Musica Für Le Masse: pt III

I recently came across the music of Ed Harcourt, a singer/pianist from across the pond. After picking up his 4th full-length release, A Beautiful Lie, it's become entrenched in repeat rotation on my ipod. His earlier material has proven to be a rare find in local music stores, so I'll likely scour the internet to acquire more of his catalog.

For the unitiated, I am submitting Visit From The Dead Dog onto the blog's music player. Enjoy!

A Thirst For Fear

To further emphasize the destructive and preternaturally vindictive tendency of our young kitten, Pickles, I submit the following…




Exhibit A: Basic Pet Water Dispenser
-- From a pet’s perspective, this rudimentary dispenser has handily procured a seemingly endless water supply. Water from the reservoir container periodically refills the drinking bowl as the fill level recedes. Typically, the dispenser “blurps” and “gulps” as this miraculous transfer occurs. Make note of these sounds, as they will be a recurring theme in this entry.




Exhibit B: Eliza
-- Here we have Eliza, an 80lb mass of nervous energy contained in the form of a Shepherd/Greyhound mixed breed. Upon initial inspection, one would easily deduce this dog’s intimidation factor, largely represented by her impressive height and muscular form. However, deep inside the dark recesses of her tiny little brain lurks a tremulous coward of epic proportions. The aforementioned “blurps” and “gulps” render this beast into a quivering, pathetic heap that avoids the dispenser as if it’s bowl was abounding with an agitated pool of piranha.




Exhibit C: Pickles
-- On the surface, this feline looks like another in a long line of lovable, harmless creatures whose only purpose in life is to bring ceaseless joy to the world they inhabit. Nothing could be further from the truth. This little monster is far more sinister and devious than that. And cunning, too. Ridiculously cunning. Enough to have determined the operational complexities of the water dispenser.

Perched atop the reservoir jug, she affixes her front paws to the edges and begins to sway from side to side until the jug “blurps” and “gulps” it’s contents into the bowl. What’s so devious about this? Well, it’s all in the timing. You see, she does this every time Eliza musters enough courage to drink from the dispenser.



Foregone Conclusion: This kitten is evil incarnate.

An Eyeful Of Hollers

Let this entry serve as further proof that this blog revolves around the mundane and trivial pursuits of our daily lives. Yesterday morning, I had a contact lens dilemma. Yeah, I think at least one of you will likely not enjoy this tale.

So, there I was, on the phone with Jen (she's visiting family in South Florida this week), and I made the fatal error of lightly rubbing my left eye. Next thing I know, there's a slight pang of discomfort underneath my upper eyelid and I've got depth perception issues out the wazoo. If you guessed that my contact lens moved slightly behind the eye, you guessed correctly.

Normally, I can resolve this by blinking about a dozen times, followed by pulling the eyelid up and watching the folded lens slide back down to my pupil. However, this little bugger was barely visible when I pulled the eyelid up. And, no matter how many times this has occurred in the past, my mind automatically goes into freak-out mode.

My first thought was that the contact will worm it's way behind my eye and into the secret confines of my skull. This, incidentally, is a myth, since the membrane behind the eye prevents anything from slipping behind it. Even though I have been armed with this knowledge since the very first day I ever had a slipped contact issue, the panic response is always stronger than the logic response.

My second thought was to gather myself together and try every remedy I could muster from my disjointed memory…the blinking, the eyelid-pulling, the light rubbing…surely I had forgotten a few since I was not getting any positive results from my efforts.

All the while, Jen patiently listened on speakerphone as I shifted from nonchalant indifference to slight anxiety to full blown manic reaction. Inevitably, conditioned as I have been for several years now by the familiar glowing beacon of my computer, I turned to the infernalnet for guidance. The following is the best collection of advice I've ever encountered to deal with this horrifying experience:


1. Pull up your upper lid while you look down at a mirror to search for the lens. Pull down your lower lid to search for the lens in the lower part of your eye. Proceed by moving your eye up, down and side to side. This might dislodge the lens.

2. Have a friend help. If you aren't too squeamish about letting someone else near your eye and you have a friend who is not too squeamish either, have them look up under your lid and gently pull the contact out with the pad of their finger while you hold the lid back and look down at them. This way you don't have to worry with looking at a mirror while you jab at your eye. Someone with slender, short-nailed fingers is best.

3. Squirt saline solution in the eye to dislodge it. Lean over a sink, hold your eyelid back with one hand and squeeze a bottle of contact solution with the other. You can angle a thin stream of saline solution up into places too narrow for your finger to reach. Just keep the drain closed if you don't want the contact to get washed away.

4. Take a break. Try to go about your business as normal, and in the course of your normal blinking and eye movement it might work its way out on it's own. So give it a little bit of time before you try anything drastic that might leave you with bloodshot irritated eyes.

5. When all else fails, close your eye and rub like heck. Don't put too much pressure rubbing downward toward the center of your eyeball, but rub in all directions at an angle to the surface of your eye. Rub, roll, and blink, and you might get that dang contact to move someplace reachable. Your eye will get irritated, but you might be finally able to get that dang contact.


I had already tried option 1, couldn't perform option 2, and definitely wanted to avoid option 5 (since that's what got me into this predicament to start with). So, I decided to try option 4 for a few minutes, then follow it up with a bit of option 3, and ultimately return to option 1. If you haven't figured it out yet, this is my coy attempt at making you go back and read all those little tidbits of advice.

Eventually, the contact slipped down from underneath the darkest regions of the eyelid. Normally, it will unfold and lay itself out, but this time was a bit different. The contact had folded over twice, causing the ever-alarming "taco effect." Not a tale for the squeamish, so naturally I'd want to share it with everyone I can.

Party At Ground Zero

Madison recently took a slew of pictures with the digital camera, and I came across these gems.

I'm not singularly certain what the dogs and cats were doing on this particular day, but it sure looks like they're having a good time. I'll let the readers arrive at their own conclusions on this one. ;)

For the unitiated, the names of the accused are as follows:
Pickles (lower right) Jingles (lower left) Mulder (top left) Eliza (top right)

In any event, I can only fathom at the discussions these famanimals had with one another that fateful day...

