Let's avoid the face plant

During my young and relatively uneventful childhood, my family was close with another family a block or so away. They had a boy a year younger than me, and from early in toddler-hood we were often paired up to do those typical childhood things together. As it is often said, we shared a playpen together from an early age. It was for the most part a marriage of convenience, a place where I could be dumped off by my parents or he could be dumped off by his on errand days. I haven't seen him in perhaps 25 years, but I recall, quite frankly, being much cooler than him. Now, please understand that this isn't saying much. From our parents' perspective, he was perhaps a less with-it Bart Simpson while I was a slightly more with-it Milhouse. In other words, to his parents I was the good son that the neighbor family never had. And I had no problem with this, because they owned a boat.

Each year I was invited to join them on their annual summer vacation to the family cottage in Cape Cod. It was during these excursions that I had my first crush, on the older sister who looked like a shorter, slightly less slender Valerie Bertinelli. Back then I would have easily placed money on the fact that (let's just call her) Valerie and I were destined for marriage. Not quite sure why it didn't pan out that way, but it seemed logical at the time. Nice Jewish girl, educated, worldly, and she could water-ski like a pro.

You're probably wondering where I'm going with this. I'm not quite sure I know yet, but hang on for the ride.

Valerie could slalom, jump wakes, and looked really good in a wetsuit (granted I was about 15 years old, so a pound of mashed potatoes would have looked really good in a wetsuit). She spent many days teaching her younger brother and me to ski. I recall struggling unsuccessfully to stand up on my skis numerous times each afternoon, only to immediately be yanked forward by the thrust of the boat and force-fed a jellyfish. Then one day it happened.

Easy now, this is not an end-of-innocence-with-my-buddy's-older-sister story from the pages of Hustler, it's about skiing. Sorry to disappoint, but remember my Milhouse point above and understand that anything about Valerie from this point forward would be a lie. If you're still with me, let's continue.

If you've ever water-skied, especially in the ocean, you know the experience. You float aimlessly in the water, warily scanning the surface for shark fins while attempting to keep the points of your skis skyward, waiting for the boat to maneuver into position. You give the driver a feeble thumbs up, and the engine roars. Rope goes taught, and your arms are yanked forward as if you're taking a pair of pit bulls for a walk and they just spied a squirrel. You focus all your effort on keeping those skis pointed forward rather than having one sucked under and ripping your shin off just below the knee, when suddenly you're standing. For the next 1.2 seconds, as you travel forward towards the churning from the boat's propeller blade, the water is as smooth as glass. The change in pressure on the tow rope causes it to go briefly and completely slack. at that very moment your brain must make a choice. You know how Wile E. Coyote soars of a cliff and hangs still in the air up to the moment he realizes he's about to plummet? It's kind of like that. Because in that next millisecond the rope is going to go taught again and you're either going to be ready to ski or you're going to be chewing jellyfish again. I distinctly remember my first time standing up. It was so amazing a feeling that I immediately panicked and did a face plant with extra flailing. But the next time it was easy.

Once you're up, the real tipping point occurs when you are no longer being pulled by the boat, and instead you take control. You can hang back and relax as the boat guides you. You can zip back and forth across the wake and do tricks. You can smile for the bikini babes in the passing boat without giving a moment's thought to the fact that your bathing suit really needs to be adjusted from all the dragging.

I recall that Valerie's brother didn't quite have the same experience I had. He managed to get up on skis as well, but found it impossible to stand up straight. His back remained completely bent forward and his arms over his head life jacket at his ears, as he was dragged through the Cape Cod Canal like an an upside down letter J. He never quite reached that tipping point. That night while I helped the dad get the boat cleaned up and the life jackets hung to dry, I beamed with excitement over my accomplishments while the brother sulked in a corner, pissed off with his mediocre performance and sore back.

So that's my ancedote. And why am I bringing it up? I'm not sure. But for some reason it popped into my head while watching last night's election. For the past decade we've been pulled by the rope, our heads down hoping we don't get dragged under. And we've gotten really pissed off about it. As of last night, we're standing up straight at last. Now we just need to avoid the face plant.

Good luck winning that one

I was browsing through the Sunday coupons today when I came across a sweepstakes that Birdseye was advertising. "Win a $25,000 kitchen makeover!" it said. Okay, always a sucker for a dollar figure with three zeroes before the comma, I thought I would check it out by going to their website. When I clicked on the registration page, I noticed a field asking for a UPC number. I thought that was odd, because right above it was the line "no purchase necessary". So, if no purchase is necessary, how do I find a UPC number? Funny you should ask. I clicked a handy "help" link which took me to the detailed rules and regulations for this sweepstakes. Here's where it got interesting.

First, the rules clearly stated that no purchase is in fact necessary. That is, instead of purchasing a Birdseye vegetable product you could a)go to the store and jot down the UPC number off a package of frozen peas for later entry into the site, b)send a SASE to Birdseye and they will mail back a UPC number you can use to enter into the site, but only from 12/21/2008 to 12/28/2008 (despite the fact that the sweepstakes is going on NOW) or c)click a special link and enter your email address so they can email you a UPC code for use also during that December time frame. In other words, If you want to enter just buy yourself a friggin' bag of corn. But that's not the REALLY interesting part.

I kept reading, and found out that registering doesn't actually give you a chance of winning. Nor does returning to the site each day, as it recommends you do. Instead, once you register and once you sign in you will...

...then see a screen displaying spinning images that land on three (3) images after a button is clicked. If three (3) of the three (3) images are identical matches, you will receive a message screen indicating that you are a potential Game Prize Winner. In order for your Game Play to result in your being a potential Game Prize Winner, it must have occurred either at the exact randomly predetermined winning time as determined by Sponsor and/or Circle One, or if no Game Play has occurred at the exact randomly predetermined winning time, then it must be the Game Play that occurred at the closest time immediately following the randomly predetermined winning time.

Did you follow that? You must play a random slot-machine style game. If that game shows a match of all three images AND it's the exact randomly-determined time of day during which you are playing, you are a POTENTIAL prize winner. If no one hit it at the right time, then the closest person immediately following the randomly determined time is a potential prize winner.

I always wondered if people actually win these things. Now I know the answer is only the ones with truly nothing better to do in life.

By the way, I do like the actual grand prize. "The Sweepstakes Winner will receive in the form of a Twenty Five Thousand Dollar ($25,000) Gift Card ("Gift Card") to a home improvement store in the Sweepstakes Winner's local area"

I think if I won that, I'd use it during my regular trips to Home Depot to buy screws and nails and such, just so I could repeatedly hear the dude behind the register say, "that'll be two dollars and thirty-eight cents off your gift card, and your balance is...um....twenty-four thousand, nine hundred seventy-eight dollars and thirty-two cents. Can you excuse me while I have the manager check my register?"

Use the danged keypad!

If you live in Pittsburgh, then you are likely familiar with Giant Eagle and their relatively new "self service" checkouts, where you get the pleasure and stress of scanning and bagging your own products. If you don't live in Pittsburgh, you're probably still familiar with the concept.

Normally, if I witness someone in front of me struggling to figure out the self service kiosk, I will pretend to scan the latest copy of People searching for news of Brangelina's latest offspring. However today I felt it necessary to butt in.

The lady in front of me was attempting to purchase lettuce. She had three types of lettuce with her. Surprise surprise, each was green, leafy, and looked relatively the same as the others. She was completely befuddled by the "produce" option in front of her, where she had to rummage through pictures upon pictures of fruits and vegetables until she found the correct species of lettuce she was looking for. Red leaf? Romaine? Bib? Boston? Iceberg? Who could tell? After a good two or three minutes of struggling, I leaned forward to share a little secret, which I am now sharing with the rest of the world.

In most stores, every item of produce comes with a 4-digit number on the bag, the rubber band, or on a sticker. On the self-service kiosk there's a big button that says, "use keypad". Press it. Then enter the code for your lettuce and press enter. The system will recognize the code, weigh your produce or ask you for a quantity, and tell you to move on. There, you just shaved two minutes off my day. Now get out of my way before my Benn & Jerry's melts.

Status update: The festering Craphole

I'm one month into my latest project, gutting and remodeling the kids' bathroom. My parents were in this weekend, and as is usually the case when they come in I put dad to work assisting me with details such as rewiring lights, ripping out toilets and flooring, and smoothing out walls.



