Wednesday, January 30, 2008
if yesterday afternoon were an ocean liner...
Seems that blogging is an annual thing for me now. Kind of like Talk Like a Pirate Day, or--given four young boys--the inevitable t-ball batted swiftly to the plums. But after a certain series of events late Wednesday, Miranda looked at me and said, "That deserves an entry."
Well, yes, m'dear. It does.
It started with Meshach coming down the stairs, his hair bearing an uncanny resemblance to the young George Clooney's or that of various Roman busts.
Not satisfied with his recent 'do from Miranda's House of Beauty, he decided to update his look. Obviously he felt it preferable to go with more of a "mangy weasel" or "cat with psoriasis" thing...
The fun was only just beginning, however.
It turns out that Cars and Trucks and Things that Go suffered similar desecration. Oh, the horror, Mr. Scarry!
Then I noticed some odd fuzz on our bedspread.
Further inspection revealed that he had snipped an arrowhead into the cat's arse. (Note tufts on rug.)
We sent him to school like this in the hopes that a little public ridicule might prevent him from taking scissors to mane again. Wrongo. When asked what happened to his hair, he told people his parents did it.
Clever, clever boy.
Monday, February 05, 2007
A Very Nervous Sombrero
Well, if there's anything that will knock you out of nearly a year of blog neglect, it's a grainy video of your 5-year-old doing the Mexican Hat Dance like he's Stevie Wonder high on peyote.
Many of those in attendance told me he was the funniest thing they had seen this month. Given that he was COMPLETELY hamming it up for the camera and generally not doing what he was supposed to, I--on the other hand--wanted to put my foot far enough up his kiester to wear him like a shoe.
Be sure you note the highlights: the casual "Do I know you?" wave in response to Dad's overeager welcome, the hushed "Is my hair sticking up?" inquiry, the near total inability to alternate between hops and claps, the head thrown back in centrifugal ecstasy, the transparently phony "dizziness," the feet going up at the grand finale like some cartoon character from a Raid commercial, the low five from the PE teacher with the patience of Job, and the last glance to the camera with the "it's-hard-work-being-this-much-of-a-laugh-riot" expression.
Hmmm, maybe it is funny after all...
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
As always, Mr. Phelps, in the event of your capture the Secretary will disavow all knowledge of your actions.
Miranda and I just wanted to bring you up to date on a typical day at the office for Meshach. In one 12 hour period, he managed to get bitten by a little girl at playgroup (perhaps because he had her in what Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioners call mata leo?), fall down an entire flight of stairs (carpeted), and nosedive off his brother's bed to land headfirst in a laundry hamper (no cushioning pile in bottom). Largely because he is made of Kevlar and wood (hickory or ash, I think), he emerged unscathed from each of these incidents.
Most parents plan for college, and while we think he'll be more than able, we're currently leaning this way or this way, or maybe even this way.
Thoughts?
Despite the stain between the doors similar to the ones on the concrete menhir from the Who's Next cover and Meshach's slightly guilty look, I can assure you that he didn't just whizz on the wall. At least as far as we know...
Saturday, February 11, 2006
er, does the Children's Television Workshop know about this?!
One of our family's favorite little rituals is Dad's Saturday AM trek to 7-Eleven for donuts. The kids love it, and Miranda and I feel good doing our part to make sure the American diabetes epidemic rolls along unhindered.
This morning, as I sidled up to pay for my pastries, I was greeted by a sight shocking in its discordance. There--bikini clad and staring out at me from the newsstand--was one of the stars of the boys' kiddie DVDs. Kristin Chenoweth is a singer and actress of some accomplishment who moonlights on children's television; she plays "Ms. Noodle" in Sesame Street's Elmo's World. Well, turns out she moonlights in the laddie mags as well.
At this point, it would be easy to make a tasteless joke about Ms. Noodle's potential effect on the noodles of FHM readers, but I'm going to take the high road. I am, however, not sure I'll ever be able to watch "Melmo," as Abednego calls him, quite the same way again. Drat...