Pickles: This catnip toy is amazing, man. Pure genius.
Jingles: Gimme some of that catnip toy...don't be so greedy.
Mulder: HAHAHAHAHA
Eliza: What's so funny, Mul?
Mulder: I have HAHAHA no idea HAHAHA
Eliza: heh! You are SO crazy!
Mulder: HAHAHAHAHA
Pickles: I think I'm gonna be sick.
Eliza: Chill out, Pickles. You're such a downer.
Mulder: Yeah. You're dragging us down, cat. HAHAHA
Pickles: Have you guys ever thought about how dogs know when their owners are getting home? Always freaks me out.
Jingles: Yeah, very freaky.
Eliza: I never really thought about it that way. Now I'm feeling kinda scared.
Mulder: Crazy stuff.
Eliza: It's like, how do cats always land on their feet? It's like some sort of Jedi-mind-control thing.
Mulder: HAHAHAHA Yeah!
Pickles: Sounds right to me.
Jingles: Could be the case. Wait...what?

Fashionista

I've been rather remiss about blogging recently. It would have to be attributed to the fact that nothing of great consequence has occurred in our household the past couple weeks.

Ultimately, in an effort to beef up the paltry musings I've made in this teeny, tiny sliver of the infernalnet, I am urged to share Madison's recent barrage of fashion-related drawings. She's been pumping these out the past week or so, and I'm sure more will follow.

Click on each image to get a bigger view. Enjoy...

Blog Tweakin'

I decided to mess around with my free demo version of Pixelmator and set up a graphic for this blog's title layout.

In retrospect, I wish I had produced the graphic on Madison's laptop, since it has a version of Adobe Photoshop, which is a thousand times easier to manipulate images with than the Pixelmator demo. Unfortunately, the laptop Jen and I use has Mac's new Leopard OS, and Adobe did not make any of their previous Suite products compatible (not very cost-effective from what I've read).

Shilling out the big bucks for Adobe's CS3 is not in the cards for me at the moment, so I plod on with this demo product. It's not terrible, but it does have some clunky tools and saves every image with a watermark. In order to remove the watermark, I have to save the original image in a larger canvas size and then reopen in another program, Preview, so I can crop it in a manner that excludes the watermark.

Yeah, I think I'm using Maddie's computer next time.

Edumacation Assessmentation

The NC EOGs are upon us. What's that, you say? What are the NC EOGs? Well, my friends, they are none other than the bulletproof testing methodology devised by the North Carolina State Board of Education.

Yes, bulletproof. Unlike all the other states in the union, this standardized test is bulletproof. I like the sound of that, you know. Bulletproof. Okay, I'll stop.

So, their website defines the EOGs as follows: The North Carolina End-of-Grade Tests are designed to measure student performance on the goals, objectives, and grade-level competencies specified in the North Carolina Standard Course of Study.

I think it would be more succinct and candid to say the EOGs are designed to drive parents insane and children to early therapy. Since she's just a 4th grader, Madison's only on the hook for 2 days of mathematics and 1 day of reading comprehension testing. Even with that short list, her anxiety levels are fast-approaching critical mass.

But, fret not, the schools have valuable tips to get us through the week.

I find it amusing that the schools feel the need to send preparatory advisements on how to gear your child for the testing period. If not for the wisdom imparted in this guide, I would have never considered any of the following gems I plucked from this list (note the parenthesized sarcastic asides)...

-- Talk briefly about the tests in an encouraging way. (i guess this throws out any opportunity for me to get on my soapbox regarding standardized testing.)

-- Children should know that test scores are important, but are not the measure of your love and acceptance of them. (huh? apparently, i've been going about this all wrong. i guess this means i can't put conditions on my parental love anymore. darn.)

-- Encourage your child to be physically active after school...this will result in better sleep! (this one's easy. just set aside some laborious chores for her, like digging a 20ft trench.)

-- Have your child go to bed early enough to get plenty of rest. (yeah, riiight. early to bed, early to rise...yadda, yadda, yadda...sleep is overrated)

-- Prepare a healthy breakfast. (i'll need to look this one up. i have no idea what they're asking me to do here.)

-- Make sure that you get your child to school ON TIME. (does this mean i have to set the alarm?)

-- Set the alarm a little early to allow your child time to eat & dress without rushing. (oh, i guess i do have to set the alarm. earlier. wait..what?)

-- Give your child positive messages such as "I know you are capable of doing well." and "You can do it." (or "fake a severe migraine. it might buy you some time, as well as some sympathy points.")

-- After the tests, celebrate in whatever way you choose! (now, wait a minute, she's too young to have margaritas!!)

So, yeah, I'm totally behind the EOGs, can't you tell? Oh, and I haven't even shared the full page of "Sleep Tips" these people sent us. Yeah, I'm glad they're here to help incompetent parents like us get through this arduous exam week.

And, yes, that's sarcasm you smell.

The Instigator Rule

Madison is getting pretty good at hockey. Just about every morning, as we wait for her school bus, we crack out the sticks and a ball and take shots towards each other up and down the driveway. Sometimes, we resume play in the evenings, just before dusk.

She's getting better every time...learning how to stop/block shots with her stick, pass, shoot, even one-time a shot. Granted, she chokes up on the shaft a bit too much, but still gets the job done. For Father's Day, I've asked for a goalie stick and regulation-size hockey goal...I figure we might as well take the next step and see how she does with a more standard setup.

Just the other afternoon, I laced up my hockey inline skates and rolled down to the end of the driveway to await her round of passes and shots. It was a nice change of pace for me, although I wish the driveway was more level, because the incline makes it very difficult to maneuver. One day, we'll get her on wheels, too, but that's quite a ways down the road. Heck, she hasn't even mastered bicycling yet, so we'll take that one step at a time.