We're now ready to paint and put the floor in. Only problem is, we've gone about this project a little backwards. Over the summer we visited Cape Cod, where we amassed a vast collection of nautically-themed objects such as shells and ceramic fish with which to decorate the walls. We have a shower curtain. We even have little decorative soaps. What we DON'T have are paint color selections, a decision on tile, or even an idea of which toilet and sink to buy.

And then there's the leak.

I'm not quite sure when I first noticed it, but for a while now there has been a small brown splotch on the kitchen ceiling. My first thought had been that with two little girls wallowing and splashing in the tub every other day, some water was bound to find its way out of the tub, under the floor, and into the sheetrock of our kitchen ceiling. However after ripping up the bathroom floor I found no such sign of a leak. Then, yesterday morning, I happened to glance at the splotch again and noticed it had changed color. I pressed it gently with my finger and discovered it was soft. And wet. The leak must be in the guest bathroom, which my parents have been using while staying here. Swell. This would definitely be the "other" part they talk about when they say "if it isn't one thing, it's another". Upon further investigation, it appears that the big round handle that operates the shower is leaking. Swell.

Have I mentioned I hate plumbing? Yes, I believe I have.

Eleven questions that will prove your brain is rotting away

This is a quiz for parents of young children. I've written it to serve as clinical proof that your brains are rotting away. You continually tell your friends and family that your kids watch the same shows over and over again and that you tune them out, but let's face it - you've memorized every line from Hannah Montana's theme song and then some. It will be stuck forever like Gorilla glue in the hypothalamus.

Take this quiz, jot down your answers, then click on the comments area to see how you did. If you get more than 75% right you should seek treatment immediately by renting the entire James Bond 007 series on DVD and watching it start to finish.

1. What kind of animal is Gary?

2. The gang from the Suite Life moved from a hotel to...

3. Did the monkey mail come?

4. Who's the dumber one, Zack or Cody?

5. Who plays Hannah Montana's dead mom?

6. Who is captain of the Wildcats?

7. Moose A. Moose doesn't like what kind of treat?

8. Who's afraid of Sea Snarks?

9. What's going to work?

10. Put it all together and you know...

11. Bonus question: What's the release date of HSM3?

Can I talk about my day?

Recently our household has fallen into what appears to be a new tradition. Each night at dinner, we each get to talk about our day. Now, it's not what it seems. It's not like we're the Cleaver family, and little Nancy gets to talk about her new bike with the shiny pedals while Beaver gets to describe how he hit a sody-pop can with his new slingshot. No, this tradition started as a way of curbing the insanity at the dinner table, and unfortunately it has gone horribly awry.

Dinner has always seemed to be way too chaotic. First there was the matter of cooking it. After a long day of dealing with two small children at home, Supermom understandably doesn't feel exactly energized to create a gourmet feast. No biggie, frozen corn is fine by me. But there was also the issue of simply clearing off the table enough to find a place to sit as a family and eat. Our dining table is adjacent to the TV room, so usually the daily viewings of Hannah Montana and Zack & Cody were held while either snacking or coloring at said table. Thus, in order to set it for dinner we first had to call in a wrecking crew just to clear it off.

Once dinner was served, there's the issue of the "get up" chair. The girls had a secret game where they determined that either mommy or daddy was in the get up chair, and with that chair came the responsibility of getting up to obtain refills of milk, macaroni, or steamed peas.

And then there was the general disorder of dinner. The slurping. The spills. The pretend fart noises. And the kids did all that too! We decided we needed to do something to bring the chaos down a notch, so we suggested going around the table and each talking about our day.

What we expected to happen was this. We expected to ask Natalie how 2nd grade was. We expected "good" as an answer. When asked what she did today, we expected a response of "nuttin." Instead, we were answered with a flurry of endless details about the sequence of events from math class to gym class to recess to lunch to the trip home on the bus to the latest details of the new Spongebob Squarepants episode that was Tivo'd last night. Exhausting yes, but certainly descriptive.

And then we turned to Jessica. Having just turned 5, Jessica's view of the world is pretty basic. If it's clay, I should play with it. If it's a crayon, I should color with it. And if it's my turn to talk, I make sure I get every last minute of my allotted time to talk without interruption.

Here's a typical response from Jessica when asked about her day:

"Today at...today...today at pre..at preschool, we made leaf...we made...leaf...paintings. Mine was a green leaf. And it was SOOOOO big! I never seen a leaf that big. And me and Benny...Benny...he chased me all the time today. I mean he chased me on the playground and tried to catch me but I ran too fast and he couldn't catch me. And...and...we had grapes for snack. And guess what! Guess what else I had daddy! For snack! Nope, it wasn't milk! Nope, it wasn't apple juice! It was...it was...Strawberry milk! But I didn't like it. I like white milk. And then....SISSY! STOP INTERRUPTING ME! Mommy, Sissy interrupted me and that hurt my feelings. Look Sissy, this potato looks like a car! And then mommy and I went after school to Target, and she bought me Hello Kitty pencils. And I had a hot dog! And...ooops. Hee hee...I farted. It was a real fart! And then we came home..and then...and then....wait...I forgot what I was going to say...what was it? Oh yeah, Daddy, when are we going to Disney again? We haven't gone to Disney all year and forever and I want to see the Little Mermaid show at MGM and remember the hotel with the log cabin and where Sissy threw up? I like flying."

As a result of all this, we're starting a new post-dinner tradition. Two Advil and a nap after every meal.

My sister's Big Fat Gay Wedding Cake

Seems I'm not the only member of the family getting stuff posted out in the hinterlands of the internet. My sister is a purveyor of fine pastries and cakes, and made this cake for a victory celebration in Hartford, CT after the State Supreme Court's ruling in favor of same-sex marriage last week. BTW she's available to bake for weddings, birthdays, bat mitzvahs, and coming-out parties.

I had another title to this post in mind, but my big fat sister made me change it. The meanie.

My second fifteen minutes

Boy, it seems this is the week for getting published. Or something like that.

Over the past year I discovered a woodworking website called The Wood Whisperer, managed by a real swell guy named Marc Spagnuolo. A professional craftsman, he enjoys making and posting videos of his work in an effort to share his skills, hints and tips and hopefully teach a little something to budding young woodworkers such as myself. I've learned quite a bit by watching his stuff.

Recently he offered up an area of the site called ""Shop of the Week", where individuals can post pics and descriptions of their own shops, or lack thereof. I got bored one day, so I sent mine in. And here it is.

Flickr gives me my 15 minutes

P1060880.JPG
Originally uploaded by daninhim

Flickr has given me 15 minutes of fame through a photo credit. I took this picture a while back of the stools at Klavon's Ice Cream Parlor, an authentic and nostalgic vintage ice cream shop in the Strip District in Pittsburgh. Recently I received an email from the editors of Creative Nonfiction, a non-profit currently launching a website called “Pittsburgh in Words,” as part of Pittsburgh’s 250th anniversary celebration. The site features classic nonfiction pieces about the city by well-known Pittsburgh authors, and they asked if they could use my photo for one of the stories, "The Beacon" by Gerald Stern. Here's the story. I'm touched. And, no I don't know who Foo is either.

Gutting the festering craphole

I've said it before and I will say it again. Young children are capable of many amazing things, but bathroom neatness is not one of them. I believe it has to do with not yet studying physics in school. They don't tend to understand how gravity affects the landing coordinates of toothpaste globs formed when brushing one's teeth with one's mouth open. They don't understand the effect of centrifugal (or is that centripetal, I forget) force on soapy, wet hands when doing a ballerina twirl to reach the hand towel on the wall opposite the sink. And that classic equation Force=Mass times Acceleration has no bearing on the way a child turns the faucet handle on full blast in order to fill a Dixie cup, sending the cup careening off the lip of the sink and onto the floor to rest amongst the vast array of wet bath towels, shower puddles, and soap-scum-caked bath toys already amassed on the bathroom floor.

My initial goal had been to redo the kids' bathroom only after that moment of shining epiphany when the girls realize it's better to spit toothpaste downwards into the sink instead of forward onto the mirror. But then the vanity door rusted off. And the faucet began to leak. And the sink stopper disintegrated into a pile of dust, hair, and brass shavings. No, we can't take any more of this. The time has come.

So consider this posting to be Chapter One of what may very well be a long and twisted saga of bathroom renovation. I expect to be dealing with situations like trying to explain to my four-year-old that orange and purple are not options for wall color. Or that there are no plans to add a sauna. Or that we are not replacing the shower with a hot tub like "the ones they have in Canada" (we stayed at a Canadian Hotel once and now she thinks only Canadian hotels have hot tubs).

