Stacking the Deck

So, where have I been?

It's been an exhausting week. Mom and dad came in, and we built the deck. This was the last major step in the renovation; our house is complete now. All we have left to do is replace the grass, do general landscaping, make some built-in furniture, redo the dining room, the kids' bathroom, the front porch, the guest room, the office, finish the mud room, get a new oven, new washer and dryer....you know, just the little stuff.

The deck project was fun. Decks are really the ultimate guy projects. It of course involves lots of wood and power tools, there's lots of lifting of heavy stuff, and there's math and beer. Math, you say? When you can impress your friends by telling them how you calculated the rise and run of the stair risers and used lasers to determine if the deck would be level, well, that's a good guy project.

Building it took good portion of a week. I'd already dug the footers a couple of weeks ago, so Tuesday was spent doing most of the structure. On Wednesday I had to work (at my real job) for much of the day, so Dad busied himself with planning out the flooring and the stairs. All day Thursday was flooring, Friday more flooring, Saturday...flooring and stairs. On Sunday we finished the railing just in time for happy hour, which was my goal. The crowning moment was rolling the gas grill off the front porch (through the kitchen and family room), bringing a much overdue end to a year of neighbors yelling, "hey, what's for dinner??" every time I grilled in the front yard.

Finding the materials was an adventure. We went with "Trex-like" stuff for the floor, choosing Home Depot's cheapest offering. Luckily I was itching to get this project going for a long time and ordered the stuff over a month ago, because it took close to four weeks to arrive. The pressure treated lumber was ordered from an 84 Lumber store that closed down the day before delivery. The railing is made of aluminum tube balusters from Deckorators, bought at Lowes. The adventure there was being able to get all the tubes we needed at the Lowes in Cranberry, but finding out that the little plastic doohickeys that attach the tubes to the railing were only available at the OTHER Lowes, 20 miles away. And lastly, the top of the railing is made of (ridiculously expensive) cedar, bought at an 84 Lumber that DIDN'T close down, and strapped to the roof of the minivan in the pouring rain.

And then there were the screws.

Since the deck floor is made of composite, we needed to buy special screws. The lumber comes in gray, brown, tan, or red (we got red), and Home Depot sells special color-matched screws designed just for this purpose. Well, that is, they are color matched as long as you bought the gray or brown composite. Even though the rack at HD clearly states "red screws", there were none to be had. At any HD in Pittsburgh. Or in Connecticut, for that matter. Or Elizabeth, New Jersey. Yet when we asked a guy about special ordering them, he told us he couldn't because they are a regularly stocked item. This stupidity lasted about three weeks until I broke down and bought the brown screws. And, as it turns out, the brown screws match the red composite perfectly. Sigh. Why they couldn't have just told me to buy the brown to begin with....

By the way, some of you folks of the handy ilk might be wondering why we didn't choose one of those fancy "hidden fastener" systems that screw in from the bottom. Well, two reasons. First, it would have cost us about $800 extra. Second, every dealer we talked to said they suck. There ya have it.

So after an exhausting, muddy, wet week of non-stop work, we have a place to have a relaxing dinner or a drink.

Well, we did, until the bees found us.

Listerine Recall

The company that makes Listering has announced a voluntary nationwide consumer recall of all lots of the GLACIER MINT™ and BUBBLE BLAST™ flavors of LISTERINE® AGENT COOL BLUE™ Plaque-Detecting Rinse after the Company determined that the preservative system is not adequate against certain microorganisms.

I believe that is what's known as irony. Kills germs that cause bad breath, but not the ones that cause, oh, death.

Planning on having kid?

I have a coworker who's expecting her first baby. It got me to thinking. As a father of two children, I consider myself a seasoned expert on the subject of child-rearing. I mean, so far I've done everything right, and documented all of my successes so that when the Father Of The Year award comes up for grabs again, I'm a shoe-in.

But that's just my opinion. I might be wrong. But I doubt it.

I have some suggestions for all those new parents-to-be out there. Some might call this unsolicited advice. I think of it more as a warning to all the new players on the team. And it certainly is a team. If we don't band together, those meddling kids will take over. Ever seen the Matrix? Yeah, it's like that but with more goo. So here's how you can best ready yourself for the onslaught:

1. Start buying twice as much food as you do now. When you get home, throw half of it away. That's exactly what will happen when your kid starts eating real food. You'll spend countless hours slaving over dinner and preparing a nutritious meal, and your kid will eat one carrot and half of your slice of garlic bread because three hours ago she had conned her grandma into an extra lollipop. But she'll have plenty of room for ice cream later.

2. Pay a neighborhood kid to call your house every 47 minutes starting at 7pm until around 6:30am. That will get you used to a normal sleep pattern once you have kids. For a more realistic effect, let the neighborhood kid know what TV shows you are watching so he can be sure to call you right when all the best scenes come on.

3. Practice the Dish Color relay. Take a blue dish from the cabinet and place it on the dinner table. Walk back into the kitchen. Now go and retrieve the dish, put it away, and replace it with a red one. Now do the same with two drinking cups. Then, bring out a fork and switch it with a spoon. You see, this is what will happen when your child forms an opinion. Bring him a bowl of red grapes in a green bowl on the third Tuesday of the month, and he's going to want them in the red bowl. Give her milk in the pink sippy, and she's going to want the Dora cup with the built-in straw. And don't even think about asking which bowl she wants before you select one; she will only change her mind the moment you bring it. You see, this is how they break you down, forcing you into submission.

4. When you talk to your spouse, only say the third and fifth word of every sentence. And repeat the fifth word twice. That's how it will be once you have a kid that knows how to talk. Or, more accurately, how to interrupt.

5. Accept the fact that you and your fertile loins will be personally responsible for global warming. Between the twelve thousand pounds of diapers your little varmint will go through, the massive collection of non-biodegradable plastic Disney Princess toys that will amass in the corner of the basement giving off toxic fumes, and the truckloads of empty cereal, Eggo waffle, and Easy Mac boxes you will dispose of each week, there's no hope for this planet and it's all because you wanted someone to carry on the family name. Ironic, ain't it.

6. Ask each of your friends to plan on getting together no more than once a month. When the day comes to get together, one of you should cancel due to illness. It doesn't matter if anyone's actually sick, but it will get you used to the fact that you will never be able to make advance plans with anyone because when the time comes someone's kid will have a fever of 102 and have spent the previous night throwing up on the duvet.

7. Kiss the following things goodbye: friends, spare time, exercise routines, sleep, disposable income, nice furniture, savings, cars that don't smell like spoiled milk, ironed clothing, polished kitchen floors, CD collections, recollections of important events in history, and extra space. All those items will be distant forgotten memories once he takes over.

8. Rent a classic horror movie. When the "girl screaming at the top of her lungs" scene come on, turn the volume up past 11. This will enable you to get started on the inevitable hearing loss that comes as a result having children. There is no sound more piercing on this earth than two children playing loudly in a bathtub while you are less than a foot from them.

9. Take a container of cottage cheese, and store it under the kitchen sink for a month. Now open it. Mmmm, notice that pungent aroma? That's kid barf. Get used to it.

10. No no, this one's for you to find out yourself.

Watts makes good

A while back I told the story about my defective sink rim. Well, after sending the manufacturer the $75 bill for the plumbing job and a digital photo of the defective sink rim, they made god by dropping a check for $75 in the mail to me. Great to see a company stand by their product.

No dating til you're thirty!

Okay, this story needs a little bit of setup first. If you're a regular reader you know that my 7-year-old daughter and I are in the Adventure Princess program. And you may recall me mentioning "Uncle Harry", the Ombudsman of the Adventure Princess program and official guardian of the Princesses at all campouts. Uncle Harry has two mottos: Girls rule, Boys Drool and No dating 'til you're thirty. Uncle Harry announced he is retiring this year.

So on to the story.

The family went to see Meet The Robinsons today. Loved it, by the way. By coincidence, one of Natalie's schoolmates and his mom was sitting in front of us at the theater. His name is Aiden. And boy, is he dreamy. I mean, this kid is gorgeous. And Natalie knows it. Every time his name comes up, she blushes. Her cheeks become the color of her bright red hair. So of course, we foster the blushing by referring to him as "Ayyyydennnnn...he's keeeeyuuute...." which makes her blush even more and will quite likely give her a such a complex that she will grow up to hate her parents and get tattoos all over her body to spite us.

On the way out of the theater, Natalie stopped and asked me something.

"Dad, you know how Uncle Harry is retiring?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Well, does that mean that maybe some of his rules won't apply anymore?"

"What rules are you talking about?"

"You know, the one about not dating until you're thirty."

"Um, yeah? Why you asking? You looking to go on a date with Aayyyydennn? He's keeeyuuuute...."

"Pssh..I mean...um...blubber...um...I mean....DADDDDD!!!!!!"

So there it is. The first sign that Natalie realizes she's a girl, he's a boy, and I need to be learning how to use a shotgun.

The Financial Circus

We surprised the kids today with a visit downtown to see the Shrine Circus. My wife found a "great deal" on tickets, so it wasn't too expensive. Sure, great deal. Once we walked in there I was robbed of every dime I had.

It's a good thing the Shriners are a charitable organization. Because there is NO reason a visit for four to the circus should have cost us over $120.