Boredom set in for her, so we decided to mix it up a bit. She held her stick up with the blade about 3 feet above the driveway's surface. My task was to aim shots at the blade from a distance of about 40-50ft away. It took 10 shots, but I finally hit paydirt. Of course, she'd lost interest by then, so it surprised the heck out of her when I made contact. It was rather funny watching the stick fly out of her hand.

Shortly thereafter, Jen came out and they decided to play a little baseball with a Nerf set Madison owns. Naturally, I started skating and ball-handling up and down the driveway, occasionally taking wrist shots against the garage doors. I must've hit the window sections of those doors at least 6 or 7 times. Luckily, no damage, so it's all good.

What happened next could only be attributed to man's innate need to torment others. There my daughter was, out in the yard, in a near-perfect batting stance, awaiting another pitch from Jen. And there I was, in the driveway, skating in small circles, looking for a new quarry to aim at.

Honestly, when I shot the wrister, I never would have surmised achieving 100% accuracy on my first attempt. I figured I'd graze by the intended target, and my need to antagonize would soon subside. But, NO-O-O-O-O, it wouldn't be that simple, would it?

So, yeah, the shot hit her squarely on her posterior. Let's just say, neither Jen nor Madison were initially very amused.

Of course, being a guy and all, I was rather proud of my precision. Now, in all fairness, the shot was very light and Madison was more shocked than anything else. In the end (no pun intended), we all got a good laugh out of it, but I guess I should select more inanimate objects for my future target practice.

Musica Für Le Masse: pt II

I’m looking forward to seeing DeVotchKa perform at The Orange Peel in Asheville this Wednesday. They are out in support of their current release, A Mad And Faithful Telling.

DeVotchKa’s brand of world music is a fusion of several eclectic resources ranging from Slavic to Bolero to Mexicana to American punk/folk. All this, and they’re from Denver, CO. Go figure.

I’ve added their song, The Clockwise Witness, to my blog music player, which now holds 2 songs and will continue to grow as I add new music. I’m so technological now.

Threat Level: Colorless, But Not Odorless

Tuesday morning was like any other morning, with the exception of Jen's absence...she was still in Florida visiting family. Madison was awoken at 630am to ready herself for school, and I was milling around getting myself together, as well.

Typically, we descend to the garage at about 730am to wait for her bus. It was about 720am when I lost something in the dining room and began a semi-frantic search for it.

It would probably further this story along if I shared a little background on the layout of our dining room. The previous homeowners adorned the entire house with dark brown commercial carpet, including this particular room. While it has ample lighting for dining, it is rather deficient for searching a likewise colored item the size of a button. Incidentally, it was a button I was searching for...it's a long, embarrassing story I won't get into at this juncture.

In addition to the poor lighting and brown flooring, the dining room also houses a traditional wood-burning brick fireplace and french doors leading out to the back porch. It was here that I encountered danger. I was looking behind the curtains and moving some fireplace items when a whiff of natural gas hit me square in the face. And, no, the dogs were not in the room at the time.

You see, the previous owner had also installed a gas line through the floor of this room to allow for a future conversion of the wood-burning fireplace into a ventless gas fireplace. Brilliant planning, one would say, but not on this fateful day. So, I proceeded to access the valve, ensuring that it was properly turned to the "off" position. I then inspected the gasket rings and saw that they appeared in good condition. However, with my nose precariously hovering closely against the the valve's surface, I could clearly smell gas...or, as the professionals would like to tell us, the unnatural scent additive they mix with natural gas primarily for detection purposes.

730am arrived, so we made our way to the garage to await Madison's school bus. You may ask, "Why does this involve parental supervision?" and I will answer, "Because, on more than one occasion, the bus driver has literally passed my child as she waits streetside for the bus." But I digress, as that is yet another story for another time.

Fortunately, the bus arrived on time and I scurried back upstairs to make a quick call to the gas company. After a few qualifying questions, they dispatched a driver to the scene. 5 minutes...he was here in 5 minutes...I was literally dumbfounded by the swift response. He ambled into the dining room, detector in hand, and there was no doubt we had ourselves a gas leak. Again, the valve, not the dogs.

Downstairs he went, tracing the pipeline and performing a cut and cap at the pipe union just below the dining room. No other leaks were detected throughout, and he was finished within 20 minutes. Impressive.

However, more impressive was my brush with danger. Seriously. At least, that's the way I'm recanting this tale.

Ducking The Finish Line

Last Saturday, we trekked down to Greenville, SC for a day at the derby. The Kenducky Derby, that is.

Every year, cities throughout the great expanse of our nation hold fundraising events centered around dumping a large collection of rubber duckies onto a natural mass of water, thereafter witnessing the synergistic convergence of inanimate objects compelled to movement by the forces of nature. Yeah, you interpreted that right: A rubber ducky race.

Rotary of Greenville hosted this particular event at Greenville’s beautiful downtown Reedy River Falls Park. Various businesses sponsored the race and proceeds went to charitable causes like:

The Mauldin Miracle League - A baseball league for children with disabilities
GAIHN (Greenville Area Interfaith Hospitality Network) - Re-establishes housing and roots for homeless families.
Charities of Rotary International

I really have no idea how many of these dayglow yellow, synthetic waterfowl were dispensed into the raging (well, maybe there’s a touch of hyperbole in that adjective) waters of the Reedy River. Event organizers claim 10,000 numbered duckies are entered into this contest, so I’ll just take their word for it.

All in all, it was a fun experience and I look forward to next year’s race. However, I won’t be scaling rock to get a shot of duckies descending the falls…it was rather tedious and constrictive to get good pics. Not to mention, a bit dangerous for a clumsy old man like myself. Next time around, I’ll be up top at the starting point where I can get a full shot of all the rubbery contestants. And ice cream.

Musica Für Le Masse: pt I

Well, as you may have already noticed, I have added a new feature to this blog: a music player.

As fate directs me...or, rather, as my meandering predilections guide me...I will feature a different tune every now and then. Currently in the player is one of Jen's favorite songs, Steal My Sunshine, a one-hit-wonder by the Canadian band, Len.

It's a rather infectious ditty, especially since Jen has it as her ringtone. In other words, we hear the opening chords to this song on a near daily basis. But, that's a good thing.