Of course, daily life often gets in the way of projects such as these. In fact my neighbor informed me he started redoing his kids' bathroom two years ago, and there's still only a coat of primer on the walls. So, to force the issue, once day while the family was out shopping I took it upon myself to remove the sink. It shouldn't take too long before my lovely wife finds extra time in her very busy schedule to look through paint swatches and tile samples in an effort to get the kids to stop trashing the guest bathroom.

Tune in next time when our hero says, "Honey? Got the number for that plumber?"

My new toy

Okay, finally some pics of my new toy. This is a fun little car. Drives nice, not as good as it should be on gas, but very sure-footed, peppy, and zippy (which ironically are also the names of two of my daughters' Webkins).

Like a deer in headlights.

Well that was an experience straight out of a Revenge Of The Nerds script.

A friend invited me to play on a community volleyball league. I knew very little details about this league, except that the friend is a former collegiate volleyball player and in fact played against that player from the Olympics with the tape on her shoulder. So I figured it had to be a reasonable league.

There was an intro clinic last night. I invited my neighbor Jim along.

We got there a bit early, so there was only one other person in the room. Jim and I are standing there talking, my back to the door. Suddenly Jim has this stare on him like a deer in headlights. I turn around to see the North Allegheny High school girls vBall team walk in, in uniform. All 6-feet and taller, with legs up to their necks. Some of them extremely intimidating. Jim leans over and asks, "what the f** did you get me into?" I believe I replied with some sort of blubbering sound.

Turns out they had just finished a game, so their coach (the neighbor of mine) asked them to come and help with the clinic. All in all really fun night. The girls mostly kicked our asses but we managed not to injure ourselves. And I actually learned a few things. Like how I completely wasted my high school years. Again.

Don't try to talk me out of it.

Well, that was quick. Last week I was debating whether or not all the repairs I've been putting into our cars lately still make it cheaper than having a car payment. This week we're unloading the old blue mare for a new Subaru. There we go doing something impractical again. Well, SOMEONE has to fund the economy, I guess.

I was asked how it would feel getting rid of my ten-year-old Mazda 626, given we have had it longer than we've had our children. Sure, it's like selling a child, but in return we get a new one that is quieter, behaves better, and doesn't make a mess on the floor. If I could do that with my kids I would replace them too. And when my wife asks me if I would trade her in for a younger, faster model, I tell her yes and to leave me alone. Ah, "me" time!

This was a week of endless moral struggle. Do we do the theoretically-environmental thing and buy a hybrid? Do we go for gas mileage over comfort? Do we finance? Do we sell or trade in? Do we go with Obsidian Black, Spark Silver Metallic, or Satin White Pearl? Are we stupid for not waiting? Are we helping the terrorists? Does the fact that some guy on the internet called our new car's interior "craptastic" have any bearing? And is he comparing that to, say, a Yugo, or an Aston-Martin DB9? Man, what a stressful and unproductive week.

Truth is, we are only looking for a few things in a new car. Safety is #1 on my wife's list (I haven't told her yet that what I REALLY want is a motorcycle...or a jetpack...but that's a whole other issue). #2 is an Auto-stick. Actually I want a standard transmission, but she can't drive a standard, so an Auto-stick is the next best thing and will probably keep me from trashing my clutch in the end. #3 is an iPod connector. And I'm not talking some flimsy AUX port, but a real iPod dock connection so I can blast Depeche Mode with full digital clarity. And lastly, I want a solution for staving off a midlife crisis. I need to buy a car that, in eight short years, I could foresee handing down to my daughter once she starts driving, and sneaking out the back door one day to come home with a Boxter (or, by then, a jetpack).

In the end it came down to a Subaru Impreza (no, not the WRX...I really don't need to wrap myself around a Jersey barrier) or a Honda Fit. On paper and in my brain the Fit makes so much more sense. It's cheaper, much better on gas, more practical, more spacious. But when it came right down to it, I liked the Suby better. And in the end I found three winning justifications. First, which car could I see handing down to my daughter? Second, which car would get my wife to stop chickening out every time we wanted to drive a long distance in winter time when there might be a threat of snow? And third, do we really need another minivan (we have an Odyssey already)? So the Subaru (or as it's already been nicknamed, the Scoobydoo) comes out victorious. This damned thing better last for 300,000 miles like people say they do, or I'm never going to hear the end of it.

Now the question has come of what to do with the Mazda. I was planning on trading it in, but then my coworker expressed some interest in taking it off my hands. Knowing that my coworker's car, a Buick he picked up for $6k a year ago and has since spent an equal amount repairing, had a far worse record than mine, I didn't really feel uncomfortable selling my car to someone I knew. Plus I gave him full disclosure that included a complete maintenance log along with a detailed account of every gripe I ever had with the car. This included the possessed radio volume knob, the broken electric antenna, and the mystery rattle coming from somewhere around the catalytic converter. Despite that, it will likely be a done deal once my coworker gets the required SSA (second-spouse approval).

But to make things a bit more interesting, it turns out that this car would be for my coworker's son. And the son got money to buy the car from his grandfather. And the grandfather was my main professor in college. How's that for cosmic lattice of coincidence? So I'm thinking this car had better work out for him or else I risk having my Bachelor of Science revoked.

BTW many thanks to Dave in Texas who gave me perhaps the most detailed honest opinions on everything car-related I could have imagined, from tips on color selection to match my eyes to interest-bearing savings accounts from ING Direct. If I could have flown him up here to go shop for a car for me, I would have. Kudos as well to my friend Howard for introducing me to this OCD-riddled gearhead.

Pictures of my new child will be forthcoming once I actually buy the thing and get the roof rack installed. Hmm...if only one of my daughters came with a roof rack.

New Look! Same Great Taste!

My mama brought me up right. And by "right" I mean "as a cheap bastard". Despite not being the primary grocery shopper in the household (except when I get those 4:30pm calls to pick up sour cream on the way home from work), I regularly clip coupons, scour the local ads, and watch for sales on canned pineapple. Yes, it's a sad life really. If only my mom had let me play sports in school.

It appears that society has invented all the food products that need to be invented. All the vegetables have been discovered. We've killed every animal that looks like it might be tasty with BBQ sauce slathered on its hindquarters. So what's a manufacturer to do in order to keep our interests? Well, it seems that for quite some time now, selling the simple Oreo is no longer enough. Today, Oreos must be double-stuffed. And Chocolate coated. And inside out. And pink. And dare I say it, fried. Manufacturers are continually putting new spins on old products that are really nothing more than new packaging. How often have you seen a label on a box that says, "New Look! Same Great Taste!" Look honey! Our favorite Ritz Crackers now come in a big zipper pack, pre-crushed!

Recently my wife reported that Keebler now has a new Graham Cracker offering. It seems that the Keebler Elves held a focus group and determined that the average American was struggling with the task of breaking those rectangular crackers in half in order to construct a S'more. Oh, those jagged edges. Those accidental trapezoidal crackers. At last Keebler answered our call by producing a square graham cracker. Brilliant. Now if they would just get rid of the danged plastic wrap that you can't re-seal, so that after eating one cracker the rest don't go stale resting on the kitchen counter overnight.

Our local supermarket is considering building an entire wing on the store, solely dedicated to the sale of "100 Calorie Packs". Who decided 100 was the right number of calories? Is 100 calories worth of hostess cupcakes somehow better than, oh say, NO cupcakes? Or a pear? And why the hell does a potato chip that previously came in a large bag now have to be supplied in eighteen tiny bags, all packaged inside a box? Did someone recently decide there wasn't enough trash being thrown out in America? Are Americans not smart enough to control their own portion sizes? Okay, you got me on that one.

And then there's the ice cream I bought recently. Edy's "American Idol" flavors. Mint chocolate chip ice cream with special, more colorful packaging, and chopped up pieces of David Archuleta's dulcet tones mixed in. Fact is, it's still mint chip ice cream, but they charge extra for the swell hairdo on the container.

I am constantly astounded by the seemingly annual innovations released by the Kraft company to make Mac 'n Cheese that much more mindless to make. First, there was a box of noodles with a packet of powdered cheese dust. But Kraft realized the hardship of having to boil water in the old fashioned "heat it with fire" way. So they changed it up so you could quickly radiate the noodle water with but a modicum of effort. But then they realized what a hassle it was to actually was use a bowl. So not the noodles and cheese come pre-bowled. Just pour water in and nuke. Brilliant. I can't wait for the pre-chewed noodles to come out.

