was that the in-laws were coming for Christmas, and no-one else. That makes for a nice, quiet and relaxed holiday. I was looking forward to it. I had the entire week of Christmas scheduled off, so I'd have plenty of time to kick back and unwind. The Scientist and I even planned on going out to see a movie. We don't often get the chance to just pick up and go (without the associated cost of a babysitter, of course).

Things started to go south early last week. I had taken Wednesday off just to burn my remaining vacation time. But Lily came down with a fever on Tuesday, and it was decided that it would be best to keep both kids out of school, just to be safe (our daycare is currently a festering cesspit of snot-nosed urchins). So my day off that was supposed to be a little light shopping and some heavy napping turned into me trying to entertain my kids all day. And here's the thing: I don't mind taking care of my kids for a day, I actually enjoyed it. But it was counter to the plan, which gnawed at the back of my mind.

Also, I'm involved with a new business pitch at work which, don't get me wrong, is cool. But it's very rush-rush-rush, and we need to send our finished presentation to the client by the 7th. That gives us next to no time to really pull everything together--especially considering that they are asking for three concepts. Anyway, it was clear that I'd be working some or all of Christmas week. And maybe the weekend right before Christmas, too. Suck.

But, as it turned out, I didn't have to work the weekend. So I thought it would be free and clear until the day after Christmas, which I will have to work.

Then The Scientist got sick.

And I mean really sick. She started to feel back Friday night, and spent all day Saturday in bed. Often, when people say something like I spent the entire day in bed it's an exaggeration; in this case, it was literally true. Other than getting up twice to go to the bathroom, my wife spent the entire day in bed. At 5 o'clock I made her some soup. Other than that she tossed and turned and moaned in bed.

Sunday morning, she felt better. Better enough to get out of bed and--wait for it--do a bunch of laundry. Why would she do this? You ask. I also asked. This isn't anything that can't wait, I said. Take it easy, you're not completely healthy yet. But no, she wanted to do laundry; and not only that, she wanted to go out shopping, then go to the fucking barn and feed her horse. Y'know, I said, you don't have to "catch up" on things you missed yesterday; this isn't anything that can't wait.

I'm fine, she said.

But, naturally, when she got back from the barn she felt worse. She immediately crawled into bed and tried to die. If anything, she's sicker now than she was yesterday. She's now dealing with, ahem, intestinal issues, so I'm giving her a wide berth.

In fact, I've been sanitizing my hands like crazy. The last thing I want is to get sick myself. Because I'm a huge pussy when it comes to getting sick.

So, clearly, we won't be going to the movies. We won't be having a dinner by ourselves. I won't be kicking back and relaxing. Did I mention that the girls also seem to have a touch of whatever is currently killing my wife? So yeah, they're whinny and hypersensitive and can't seem to play together for 10 minutes without getting into a fight. And since my father-in-law is engrossed in watching one football game after the other, I can't even put on the magic that is Dora. Even if I could, they'd just fight over what episode to watch.

My holiday plans are not going as I wanted. And I'm pissy about it.

But... I keep telling myself I only need to get to Christmas morning. Because we have some presents for the girls that they are going to LOVE. And I can't wait to see their faces. They are going to go mad with joy for these things.

At least, that's the plan.

###

TROUSER BROWSER

As promised, photographic evidence of the Fancy Pants party.

First up, me, in all my, ahem, glory.

The identities of the other party-goers have been obscured to protect the innocent. Or, mostly innocent.

A co-worker of The Scientist, along with her man. They were good sports, and she won the prize for "pants with the most stuff on them."

The Scientist. I still say those are some sexy pants. As of yet, I have been unable to get her to wear them again.
Friend and former co-worker of my wife's. The shirt really says it all.

"Flasher pants."

Probably the fanciest hand-made pants of the evening. This is M., The Scientist's best friend and winner of pants trivia.


My buddy J., co-conspirator with my wife to hold this surprise party. Winner of "Most Colorful Pants." That's his son in the background (in girl's pants) doing, um, oh, never mind.

Clown pants.


Finally, the winner of "Grand Master of Pants." When in doubt, go lederhosen.

The Scientist and I sucking at Guitar Hero. This is my second pants of the night, after the see-through ones got a little steamy.

And that's all we got! Look for a bigger, better and even fancier Fancy Pants party in 2008!

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#234 In which our hero unexpectedly attends a party wearing pants of a most unusual nature.

Mom came up to visit last weekend. Since we went to visit the in-laws for Thanksgiving, she asked if she could come up this weekend because it will have been so long since she saw the girls. Being that we had nothing planned, I said sure.

Little did I know that I was walking into a trap.

Mom came up Friday and it was nice. The girls are always insanely happy to see grammy, due in part to the gifts she always brings. Generally speaking, I’m happy to see mom for the same reason. No! I’m kidding. I love my mother. And her gifts.

So Saturday comes and The Scientist has to work, which is a pain in the ass. But I’ve got nothing to do all day, so it’s play with the girls, run to the store for stuff to make dinner, and just hang out. The Scientist comes home, we eat and all is well. Around 6 o’clock The Scientist tells me that her friend is coming over to pick up some food we have stored for her in our chest freezer. But when M. gets here, she has a sheet cake.

ME: Why’s M. have a cake with her?
THE SCIENTIST: Because we’re having a party.
ME: Who’s having a party?
TS: We are.
ME: What, now?
TS: Yes, now. Go upstairs and get changed.

So yeah… my wife, who is a terrible liar and absolutely can’t be trusted to keep a secret from me… threw me a surprise birthday party over the weekend.