Len, comprised mainly of siblings Marc and Shar Costanzo, are still making music in 2008. However, nothing they've produced has etched itself into our collective consciousnesses quite like Steal My Sunshine.

Enjoy!

Bring Me the Head of Ducky Blue Eyes

Assuming you've been regularly reading this blog, you're fully aware that Madison's birthday party was celebrated this past weekend. Surprisingly, it was incident-free...not a single episode of drama nor commotion erupted throughout the entire affair. It certainly surprised me to no end, considering the raging hormones and emotions that define preteen girls.

Everything went without a hitch, from the water balloon battles to the dancing to the karaoke to the rubber ducky decorating to the balloon-popping to the eating of burgers, hotdogs and cupcakes and, ultimately, to the final goodbyes. All in all, it was a splendid evening bash attended by a handful of her friends, 3 of which stayed on for the sleepover.

In other words, it was a triumphant birthday event. Not too shabby.

Incidentally, the beheaded duck piñata is symbolic of how Jen and I felt as twilight approached. Around midnight, we told the foursome of revelers to retire to either Madison's room or her downstairs playroom. Logically, they hit the playroom.

I haven't a clue when they finally passed out from their collective sugar highs, but Madison surmised that it must have been well after 2am. Foolishly, Jen and I ventured down there at 8am to attempt rousing them from their sleep. Near-comatose would be the most apt description of the response we elicited from the fab four.

We let another hour pass and finally woke them for a morning feast replete with bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, pancakes, fruit, tea and milk. Between breakfast preparation and overall cleanup (including the minor disaster that her room mutated into), Jen and I were ready for another 8 hours of sleep.

Did I mention the party rocked? It was just ducky.

Everything's Ducky

Madison’s birthday party is being celebrated this Saturday, and it is sure to be a swell time. At least, that’s what you’d expect from a Rubber Ducky Rave Party.

Yes, you heard me right. Rubber Ducky Rave Party.

Well, maybe not “rave” in the sense of an all-night, DJ-led, laser-light-accompanied, recreational drug fest the big kids are into nowadays. No, we can’t have that for a 10 year-old’s birthday party. Conversely, it’ll be rather tame, with rubber duckies galore, a mix of Madison’s favorite dance tracks (for dancing, of course), some food, games and finally topped off with a sleepover for those willing to participate.

Yes, I know, this is a mere week from the minor flood event we experienced last Saturday, but fret not: I have towels, carpet cleaners and a watchful eye at the ready.

In any case, it’s not like you need water to enjoy playing with rubber duckies. Oh, wait…what?

Eye of the Tiger Beat

There comes a time in everyone’s life when a turning point is reached. A defining moment is captured in perpetuity. An accomplishment is achieved from arduous labor. A milestone is surpassed, and then suspended in a wistful memory.

My daughter is fast-approaching this epic moment in her life. How do I know this?

Two words: Tiger Beat.

Yes, you heard me correctly…Tiger Beat…that frivolous publication of prepubescent angst and yearning.

I found one in the house yesterday. Apparently, it was purchased upon the behest of the most vertically-challenged biped in our household. And, no, for some of you out there snickering while you read this, I’m not referring to myself.

So, there it was…a gaudy mish-mash of bright colors, screaming fonts and mesmeric pictures of the youthful idols of our modern time…sitting on a counter, mocking every fiber of my being.

The Jonas Brothers, Zac Efron, Miley Cyrus, and God only knows who else graced the cover of this particular issue. I feel so old. And slightly perturbed at the notion that the words contained within the pages of this magazine will soon shape and influence my daughter’s opinion of the world.

Yeah, this can’t be good, can it? I mean, I remember being her age and fawning over the latest issue of Cracked Magazine, which was a subversive imitation of the more popular and edgy Mad Magazine. And comic books. Lots of comic books. So, that would make me old and geeky, I guess.

Well, I should be supportive, though. She’s entitled to enjoying this magazine, and surely is intelligent enough to recognize its sole objective as entertainment for the younger masses.

Tiger Beat. I think I’m having issues with this.

Cross Your T's and Dot Your Eyes

I'm still a bit worn out from the weekend's water adventures. However, I felt it was imperative that I include a brief update of the aftermath. Thankfully, there has been no recurrence of moisture along any of the baseboards, so I'm assuming the worst is behind us.

Meanwhile, reconnaissance has revealed that during the coverup, one of the girls decided to come upstairs and retrieve her suitcase (it was supposed to be a sleepover, hence the overnight baggage). Now, one would assume that the logical conclusion as to why she dragged this thing down to the scene of the crime was to utilize it's contents to help absorb the watery quagmire.

But I say, "nay." There was something much more devious afoot with this rapscallion.

Aqua Dots. Flippin' Aqua Dots. That's what her intent was with regards to the suitcase. Apparently, she snuck these things out of her own house and brought them into ours.

This product may sound familiar to some of you: Aqua Dots were recalled by it's manufacturer due to the coating on the beads containing a chemical that would turn toxic when activated by water. Toxic in the sense that GHB is toxic...children who swallow the beads can become comatose, develop respiratory depression, or have seizures.

Nice, huh?

Needless to say, that girl's never being invited back to the house. Especially not for Madison's birthday party next week.

Did I mention that it's a Rubber Ducky themed party? Yeah, that doesn't sound foreboding at all, does it?

We All Live In A Yellow Submarine...

It started off innocently enough on Saturday night. Madison was hosting a sleepover with 2 of her friends. Playing ensued. Pizza was ordered and eaten. A fun time was being had by all.

For the purpose of this woe-begotten tale, I will share that our home is a split level where the bottom floor is actually a finished basement and 2 car garage. Nearly two-thirds of this floor is devoted to Madison as a playroom/disaster area...the choice of description is really determined by one's age.

Anyways, the girls had taken their pizzas downstairs to continue playing unobstructed. Shortly thereafter, they bounded up the steps and announced they were getting their pajamas on. This, I believe, transpired at around 7 in the evening.