It started with the $9 for parking. Well, The folks that run Mellon Arena obviously need to maintain the parking lots somehow, at least until they are all torn up in six months when the new arena for the Penguins starts construction. Once inside, they really had us cornered.

Since we arrived early, we were able to wander around the show floor a bit. Lo and behold, the circus elephants were out and giving rides to all the kids....at five bucks a shot. Then, to the moon bounce, for another $5 each. Once we found our seats, it was of course time for a snack. Nachos, a pretzel, and a couple of drinks, $14.75. and the list goes on.

But what REALLY got me was the "great deal" on tickets. Those tickets included a hot dog and drink for each of us. so, upon intermission we ventured over to the concessions. It turns out those vouchers were only good for soda. My kids don't drink soda. So we asked for water. Oh no, those vouchers aren't good for water. Water costs an additional $3.50. I even asked for an empty cup so we could find a drinking fountain. Nope. They weren't allowed to just give us cups (thinking about this now, I should have asked for the soda then dumped it out, but I was too stunned at the time to come up with that idea).

And then, of course, came the souvenirs. Look at all those flashy sparkly things. We were able to make it almost to intermission without buying them each a flashy sparkly thing, but there's a reason the "ringmaster" got her name. At one point she had asked for the lights in the stadium to be turned off, so all the kids with sparkly flashy things could light 'em up, and all those poor waifs without flashy sparkly things could feel unloved. Twenty-two dollars later my kids allowed me back into the family.

In the end, I gave over $80 to the Shriners' machine, plus the cost of the tickets. They'd better save a couple of really sick hospital patients for that.

Oh, a final note about that $3.50 water. That does not include a cap on the bottle. The lady at the concession stand told me it's a national law that bottles of Dasani must me provided sans cap at all stadium events. Supposedly this is for safety reasons, but we all know the real answer...more chance of accidental spillage, forcing another purchase.

Oh, and as for that "Visa...Priceless" moment? That was probably when Jessica said to me, "Daddy, I'm bored. when's this over?".

Some Passover Enlightenment

With Passover coming soon, I thought I would share some recent (and classic) discoveries to make the Seder a little more enjoyable. After all the slaves got OUT of Egypt, so it's a happy time! Let's slouch and read some Dr. Seuss!

Dr. Seuss does the Four Questions

Wasting away in Maischewitzville
Funny, this looks like my family.

Uncle Eli's Haggadah
General Dr. Seuss-like goofiness

Matzoh Man
How to dress up a flat, unleavened cracker like a gay police officer.

The Two-Minute Haggadah
A Passover service for the impatient.
By Michael Rubiner

The Computer Engineer's Haggadah
(No, really)

And, lastly, the Top Ten failed Passover Sales Promotions:

10. US ARMY - "THE ARMY OF 'who knows ONE?"
9. Animal Awareness Passover Campaign - "Frogs are our friends, not a plague."
8. American Red Cross - "This Passover, lets make rivers of blood."
7. Lenox Hill OBGYN - "We won’t throw your newborn into the Nile."
6. Adoption Promotion Week - "Drop your unwanted children in a basket in the NYC Reservoir, for less fortunate parents to find!"
5. D'Angelo's Barber Shop: "Free lice check with every haircut."
4. Republic of China's Population Control Agency - Death of the first born commemorative pins
3. Ebay: "Your Afikomen is worth a lot more than that"
2. Radioshack: "You've Got 4 Questions, We've Got Answers"
1. Kosher For Passover Ex-Lax, now in new Matzah strength - "Ex-odus"

Pulling my crank

There's nothing like a good guy project. One of those projects that starts off as a simple fix-it and ends up as three trips to the local hardware store, the borrowing of a neighbor's pickup, and a call to the local utility company after causing a city-wide blackout. One of those projects that starts off simple enough, when you still have complete faith that it "shouldn't take more than an hour" and ends up with your spouse sending out a rescue party because you've been missing since Friday afternoon.

I had a good guy project this weekend. I had to fix my wife's elliptical machine.

The situation started at the tail end of the renovation, when the new bedroom was ready for occupancy. My neighbor and I moved this 500lb behemoth from the basement to the second floor. Unfortunately it was still plugged in when we started (yes, any good guy project is self-inflicted to begin with), and as a result we damaged the point where the electrical plug connects to the base of the unit. The plug connects to it much like a laptop, so let's call that point of connection "the plughole". It was still functional for a while, but eventually the "plughole" simply fell out of the machine.

So I called the manufacturer (has anyone noticed I have a penchant for calling manufacturers lately?) and asked if I could get a replacement plughole. He gave me a "there's good news and there's bad news" answer. The good news was they could overnight me the part for $20. The bad news was that the part was permanently attached to a wire that I would have to snake through the machine from the base all the way up to the electronic console at the top. I asked, "is it doable?" He said, "yeah sure, why not?" (I swear, that's what he said). I said, "let's do it then."

The next day the part arrived. I grabbed my tool bag and carried her up the stairs like that scene from Officer And a Gentleman, and got started.

Take a look at this machine. As you can see, there's a plastic "shell" of sorts surrounding a big round disk on each side to which the elliptical pedals are attached. The shell is attached by simple screws, so I started taking them out. After every last screw I could find was removed, I could not get the shell off. The disk seemed to be holding everything in place. And I couldn't figure out how to remove the disk.

So I called the manufacturer again. He responded with, "Oh, you need a crank puller."

In a glorious guy moment resembling that scene in Blues Brothers where John Belushi "sees the light"' the room brightened and a halo came over me as I realized that not only do I KNOW what a crank puller is, but my friends, I HAVE a crank puller! Yes, this overly expensive and very underused tool was sitting in my bike repair toolbox jut waiting for an excuse to be rediscovered. In case you are wondering, a crank puller is used to remove the axle that goes between the two pedal arms of your bicycle. But any real man would know that.

So after a quick trip to the garage and a quick, ummm, pull of my crank, the beast was subdued. Soon, the cable was snaked, the shell was put back on, and the unit was functional. Total work time, four hours spaced over three days, with approximately thirteen trips back down to the workshop for additional tools (including the crank puller). And the best part of it all? Only two leftover screws. Yes, the standard end to any normal guy project. I feel almost disappointed that I never had to call the electrical company, but the weekend's not over and Spring is in the air.

The man who won a goldfish for me

My dad's best friend died this week.

His name was Otto Strobino, and he was a huge man. And I don't mean physically, but rather in every other sense of the word. He was incredibly active in the New Britain chapter of the Connecticut Lions Club (along with my dad)both locally and internationally, even serving as International Director. His C.V was a mile long, as he spent his life building businesses, relationships, and foundations, traveling the world, and basically being involved in just about everything he could possibly be involved with.

But I'll always remember him for the goldfish.

When I was somewhere around 8 years old, we all went to the Berlin Fair in Connecticut. Otto stopped to schmooze with everyone, and along the way he tossed a ping pong ball into a hole and, presto, he won a goldfish. Having no need for a goldfish at the current time, he found the nearest 8-year-old boy to give it to, which happened to be me. Would you believe that damned fish lived twelve years?

Otto (the fish) finally went to fishy heaven while I was in college. During it's very full life it spent a year in the 7th-grade science class fish tanks, where it killed all of its tank mates. It ate chicken. It ate spaghetti. It even survived an episode where my sister accidentally dropped a box of tea bags into the water and didn't notice for hours; when we discovered him he was swimming in water that was deep red in color and was suddenly talking to us with an English accent.

When my wife and I married, Otto (the man) was unable to make it to our wedding. So my father hand-delivered a gift from Otto, which of course was a new fish. Unfortunately Otto Two lasted only about twelve hours, but the moment was there. As soon as I buy that goldfish tank for my daughters, the first one's going to be named Otto.

I hadn't really seen much of Otto over the past several years, living in Pittsburgh while my family is back in CT. But once I heard about his passing, I thought about it and realized he was a surprisingly strong presence in my life. He gave my family direction in many ways, by serving as a mentor to my parents as their lifelong commitment to the Lions Club formed. He gave my family stories, by dragging my parents to exotic countries, to international conventions, and to golf courses throughout the Poconos. To me, he was the politician, the Mayor, the guy who was always shaking hands with someone. And yet, despite all his accomplishments, despite all his responsibilities, his awards, his travels and his friendships, the guy still had time to win a goldfish for an eight-year-old kid.

Goodbye Otto, we'll miss you.

One little, two little, thirteen little indians....

As mentioned in a recent post, today was the gathering of the Adventure Princess tribe at our house. At approximately 2pm, Natalie began asking every five minutes or so how soon they would get here...which, by the way, wasn't until 6:30pm. At 6:30 on the dot, the first minivan arrived in the driveway, a dad and a princess unloaded, and the volume got turned up past Eleven.

It is simply astounding, the deafening squeal produced by a horde of such small creatures. If we could somehow harness it, I think we would have the makings of a new nonlethal weapon against terrorists. Osama himself would come running from his hidey hole with his hands to his ears crying, "make it stop, make it stop!" and we would have peace once again.