Alright, back to my coupon clipping. Oh look! Lego-shaped Eggos are on sale. Nifty. And part of this nutritious breakfast (of eggs, milk, Flinstones Chewable Vitamins, antioxidant-laced chai tea, and persimmons)!

Still cheaper than a car payment, or is it?

My wife and I haven't had to make a car payment in about 5 years. And its been swell. Her Odyssey has always been dependable, as has my Mazda 626. In the 9 years I've had it, I replaced a leaky coolant overflow tank and unplugged the electric radio antenna when it broke. Otherwise, no problems that a brake job or new tires couldn't resolve.

But then I did something stupid. I read the direction book.

Any car guy knows (not that I am one myself, I'm just sayin') that somewhere after a car hits 100k it's time to get the timing belt replaced. So at 107k, I decided to tighten the belt, so to speak, and cough up the 800 bucks to get it done. Unfortunately that $800 bill quickly doubled when the mechanic discovered that not only was the belt completely shot, but so were the pulleys it was riding on. All that and a couple other odds and ends brought forth a $1600 charge on my visa. Oh well, at least this means my baby's good for another 100k, right?

Wrong.

Since that visit to the shop a month ago, the muffler pipe rusted off, costing me another $350. Well, that was last week. Today I pulled into my driveway and noticed steam coming from the hood. It appears the radiator decided to suddenly empty itself. Through a hole in its side.

Okay, so let's say that radiator costs $300 to fix. Still, you say, that means I've only put $2250 into a car to give it some needed updating, right? Well sure. HOWEVER, the week after the ordeal with the timing belt, the Odyssey decided to develop an evil shudder that lead to $800 in brake work. And last Sunday, I blew out a tire - of course, not the tire that had the warranty or road hazard protection, but one of the older tires that would have just squeaked by inspection, which lead to another $350 for two new tires. So in the past month we're surpassing $3k in car repairs. And neither car has actually had its annual inspection yet.

Today, we realized something. If we hold onto both cars as long as we can, chances are good that both cars will need to be replaced at the same time. I'm not ready for two car payments. A friend of mine went through that. He took his wife shopping for a new car and, as he pulled into a dealer lot, his current car did an imitation of the Bluesmobile after the final chase scene of Blues Brothers ended. The next day he was the proud owner of a Prius AND a Highlander with two nice shiny car payments to boot.

I'm starting to think my Zoom Zoom's gotta go out back for a talkin' to Old Yeller style.

There are two things that suck most about this:

1. It would mean basically throwing away two grand worth of car repairs
2. Given the state of gas prices, the economy, and the dearth of cars that get good mileage, I have absolutely no idea what to buy right now, nor do I want to buy right now.

Ironically if it does go, I won't miss this car too much. It's been good to me, but it's just a car. Before that I had a Wrangler. I miss my Wrangler. And before that, I had a Ford Probe. I miss that too.

Well, tune in tomorrow when our hero says, "you want how much???"

Oh, if we could do it all over again

This just reeks of class, I'll tell you what. Click here to feel good about yourself again.

Peanut butter and Jewry

A friend forwarded me this link to a story about a town in Alabama, known as the Peanut Capital of the World, that is offering financial aid upwards of $50,000 to Jewish families willing to relocate there in hopes of increasing its Jewish population. The town is just minutes from the Florida border (I hear there's Jews there!) and is "dotted with big fiberglass peanuts painted to resemble characters and people — there's even an Elvis peanut."

http://www.comcast.net/articles/news-general/20080908/Recruiting.Jews/

Someone needs to tell these good folks that peanuts ain't kosher for Passover.

Par-Tay for whom, exactly?

Okay, someone obviously ain't reading my blog. If they did, they'd know that I ain't no fan of playsets.

My daughter's 8th birthday party was this past weekend, which means there's a new pile of crap (and I mean that in the nicest way) to unleash on the playroom. There's the set of High School Musical bedsheets, the Paint-Your-own Wall clock, and the Smoothie Maker. And hidden away amongst the rubble, unfortunately, are a couple of playsets.

Okay, the Barbie The Baker set was bad enough, but I have to wonder what the product designers were thinking when they came up with the Polly Pockets Club Groove Par-Tay Bus.



The concept seemed simple enough. It's the ultimate ride with a dance club inside! Take two vapid blonde bimbo girl dolls with microphones, and package them up in a rock-themed party van that blatantly rips off the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine. Make the van magically transform into a sound stage complete with disco ball, turntables, velvet ropes, and elevator. And if that didn't make enough sense for you, make the conversion from van to sound stage so complex that a parent is required to read eight pages of instructions and review a detailed schematic designed on a CAD program in order to figure out how to convert the exhaust manifold of the minivan into a dressing room. You read that right.

Transformers have always been amazing feats of engineering. This thing is not. To convert from a van to a stage, you must disassemble all the pieces, and then attach them in completely non-logical ways. The roof of the van becomes an elevator. The rear bumper, a bench seat. The front windshield, a second-story balcony. The disco ball, well, that is just a disco ball. There are 48 pieces smaller than a thimble. There is also no way of storing these pieces when not in use. After thirty minutes of trying to make sense of the directions, my daughter looked at me and said, "dad, wanna go play with the Wii?"

The pile of pieces have been sitting in the corner of the living room since yesterday afternoon, untouched.

So people, remember...playsets look great in the box, and that's where they should stay. Save the planet, save the landfills, and most importantly keep the dad from having a stress-induced coronary.

Father of the year nomination

Every once in a while I manage to get up off my butt and transform myself into what would appear to be a reasonably cool dad. I should do that more often, because soon enough no matter how hard I try my daughters will eventually see me as the dork that I truly am and not want to be found anywhere near me. Yesterday was one of these special occasions, being the date of Natalie's 8th birthday party. Remember that scene in the movie "Parenthood" when Steve Martin dresses up as a cowboy and appears at his son's birthday party on a real horse? I was shooting for that level of amazement, though I think I managed somewhere on the safe end of the range between Steve Martin and that guy who tried to sell his kids to a Phillipino sweatshop.

It appears that birthday #8 is one of the last hurrahs, the last time parents seem to be required to go all out and spend hundreds of dollars on pony rides, Build-A-Bear reservations, or moon bounces before the next year when sleepovers become the norm. However, being the cheap scrooge that I am, I was determined to resurrect the idea of a good ol' backyard barbecue rather than feeding the consumerism machine. Lucky for me, those fine folks in Beijing gave me an idea. I sold Natalie on the idea of a Backyard Olympics, complete with opening ceremonies, team competition and gold medals.

The night before the big event, I spent hours hot-gluing chocolate coins to ribbons and coming up with goofy names for picnic games like the Hangin' On By A Thread Tug-O-War and the Hanna Montana Banana Bonanza, while the wife dutifully gathered plasticware and drink boxes.

Somewhat unexpectedly, every girl that Natalie invited to the party accepted the invitation, meaning we were host to 23 screaming little girls, a number that even in their heyday was probably daunting to folks like The Beatles and Vanilla Ice.

My evil plan for the day included a number of backyard games involving potato sacks, water balloons, and blindfolds. The girls were divided into two teams (the Pink Cyclones and Purple Infernos). The opening ceremonies began to the Olympic Fanfare playing on the outdoor speakers (thank you peer-to-peer sharing sites) and, while I decided to forgo the two thousand and eight synchronized drummers for budget purposes, I even had the birthday girl ascend the steps of the deck to light the Olympic Tiki Torch and announce the start of the games.

Overall the competition was quite a success and conveniently ended with a tie between the two teams. The injury list was low, with only one skinned knee, a bee sting, and some rope burn. The highlight of the games came at the end of the water balloons, when one of the more astute (read: evil) children discovered the stash of extra water ballons and gathered her fellow Olympiads together in a terrorist plot to turn the World's Coolest Dad into the World's Wettest Dad. The plan worked, especially when the hired help (our babysitter) assisted by grabbing a handy five-gallon bucket of water and dumping it on my head (she's like totally fired, by the way). I also found that I am no match for 23 little girls in a tug-o-war.

At the end of the day, when the girls dragged their exhausted limbs home coming down from highs of frosting, chips, and adrenaline, as if being one heck of a party host wasn't enough the birthday girl insisted that I join her on a test run of one her new gifts, the Hannah Montana Wii game. It was then that she learned that her World's Coolest Dad has the musical rhythm of your average bowl of Oatmeal. Well, you win some, you lose some.