5 minutes pass, and Madison marches out of her bedroom informing us that her newest pair of jammies are still a bit too big. After much unsuccessful finagling, she heads back to her room to try on a different ensemble.

30 minutes later, they all emerge from Maddie's bedroom and rush down the steps. At this juncture, my wife and I were blissfully lounging about...her with a book and me with the laptop. In retrospect, this is what I would have to identify as the calm before the proverbial storm.

7 minutes have passed since the girls went downstairs, and now we hear the door creak open and my daughter, in her meekest voice, (which for any parent out there "a meek voice" is a clear sign of impending doom), says, "Daddy? I think we left the sink running downstairs and it's spilled a little water on the floor."

Panic sets in.

Down the stairs I race, assuming that, at worst, the bathroom is flooded. Ha! What a fool I turned out to be! No sooner did I take a step through the door, I was slightly immersed in wet carpet. The flooding encompassed the entire bathroom, as well as parts of 2 rooms, and finally streaming through the garage. To put it into proper context, one-third of the finished basement was under a centimeter of water.

Panic now replaced all general feelings and sensations. Words can't describe what I felt at that very moment. No, wait, scratch that...there were words, but not the kind one can share in a PG-rated blog.

It took 2 carpet cleaners at a combined pace of 2.5 hours to draw a majority of surface moisture out. I then proceeded to take the sink apart in order to dry out the carpet underneath it. Luckily, the basement has a concrete subfloor, so cleanup was not as troublesome as it could have been. We were also in need of a carpet fan, so my wife drove over an hour roundtrip to the closest Home Depot capable of renting us one.

Now, let's take a step back to recant how this all came about, shall we? You see, the sink had been running since just before the girls decided to get their pajamas on. A simple calculation of the time that transpired since then would put the tally at 42 minutes of unobstructed faucet flow.

Why, you may be asking, would they let the water run so long? Well, apparently the plan involved bathing a handful of Littlest Pet Shop toys. Keep in mind that the sink in question is one of those deep utility style behemoths. Given that, one of the girls complained that it was taking too long to fill, so she suggested the excursion up the stairs for pajama-dressing while the faucet lurched on.

It's a proven fact that 9 years olds, while very intelligent, have terrible time-keeping skills when at play. Saturday's events were a clear representation of this fact. It goes without saying that the sleepover was abruptly canceled, and I think I made it to bed around 230am when all was said and done. But, that's close to my usual bedtime, so no big deal.

Well, it's Sunday night now, and the carpet has dried completely. We even put some of the furniture back in place. There is still one small spot in the bathroom that the fan is tirelessly drying, even at this very moment. My wife is returning the rental tomorrow, and I am glad the worst is behind us.

In other words, we are no longer awash in a sea of despair.

Horton Has A Glazed Look In His Eyes

Last Saturday, I let Madison decide where to go for dinner. Her friends had been raving about the Who-Cakes at IHOP, so we trudged on over to investigate.

As you can tell from the picture, it's almost as if the circus exploded on a stack of flapjacks. The mere sight of it sent shivers down my spine, as the brightly colored boysenberry and blueberry glaze taunted me with a menacing glow. I won't even go into my feelings about the pink lollipop and rainbow chocolate sprinkles.

After much deliberation, Madison took the plunge and ordered this sugary concoction. Needless to say, she wasn't impressed. It didn't help matters that the restaurant was out of the aforementioned sprinkles. The glaze tasted nothing like boysenberry nor blueberry, and even less so than the cotton candy flavor her friends professed it to be. She insisted I try it out, and being the devoted father that I am, I took a bite.

Oh.My.God.

The closest comparison I can make is that it tasted like an amplified, liquified and putrified mutation of Fruity Pebbles cereal. And, given the fact that I love Fruity Pebbles cereal, this flavor experiment gone awry was a major letdown.

Like a brain surgeon making precise incisions along the scalp line, Madison removed the top layer and proceeded to carve her way through what little virgin pancake there was. This was no easy task, but I have to hand it to her...she ate more than I could bear to even look at.

Yeah, I guess we won't be ordering this thing again. Nor recommending it to anyone we care to remain friends with. I guess I should've known that any meal that would suggest a lemon-lime soda with cubes of floating Cherry and Berry Blue Jell-O in it as the appropriate thirst quencher would inevitably result in massive failure.

Gasteroids

That’s it, I’ve learned my lesson. We have 2 dogs, Eliza and Mulder, the latter of which suffers from a having a sensitive stomach. As a result, we’ve had him on a special diet for several years now.

Given that they occasionally go after each other’s meals, it was determined that Eliza would eat the same food. So, in an effort to economize, I decided to switch them from NATURAL CHOICE® Chicken, Rice & Oatmeal Adult Dog Food to IAMS® Lamb Meal & Rice Formula Dog Food.

BIG mistake.

Lounging around our living room with these 2 has become akin to being backstage at a marathon three-bean-chili eating contest. The scents, the sounds…it’s not coming up roses. Unless, of course, the roses have just recently been fertilized in the most natural way conceivable.

What the heck do the IAMS® people put into this dry kibble, anyhow? Rotted corpse? Burned hair? A square of Vieux Boulogne cheese? Cabbage smothered in curry spice?

I mean, there you are, just sitting on the couch, watching television…just minding your own business…when “BAM!!” it hits you. Your olfactory receptors are assaulted by an odor so pungent, so repulsive, so putrid...you wonder what horrific act you committed in your sordid past that would result in such vile punishment.

And, for the record, I’m not exaggerating. The dogs literally change the color of the carpet every time they commit these heinous air assaults. If you need proof, I’ll gladly provide pictures. They’re only $10 apiece and I accept PayPal.

2 Weedings and a Funeral

Spring is here, which translates into vegetative growth approaching inordinate proportions. Yesterday, I mowed the lawn and I swear the clover weeds were trying to trip me. It’s like they have a mind of their own. Seriously. I felt like Seymour in Little Shop of Horrors when Audrey II started eating everything in sight.