Despite that, the evening went off without a hitch. The girls first gathered around the table for "the wampum jar", during which each little angel mentions something good she did over the past few days and tosses a dollar into an ancient pot passed down over the ages from the great Chief Nonni Biscotti Chocolati to be saved for a charity at a later date. Usually, the "something good" tends to be "I helped my little brother get dressed" or "I got my mom a napkin". We have yet to hear one of the girls say something along the lines of "I urged my parents to rescue a child from Darfur and take him in as one of our own" but maybe by next year.

After the wampum jar, the kids were herded to the basement for "the craft". The craft is simply an organized way of keeping 13 kids from destroying someone's home while the dads stand back, watch, and drink a beer. Our craft involved decorating little clay pots with foamies and ribbon, then filling each with dirt and planting flower seeds.

(Now at this point, if you do not have children, you're asking yourself, "what's a foamie?" Ah, a very good question. Foamies are out to destroy the earth. Little pieces of soft, squishy poylethylsomething foam, cut into creative shapes with peel-off sticky backs. I'm certain they are not biodegradable, not recycleable, and come in plastic bins of approximately 123,000 pieces. If you DO have children, you're thinking, "ah...foamies...keep my kids quiet for a half hour...greatest things on earth)

After craft, it was of course snack time. And what's better on a school night when the moms aren't around? Why, cookies of course! We got 'em good and hyped up on sugar and sent 'em home for momma to deal with 'em. And that's all there is an to Adventure Princess evening. I gotta go dispose of 13 juice boxes and about 38,000 leftover foamies now.

Frogs review Home Depot's website

My friend Howard commented on the last post about why I didn't consider just getting quotes on all the materials for the deck from Home Depot's website.

I'll let the frogs explain why I didn't.

Are you smarter than a Home Depot Employee?

So I went over to Home Depot today, to get a quote on all the materials I need to build our new deck a month from now. I figured they could just take the materials list we came up with, look the items up, and give me a quote on each so I didn’t have to walk around finding everything…right? Wrong.

I did the same at 84 lumber yesterday. It took five minutes. However, the guy at Home depot had to:

1.Log into his workstation
2.start up the same software they used to make the designs for kitchen cabinets and other advanced stuff.
3.design an entire deck ever so slightly resembling ours (mind you I had full architectural plans and a materials list with me)
4.adjust each dimension
5.print out designs and bill of materials that were very much not like what I needed
6.pick and choose certain items from the BOM and log into a different system, to find pricing
7.do additional searches to find pricing on additional things on our list but not on the BOM.
8.explain to me that he knew nothing about Trex or the other products, and suggest I call Monday.

During all that, a lady in her 60’s or so came by with her father, holding her father’s garage door opener remote. She asked if this opener had a battery in it. He said he wasn’t sure (wasn’t sure?? What kind of a man is he??). He then fiddled with it and said, “we do sell some batteries, but I’m afraid I don’t know”. I suggested sticking a coin into the little slot on the side to pop it open. He fumbled with it and decided not to try too hard, and handed it back to her, suggesting she try the outdoor department (mind you this guy is sitting at the millwork desk, which has a full display of Clopay garage doors right behind him).

After he finished my quote I went to find the lady. I popped open the remote for her, pulled out the battery and told her, “go to the radio shack up the road and ask for one of these.”

Is a gathering of 14 little girls a gaggle, a flock, or the coming of the Apocalypse?

Okay maybe not the Apocalypse, but certainly a tenuous situation. This Sunday, approximately fourteen six-year-old girls will descend upon our humble abode for what's known as the Adventure Princess monthly gathering. A quick scan of the house enabled me to determine we've never had fourteen of ANYTHING in this house, never mind 14 high-pitched and overly sugared kindergarteners excited to get together and share with each other their latest pursuits of the ultimate in Disney Princess dress-up accessories. Luckily, each is arriving with a dad in tow. But honestly, what good are the dads, anyways? if things get out of hand, we'll all stand around watching the chaos and sharing comments with each other like, "man, that little blonde one sure has some lungs on her, huh?" and "nah, I got out of morning duty by getting her dressed for school one day in a t-shirt that said 'who farted', two unmatched socks, a tiara and her hiking boots."

So if you don't hear from me after Sunday, you'll know that the giant magnetic field caused by the static electricity of 14 little girls running to and fro engulfed our family room and sucked it into a black hole, lost for all of eternity. Or I may just be tired from the cleanup.

I'm getting old

It's official. I'm getting old. My doctor told me.

I went for my annual physical a month ago, the one I get religiously every decade or so. Usually my blood pressure is obscenely low, my cholesterol is made of silk, and my pulse is often sampled by a local techno band because of it's perfectly rhythmic qualities. The only family history of illness I have is an occasional deviated septum, a couple of hernias, and one long-lost uncle who died in a clash with a rabid wildebeest in on an African safari.

But not this time. The news came down like a piano tied to a rope outside a 4-story walkup. It went sort of like this...

Nurse calls: Hi, I've got the results of your blood tests.

Me: Do tell.

Nurse: Everything's normal, including your overall cholesterol, but your Good Cholesterol is too low. You need to start working out.

Me: How did you know I don't work out?

Nurse: Oh please...

So that's it. My overall plans to coast into my golden years by spending every evening in front of the plasma with a bowl of Moose Tracks in one hand and a handful of my kids' Goldfish crackers in the other is for naught. I need to get my ass off the couch.

Bugabootoo Redux

I must send praise to Columbia Sportswear for treating their customers so well. A half dozen years or so ago, I bought a pair of waterproof boots (similar to these). I pretty much only wear them in the snow. Around here, that means I probably wear them a total of about 8 hours a year. Otherwise, they sit in my basement feeling lonely. A few weeks ago I put them on to find that the leather upper had completely separated from the rubber bottoms. Okay, they are slightly old, but come on....

So I decided to call Columbia Sportswear. The customer service rep agreed with me feelings, that any boot used this little should still have decades of life in them. He then asked me if the rubber was cracked, which it was. He said, "ah, you may have a pair made when we were having some problems with our rubber supply. Send them to our warranty center, they just might replace them even though they are out of warranty".

They are! How about that? It's good to see some sign of intelligent life in this day and age of planned obsolescence and decreasing quality of manufacture.

Apheresis Donation

Hey, I'm back. No, I wasn't taking a break to let the flamers cool down. I was traveling on business and visiting my buddy Paul and his wife and squirt on Dallas. I got back Friday, and spent Saturday morning donating platelets through Apheresis at the local blood bank.

I've been a blood donor for years. I usually give every time they call me, and it feels good to so. Blood donation doesn't seem to affect me physically, and I can usually get through the day without any dizziness of tiredness. So during my last donation, I got curious about the machine a couple of donors were hooked up to across the room, and the nurse explained the apheresis process to me.

As explained by the Central Blood Bank website and by the nurse, during apheresis blood is drawn and sent through a cell-separator machine. The machine spins the blood to separate the needed component, and then returns the remaining components to the donor in the same arm. I learned that this process is used to give platelets, which are the cellular component that stops bleeding and are used for cancer or leukemia patients, transplant patients and people with blood disorders. she told me the process would take about 2-1/2 hours and could be done early on a Saturday morning. And while a pint of whole blood has a shelf life of 45 days, platelets last only 5 days, making it all that much more important for the Blood Bank to find platelet donors regularly. Sounded good to me. So I signed up.

Up to the point of the actual needle stick, the beginning of the process is exactly the same as a regular blood donation. Fill out some papers, check the vitals, fill in a bunch of bubbles to answer questions about my last trip to Africa with an HIV-stricken pregnant prostitute with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease and a penchant for needle-sharing to get a tattoo.

After the needle stick, things got a little weird.

In a normal donation, the nurse hangs the bag below you and gravity does the work of removing the blood from your arm. With Apheresis, the blood is sucked by a pump from your arm. As it enters the machine, those wheels start whirring as the centrifuge kicks into gear, and the platelets are separated from the blood. The rest of the blood is mixed with an anticoagulant and fed back into your arm through the same needle. I must say, I was not a fan of that feeling. Not only was it literally a rush to the head, but the anticoagulant, as I was told, made my lips, teeth, and head tingle. The nurse gave me Tums to eat, telling me that would ease the tingling. Oddly, they did. That went on for a little over an hour. I also found that if my arm rested in a more natural position (palm down), the blood didn't flow so well through the machine, and it began beeping like R2-D2 to warn the nurse.

After the process was done, it took a little more time for me than usual to make it to the cantina for my free cookie and juice. I was light headed and bordering on nauseous. But that passed in about ten minutes, and I was back to normal. The nurse told me that extra calcium before a donation next time would help all those feelings.

Apheresis is a rewarding and extremely necessary experience. I certainly won't do it every time I give blood, but I could see doing it once a year or more. If you've got the stomach and criteria for blood donation, then give apheresis a try. It may be a bit uncomfortable and draining (literally), but look on the bright side: you'll save a few lives, get to watch a grainy copy of Terminator 3 while you sit there, make your kids look at you like you're a superhero, and convince your spouse that the most important thing you should do the rest of that busy Saturday is sit out on the deck and relax.

A public apology: no pizza for you!