My birthday isn’t until next Monday but, wisely, she threw it this past weekend so I wouldn’t expect it. And man, I did not expect it. Frankly, I’ll still a little taken aback that she pulled it off. I mean, my wife is really bad about keeping secrets, and folds like a cheap table when under examination. But she not only arranged food, games and activities, she got my mother into the action, too! Behind my back! And she invited a dozen or so of my friends over! And everybody even played along with the theme.

Theme, you ask? Oh yeah. Hell, yeah.

A little background first. About a year ago I discovered the music of Jonathan Coulton. He’s a geeky guitar guy, and his songs are really fun dorky stuff. I have three of them on my iPod right now. One of the songs that caught my ear was “Mr. Fancy Pants” (scroll down the list, you can hear the entire song for free).

It’s a funny, catchy little ditty. Sometime after hearing it, I told The Scientist that I thought we should have a fancy pants party. With a trophy for fanciest pants (not unlike the song). This idea percolated in both of minds for awhile, before we both agreed that it just wasn’t going to happen this year. Too much going on before the end of the year. Then it would be too snowy to have a party. So, maybe we could do this in the Spring. We were both onboard for this timeline.

Or so I thought.

Little did I know that shortly after I said something, my wife began planning a surprise fancy pants-themed party for my birthday. And she did it this year (I’m turning 39 next week) because she knew I’m be expecting something for my 40th. Which I totally would be; especially considering how much I bitched and moaned when she planned a surprise party for her friend’s 40th (the same friend who delivered the cake--wearing some seriously fancy pants, I should add) and I had never had a surprise party, even though I’ve always really, really wanted one.

Something else you need to know.

On the way back from Thanksgiving, we again started talking about a fancy pants party (we had eight hours to kill, afterall). I’m all geeked about the idea. I’m thinking about what kind of fancy pants people would wear… what kind of fancy pants I’d wear. I’m thinking it has to be something outrageous, something no-one else would think of. “You know what would be awesome,” I said, off-handedly; “A pair of transparent pants. And I’d wear a thong under them! Ha!”

Lesson #1: be very careful of what you ask for.

So, M., my mom and The Scientist start dashing around the house, getting everything ready for people to arrive in less than an hour. But first, my wife takes me upstairs and says, “Here. Put these on.”

In one hand she has a pair of transparent pants. In the other, a tiger stripped thong.

Holy. Shit.

ME: Where the hell do you even get transparent pants?!
TS: I made them.
ME: You did not.
TS: I did.
ME: What’s this material?
TS: It’s a shower curtain. And let me tell you, my sewing machine did not like it.

Transparent pants. Well, in all honestly, mostly translucent pants. Unless I bent over and really stretched the material. Then there was no hiding nuthin’. I was a little hesitant about the thong--it’s not my normal mode of underwear. Actually, I’m a boxer guy, so even tighty-whities are a little constricting. But, good Lord, she went to all the trouble to make me see-through pants… and I did sort of ask for it. So I put them on.

Me and mom. She's clearly never been more proud of her son. From the front, not so bad, huh?

From the back? Dear God, my eyes! My eyes!

Unfortunately, these are the only photos we took. Because there were some fancy fancy pants at the party. Everyone made an effort, which was very cool. Other people had cameras, so I’m hoping some of those pics come my way. I’ll post them when they do.

After eating, drinking and general mingling, there was pants trivia (written by The Scientist. Again, how cool is my wife?) M. won with a total of 9 out of 11 possible points. Actually, she tied with the lovely Miss Kate. I asked them both to pick a number between one and five for a tie-breaker: M said one, Miss Kate said seven. So, M. won!

By the way, Miss Kate came all the way from the frozen north to attend. She’s also awesome (albeit slightly less so than my wife--sorry Kate). It was fantastic to see her, and a wonderful surprise. Her flight home was cancelled, and she was stuck in Cleveland an extra night, which sucks. I feel responsible. But, she blames it on the general suck-assiness of Chicago, and not me. But she might just be saying that because it’s my birthday.

Thanks again for coming, Kate!

Lesson #2: pants made of shower curtains do not breathe. At all.

Even though I loved my see-through pants, they started to get a little swampy after a couple hours. fortunately, my friend B. brought me an alternative pair of fancy pants. Blue with fur cuffs. And suspenders (and we all remember my unfortunate past flirtation with suspenders).

Then, there were also several categories of pants to judge. I wasn’t expecting to have to judge other people’s pants and, frankly, I was ill-prepared after several piña coladas. But, the winners broke down like this:

• Pants with the most things on them: K., a co-worker of The Scientists for green pants with a bunch of gold buttons sewed on.
• Sexiest pants: L., The Scientist’s horse trainer for her tight leather pants (I actually wanted to pick my wife for the skin-tight plaid bell-buttons she found at Goodwill; but she wouldn’t let me vote for her).
• Most colorful pants: My friend J., for multi-colored clam-diggers (this award probably should have gone to M. for her Napoleon Dynamite-inspired jeans, but she had already won the trivia contest).
• Grand Master of Pants: My friend S., for his authentic lederhosen. It’s just though to beat lederhosen, y’know?

The Grand Master of Pants was awarded a trophy, which was one of The Scientist’s co-workers old softball trophy with the figure sawed off above the waist. I nearly peed myself laughing when I first saw it.

Also in attendance that night were a beautiful kilt, flasher pants (i.e., pants that only extended from ankle to knee), clown pants, an especially esoteric graffitied pair of jeans (I got most of the jokes, Kate), girl jeans (on a boy) and others I’m forgetting. Like I said, everyone wore something (even L’s husband, who I think really would rather not have bothered) and it was super cool.

I’m lucky to have good friends. And a cool mother who completely went along with the joke. Thanks mom.

But I’m mostly lucky to have a great wife to plan and execute all of this… even though keeping her mouth shut all this time nearly gave her an ulcer. I really appreciate it, sweetheart. You’re the best.

And I’m already planning my pants for next year’s party.

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