Just last weekend, armed with a spray bottle of grass & weed killer, I traipsed around the yard saturating the mulchy groundcover surrounding our plants and trees. This was followed by dropping pellet fertilizer weed & feed on the lawn.

I have to chuckle at “dropping pellet fertilizer” since it sounds like something a small, furry woodland creature would do. I am woodchuck, hear me roar…or chuck-chuck, which apparently is the sound they make…and, yes, I researched it online.

Anyways, the spray works pretty quickly. Weeds were yellowing already and no new growth was sprouting up. Absolutely no one is mourning their passing. However, funeral services for the weeds will be held this Sunday at 3pm, immediately followed by burial. They are begrudgingly survived by the trees and shrubbery that dot our landscape.

Conversely, the lawn patiently waits for the slow, painful, choking death of its own noxious intruders. The weed & feed takes a bit more time to get the job done, but the lawn is okay with that. It realizes it has nothing better to do but while away the time pining for a weed-free existence.

In any event, the lawn has heard there’s a soirée worth crashing this Sunday that is being attended by its woody neighbors. ;)

Mad Art Series 2: Donkey Kingdom

I’ve gone with option #2 again. I think I’m becoming predictable.

2. Accept the fact that I have a terrible memory, thus forgetting the main details of her version of the story, and just make up my own interpretation of the picture’s meaning.

Enjoy…


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Madison drew this one for her mom, Jennifer, who has a disturbing fascination with donkeys…she erupts into uncontrollable fits of laughter at the mere sight of them.






Donkey Kingdom


It’s a fine, sunny day in Donkey Kingdom. Reginald the donkey is cheerfully trotting around the perimeter of his vast castle grounds. He’s the royal ruler of this magical land of big-eared, hee-hawing, slow moving, but sure-footed beasts of burden.

Curiously adorned in a purple dress, there’s little doubt that Reginald is a free spirit. I’m not really going to get into the particulars as to why Madison decided to put him in a dress, nor his motivations for wanting to be drawn in a dress…let’s just say he’s a determined fashionista and leave it at that.

Reginald definitely has a penchant for sweets, and green apples are without a doubt his favorite. This undeniable affection for the fruit has led him to a life-long obsession of ensuring all of Donkey Kingdom has the image of green apples plastered everywhere. So much so, that he sometimes gets the inclination to gnaw on the flags that dot the landscape. At least he’s getting some fiber in his diet. Fiber is good for you, or so I have heard.

But I digress…my favorite part of this picture is the recurring theme reminiscent from Madison’s Monkey Kingdom: a castle, a hillside, villages and a train. One has to wonder, does the train connect the 2 kingdoms? And, if so, do the donkeys and monkeys visit one another? Is there another species altogether that is responsible for the operation and upkeep of the train? What other marvelous kingdoms serve as stops along these tracks? Will I ever cease with the inane questions?

Oh, well, just sit back, enjoy the picture and have an apple. You can even wear a dress, if that’s your sort of thing.

Lice To Meet You

There's been a lice outbreak in Maddie's classroom recently. Calamity has ensued. Well, maybe not calamity, since it's just one kid that's been identified with it. Given that there are about 25 students in this class, the odds are well in favor of the majority not requiring delousing of any sort.

Still, there isn't much comfort in the notion that these parasites may have transferred to another host without being properly detected by the school nurse. So, here we are, carefully following the detailed instructions provided by our mavens of public academia, combing through Madison's scalp for any evidence of intruder presence.

Did I mention this whole sordid ritual has become a family affair? Oh, yes. Madison's tresses aren't the only ones subjected to frequent inspection, as both Jen and I have been sucked into the incessant void of lice detection. It's quite a sight to behold...a return to our primitive roots in a Neanderthal display of hair picking. A virtual follicle scavenger hunt, if you will.

I guess we've got a few weeks of this to deal with, unless another child is discovered with an outbreak...then we're doomed to a vicious cycle of parasitic disturbance. That would be terrible. The mere thought of all those creepy-crawlies burrowing their way through scalp and mane gives me the willies.

My head feels itchy just typing this. Does your head feel itchy?

*scratch scratch scratch*

Ugh.

Mad Art Series 1: Monkey Kingdom

In an effort to share some of Madison’s artwork, I’ve started a series of blog entries where her art will be accompanied by my verbal ramblings.

For continuity’s sake, I will do one of 3 things for each blog entry:

1. Recant the story Madison gave when she presented this picture to us, possibly embellishing here and there just because I like being wordy.

2. Accept the fact that I have a terrible memory, thus forgetting the main details of her version of the story, and just make up my own interpretation of it.

3. Ramble on about something completely unrelated to the picture or it’s intended story, because I have failed in all aspects of memory, interpretation and general functionality.


Enjoy…

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This is definitely a favorite of mine. Madison drew this one for me as a gift. I love her use of color and most especially monkeys. I’m a big fan of monkeys. Incidentally, I have chosen option 2 with this one (click the pic for a bigger view)...





Monkey Kingdom


For your viewing pleasure, we have the noble chimpanzee, Marty, benevolent ruler of Monkey Kingdom. Everyone loves Marty…he’s a real chimp’s chimp: Sharing bananas, bounding from tree limb to tree limb and picking bugs out of his neighbor’s scalps.

They even find his eccentric tastes endearing. Unlike other chimps, Marty likes to dress himself in a suit of armor. He does this because he likes shiny things.

In fact, he likes the shiny so much, he has a royal troupe of 8 chimps who individually rotate 3 hour shifts with the sole purpose of polishing his armor upon his every whim. Eccentric, indeed. Don’t even get me started on how he bathes in this contraption.

In this rendering, Marty is marching in front of his towering castle. Bananas are obviously his royal crest, as evidenced by their appearance on the castle facade, as well as on the flags. Off in the distance, we see the modest homes of Monkey Kingdom, and, of course, the train that leads to this fantastic burg.

Of particular note, the castle is adorned with windows, which is totally cool. Especially when you're a monkey and you like to jump out of things. Like windows.