It seems that my innocent attempts to provide visual humor have offended. No real surprise here. But when I created my last post about Pizza Hut, I did what I usually do, which was to find an applicable image on google images and stick a pic of it next to the title of the post. Well, it seems the owner of the graphic didn't like it so much. First, I received a comment from whom I can only assume was the webmaster of the site where the graphic originated, suggesting that I was a thieving bodily orifice and that I should suffer with some sort of pain. I assume it to be the webmaster only because, well, who else would be tracking the possible bandwidth that the graphic would use? After a reply of my own, I received a far more professional, polite, and informative reply from someone whom I can only assume is an owner or officer in the business owning the website. One that politely explained their position. And I've granted their wishes and removed the graphic from my blog. A reasonable explanation deserves a reasonable response.

So, since this is a family friendly blog (at least it tries to be), I will point out the first lesson...that you get better results through politeness and patience than by being a blithering and threatening moron.

And by the way, I only deleted the comments because of the blitherer. I would have been happy to save the one from the site owner but I accidentally deleted it as well.

Now as for the use of graphics in general, I will also abide by the wishes of this site owner and be more forthright about my use of images, checking copyright where applicable and asking permission whenever possible. Frankly, I was wondering how long til something like that was going to happen.

And hey - we've all got a lot to learn about this newfangled thing called the World Wide Web. I still think it's a fad. We'll see.

Irony in the form of Pizza

There's an article in CNN about Pizza Hut's "Book It" program being denounced by critics as corporate sponsorship run amok, leading to child obesity, etc. In the program kids read a certain amount of books and, in an exchange, receive a gift certificate towards a personal pan pizza. Critics say that all this is doing is pressuring parents to take their kids to Pizza Hut to engorge them with heart-disease-ridden pizza.

It's sad because yes, this is "corporate sponsorship run amok," and the end result is simply more business for pizza hut by the parents who have to buy a large pizza when they bring their kid there for his or her personal pan. It's sad because it's promoting fatty snacks for learning, and what kid would want to read a book if there wasn't a pizza in it for him?

But it's also sad because in many schools or families I imagine that this is the only way to get some kids to read. There's plenty of families out there that do a lousy job of promoting good learning habits and plenty of families that truly believe a pizza provides all four of the basic food groups (breads, meats, cheese, veggies) in one convenient package.

And lastly, it's sad because, frankly, I'd be willing to bet the Pizza Hut marketers truly believe this isn't a bad idea. Hey, if we can help kids learn to read, we're doing a great favor to our kids! So why shouldn't we make a buck or two while we do it? We've got to be able to afford the plan somehow, right? Well, yes. Right. But usually every bad idea that ends up blowing up the earth starts off as a good idea with good intentions.

I think I will go read a book to my daughter while she eats some fruit. she might even like it.

When do we redo the bathroom?

If you've been to our house recently (and why haven't you? It's not like Pittsburgh moved any further away on the map, after all....) you've seen the newly added space and renovated main floor. But perhaps you've also noticed that the bathroom at the top of the steps is a shambles. Peeling wallpaper, worn-out flooring and cabinetry, exposed drywall. Why would we have spent so much time and effort working on the rest of the house only to ignore the current fate of the upstairs bathroom?

Simple answer: Kids are slobs.

The girls are at an age of growing household independence. That means going to the bathroom by themselves, brushing their teeth by themselves, and washing up by themselves. Unfortunately, it seems the concepts of gravity and fluid dynamics don't really sink in until later in life.

Let's take a simple process like washing hands. Typically you and I would turn on the water, wet our hands, almost unconsciously shake our hands off enough to avoid getting water on the counter as we go for the soap pump, and grab a squirt of soap cupped in our hands neatly. Then, we wash up, towel off, and perhaps wipe a few drips off the counter top.

To a small child, the bathroom sink is an open-year-round version of Splash Lagoon. As a kid, you wash your hands by first turning the hot and cold faucets on at full blast, spraying water everywhere. Then, after getting your hands good and soaked, you reach for the soap with princess-like flair, perhaps waving to yourself in the mirror first with a wink and a smile, making little heart-shaped smears with the water droplets that hit the mirror. Eventually you pound the soap pump with a wet fist, maybe hitting your palm with the shot of soap but more likely hitting the counter top, the baseboard, the door, and the window. As you bring your now perhaps soapy hands back toward the sink, you play with that little line of soap that suspends itself between your hands and the pump like so much piping hot pizza cheese, allowing a line of slickness to form across the counter. Finally, after rinsing off, you splash around in the bubbles gathered in the sink bowl, wave hi to yourself in the mirror again, and turn off the faucet with soggy sandwich clamps, only barely having rinsed them enough to get the soap slime off. Then, it's across the room (via the measurement marks on the back of the door to see if you've grown any in the past month) and to the hand towel, leaving a spray of drops on the wallpaper as you go. The used towel hits the floor, to be picked up by an exhausted guardian at a later opportunity.

Add toothpaste to the equation, or bath soap, or toilet paper, and you can see my point. No, I'm thinking that bathroom gets done when they're both off to college.

Credit Card Ridiculousness

If you ask me (and, you didn't), I think that credit card fraud has just become retarded. Okay, so this post has nothing to do with parenting, or kids, or renovation, or geckos, but this morning I heard a story on NPR about a bill in Massachusetts government that would tie retailers to the costs involved in a credit card scam. As I understand it currently part of the credit card company's business model is to assume some level of fraud, yet stay profitable even while paying consumers back for the fraudulent transactions by passing fees to the retailers. The bill would make the retailers pay for the charges. I hereby announce that I am completely on the fence about this insane concept, and with good reason. Both sides of the argument suck.

You walk into your local Target. Buy your Isaac Mizrahi hand towels, your OXO Salad Spinner, and a copy of the first season of Family Guy. At the checkout, you whip out your Visa and fed it into the card-sucker. You scribble some sort of hieroglyph on the little LCD that perhaps might resemble your signature if it had been on paper with a real pen, and you're on your way. Young Tanya Fakenails behind the checkout counter never even saw your card. Real good security there.

Then you head to the local BP, where you fill up on gas where the only one watching you is the overtired pediatrician at the other pump dying to get home and crash. Nope, no card security there. Oh, and while you're at it, you head into the Quick-E-Mart and pick up a box of smokes, a Ho-Ho and, what the heck, a Ding Dong so you can do a comparison test. Joe Buzzcut behind the counter doesn't look up from the fabulous article on neon add-ons for his Honda Civic muffler in his latest issue of StreetRide long enough to check the signature, never mind ask for any sort of ID to match that signature.

On your way home you stop at Home Depot to pick up a replacement toilet flush valve, a bag of Thinset, and a Fubar. Since the total comes to just under $50, you don't even have to SIGN your card receipt when you pay. How's that for ease of use??!

In all these cases, it seems perfectly reasonable that the retailers should pay. My wife had her cards stolen a couple years ago. About $500 was spent on our cards before they were canceled, and the spending spree seemed to be pretty much as described above. Now our cards say "ASK FOR ID" in big ol' Sharpie across the back AND the front of the cards, but even then only about 50% of the merchants taking the card actually ask.

But then there's the security of the cards themselves. Why do ATM cards use a PIN number, yet credit cards don't? But wait, they do! You can have a PIN on your Visa, if you want to withdraw money from an ATM and get charged a ridiculous interest rate. Does anyone actually do that? So if that's the case...oh wait, I just answered my own question. Because the card companies make money off the poor shlub who confused his Visa with his bank ATM card and hit "debit" by mistake. That's the reason I immediately shred that piece of mail with the PIN number that comes two days after my new credit card.

It's been said that benefits of enabling better security measures are outweighed by the cost. So, the credit card companies can issue new machines that allow you to make the very confusing and dangerous choice of "credit or debit" on their credit card readers now (have you noticed what a recent phenomenon that is?) but they can't afford to put together PIN technology that ALREADY EXISTS.

Seems to me the credit card companies are being greedy. Who'da thunk that would happen.

Today's quote from a toddler

Jessica (our 3-year-old) went on a preschool field trip to the Carnegie Museum yesterday. Her mommy went with her. The tour guide brought the class through the animal exhibit, a big room full of furry, scary animals stuffed and positioned into imposing stances. The tour guide talked to the class about the polar bear, asking, "What's the biggest feature on the polar bear's face? The nose, right! Bears have a really great sense of smell."

My wife bent down and said, "Just like you, Jessica. You have a really good sense of smell, don't you?"

To which Jessica responded loudly, "mommy did you fart?"

She asked for that one.

Followup: My wife informs me that, in fact, she did NOT fart. Must have been the bear.

Coolest bed ever

My wife made me watch Oprah today (yes, I must preface it that way so as not to be deemed less of a man). Her hottie designer guy (Well, not hot to me...) was doing a bit about designing for small spaces and had a number of products on the show, one of which this enormously cool bed. The bed pivots out of the way like a Murphy bed and at the same time raises up a platform workdesk for your computer and such. How enormously cool. I want one. I think a great addition to it would be a chair that syncs with the bed. At a set time (say, 1:00am), the unit automatically converts to a bed, the chair raises up, and it dumps you into the bed, forcing you to get away from the computer and grab some sleep. Click here for more shots of the bed as well as other neat products from this company, Off The Wall Beds.