Amen to that.

Cow Magnets

So my friend Howard posted a links to a couple of interesting stories about cows this week. Funny, he usually focuses on politics, but I'm thinking there's not much going on in politics this week. Either that or his FIOS is busted again.

First, it seems that more and more these days cows are being fed things like potato chips and M&Ms, because farmers can get deals from the factories that make junk food to purchase leftovers on the cheap. Mmmm...now imagine slathering that cow with butter. There's your Good Morning Burger right there!

Second, there's a story about how a study was done by people with extra time on their hands, and it turns out a vast majority of cows stand facing magnetic north. I have a theory as to why.

I just finished reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Critics were overwhelmingly positive about this book, but frankly I thought it was a fabulously written mediocre story. The author did an absolutely incredible job building the setting for the story in tremendously vivid, intentionally rambling detail, but while half of me loved that side of the book the other half was extremely annoyed at how little actually HAPPENED in the story in close to 600 pages. Up to the very end he has you on the edge of your seat waiting for the big reveal, and afterward you say, "that's it?" In case you are into this sort of thing and plan on reading it I won't stop you, but I will make mention of something I first learned about while reading this story.

Cow Magnets.

It seems that since cows graze in the grass (when they aren't chowing down on Pringles and M&M's), they tend to pick up pieces of metal such as barbed wire bits, nuts and bolts, and the like. Farmers feed 3-inch cylindrical magnets to the cow, and the magnet picks up the chaff that the cow swallows, keeping the nails and such from causing something fittingly called "hardware disease". Huh. Hardware disease. Anyone who's seen the mess of buckets under my workbench knows I have a little bit of that myself.

My point being, whatcha got yerself her is a bona fide cow compass. If I had a chunk of magnetized iron in my 4th bonivial meta-colon I'd probably face due north too.

Too cool for school work

P1090156
Originally uploaded by daninhim

In an effort to catch up on a little blogging I thought I'd post a pic of my most recent woodworking project. Now that Thing#1 is entering 2nd grade, she needs a place to do her calculus homework. A coworker moving out of town offered up a few sheets of mdf and plywood that she didn't want to schlep in the moving van, so I jumped on the opportunity and build Natalie this desk and bulletin board. As is the case with most workshop projects, I learned a few things along the way. Like the fact there's a right way and a wrong way to hang doors (one of these days I need to deal with the fact that the drawer face is crooked). Or the fact that one should always plan ahead to make sure the project, once built, can make it's way out of the workshop and to its final resting place using available manpower and without denting the door frame.

On a more informational note, I came across this polyacrylic finish from General Finishes. This stuff is great. It's a clear glop that, coming out of the can, kinda resembles phlegm. But after laying three coats of it on the desktop, the surface is now impervious to dents, scratches, and perhaps even stinger missiles. I'm considering painting the entire inside of the house with it.

A missed opportunity

The Olympics are now over. I can resurface. Okay, so that's not really the reason I haven't written for a while, I've just been short on fodder. Fodderless, as it were. But, today I had a sad thought.

I realized that I missed a grand opportunity to excel as a parent these past couple of weeks. You see, we let the kids watch much of the amazing Olympics opening ceremonies, but failed to do so much as debrief them on any of the competitions that happened throughout. You see, when they are awake, and the TV is on, usually it's Hannah Montana or some crap like that. Because I'm so used to simply NOT watching TV during the day, I never once thought to put the daytime coverage of the events on TV instead. and the events that unfolded in the evening occurred after their bedtimes. So our household was Phelpsless. Boltless. Completely without Costas. I know I know...Tivo....

Today while driving home from work I caught a snippet of NPR All Things Considered, the portion where they read listeners' letters. One writer commented about how he agonized over letting his kids stay up so late, but after Phelps won his awards and the kids dashed across the street to do their best imitations of him in the neighbors' pool, he realized how justified he was letting them witness these amazing events as they unfolded. Suddenly I felt guilty. Cuz I didn't.

We had Tivo'd the closing ceremonies, and as many know there was a final mens' volleyball competition against Brazil as part of that recording. I mentioned it to the kids, and we watched. Jessica (and her mother) got bored and cranky after ten minutes, but Natalie and I stared riveted (I'm a huge Vball fan anyways). By the last game Natalie was hooting and hollering and jumping on the couch. She was so completely excited to see the USA win a medal, she went to sleep singing "God Bless the USA" with a grin on her face.

Well, at least that made me feel a little better.

Good news is that her birthday party is next week, and her brilliant yet slow-thinking dad is planning an Olympics of our own in the back yard. Chocolate coins hot-glued to ribbons will serve as medals, and instead of track & Field and Swimming we'll have the Monkey & Banana race and tug 'o war. Should be fun. Stay tuned.

I'm in gripe mode this week.

As I mentioned in my last post, part of our adventure to OfficeMax included getting ripped off by the price of printer ink. I know, get in line. As I mentioned, we us a Canon Pixma ip5200. It's actually quite a nice printer. It does photos well, it's fast and quiet, and it prints two-sided. And, as I mentioned one of the "selling points" at the time was that each ink comes in it's own cartridge, so you only need to replace the ones you use up instead of wasting the other inks when one color runs out.

Bullfeathers.

Last night I printed twenty copies of an invitation to my daughter's birthday party. It was 4-color, with a couple of photos, and the design was pretty heavy on yellow.

After copy #4, the yellow ran out. I replaced it. After copy #5, the cyan ran out. After copy #6, the magenta ran out. After copy #10, the black ran out.

Good thing I didn't waste all that cyan, magenta, and black when I replaced the yellow.

I'm really considering one of the new printers Kodak is proclaiming will save a ton of money on ink, as their replacement cartridges are only ten bucks for black and 15 for 5-color. Plus with their current sale, you get 4 extra blacks and three color carts with the printer for $149. Considering we just spent around fifty bucks for a set of 5 colors for the canon which will probably last 4 months, this seems like a really good deal. Plus I've been considering buying a scanner for a while.

Trouble is, I can't get a good handle on the reviews of this thing. Some people say it's the greatest thing ever. some say it's horrible. So which is it? Bear in mind most of the printing we do tends to NOT be photos, but rather printouts from websites or color pictures of favorite webkinz characters. But how well it print? And also how well does it scan? Help me Obi Wan, you're my only hope.

Okay, on to my next gripe.

About a month ago I hopped onto the website for Thule car racks to buy a couple of replacement parts. Recently I had to remove the roof rack from our van and discovered two of the "feet" had rusted solid. As a result I had to cut them off. Thule has this handy website from which you can order replacement parts, but the problem as you can see here it listed the foot (the part I needed) as out of stock. but I found it odd that the full kit at the top was available. So I called them.

The nice lady I spoke to told me that this part is no longer manufactured. She said they DO have some in stock, but don't advertise it on the website because they are running low. But regardless she took my order and told me they'd be shipped out in a day or two.

A day or two later, I received ONE foot. Well, that's useful.

I found it odd that the packing slip said quantity=2, so I called them. This guy named Frank, in the Quebec office, told me that this was because the second foot was backordered. I asked him how could they be backordered if they are not manufactured anymore. He paused for a moment, and then I distinctly heard the sound of a metal file drawer opening. Then he said, "I've got one here, I will ship it out to you."

That was nine days ago.

Today I called Thule back, and got Frank again. I asked him what happened to my second foot. He told me that "according to the computer it said there were more in the warehouse, but that was wrong and instead they need to ship from the other warehouse, and that was going to take another week."

You know, when I was a kid, my mom would often drag me along during her visits to the supermarket. And whenever a new flavor of Pop Tarts caught my eye, she would always give me the same sneaky answer. "Those are on sale at the other store.," she would say.

To this day I've never been to "the other store."

Anyone need a roof rack with only three feet?

OfficeMax Promotions and logic

Every once in a while OfficeMax has a "15% off everything that fits in this bag" promotion in the Sunday paper. You take the paper bag with you to OfficeMax and, like it says, get 15% off anything that fits in the bag. It just so happened that we needed a few things, so we took the bag to the store yesterday and purchased about about $50 worth of items. As the headset-wearing drone(what's up with those things, anyways? what are these guys, Navy Seals?) behind the register rang up the items and placed them on the counter, I put them back in the promotional paper bag, thinking I'd use it to take my new purchase home and use the bag to hold old newspapers for recycling later.