Panda Fun Time

Aside from the fact that they could crush you within an inch of your life, there’s no mistaking the cuddly attraction of pandas. Granted, if you ever came face to face with one, the inclination to wrap your arms around it’s fluffy black and white fur would soon be thwarted by the onslaught of 200+ lbs of muscle, teeth and claws returning the favor.

But, let’s not allow facts to get in the way here. I mean, just look at the panda. Something this adorable couldn’t harm a fly, let alone a crazed adult male running at it with his arms outstretched in a salutary embrace, screaming, “Panda wanna huggie?!?!?”

Some may proclaim there’s a safety risk and that I’m not looking at the bigger picture, but that’s not so. A panda’s natural diet consists mostly of bamboo, which is nothing like meat, almost guaranteeing safe passage. Also worth noting, they are solitary creatures. Solitary equals lonely. And lonely could use a little company. So, really, how could this possibly be dangerous?

Okay, maybe it’s just a teensy-weensy bit dangerous. However, there’s an alternative option that does not require heavy medication and hours of endless therapy, not to mention critical medical care. It’s called Panda Fun Time.

You may be asking yourself, what exactly is “Panda Fun Time” and how does one participate in it. Seriously, I’m almost positive you are asking yourself this question.

Well, quite frankly, it’s a state of mind.

First, you must be like the panda. Imagine yourself cradled in a woolly mass of soft fur, your eyes masked with patches of black, your sharp teeth gnawing on a bamboo shoot.

In the zone, yet? Good. Now, imagine yourself, as the panda, sitting in a bumper car at the fair. As you collide with your fellow drivers, you growl and swipe your hands in their direction. Roar in triumph every time you knock someone off their intended trajectory. Revel in witnessing the abject fear in everyone’s eyes at the sight of a rogue panda terrorizing the fair.

Yeah, it sounds like fun, huh? What’s that, you ask, what medication am I on? Hmmph, I don’t think you’re buying into this. Not one bit.

Happy Birthday, Jen!!

Although I'm not at liberty to share the actual amount of years ago that marked my wife's introduction into this fine world, I can share the fact that her birthday is today.

Seeing as how I'm also a February baby, this will mark the 16th year I've had the pleasure of sharing a birthday month with her. And a sweet 16 years it has been.

I really couldn't ask for a better partner. She tolerates me quite well, especially when I've got the annoyance-meter cranked to 11, which seems to be at least 80% of the time. She's smart, beautiful, funny, and very supportive.

Did I mention she has an inordinate fear of clowns, too? That makes me love her even more, since I'm not much a clown fan myself. And she loves donkeys. Hence, the picture. And also quite possibly why she agreed to marry me.

Yep, she's a keeper and I'm a very lucky guy.

So, I just wanted to share with everyone what a special day today is and send this little message to my wife…

Happy Birthday, sweetheart! I promise I won't embarrass you when we go out to dinner to celebrate. Seriously. Okay, well, maybe just a little. Love, Luis.

Spare Some Change?

If technology would ever get to the point where a human could have robotic features added on, then I would choose to be a coin converter machine. Depending on where you live, you might have some familiarity with this concept. Otherwise, you’re probably wondering what else is wrong with me.

Coinstar machines litter the supermarkets here in Hendersonville, and their main purpose is to allow people to convert coin into paper currency. It’s a pretty smart concept. Customers pour their loose change in, the machine adds it up, and a voucher ticket prints out. You then use the ticket towards your purchase or just redeem it for cash at a register. Retailers that feature this self-service kiosk benefit from increased foot traffic.

So, you’re probably asking, what would possess me to choose coin conversion as a robotic ability? My 9-year-old daughter, that’s why.

I’m fairly certain everyone went through a phase during their childhood (or even adulthood) when scouring for loose coin was akin to treasure hunting on the open seas. Without the lack of bathing. At least for most of us, I would hope. For my daughter, it’s not only a job, it’s a way of life.

Every month, she approaches us with a hefty load of loose coin, often averaging about $5 to $10. God only knows where she finds the change. I’m sure every room in the house is fair game. Since we generally exchange it for her right there and then, I’m suspecting the term “vicious cycle” could weasel it’s way into the final equation.

That’s where the coin converter technology comes in. Surgically implant me with one of these things, and I’m not only simplifying the coin-counting process, but I’m also storing it in a safe place.

At least I think I am. I hadn’t thought of an exit strategy up until now. Maybe I should reconsider this.

One Flu Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Flu season…such a wonderful time of year. The other day, we received this notice from the school district informing us that flu season has started later than anticipated and it could be active through May. Oh joy. Can I blame Punxsutawney Phil for this, too?

This means getting a flu shot, which I don’t usually do, primarily because the last two times I received flu shots, I became flu-ridden. Call it coincidence, call it superstition, call it stupidity…whatever the case, I’m not getting a flu shot. I’m cursed, I just know it. There’s no use in trying to reason with me.

Of course, this same logic does not apply to my daughter. Granted, she’s never contracted the flu during those seasons when she received the shot, so the curse is not hereditary.

Frankly, I think it’s due to the banshee-like reaction she has to needles. Last year’s shot proved to be a rather traumatic experience for both of us. The nurse and I did everything from bargain to threaten to trick her into willingly getting poked by the needle, but to no avail. I’m certain that the blood-curdling screams of terror she bellowed must have petrified all the other height-challenged patients in the pediatrician’s office.

As a result of all this pandemonium, we resorted to very drastic measures to get the shot into her arm. I bear-hugged my thrashing child while the nurse stabbed her arm with the vaccine needle. The first thing that came to mind was that infamous adrenaline shot scene in Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction film, but in reverse. She let out a few whimpering sobs, repeatedly shouted, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” and finally relented to a peaceful calm.

Fortunately for me, my wife has taken it upon herself to accompany Madison to the doctor’s next week for this annual adventure. Yeah, I’m a chicken…what of it?

Happy Valentine's Day

Yes, indeed, Eeyore the Donkey rules.

I was half-tempted to post one of those cutesy-looking kitten pictures you find all over the infernalnet, but when my daughter presented this Valentine-themed, free-hand sketch of Eeyore this morning, I felt compelled to share.