It's cold spaghetti from now on

Okay, this blows my mind. Back in October, as part of our renovation, we installed a new kitchen sink. As part of that, we of course had to buy a couple of those rings that go in the hole of the kitchen sink, which for some reason are referred to as "strainers" even though they don't strain anything. The ring that goes in the left side of the sink connects to the disposer and holds the disposer to the sink.

Last night, that ring failed, causing a leak in the sink. This ring had a white lacquer finish to it to match the color of the sink, and the lacquer had chipped off like old paint, exposing the metal beneath it. The metal separated from the sink.

Home Depot recommended I contact Watts, the manufacturer, about it. The nice customer service representative asked me a few questions, one of them being, "did you pour boiling water down the sink?"

I of course said, "yes. It's a kitchen sink. How else am I going to drain my spaghetti? "

"Oh, you shouldn't have done that. these things are only rated up to 80 degrees. They aren't like the ones made in the old days, made of cast iron." You should always let the water cool before pouring down the sink. These days even the PVC pipes your sink drains into aren't rated for boiling water.

You've got to be freaking kidding me! I can't pour boiling water down my kitchen sink????

So, the guy is sending me a replacement, which I plan on using as my return to Home Depot. But first, I'm going to look in the instructions to see if it happens to mention this. If not, I'll be calling them back looking for restitution for my bill to the plumber tonight.

I then decided to do two things. First, I called the manufacturer of my sink (which is acrylic, like a shower). They said pouring boiling water down it is no problem. Then, I googled "don't pour boiling water down your kitchen sink" and found a long list of sites listing plumbing hints and tips, all of which suggested pouring boiling water down your kitchen sink to help unclog drains.

Again. You've got to be freaking kidding me.

Where have all the cowboy boots gone?

Like most men, I imagine, I only own a few pairs of shoes, and will wear them repeatedly until the soles fall off. New shoes are something to be purchased once every ice age. And judging by the weather outside, I'm thinking it's time to buy some shoes.

This recent realization led me to a second, more disturbing realization. The mens' shoe store has gone the way of the woolly mammoth.

Several years ago I purchased a pair of Clarks casual shoes at the Bostonian store in our local mall. I finally decided to put them out to stud this month and investigate the latest in men's work/casual footwear. So I went to the mall, and headed directly to Bostonian, only to discover it had pulled up anchor and left the mall years ago. And so had Florsheim. And every other decent shoe store. In this relatively average-sized mall in the North Hills of Pittsburgh, the ONLY place to buy men's shoes were Foot Locker and Payless, two places I really have no interest in setting a socked foot into.

Have shoe stores gone by way of the local hardware store? Subsumed by the likes of Wal-Mart and other big boxes? I couldn't believe it. There had to be options out there.

I knew that within the city limits of Pittsburgh were two "classic" shoe stores that should fit the bill, Gordon's and and Little's. I first went to Gordon's, a store that used to be located in a historic and easily accessible section of Pittsburgh known as Bloomfield but now located in Homestead, an area known more for shopping trendiness than accessibility. After I discovered that the closest thing Gordon's now carries to a practical dress casual shoe is made of purple suede, I left the store and sat in post-shopping traffic for over an hour as I tried to get out of the shopping center.

I then went to Littles, still located in Squirrel Hill since the original owner got off the boat at Ellis Island, accidentally took a left, and ended up in Pittsburgh. I eventually found something adequate if not overpriced. But the shoes I selected were truly a compromise. What are men wearing on their feet these days? Where are the Rockports? The Clarks? Am I that old that I missed the point where men's shoes went the way of the Oldsmobile, only to be replaced by hip metrosexual purple suede high tops that slide on like slippers and look like you're wearing eggplants on your ankles?

Quackers In Bed...

My wife has been working on writing and publishing children's books. While she hasn't quite reached the status of a Boynton, Seuss, or Scarry, she has made some significant progress. Check out her latest, a story published on an illustrator's web site, entitled, "Quackers In Bed". Take a wild guess as to who the inspiration for this story might have been....

Oh, and if you are a publisher who would like to give us thousands of dollars for the rights to her next title, by all means please contact me as soon as possible.

How to make ice cream with duct tape...for real this time

So a couple of people asked me about my last post, and how to ACTUALLY MAKE ice cream using duct tape.

First, you need two metal coffee cans. A big one (4lbs or so) and a small one (1lb). Of course, they don't actually need to be "coffee" cans. Anything with a replaceable top will do, but the important thing is for the outside one to be able to roll on the ground. By the way, if you don't feel like buying a can of Maxwell House, Pirouline cans do quite well and taste better.

First, fill the smaller can with the following:

-two pints whole milk or cream
-two tablespoons vanilla
-1 cup sugar

Now, close the small can and seal the cover tight with duct tape. Put the small can into the big can, and pack the big can with ice cubes. Add about a cup of rock salt (the kind you use on your driveway, I'm sure you've got some right now). Close and seal the big can with duct tape as well.

Now, have a seat on the floor with your kid proceed to roll the can back and forth for at least 20 minutes. This mixes things up quite nicely. Depending on the warmth of the room, it may pay to open the big can and add more rice/salt mixture again.

After 20 minutes, if the planets have aligned, you've got yourself some fine vanilla ice cream.

How to make ice cream with duct tape

This past weekend was our second YMCA Adventure Princess campout. You may recall Natalie and I headed to one in back in October. Since then Uncle Harry has retired, and the temperature dropped about 75 degrees.

The theme of the weekend was "cold". The temps topped out in the middle of the day at about 15 degrees, so outdoor activities were pretty limited. We did manage to rough it through a few hours of sledding on "Killer Hill", though it was quite the fiasco. Virtually every kid who went down this icy, slippery slope had a good cry at the bottom, a result of the blinding shards of ice thrown up from the front of the sleds into their eyes. No permanent injuries, happily. I learned something, though. Last winter I picked up one of those bent-wood classic style tobaggans on eBay. It did not have a cushion on it. I learned there's a good reason to have that cushion. Without it, the snow comes through the slats in the wood and flash-freezes your tush awful quickly. I had no feeling in my rear for the next several hours.

Two of the primary activities of the weekend were the Pinewood derby car races and ice cream making. First, the car races...

The term "pinewood derby" is actually trademarked, I believe, by the boy scouts. Therefore they were referred to as "FADCAR races" in Adventure Princess-speak. I'm guessing that "FAD" stands for "Fathers And Daughters, but let's get serious for a minute here. Daughters have virtually nothing to do with these cars. This is simply an excuse for dads to disappear into the workshop under the pretense of father-daughter bonding. One dad showed up at the campsite with an entire box of tools, which he spread out across a table in the cabin so he could spend the next several hours filing, sanding, gluing, balancing, weighing, and streamlining. Another spent most of Friday evening with an upturned car in one hand and a chisel in another, as he proceeded to carve out a precise location to place extra grams of strategic weights in the chassis of his machine. All the while, our ladies continued on their quests to find the best corner of the cabin for hide-and-seek, the bounciest bunk mattress for a game of moon bounce, and the finest collection of late-night salty snacks which no mom would ever allow their daughters to eat so late at night.

I, unfortunately, had procrastinated long enough that when the weekend came for us (okay, me) to build our (I mean my) car, I got distracted by frozen pipes in our house and never got around to it. So instead, I used this event as a recon mission for next time. And I learned something. You see, the contest includes not only a race, but a "best of show" competition. I know, you're thinking that only those professionally carved, hi-gloss clearcoat-painted, scale model Lamborghini replicas were worthy of the best in show contest, right? Wrong. The voting was done entirely by the girls. Therefore, the hands-down winner was the car that seemed to have been carved with a dull spoon, BUT had a picture of Hannah Montana clued to the front and a pink ribbon on the back. Go figure.

Another fine event was ice cream making. We were forewarned to bring two coffee cans with us on the camping expedition: a 1-pound can and a 4-pound can. Most of us, used to buying coffee in BAGS rather than in Maxwell house tins, were quite daunted by this assignment. We learned that there are only a few items needed to make fine vanilla ice cream: cream, vanilla, sugar, ice, rock salt, and duct tape. The first three items were combined in the smaller can, then that can was placed in the larger can which was then topped off with rock salt and ice. Both cans were duct taped solidly shut. We then proceeded to roll the cans back and forth on the floor for twenty minutes. So there we are, in the ten-degree winter, gathered in a common area heated to a balmy 55 degrees, rolling cans of ice around the floor. Together I think we found a solution to global warming. But the ice cream was tasty.

Happily, Natalie made it home in one piece without throwing up in the Mazda like she did last time. Unfortunately, she almost landed in the hospital when she discovered that balloon catch is not something to be played while sitting on the edge of a bunk bed. She fell and came very close to crushing her ankle. But an ace bandage, some TLC, a bandaid, and some Doritos made it all better quickly.

Why I don't work at home

I'm currently working at home due to a major snowstorm in the area. I overheard Jessica, my 3-year-old, as she went to the bathroom....

Jes: Mommy, did daddy use the potty?
Mom: I don't know, why?
Jes: It smells like he did.

The impossible requests

The other day, like most days, my daughter came to me with a random small part from a playset and asked me to glue it back together. In this case, the problem was an arm that broke off a tiny Disney action figure only slightly smaller than a dung beetle. And she wanted me to repair the arm. Sure honey, all I need is an electron microsocope, one of those machines they use for laser eye surgery, and some nanobots. I'll get right on it.

