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.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
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.
Friday, April 06, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
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?".
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?".
Friday, March 30, 2007
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"
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"
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
Thursday, March 15, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 05, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, February 26, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
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.
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.
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