But no, the cashier told me he had to confiscate that bag so I didn't try to use it a second time, and he transferred everything into an overly large plastic bag, tossing the paper one into a trash can behind him.

What the?????

Hasn't Al Gore taught these people anything? I had a perfectly good recyclable bag in my hand, but no, that goes into the trash, which I'm sure will be tossed in a landfill, and instead I get to waste a plastic bag.

I'm pretty sure OfficeMax sells markers. Anyone think that maybe a better practice would be to grab a sharpie and scribble "USED" across the paper bag? Brilliant, I know. I want credit for that idea when they start doing it. And yes, I wrote an email to OfficeMax. I'm just that annoyed.

I should also mention that one of the reasons we went there was to get raped on new inkjet cartridges. We have a Canon Pixma printer that has 5 separate cartridges, and in theory you "only replace the ones you need." In reality they all empty at the same time, so the theory is complete marketing bullshit.

Normally I would hunt the web to find a good deal on cartridges, but we needed them in a hurry so we figured the 15% promotion would be good enough. When we got there I learned that they now sell an OfficeMax-branded version of the Canon cartridges, at a discounted price. Great. Except that they don't sell the 5-pack, only individual colors. And if you add up the price of the individual colors of the OfficeMax-branded ones, the price is exactly the same as the 5-pack Canon-branded set. Again. Brilliant.

The Vomitron claims another soul

I've been reduced to applesauce. Here I am, it's 12:57am and, in a desperate attempt to nourish my recently emptied body, I am carefully and tentatively spooning applesauce. The Vomitron has claimed another soul.

This evening's festivities involved going to a local church fair. All the good stuff was in attendance. Sugar coated funnel cakes, teenage girls texting each other in their short shorts and straight, lifeless hair, and Carnies hawking cheaply made stuffed Care Bears behind booths falsely advertising easy wins. And of course, there were rides. As a dutiful dad of an almost-eight-year-old, I was ready to show my girl the wonder of the spinning steel monsters with minimum height requirements.

I've never been squeamish about bile-inducing carnival rides, but over the past few years I have noticed my stomach acting more and more questionably with every spinning teacup, every looping roller coaster. And as we approached the shining yet rickety centrifugal force experiment, I'm pretty sure my belly button mouthed the words, "dude, I suggest the carousel."

I ignored my belly button.

Natalie and I mounted the steps and took our places in the circle of fun-seekers, and the churning began. As she squealed in excitement, I looked for stationary items on the horizon on which to focus in a futile attempt to maintain control, all the while holding back my hot dog and fries like a pit bull trainer holds back his killer dog. I survived the ride, but thought about finding a discrete tree to grab hold of before my legs gave out. It was a comfortable, cool evening, and I was sweating profusely. My feet were numb, and the sounds of the carnival around me were quickly dissolving into a muffled hum in the back of my head.

The wave of sickness eventually began to clear. That's when Natalie asked to go on the Octopus.



Off in the distance I saw my next challenge, one of those rides with eight two-person cars on the ends of long arms, the arms rotating around a central axis allowing the cars to spin freely and wildly depending upon the distribution of weight. I thought that I saw a central handlebar in each car that would allow passengers to maintain control of the spinning. I thought wrong.

As this pathetic yet dutiful dad mounted the ride with his grinning daughter, I searched in vain for that handlebar but to no avail. The ride began, and it was then that I learned that the 120-pound difference between our weights was quite an enabler. The car began spinning wildly.

The ride lasted exactly two rotations too long. Even Natalie said so. I finished off the ride the color of Kermit the Frog; she was a shade of Gonzo.



The good news was I didn't lose it at the carnival. The other good news was that the friends we were with had decided, while Natalie and I were doing our best imitations of smoothie makers, that their three-year-old had had enough and it was time to go. I barely remember the ride home, other than leaning out the window with the wind in my face, hoping not to chuck in their brand new Highlander.

When I got home, after about a half hour of sitting on the bathroom floor shivering and sweating, my intestinal fortitude gave way, and the funnel cake came back up with a show of violence not seen since the last Jason Statham movie.

I went straight to bed, but now at a little past midnight I've realized I don't have the nutrition in me to last until morning. The safe choice seems to be applesauce. It appears to be staying down.


Update: I forgot to mention that this was Natalie's first experience in memory of her father using the word "Shit." I believe it was fully justified.

Immaculate Conception?

Well, the Evening of Solitary Wonder went as planned. While Hilary was off at the resort with things #1 and #2, I managed to build a complete, to-scale replica of the Basilica in Rome carved from a single piece of curly Bubinga down in my workshop, watched Transformers with only slight damage to one eardrum, and not once did I have to listen to what I'm listening to right now, which is the sound of my four-year-old screaming at the top of her lungs from the timeout chair proclaiming she wants to be second in the shower instead of first.

Perhaps the only flaw in my plan was forgetting to disconnect the phone. It rang at least a half dozen times throughout the night, the caller ID usually informing me that some durned fool family member was checking to see if I was enjoying my night off from the family. People, stay with me here.

On to another subject. So we've got this fish. A blood parrot South American Cichlid. He's been acting kinda funky lately. First, he's taken to rearranging his tank, by pulling up all the plants and by sucking up gravel in his mouth and spitting it into various corners such that the bottom of the tank resembles the topography of the Adirondacks. Second, he's taken to hiding away in a corner behind the sunken pirate keg and when we approach the tank he'll puff himself up to twice his normal size and charge straight at us till he bumps his noggin on the glass, over and over again.

First, I thought Goldie was just in need of a hobby. Now I'm starting to wonder if something else is up. Something involving planned parenthood. So I decided to pull the tank out a bit and peer around to get a good look at Goldie's little hideout in the back of the tank, and there on the bed of gravel I noticed what looked kind of like tiny pieces of rice in a bed of algae. Neither makes sense, since I just cleaned out the tank last Sunday. There's no algae in the tank right now, and there certainly shouldn't be any sand. I started to wonder...could this be some sort of fish eggs? Does Goldie have a nest? Is he a she? None of this makes any sense, since Goldie lives alone except for an algae sucker that never comes out of the pirate keg. If anyone out there knows anything about the odd habits of South American blood parrot cichlids, do tell. The last time Goldie was in a tank with another fish (besides the sucker) was about four months ago. What's the gestation period for cichlid babies? I'm not sure I want to know.

I'm giddy with anticipation

Have I mentioned lately I have a wonderful wife? She obviously must love me, because she's giving me a fabulous gift later this week. She's made reservations at Oglebay, a resort in West Virginia, and hasn't invited me to come along. Instead, she's taking the kids, leaving me home to fend for myself for 48 hours.



I've slept in our house alone exactly once. It was the day Natalie was born. After 18 hours of grueling labor (trust me, it was exhausting, I don't know how I survived it), I came home around 6am and slept for a good ten hours, or at least until Cousin Vivian called and woke me up to explain how traumatic it was thirty years ago when her uterus exploded (I will never forgive her for that). So after almost 8 years, the house is mine again.

And what sort of debauchery do I have planned for my night at home alone?

Well, first I'm probably going to clean the house. As any parent knows, cleaning a house with kids around is like trying to mark a path of Reese's Pieces while E.T. follows you. It's really pointless. I just want one evening where I can sit down on the couch without impaling myself on a Barbie doll.

Next, I will head down to the workshop. And NOT expect to be called back upstairs five minutes later to resolve a fight over who gets to log into Webkins just as my fingers are coming a little too close to the table saw blade.

Then, I think I'll do a little bit of research into audio performance. Having two children that go to bed early (or one would hope) and a wife who insists on watching a movie with the volume so low I need the subtitles for the hearing impaired on (seriously), I've never had my surround sound system to a volume level loud enough to be heard over the flickering of a votive candle. Well, I've got the Transformers movie coming from Netflix tomorrow, and the volume's going up to eleven baby. So don't call, cuz I won't be answering the phone.

Oh, and don't stop by expecting to visit, either. All of the above will be done naked. Except maybe the part about the table saw.

Really it's a sad, sad life I live.

Time for an airing of the grievances

There have been a multitude of things annoying me lately, so you need to feel my pain. Let's get right to it.

First on the list, credit card fraud. The other day I got my Visa statement to find three identical charges on June 12 for blockbuster.com, for about ten bucks and change each. Being a Netflix user, I found it a little disconcerting. After a little investigation I learned that some varmint filled out three applications for blockbuster.com and thus got three free movies, all with false names but using my credit card number.