I especially like it when she comes to me with a broken Slinky, figuring I can just tape it back together again. Ever try to tape a slinky? It doesn't work.

This led me to think about all those impossible questions asked of a typical dad (or mom, I suppose, but this is my blog, not hers) on a day-to-day basis. For example:

>Daddy, can you glue this (insert small item, such as Barbie shoe, hair band, necklace bead) back together?

>Daddy, can you put new batteries in this (non-battery-operated broken item)?

>Daddy, can you play with me (when asked while standing on an eight-foot step ladder with a tool belt on my waist, a paint brush in my hand, and a live electrical wire in my teeth)?

>Daddy, do you HAVE to go to work today?

>Daddy, how do you spell ablobdigog?

>Daddy, how were tools made back when there were no tools to make them? (good one, I thought)

>Daddy, can I have blueberries as a snack?
(Me:) We don't have any blueberries.
(Her:) But I want some!

(Me:) Good night sweetie.
(Her:) Good night daddy. Daddy?
(Me:) Yes?
(Her:) I want to sleep with Woofie tonight.
(Me:) Okay. where's Woofie?
(Her:) In the car.
(Me:) Of course.
(Me:) Trudge...trudge..trudge....Okay, I got Woofie, here you go.
(Her:) And Blue Bear.
(Me:) And where's Blue Bear? Never mind, in the car....right....

Ooooh, spooky

This was the fortune I found in my Chinese food lunch today. It's like they know me....

It's all in the name of science, really

My wife occasionally asks me, as if to confirm what she already knows, whether I would be interested in another kid if I was guaranteed a boy. My Answer? #@!% No.

On a related note, my dad sent me this list, one of those anonymous internet forwards. Credit to whomever thought it up. Frankly, I've been guilty of a few of these myself. As for the others, I'm definitely curious. But I really don't need my own car's gas tank to be filled with marbles, so I'm good with the girl thing:

A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 2000 sq. ft. house 4 inches deep.

If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

A 3-year old Boy's voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant.

If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound Boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 20x20 ft. room.

You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. When using a ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.

The glass in windows (even double-pane) doesn't stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.

When you hear the toilet flush and the words "uh oh", it's already too late.

Brake fluid mixed with Clorox makes smoke, and lots of it.

A six-year old Boy can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year old Man says they can only do it in the movies.

Certain Lego's will pass through the digestive tract of a 4-year old Boy.

Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.

Super glue is forever.

No matter how much Jell-O you put in a swimming pool you still can't walk on water.

Pool filters do not like Jell-O.

VCR's do not eject "PB & J" san dwiches even though TV commercials show they do.

Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.

You probably DO NOT want to know what that odor is.

Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.

The fire department in Austin, TX has a 5-minute response time.

The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy. It will, however, make cats dizzy.

Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

80% of Men who read this will try mixing the Clorox and brake fluid.

Angry Young Girl

Any household with a piano quite likely has children more than willing to pound on the black and whites like so many Whack-A-Mole heads. Our house is no different. When my wife and I were married she brought with her an old Story & Clark upright, one that's found a comfortable home in the dining room. Come to think of it, the space below it MADE a comfortable home for a certain family of mice a while back, but that's another story.

Until recently the piano served its purpose as a dust collection device, a chotcke-holder, and occasionally a noisy racetrack for a Matchbox car or two. But one day Natalie announced she wanted to learn to play something on the piano. Hilary, being a bit rusty but somewhat learned in the pianistic arts, taught her a couple of nursery rhymes. Now, every spare moment, she rushes to the keyboard and practices the four tunes she knows. Her repertoire is simple, yet eclectic. She can play Happy Birthday, Twinkle Twinkle, Are you Sleeping Brother John, and....Billy Joel's Angry Young Man.

Okay, so she's not quite so polished with that last one, but I felt it necessary to play Angry Young Man for her one day after she proclaimed that she didn't need lessons, because she KNEW how to play the piano already. So rather than explain to her that there was more to learn, I felt compelled one day to put a little something by the Piano Man himself on the stereo to demonstrate.

Once the song was over, she dragged me to the piano to have me teach her.

Now, I know bupkis about piano playing, and I certainly ain't Billy Joel. But a long time ago someone showed me how to play the first few bars of AYM on the piano, and for some reason it stuck with me. So I showed her. And you know what? She's not bad. For some reason she's turned it into what sounds more like some sort of Broadway show tune, but it can clearly be defined as "music." Something tells me that with a few lessons, she's gonna be dangerous.

It's all relative

Next week I travel to Eagan, Minnesota. Northwest Airlines was nice enough to send me a weather report. Are they freakin' kidding me with this "not as cold" crap?

I hope you realize, this means war.

Every home ownership experience involves critters. My dad spent most of my childhood years hunting down chipmunks and squirrels as they made residence in the eaves of our garage. I would often find him peering out the window like Lee Harvey Oswald, pellet gun sight to his eye, waiting to smear death across the rooftops. My sister had an issue with flying squirrels in her attic (and yes, moose in her basement and a strange Russian couple in her garage), only to find out that they were a protected breed of flying squirrel and couldn't be killed or trapped. They could only be politely asked to leave, which didn't work so well.

As for us? Mice.

You'll recall before this whole renovation started, it was a veritable Stuart Little sequel in here. Well, now the little F*@ker has taken up residence in our tool shed.

Our shed has always been a magnet for critters. Heck, if it was a choice between the cold wilderness and the warmth of insulated PVC plastic, I know which one I'd pick. So this fall, I was careful to pack up all our spring deck furniture and other items carefully to ensure the best protection. Unfortunately, I found that all I did was make it more convenient for the little varmint to set up shop.

Today I popped open the shed to retrieve a sled for the kids, only to be greeted by the familiar stench of mouse pee. I looked around and at first didn't find anything, until I looked up on the top shelf in the back. On that shelf were the half dozen deck chair cushions, neatly piled high and out of the way. Bits of grass and twigs were poking out from between them. As I shifted them over, I was greeted by a bonanza of mouse turds, along with a nasty concoction of mouse-pee-soaked nest materials. Luckily he hadn't decided to eat his way into the cushions, but he certainly enjoyed using it as his loo.

Below that shelf was a 6-foot long cardboard box that contained the umbrella for the deck table. You know, insulated carboard is not something you should keep in a shed. The mouse had decided to make a condo unit out of the box, and on his way discovered that the fabric of the umbrella made for quite a tasty treat.

That deck furniture set wasn't cheap.

As I pulled everything out of the shed, I saw him. There he was, standing in the corner on the top shelf, looking at me like I was a shopping mall developer and he was the last resident to hold out and not sell to The Man. And I couldn't find a damned thing to throw at him.

When we discovered mice in the house last year, I felt full of remorse at the idea of using those "sticky" traps to get rid of them. But this time, it's personal. Enjoy your peanut butter, you varmint scum, for it's going to be your last meal.

Suddenly I'm the Dora expert

My friend Howard has taken to forwarding friends to me for shopping advice when it comes to buying Dora toys to give as gifts.

Dora Toys? I mean, come on. Skil saws, perhaps. Delta power planers, maybe. but Dora toys? No, that trophy belongs to my lovely wife, who can sniff out a sale on the Toys R. Us faster than you can say "gift card".

But since it's unlike me not to have an opinion, I felt compelled to share my years of Dora toy-shopping expertise with her. She was looking for a toy for a two-year-old. Of course I started by explaining that the person who invented the playset is responsible for global warming, and that if she wanted to remain friends with the parents of the child receiving the gift she should avoid buying a playset at all costs. This is common knowledge, but it's worth restating: the problem with playsets is as follows:

1. The packaging is retarded. Dozens of tiny pieces vacu-sealed in plastic, attached to a cardboard/plastic/asbestos display box with thousands of feet of wire, scotch tape, and ultra-stretchy fishing line meticulously tied by elderly Chinese women locked away in the dungeons of Taiwan. Unpacking these toys has been known to send many fathers to the emergency room with heart issues.
2. The product can never be re-gifted or returned. This is not because once you get it out of the box you can't get it back in, but because once the kid sees the new toy it's over. She will be instantly stricken with wonder, and if you snatch it back from her in an effort to utilize that gift receipt you'll cause major psychological damage that will stay with her through menopause.
3. After ten minutes of playtime, half the parts will be lost, and the other half will be broken. Those parts that aren't lost or broken will be embedded in the dad's foot.

So basically, don't waste your money on a playset. The parents of the gift recipients will remain friends with you as a result.

That said, there's a world of toys out there with Dora's football-shaped head and salad bowl haircut slapped on them. Everything from Chutes & Ladders "Dora Style" to entire bedroom suites of furniture with Dora, Boots, and all her little friends hiding in the underwear drawers. The world is your oyster.