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
About the only chance I have of getting this much hair on my upper lip involves spray adhesive and a dead muskrat.
Ok, I have a confession to make. For a long long time, I have wanted to be a fireman. Laughable isn't it? It started when I was a kid watching Johnny and Roy (Emergency! joins Rockford in the rarefied air of 70s TV awesomeness) and listening to stories of my great grandfather who was a jake back when horses pulled the engine. Then I read the incomparable Dennis Smith in high school, and as a recent college graduate my fascination got a good kick in the pants when Backdraft came out. (For fifteen years, I have remembered this film as an unbelievably dramatic and inspiring motion picture. Alas, I saw it recently and it is one of the sillier pieces of dreck ever committed to celluloid.) Then more recently Ladder 49 was released, which was exciting and poignant but also crazily unrealistic. The best written "dramedy" currently on TV just happens to be about a bunch of FDNY guys, and that's been the most recent catalyst.
As it turns out I live in one of THE jurisdictions in the country for volunteer firefighting. The opportunities are staggering. In fact the two closest companies to me are some of the busiest in the area and one has a national reputation for its work load and expertise. Training is free at one of the best schools in the United States, there is a sizeable state tax deduction, and you get to help your fellow citizens in a thrilling line of work. In my mind's eye, this is something that the boys and I will do together, the five of us saving lives and fighting the red dragon shoulder to shoulder. The primary catch, of course, is that it can kill you...
A secondary challenge is that you must run with the alpha-est of the alpha males (hence the ability to grow moustachios that look like you have a nutria under your nose). This takes a busload of energy. I am used to expending intellectual energy, but by and large these guys are doers, not talkers or thinkers. Many also--how to put this delicately--do not hinder themselves by adhering to certain social conventions that you and I may take for granted. I have read a great deal about firehouse taunting, hazing, and practical joking, but it didn't quite hit home until I posted on a bulletin board. Note the cheery (clearly interpreted as pansy-ass) tone to my initial query and the absolute savaging I got. Then note the immediate acceptance once I defended myself in like terms. Incredible, eh?
Don't look around the board too long. You'll see racism, misogyny, gay bashing, disdain for incompetent leaders and idiots who wander in and ask dumb questions, etc. No one is cut any slack, no one is treated particularly nicely. Everyone survives on their wits and the quickness and nastiness of their tongue. You may wonder then why I would willingly expose myself to this Darwinian crucible, and why on earth I would expose my sons. There are three reasons:
1. James Kavanaugh wrote a beautiful poem about men who are too kind for the corporate/consumerist world we live in. While his piece was about an economic system, it applies here. I would love for my sons to be gentle-men. I want them to be thoughtful, compassionate, and loving. I also want them to know that there are men who are hard, unforgiving, and cruel, and that the inherently paradoxical combination of verbal violence delivered with a smile can often disarm such men.
2. The whole thing is a ruse. Most firefighters are not really "those guys." They have emotions, insecurities, fears. The coarse machismo and feigned disinterest are just other coping mechanisms. If these guys sat around analyzing each stressful situation they encountered, they would be largely ineffective in their job. Instead reflection is replaced with lockerroom banter and gallows humor. Still, once you play the game and gain entry, once you prove you are trustworthy, you are admitted to the brotherhood for life. Someone may insult your mother, your wife, or your dog, but he will go through the gates of hell to get you home to that family he so disapproves of. So too, whether you are a man or woman, white or black, gay or straight, he will run into a building everyone else is running out of to rescue your sorry arse.
3. You get to drive really fast in great big trucks, put out fires, and save people's lives and memories. Oh, and you also get to cut open cars as if they were old Coke cans. (Uh, reason #3 here is probably all I'll be needing.)
Stay safe and for God's sake, pull over when you hear the siren. In a few years it could be me behind you, and I'll be closer than I appear...