Who let that happen? Isn't the name on the application and the name on the credit card supposed to match? did anyone check the application? Run the credit card? The nice folks at Blockbuster customer service in fact told me this happens "all the time". Nonetheless, she asked me four times during the conversation if I'd like to take that thirty dollars worth of charges and, rather than get a refund, open up a Blockbuster.com account of my own. Right.

And why do I have to spend five bucks to get the credit card fraud affidavit notarized before I can be refunded the $32 in charges? Why is it important that some guy working at the local Kinkos put his signature on a piece of paper before I send it in to the credit card company? I think I need to start a career as a notary, as it appears this is perhaps the easiest way to make five bucks on earth.

Next up, Costco. Two weeks ago we purchased a couple of big 'ol floor pillows for our living room. One red, one green. We figured we'd exchange the color we didn't like for mate to the one we did. Upon returning to Costco with the red one I discovered there were no more greens to be had in the store. And they couldn't call around to other Costco stores, because all the colors fall under the same upc code. And they're not available online. Swell. So much for state-of-the-art inventory systems. Anyone need a green floor pillow?

And then there's the takeout lunch I had yesterday. I stopped into this sandwich shop I'd never been to before. As I was waiting for my grilled veggie wrap I noticed a sign that said the cups in which they provide drinks are corn-based, biodegradable cups. Very progressive of them, ignoring for a moment the argument of whether or not we're using too much corn in this country. So why did they provide me with my takeout sandwich in a Styrofoam container double-bagged in two plastic shopping bags? People, come on now.

Last but certainly not least,let's talk about cars, car repair, and indicators of pending destruction. A couple of weeks ago I determined my ever-faithful Mazda 626, with 107k miles on it, was due for a timing belt change. That $800 repair at the Mazda dealer turned into a $1600 repair quickly when I found out that not only was the timing belt about to break off, but the pulleys that the belt rode on were screwed as well. To make life even more fun, once I got the Mazda back I brought the Odyssey in to National Tire And Battery for brake work, as the whole front end was shuddering when slowing to a stop. Boom, there was another $792 worth of repairs. Now, only a week after getting the Mazda back, a system malfunction light has appeared on the dashboard. Two days later, the exact same warning light appeared on the Honda. Coincidence? I think not. Conspiracy? Most likely.

I could go on, but I have breakfast to eat.

I'm on vacation, gimme a break

Okay, so Renovating Parenthood has been a tad dry in terms of content lately. What do you want from me, it's summer! There's lawns to mow! Porches to rebuild! Chipmunks to poison!

And despite the media's insistence that we should all be planning our staycations this summer, the family unit and I decided to buck the system and get out of Dodge last week. Off we went to Baltimore, home of those baseball-playing Oreos. The last time we really went anywhere as a crew was Niagara, where it disgusted me to feel I was dumping the contents of my wallet over Canada for mediocre entertainment and lousy fast food. Oddly enough the same sort of wallet-cleaning occurred in Baltimore, but frankly I was okay with it. Baltimore is a fabulous town, and we enjoyed spending our money there.

While kudos goes to the wife for excellent planning and hotel arrangements, I take responsibility for making the drive to Baltimore completely blissful. The key was my brilliant idea to have the girls, armed with their dvds and snack foods, buckled in about a mile behind us virtually out of earshot in the third row of the Odyssey. Until Honda includes a cone of silence as optional equipment, that's about as good as it's gonna get. Stress-free drive means a stress free daddy.

My wife selected the Inn at Henderson's Wharf as the place to park our weary behinds during the stay. She couldn't have found a better spot. A converted tobacco factory right on the water, it was a fantastic place. If you're headed to Baltimore I highly recommend it.

During the week we did the typical touristy things. We rode the Duck Boats, spent a dad admiring the fishies in the fantastic Baltimore Aquarium, and ate more ice cream than one really should in an average week. We even checked out the B&O Railroad Museum, followed by a day visiting friends in Annapolis, and had a chance to tour the gorgeous Annapolis Harbor and ogle the yachts.

So, now we're back. I promise to be a better grandson. I promise to write more. Really I do.

A hero gone

Sorry, it's been a while since the last writing, but I would be remiss if I were to not post something about this week's celebrity loss, George Carlin.

Growing up, I had two role models in my life: Kermit the Frog and George Carlin. Sure, you might ask, "what about your dad?", but I would point out that in my twisted memory of childhood Kermit and my dad were the same, um, person. Ask my sister and she'd say the same.

I grew up with Carlin. I said my first dirty words with Carlin. Some day I will find out what a few of them actually mean.

I was introduced to George in the 80's with Carlin At Carnegie. I distinctly remember standing next to the TV sometime around the fifteenth viewing of the special, my finger poised on the "record" button of my cassette tape recorder (the one I also used to plug into my Timex Sinclair 1000) so I could record the audio and listen to it over and over again. And I did. Over and over again. Back then I could recite the first 90 or so words from George's complete dirty words list from memory. And I did. Over and over again. Somewhere in the basement is the complete list, but no matter. This week I confirmed that Carlin At Carnegie is forever available on YouTube. Enjoy.

If it wasn't for George, I wouldn't know what to say when I opened the refridgerator and came across an empty plate (Did something east something else?).

If it wasn't for George, I wouldn't have known that the Mexican Hat Dance was written by two people.

George made me snicker every time the flight attendant said, "please check the overhead compartments for any belongings you might have brought on board with you (well, I MIGHT have brought my arrowhead collection).

George taught me that the object of baseball was to GO HOME.

George taught me that woodpecker was the tragic next stage of pussyfoot.

George taught me that a fart's a fart, and that's that.

Ironically, this week I've been introducing my daughters to Season 1 of The Muppet Show on DVD. Timeless classics. As an adult, I have a new found respect for Kermit, and see how he did in fact shape my life. Kermit was the leader, the anal retentive organizer, trying to make sense and order of the weirdness around him. That's me. But I also noticed one thing I had never realized watching the Muppets as a kid.

Kermit was quite the horndog.

Forget about Miss Piggy for a moment. In two of the first three episodes of Season one, Kermit and his cohorts hosted Juliet Prowse and Connie Stevens. Both babes. And Kermit could have had either one of them. Had it not been for the G-rating of the Sunday night show, he would have. he's just that charming.

Somehow, I didn't pick up that trait growing up.

A little Fathers Day Rasta, mon

Sunday was, in my humble opinion, a perfect Fathers Day.

After sleeping late, my kids surprised me with the power tools that I bought a few days earlier and had my wife hide (how did they know???). We then spent much of the morning cleaning the garage. Now, you're probably thinking, "what the heck kind of Fathers Day event is that? Well, the important part of that last sentence is the word "we". You see, my family actually HELPED me clean the garage. I believe it's a first. It obviously WAS a special day.

In the afternoon (and a beautiful afternoon it was), the four of us went to a concert in a park. It was a Reggae Band called Spiritual Rez. We had gotten there early, so we were fairly close to the front. There was quite the collection of hippies, stoners beatnicks and freaks there. All good people, mind you.

About a half hour before the concert started, Natalie noticed a gypsyish-looking woman in a sun dress with a pretty freaky tattoo down her back; she was hula hooping. Natalie got up the guts to go ask to try it herself, and instantly become the star of the crowd (I had no idea she was such a good hula hooper).

Then, the concert started, and both Natalie and Jessica decided to dash up to the very front and center and dance, nonstop, for at least 45 minutes. Now, given this was a Reggae concert, the crowd was feeling the vibe, and there was plenty of dancing going on. Natalie was right in the center of it all. The image of Natalie, wearing a very preppy teal-colored short sleeve shirt, khaki capris and, and Disney Princess sandals, strutting her moves (picture Elaine from Sienfeld) in amongst about 50 or so of these stoners, hippies, and free-loving rasta tatooed creatures was absolutely priceless.


We're talking skinny dudes in cargo shorts with no shirts, scruffy wastoids in dreadlocks and rasta caps, numerous young ladies dressed for the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, and even a guy with a backpack full of juggling pins (hey, we love you all, 'mon). The whole scene got even better when the lady with the hula hoop gave it to Natalie again so she could show off in what was effectively a mellow mosh pit. The crowd was eating it up, Natalie was feeding off the attention. And me without my damned video camera.