This got me to thinking. Ford Motor Company has been having lots of financial troubles lately. They could clear up their issues with one quick branding agreement. "The Dora Explorer." Brilliant! You saw it here first, folks. The SUV would come in shades of pink and purple, complete with built-in backpacks attached to each seat, binoculars in the arm rest, and a GPS navigation system that, upon starting the car, would sing, "I'm the map I'm the map!" and then give directional advice such as "to get to the airport, first you have to drive through your neighbor's Magical Garden, then over the Singing Railroad Tracks, and Down the silly Parkway." Can you say it with me? Magical Garden! Singing Railroad tracks! Silly Parkway! Great!" They'd sell a bizillion of these. Of course each truck would come sealed in plastic and wire-tied to cardboard boxes, which means it couldn't be driven without first digging out the wire snippers from the basement.

Wow, I think I hurt myself on that one.

Electrical line protection plan

I opened my electric bill today, and one of the random pieces of junk mail inside it caught my eye. It was an enrollment form for their "electrical line protection plan." for $3.99 per month, I could be protected against unexpected repair costs.

I found the facts on the sheet amusing:

The front cover: "Your home contains up to 4,000 feet of wiring! 24 wall outlets! 10 light switches! 1 breaker panel!"

Hmm, I believe I ran about 4,000 feet of wire in just the new space during our renovation. And there's around 24 outlets in the new bedroom and bathroom alone, along with 13 light switches. Not to mention the fact that there's now a second breaker panel in the house.

Inside, were approximate costs for typical household electrical repairs:

Broken light switch: $150.00. Um, try about $1.50.
Repair damaged duplex outlet: $150.00. How about 85 cents?


Okay, so humor aside, I got to thinking some more about this deal. $4 per month, or $48 per year. This covers you for up to $1,000 in repairs every year, though it doesn't include pre-existing conditions, acts of god, among other things. I have a neighbor who tells me he's got some weird stuff going on with his home wiring. minor things, like electric shocks, outlets bursting into flames, and switches that do nothing one day, and work fine the next. he's been living with this situation for about a year now. It seems to me that for a few bucks a month, he could sign up for this plan, live with it a while longer, then after 6 months or so call the electric company and announce that the electrical wiring in his house has suddenly gone, um, haywire. Seems like a pretty sweet deal. Oh there I go, thinking in writing again.

The Power of DisMAY

Like a terrorist on "24", the Disney Marketing Around Youth (DisMAY) machine unleashed a powerful nuke on our household yesterday. We had no idea of the true strength of the machine, until my wife decided to throw out Natalie's toothbrush.

It started when Jessica decided to get pinkeye. Though not overly serious, pinkeye is highly contagious. My wife felt it would be wise to scrub the kids' bathroom and, while she was at it, toss out the kids' toothbrushes and replace them with fresh ones. That was a mistake.

Natalie had selected her Disney Princess toothbrush, with an image of Aurora of Sleeping Beauty fame on it, during a visit to Target about two weeks ago. Mind you she put more thought into the selection of this toothbrush than I will probably put into the purchase of my next car. And she was not ready to part with it.

My wife had already purchased a replacement toothbrush, and it was in fact a Cinderella model. Not good enough. Natalie was in the Aurora zone, and she wasn't interested in second best. She is quite picky about her princess branding. My wife also failed to inform Natalie of what she was doing, so the kid discovered Aurora in the trash, discarded like so much old salad.

"Why is my Aurora toothbrush in the trash???!!!" She exclaimed. We tried to explain the reasoning behind the new toothbrush, but she would have none of it. "But I just got it! I'm not ready to part with it!!!!! You can't throw it out!!!!"

We argued and reasoned with her, and finally (we thought) convinced her to leave it in the trash and accept Cinderella as a stand-in until the next toothbrush purchase opportunity. But Natalie had another plan in mind.

Only a couple of minutes after the screaming died down, she announced she had to go to the bathroom. I noticed that when she did, she closed the bathroom door. This is not normal for her, and I knew what was on her mind (you see, I often think like a six-year-old) She was enacting a plan to free Aurora from her state of refuse. Natalie "flushed", then left the bathroom and turned the corner, headed down the hall. I popped my head into the bathroom to see a trash can devoid of toothbrushes.

"Natalie!" I bellowed. "Bring it back!"

This prompted more screaming and tantrums, a lengthy timeout, a lecture on dental hygiene, and even a eulogy for a dead toothbrush. when she finally calmed down, she pulled out her art kit, and drew a picture of her Aurora toothbrush to enshrine upon her bathroom mirror like so many presidential portraits gracing the walls of the Capitol building.

And people wonder why we haven't gotten a dog yet.

Forget it, let's all stay home

There's a big stink in Pittsburgh currently surrounding a plan for Port Authority to cut 124 of 213 bus routes around the city, This, combined with a fare hike, is supposed to address an $80 million budget deficit for the 2007-08 fiscal year. Of course there's the usual stink and hubbub surrounding this. Yesterday a large group of folks with torches and pitchforks gathered downtown to express their outrage. One person's quote, when I heard it on the news, riled me up so much I wanted to reach through the car radio and throttle her.

The woman was quoted as saying that the reduction in buses to the north hills was going to create tremendous traffic, and the only solution was that we should open up the northbound HOV lane to ALL traffic during rush hour.

This person is a moron.

Okay, first of all, the north hills has the easiest rush hour traffic pattern of any direction headed out of the city. I've got no complaints. There's no tunnels, there are few ridiculous lane crossovers and merges, and it just works. Second, as someone who tries to regularly commute with friends to work in order to get on the HOV and perhaps save a tree or two, may I suggest to this person that perhaps she try that herself? Hello, have you been listening to the news about this crazy global warming thing? Would it really be too much to ask to find someone willing to ride-share, in order to take advantage of the HOV as it stands now? This plan to reduce the bus coverage pisses me off as much as anyone, even though I don't take the bus, because it's a very poorly thought-out plan. However the city should be thinking more creatively. I've always felt that the north hills corridor would be a perfect place for a metro rail line. Well, there's a long term solution. How come other cities can figure that out, but all Pittsburgh can do is come up with solutions that will drive yet even more people out of the city?

yYs, I'm annoyed.

Outlawing Spanking?

So I heard yesterday that some poor, misguided souls in California are attempting to pass a bill that would outlaw spanking. Now, seriously, what will this accomplish? You can't police for it. If I slap my child's wrist just before she reaches for the hot burner, do I go to the slammer? If my way-too-smart toddler sees a policeman and says, "daddy spanked me" to him, does he force me to the ground and slaps the cuffs on while she sits back and laughs?

Now, I'm not a spanker. Never have been. nor is my wife. We both prefer taser guns and violent shaking. Okay, so that was a joke, but let's face it. This bill is meant as an attempt to stop child abuse. And there are already laws around child abuse. There are also millions of vigilant doctors watching their patients for signs of child abuse. What there are NOT, however, are licensing requirements for parenting.

Why not? we have a license to drive. To be a doctor. To practice law. For goodness sakes, we have a license to fish. Yet there's nothing saying that Paris Hilton can't go out, find herself a willing dude, and become the world's worst excuse for parenting values. I know I'd apply for a license. And I'd pass too. That's because I'm the world's greatest dad, or at least that's what my kids say every time I pop in a Dora DVD so that I can head off to the workshop in peace.

Anyone selling a Weimaraner?

Jessica has made great strides in the potty training department. At home, she's a regular visitor to that little green, yellow and white plastic Throne Of Promise. She's taken to announcing to us that she has to go on a regular basis, even when she doesn't have to go, because she likes her little perch so much. She's no longer even getting horses for peeing successfully; she's just doing it to show off. In fact today my wife actually ventured briefly out of the house with her clad in fresh Dora tighty-whiteys, and it was a successful trip with no accidents. I can see it now...some day...leaving the house with nary a diaper bag in sight. Oh, the money saved...the destruction to the environment reduced...

Of course, that financial windfall we'll see when we stop buying diapers will most surely be tapered by the fact that my daughter announced we are getting her a puppy when she's completely trained. Uh huh. Yeah kid, that will happen. Not that I have anything against dogs. I love dogs. I want a dog. Some of my best friends are dogs. But first I want a brief respite from cleaning up after small creatures for a while.

Meanwhile, Jessica enjoys announcing, "I farted" every time she, well, every time she farts. I can't imagine where she got that term from. Wouldn't have been me. I mean really. Considering that the other day she told her mother, "mommy, I love you best. I love daddy too, but he's stinky and farts a lot," it would imply that she must have gotten the term from someone else.

But of course, her mother is horrified by this. "Can't you use another term, like I passed gas?" she questions. Jessica's older sister suggested a few herself. "I pooted! My tushie burped!"

One whisper in Jessica's ear by her classless, cromagnun father was all it took. "I cut the cheese!!!" Jessica announced proudly.

I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight.

Why worry?

I've been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.
—Mark Twain

Let us be of good cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which will never happen.
-James Russel Lowell

I've developed a new philosophy... I only dread one day at a time.
-Charlie Brown (Charles Schulz)

Troubles are a lot like people - they grow bigger if you nurse them.
-Author Unknown

If you want to test your memory, try to recall what you were worrying about one year ago today.
-E. Joseph Cossman

People gather bundles of sticks to build bridges they never cross.
-Author Unknown

Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.
-Leo Buscaglia

Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.
-Glenn Turner

Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination. -Christian Nevell Bovee

For peace of mind, resign as general manager of the universe.
Author Unknown

Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow.
-Swedish Proverb

Robots to build homes in the future

Here is an article about two sets of researchers attempting to build robotic system that will be used to construct houses. Using a technology similar to the concept of 3D inkjet printers, the robots would spray precise layers of gypsum and concrete to build the shell of a house in 24 hours or so, with only one human being on site.