While recovering from a nasty cough yesterday, she propped her Eeyore stuffies on her bed and went to town sketching this likeness. Something about the simplicity of this picture just grabbed me, because she usually likes to throw a lot of background imagery into her drawings. Eeyore is all about the simple things in life. He doesn't bother with too much detail and pageantry and flamboyance. I think she did a pretty good job capturing that essence.

At age 9, she's already developed a keen eye for basic shading principles, perspective and freehand expression. Surely, there's a level of frustration she experiences when she puts pencil to paper, as most budding young artists tend to struggle with their perfectionist tendencies. One thing is for certain, she's far and away ahead of the curve than I was at her age. It wasn't until I was 11 that I started to produce the kind of output she currently does. I never really pursued it seriously, so I didn't hone any of my artistic skills, but I think
Maddie can benefit from my experiences, or lack thereof. As long as she has the inclination to improve her skill-set, we'll happily foster the interest. Future blog posts will feature some of the work she's produced...we're really excited to share her artwork with everyone.

As for the remainder of this blog entry, I won't delve into a schmaltzy, treacly Valentine's soliloquy about love conquering all, blah, blah, blah. It's just not me. And if I break out in song today, it won't be a straight up rendition of classics like Nat King Cole's "L-O-V-E," Cole Porter's "True Love," Luther Vandross' "Always and Forever" or Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon." Don't get me wrong, I love those songs, but I can't sing them straight up without adding a Lounge Lizard element to the interpretation...I just don't have the pipes to do them justice. I'm more apt to belt out Lionel Ritchie or El DeBarge (because I'm annoying like that).

I will say this, though: My wife is perfect for me. And my daughter is a blessing, too. A dork like me shouldn't be so lucky to have Valentine sweethearts like them.

The Many Faces of Mr. Jingles

A little over 7 years ago, we brought home a 1 year old male cat from the Palm Beach County animal shelter. To be a bit more specific, Santa Claus had made the arrangements, so any and all responsibility for this should fall squarely on his shoulders. Maddie named him Mr. Jingles, due in part to his arrival being intrinsically linked to Christmas.

You'd think with a name like Mr. Jingles, he'd be a jolly fellow. But, alas, no.

To the casual observer, he appears gentle, sweet and affectionate. It's all a facade, since what lies beneath the surface is a bubbling cauldron of rage, despair and pathos.

Ignore him, and he'll yowl as if he is being dragged by his tail into the very depths of hell. Play with him, and he'll reply in such an indignant manner, you'll develop an inferiority complex that will require several rounds of therapy. Put him in a room with the other pets, and you'll see a response akin to asking a snooty restaurant critic if he's tried any of the new Fiesta Platters at Taco Bell.

Pickles, our kitten, loves to torment him relentlessly. It's not uncommon to hear Jingles growl or hiss while scurrying frantically from room to room trying to avoid his feline foil. At the very least, it's an entertaining spectacle to witness.

Don't get me wrong, though, we love this little guy. I mean, look at those pictures of him...how could anyone resist a lovable face like that?

This Place Is For The Dogs

For those you unfamiliar with the 4-legged canine denizens of our household, I present to you Mulder & Eliza, otherwise known as Frick-n-Frack.

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Mulder is a black & white male Border Collie-Beagle-Bovine mix. For 12 long years, he's haunted, er, I mean, graced our lives with his presence. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Really. He's a good dog. Can't you tell my wife reads this blog, too?

Did I forget to mention he has the demeanor of an unfed badger? It's not uncommon to find him in a mad rage of snarling teeth, thunderous bark and menacing growl. For over a decade, I've been subjected to his nasty disposition...day or night, in good times and bad. However, one fateful day, ingenuity took hold of me. I taught him how to talk. Here's proof:




We added Eliza to the fold about 4 years ago. We know for certain she's part-German Shepherd, but can only fathom an educated guess as to what the other half consists of. Her brindle coat, sloping neck and timid nature hint at a Greyhound lineage.

In any case, she clearly did not inherit a brain from either breed. She's run into walls, furniture and sliding glass doors with the ease of a blind person being chased by rabid squirrels in a Pella window and door showroom. She's even afraid of her water bowl. Did I mention she's over 80 lbs? Peculiar is what she is.

Together, this dynamic duo serves as the protective force that patrols the hallowed halls of our domicile. Sounds better than it looks, though. Seriously, I mean, Mulder hacks half a lung out after every couple barks, so he isn't nearly as imposing as he used to be. And Eliza, well, she's all brawn, and no brain.

I think it's time to teach the cats how to kickbox.

Addictions Start Early

It started out innocently enough. A stuffed animal, all cute and cuddly, perched on a display shelf in a Hallmark store. To the casual passerby, it's just like any other stuffie you see on store shelves.

But this thing has the mark of the beast.

It's the Webkinz mark.

A keen eye will find it's colorful logo stitched somewhere on the character's fabric body, typically on a hoof, paw, foot, or even on it's back.

What differentiates this toy from myriad others is the secret code it's young owner can take onto the Webkinz website. With this code, they can adopt an e-version of their lovable stuffie and enter a virtual world where they can feed, house, clothe and play with their Webkinz.

It's basically crack for kids. An insatiable craving for more Webkinz soon follows the first purchase. Take our daughter, for instance...here we are, 7 months into this and Madison has over 30 of these little monsters. She can average about 1 hour a day managing their virtual lives online. And heaven help us if she spends the night at a friend's house who doesn't have internet access...we get handed an itinerary of caregiver responsibilities rivaling anything our real jobs could challenge us with.

Over the past year, the craze has spread so wildly that you can more easily list the types of stores that don't carry Webkinz than the ones that do. Specialty gift shops, department stores, specialty toy stores, home furnishing boutiques, even supermarkets stock their shelves with Webkinz.

They're everywhere. Much like fungus and mold is everywhere. Find a trace of it in your home, choose to ignore it, and it will grow to immense proportions so volatile that you will never be able to harness it's dominance over you.

Beware.