In an effort to give the younger sibling her moment in the bloglight, I must also mention the events of the day before. Jessica had her first ballet recital. She and a dozen or so of her 4-year-old classmates were the opening act in a two-hour grand presentation, performing in precise synchronicity to the tune of Snuggle Puppy. Okay, maybe no so precise. But holy crap there is nothing cuter than a dozen 4-year-olds in tutus clutching stuffed animals and attempting to keep in step with one another. The highlight, I believe, was when the girls were to skip in a circle, and the young lady next to Jessica appeared to forget the next move. Jessica was not shy about pushing her aside to get where she was going. And again, no damned camera. I'm hoping someone has it on video and can get it to me.

Priceless...

If you haven't heard, Freecycle is a network of people interested in giving away and obtaining free crap (and I mean crap in the global sense, not just the garbage sense. Some crap is good crap). If you've got something to get rid of and feel guilty tossing it in the trash, post it on Freecycle and chances are you'll find someone who wants it. Alternatively if you're looking for something post a request on Freecycle and chances are someone out there is looking to get rid of it.

I'm a big fan of Freecycle, despite having been briefly banned from it. I've gotten rid of lots of post-renovation stuff including old paint, a door, and old gutters. I've also used it to gain a new family member in the form of Goldie the Blood Parrot Cichlid. But most importantly, I've gotten more than my fair share of enjoyment reading some of the more goofy posts I find on there.

I've been collecting the good ones for a while. I thought I would share some gems from my collection, of course removing names and such to protect the innocent, the stupid, or the just plain creative. I've found I can sort the classics into a fair amount of categories, which I will do now. I promise these are true.

Category: Why'd you bother?

Offer: Two packages of active dry yeast.

Offer: 4 ripe bananas

Category: Am I reading that right?

Offer: 2 White full-figured bra's (WIRE). Both were wore. Size 40DD.
(Hmm, I was hoping someone was getting rid of a hammock, but this will do.)

Offer:......cloth reusable menstrual pads. I purchased these several years ago and I don't need them anymore. are unbleached cotton made by Dixie Babies..these are 10" long pads for medium to heavy flow.
(What frightens me is that there was a follow-up post that these were taken).

Offer: 2 tubes of hair putty
(Hair putty? Sounds like the new product from the merger of Hair Club For Men and the Gorilla Glue Company)

Offer: Potbelly pig, "Snickers".
("Snickers" being just the perfect name for it).

Category: Good luck with that.

Wanted: Wood working tools, Power tools, bench....I especially am looking for a Router, Router bench, and Jig saw.
(No real man would part with these items).

Wanted: Mac computer for video editing
(Yeah, I must have one of those lying around somewhere).

Wanted: …just entered into the world of public safety in may of 07 and work in a rather dangerous neighborhood on a patrol where there is quite a bit of gang activity. I'm in need of a bullet proof vest if anyone has gotten a new one and have one that is close to expiring or has expired not too long ago i sure could use it as i frequently encounter individuals who possess illegal/stolen firearms and also have had several shots fired at us on multiple occasions. Any help with this would be great. Even if it's not a perfect fit it's better than no fit!!!
(Okay, holy crap! Ever heard the term "you get what you pay for"? It applies here).

Wanted: I am looking for kitchen cabinets. Mine are 30 years old and look very drabby and starting to fall apart.
(And, finding free ones on Freecycle will be an improvement how)?

Wanted: Books on the Rapture
(The event where Jesus comes down to save everyone, or the Blondie album?)

Wanted: machine that plays mini dvd tapes.
(Think about it.)

Wanted: I'm looking for T1 line, any length.
(Okay, the geeks out there have already chuckled at that one. For the non-geeks out there, a T1 line is essentially a very high tech, expensive telecommunications protocol and cabling solution that provides fast internet access directly from your ISP. Something large companies can afford. Something that involves long term contracts with telephone providers. Not something you give away on Freecycle. I think this dude wants an Ethernet cable. Or, maybe I'm wrong).

Wanted: Hp deskjet 960c printer power source
(I suggest electricity, thermonuclear fission, or gerbils in a spinning wheel).

Category: If I had the free time, I'd jump on it.

Offer: Nerd Xing Sign.

Offer: McCalls sewing pattern 3931, for adult men's or women's kimono (size small).

Category: Spell checker ain't gonna help that.

Looking for a died mope or a working Moped

Category: Instant classics.

Wanted: My son is in need of a football helmit for his 2nd grade school play/book report.
(I’d suggest this guy use the one from his own childhood, but obviously he didn’t have one. Nor did he have shouldemer pads. So why do you think he needs protective gear for a book report? Must be SOME school!)

Wanted: Dutch Hoe. I never knew there were different types of hoe, I thought this was the only one. If any one has such a thing going spare I'd be very grateful having just got a house.
(With clogs, or without?)

Wanted: Anything Science Related. Our church is hosting a Science Themed Vacation Bible School...
(Ugh. Too many jokes. I give up).


Looks like I'm getting banned again.

Scream Four, The Campout

An odd thing happens when you raise children. Your shopping list tends to cover a broad spectrum of categories. I was cleaning out my to-do list, and took a second look at a shopping list from the weekend. Looking back, it strikes me as a rather odd list:

New flashlight
Inflatable duck floaty
Scuba Flippers
Beer
Hannah Montana action figure
bounce dryer sheets
Wallace and Gromitt movie
Pringles

This was in preparation for an Adventure Princess campout with my daughter last weekend. In case you're wondering, the flippers and the Duck were for my costume for the dance, and the Hannah Montana action figure was for the raffle held during the campout. The Pringles and Beer were mine.

As for the campout, while it was a lot of fun, it was also a complete washout. Our dreams of horseback riding, mountain climbing, and sailing on the lake were drowned by heavy downpours the entire day. Instead we spent most of the day watching the really awful remake of Charlie And The Chocolate Factory (the Johnny Depp one, a total travesty)and eating ice cream at the snack bar, and playing a long, drawn-out game of Go Fish.

I want to throw a question out to the women of the audience. Why, exactly, does a gathering of little girls result in hours of meaningless screaming? Natalie and her buddies spent lots of time hanging out in the cabins together while the guys sat on the porch managing the beer and Pringle collection. During that time, we probably had to enter the cabin at least thirty times to tell the girls to stop screaming. But we never actually saw a REASON for the screaming. Each time we entered, we found them sitting on the bed making bead necklaces. We saw no sign of the Deer Valley Slasher, that mysterious guy with the hook for a hand who preys on little girls at campgrounds. There was no giant spider climbing the walls. None of the children were being eaten by a bear. Near as I could tell, they were all sitting on the bunk bed together making bead necklaces. So why the screaming? It was as if the conversation went like this:

Girl 1: can you hand me the bead box EEEEEEEEAAAH!!!!!!!
Girl 2: Sure, here you go EEEEEEEEAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!
Girl 3: My sister says Hannah Montana has a big nose EEEEEAAAHHH!!!!!!!
Girl 1: Your sister is a big poopyhead AAAAA!!!!EEEEEE!!!!!!
Girl 2: I want Pringles EEEEEEHHHH!
Dad 1: What's all the screaming in here????
Girls: What screaming?

Saturday night was the last straw with the screaming. After the dads were done listening to the Penguins lose to the Redwings on the XM radio one dad brought, it was time to tuck the girls into bed. The campground was generally silent except for one cabin, where the ladies had not yet been corralled. This cabin was directly below mine, and I had a direct view of what was happening. The dads were roasting Pringles by the campfire, and the girls were playing a game of shining flashlights in each other's eyes and screaming at the top of their lungs. Every five minutes or so one dad would proclaim, "girls, quiet down," which of course fell on deaf ears. By 11:45 that night I'd had it. I sat up, leaned to the window of the cabin and yelled, "SHADDUP DOWN THERE!!!!"

After some quick scurrying by the dads, the campground was suddenly silent. And there was much rejoicing. and sleeping.

Forgotten photo #2

Beat this caption...
Originally uploaded by daninhim

Damned shame throwing away a perfectly good superhero like that....

Okay, so I'm in a slow period. Or maybe it's a busy period. In any case, I'm sitting watching Overtime #2 of the Pens/Redwings cup game, and I thought I'd pop open blogger in order to keep myself awake.

Forgotten photo #1

Cutest bug ever
Originally uploaded by daninhim

I was doing some cleanup of my Flickr account and came across this photo I'd forgotten about. We found this little guy in our back yard. I never did find out what he was, but talk about a cutie.