The technology sounds pretty wild. It reminds me of the classic Warner Brothers cartoon starring Michigan J. Frog introduced (and singing Hello, My Baby, Hello My Honey, Hello My Ragtime Gal..."). while demolition workers are taking down a building by zapping it layer by layer with a laser gun, causing the building to conveniently disappear. If you ask me, that technology would be FAR more useful than this one of Robots building houses. I'm still throwing leftover construction crap out and our renovation has been done for 5 months now.

But I wonder how many decades it will take for this to gain acceptance. It seems to me that much of the population would have a hard time accepting this not only for the "humans replaced by robots" factor, but simply because classic facets of construction seem to rule. I often read various homebuilding magazines that tout the next great technology that will change the business, but I rarely hear about that technology in action. This seems primarily due to expense. For example, every magazine writer loves the concept of radiant floor heat. But in reality installing it can cost several thousand dollars, and running it can be expensive as well. Sometimes a $100 baseboard heater pays.

You're only old once

This week I had my annual physical, which I always make sure to schedule like clockwork once each decade. After the usual questionairing, the looksee inside the ears, and the head-turn-cough maneuver, I realized something.

Annual physicals should be performed by a home inspector.

When we bought our house, I followed the home inspector as he carefully assessed the condition of the place. His Maglite at the ready, he checked every nook and cranny of the place such that by the time we were done we knew the amperage of every circuit in the circuit breaker, how many kinks were in the gas line feeding the oven, and the genus and species of each and every spider living behind the washing machine. We checked the foundation. We checked the roof. We crawled through the attic. We pulled apart the furnace. We came out of there confident that, in fact, the house was not going to vaporize itself into a pile of dust the moment we moved our piano in.

These days, it seems that annual physicals don't even come close to that level of detail.

The physical was pretty typical. Take the vitals, check the ears, fill the jar, and get a scrip for a blood test. There was even a questionnaire. But as I pondered the answer to many of these questions, I thought to myself, "how would I know?" Have I been getting headaches? Well, sure, doesn't everyone? Does my family have a history of major illness? Well, no, but we haven't discussed their future illnesses, have we? Have I had any irregularly shaped bowel movements? Um, define "irregular". Should I be comparing each one to a bust of Richard Nixon? Have I ever had a stress test? No! Should I? SHOULD I??? Dear God, DO I NEED A STRESS TEST???!!!!

My point is, let's just imagine there was a small alien creature that had crawled inside my ear late one night, and had set up a reconnaissance post in my left elbow. Would turning my head and coughing diagnose that? Could that explain my post nasal drip?

I think I'm beginning to see the virtue of the full body scan.

Gadgets..when's it gonna stop?

Many of my friends and family will not believe me when I say this, but frankly I'm completely and utterly tired of gadgets. This world has gone completely insane. The Consumer Electronics Show is currently happening in Vegas, showcasing this year's future landfill fodder in all its glory. Last year the largest flat-screen TV one could buy was 103 inches. This year the ante has been upped to 108. Samsung has just released a gadget called USBTV that allows you to plug it into your computer, copy a show onto it, then walk across the room and plug it into your 108" TV so you can watch it.

Okay, let's think about this for a second. You spend, I don't know, let's say 20 minutes downloading an episode of Scrubs (I'm including not only download time, but messing-around-with the computer time, blogging time, etc). You then spend another ten minutes digging out your USB doohickey and copying the show onto it. Then, you walk over to your TV, plug it in, and do it all again in reverse. Ever think that perhaps maybe computers haven't made our lives so efficient after all?

Okay, yes, I am the pot calling the kettle black. I love my iPod. I have a laptop. a TiVo. A Blackberry. and yes, a flat-screen hanging on the wall. But what I don't have is a desire to buy a gadget only to find out another gadget's been invented that's slightly better than the last gadget, making the one I have now horribly outdated and embarrasing to be seen with.

Now Bill Gates is telling us we all need servers in our house. Why? So that we can offer up our own "content" to all our various computers in the house. Oh, and so that we don't have to use that USBTV thing and can instead grab a show from the server on any TV that's networked. The hell with that, my kids are getting bikes.

I remember when Ma Bell gave up renting home phones, and offered them up for sale. I believe my parents even bought one. It was a rotary. They still have it. It still works. My dad has a Rockwell radial arms saw in his workshop that's older than I am, and at that age it's still far more accurate than my 2-year-old Delta table saw. Heck, just last week I took my $40 Craftsman cordless drill to Sears in hopes of getting a replacement battery, where I was told a new battery would cost me $53. Yes, you read that right.

With the renovation on our house came a ton of new, but relatively unusable, attic space. I think I'm going to rent out some of that space to permanently bury the old PCs, non-working televisions, dead cordless drills, palm pilots and Tivos so they don't make it to the landfill and pollute our streams. In fact I think I just stumbled on a new form of home insulation. yes folks, this house has an insulating factor of R-30 and because the walls are filled with Blackberrys!

Ironically, I don't think the heart of the problem lies with us, the consumer. We're not stupid. We're not going to buy crap we don't need just because it's there. Every gadget I ever bought, I bought for a good reason and to fulfill a need. Okay, so the plasma TV was a bit extravagant, but it's only a 37", making it about 450 lbs. lighter than an old fashioned CRT TV. and we needed a new TV anyway, as the old one (which lasted 14 years) was busted.

The problem lies with the manufacturers. They've somehow made the manufacturing process so easy, so efficient, and so mundane, that they think nothing of completely changing a gadget every couple of months to offer a new hot thing, throwing it up on the proverbial wall in hopes that it will stick.

Oh dead lord, I'm ranting. We'll, tomorrow's speech by Steve jobs at MacWorld will surely set me straight. Can't wait for that new iTV to come out.

Movie Review: Barnyard (a.k.a. "Bulls with teats")

Tonight we watched the animated movie Barnyard. The movie centers around a teenage cow named Otis, played by Kevin James (King Of Queens) who enjoys goofing around and taking nothing seriously. His father (Sam Elliott) is responsible for the safety of the farm animals and when something happens to dad Otis is thrust into a leadership position he's not ready for.

The story is completely familiar. In fact, it weaves a similar tale to Bugs Life, as Otis has to figure out a way to protect the barnyard from mean and hungry coyotes where in Bugs Life it was grasshoppers. Perhaps an even closer storyline is Chicken Run, since it involves chickens in peril and a goof-off assigned the task of protection. Overall the storyline was completely forgettable. It's been done.

What made this movie, however, were several things. First of all, the animals were drawn to look like squishy toys (see the pic). It was a very convincing bit of animation. You just wanted to reach up and squish them. Second was the party scenes. One major premise of the movie was that after the farmer went to bed, a complex arrangement of trapdoors, pulleys, and gadgets were used to instantly turn the barn into the scene of a serious hoe-down. Yes, again like Chicken run, but very well done. There was square dancing, stand-up comedy, musical performances, and even this strange "Cousin-It"-like dancing thing that roused up the joint.

Perhaps the best bit came when all the animals were having a rave party, and of course the nosy neighbor woman is peering out the window telling her husband, "Lou! Lou! I tell ya, that farmer's up to no good!!" The husband's response is priceless. I won't ruin it for you.

Of course, the attacking coyotes did a fine job of spoiling the moment for my easily-frightened five-year-old. Unfortunately the coyotes were not nearly as pragmatic or interesting as the grasshoppers from Bugs Life, but come on, we're talking Kevin Spacey versus David Koechner.

In the end, the kids got some major belly laughs, we watched some good animation, and there was a surprising lack of fart jokes. I'd give it a B+.

By the way, one thing bugged us as we watched this movie. Okay, so we're suburban folk and don't know nuttin' 'bout milking cows, but aren't males of the bovine species known as bulls? and do bulls have udders? I'm thinking not. And it turns out we're not the only ones thinking this.

PT 101

With a week of vacation over the holidays, we decided to focus more of our efforts on getting our younger one to recognize the virtues of the potty seat. I think it started something like this:

"C'mon sweety. Which would you rather do? Pee in a diaper that soaks it all up and gets it out of your way so you don't even have to think about getting up from your 15th time watching Wonder Pets this week, or hold it in until you can rush to this closet of a room, fumble with your zipper, and plop down on this cold, hard, porcelain throne to pee, noisily flushing it away along with your very own soul down the drain never to be seen again, followed by a thorough hand washing and re-dressing, only to rush back to Wonder Pets and discover that you missed the scene where the mouse with the pilot's helmet managed to get the team together and save the rhino stuck in the mud? I mean, really.

Come to think of it, I look forward to getting old and wearing Depends, so I won't miss any of Wonder Pets either.

We were actually moderately successful this week. My wife formulated a brilliant plan starting with the purchase of a display case containing little toy horses, which we set on top of the TV for the kid to see. We told her she would get a horse each time she successfully peed in the potty. So far she's gotten two horses, named Nichole and Michael. I believe her plan now is to mate them and make her own new horses, thus having no need for our silly plan.