http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
For the 4th Ms. Pikachu was with a cousin at an amusement park.
We went downtown for the F-16 flyby. They were late, which was okay, so were we. One pass and they were gone, certainly heading for the next scheduled town.
The 4th must be the one day a year where their navigation and timing skills are put on display. They got here, but were 10 minutes late; .500 isn't bad if you're swinging at baseballs. Practice, practice, practice, they have 364 days to get it right for next year.
My is-it-worth-it rule is that time spent at a destination should be more than the time spent getting there. The flyby was under 10 seconds. We walked farther downtown to see what festivities there were. You couldn't help noticing blankets staked out along the river to reserve spots for the fireworks. Apparently the absent owners did not fear goose doo-doo. There were plenty of geese.
There was a robot tournament where two, count 'em two, competing robots tried to push the most canisters over an incline. It would be a fair guess that those in attendance were family and classmates of the competitors. There was a tent where a pancake breakfast was held earlier, and a banner for the start/finish of a race held that morning. That was it.
Most of the activities have been moved to a rural college campus. It would seem to be time to move the rest of it. There is no reason to shut down the main road through downtown for an empty tent and a crowd too small to get arrested for unlawful assembly.
It didn't seem worth the time. But Trainboy thought the robot with pincers was cool. So it was worth it for him.
Time for lunch. Trainboy says he wants pizza. To Chuck-E-Cheese we go. Pepperoni pizza, games, what more could a kid want. We returned home bloated with cheese products, and leftover pizza. What a deal.
The wife and I planted some flowers in the planter. It was partly cloudy, but still very bright. It rained on us anyway. Trainboy thought it was hilarious.
The wife changed into her Supernurse costume and away she went to save life, liberty, and buttheads from themselves. Before leaving she reminded me that fireworks were at 9:45. It was up to Trainboy and me to amuse ourselves in the meantime. I did laundry, he did Cartoon Network.
Sometimes it amazes me how much laundry needs to be done. Clothes, sheets, towels, it's an unending cycle. The Circle of Laundry. Why aren't more women depressed? Why hasn't there been an explosion in nudist colonies, where everybody sleeps in a sleeping bag, showers, and air-dries?
Cavemen only showered when they were caught in the rain. They bathed when they went fishing. If they only had one greasy bearskin they were happy. Cave women thought the men were manly and they too were happy. At least until they decided they needed a newer, more fashionable fur.
What am I doing here? Haven't a clue. So, uh, back to the narrative.
I tire of laundry and want to get out. I check the tablet on the fridge for things to get. There are things. Trainboy and I head to Hy-Vee to get them. We get tartar sauce, Kraft's, Lemon Herb. I put three of them in the basket. Trainboy gets thoughtful, "Dad, I think we need another one." No arguing with that, it all gets used. A fourth one into the basket. Grab a bottle of Lea and Perrins for me, and we're both happy.
We head back to dairy and get a gallon of chocolate milk. You might say, "Isn't it cheaper and easier to just buy white milk and add Nestlé’s Quick?" You might. I would have to say that if my milk-averse kid only wants chocolate when it comes out of the jug that way, I'm not arguing with a six year-old. I'm surrendering faster than the French. It's peace at any price, in this case, $3.09 a gallon.
I like the fruit and yogurt parfaits at McDonalds, but you have to go there to get one, and how often is that? Not often enough if you like them and you only go there if they're offering a toy in the kids' meal the kids want.
Sooooo, as long as we're in dairy, into the cart goes a 32-ounce container of yogurt. Then it's off to frozen foods for frozen fruit, get some trail-mix, and we are set for some serious yogurt bingeing.
A bag of Doritos for Trainboy. A bag of toffee-covered peanuts for me. Works for us, time to head back home. Forgot paper plates, and whatever else was on the list doesn't matter either, we got the important stuff- our stuff. We are guys, guyly guys.
Back to doing laundry. Have to get it out of the dryer before it wrinkles. May I just digress a moment here, may I? This may not matter to anybody else. This may be laboring under suspicion no more founded than trickle-down-economics. Be kind, don't laugh. But I prefer to dry clothes on the 'warm' setting rather than 'hot.' If left unattended it seems they don't wrinkle as quickly, or as badly, that way. It also means the clothes finish drying just ahead of the washer finishing. It makes for a much more efficient operation imho.
Don't wait for the awkward silence to pass; it won't unless you keep reading.
Around 9:15, toiling upstairs with another load of laundry to put away, it was obviously getting dark outside, and the fireworks thing came to mind. A half-hour till fireworks seemed like plenty of time to me. Put on the shoes and away we go. Guys are like that.
A half-hour seemed like plenty, it most certainly was not. The area had probably been packed for hours. What to do, what to do. I pulled into a business and parked in a no-parking area. They weren't open, I didn't care, so call the cops, and you think they aren't busy already?
We walked two blocks to a bridge with a nice view and inserted ourselves into the crowd. The bridge walkway was full of people in lawn chairs who were still trying to maintain their space. Forget that. We'd just got there and had no need of being comfortable for a few hours.
There's a space wide enough for my knees, and there I stand. Trainboy goes up on the railing and my arm stays around him. The people on either side of us scoot to even out their spaces. I don't care; it's just Trainboy and me on the bridge.
People shoot their own fireworks. When they drop to the water he declares, "It made fish sticks!" He says it every time; he always thinks it's funny.
"Oprah, Umah. Umah, Oprah." That still isn't funny. But I digress again.
Another rocket into the river, another "fish stick" comment. I tell him that if he caught one, and had tartar sauce and bread he could have a fish stick sandwich. "Ha, ha. Good one dad." I've just been patronized by my six year-old son.
The fireworks start. It's a good show. It's timed to music broadcast on the radio. The car is blocks away. Usually you can figure that at these things there's always a teenage boy who's plowed all his burger-flipping money into a giga-watt sound system that worth more than the mini-car it's in. He's proud to show it off, and it's the one day a year you don't mind. No such luck tonight.
It’s fireworks without music, we tough it out. How did the pioneers do it?
After about thirty minutes of a pyromaniacs dream Trainboy notifies me his butt hurts and he wants to go home. That's my boy. We walk back to the car, and from the sound of rapidly succeeding explosions the grand-finale must be starting. Get in the car, turn on the radio, hear the last few bars, and we are out of there before the traffic jam can even start. Trainboy had wonderful timing. Sometimes it's all in the buttocks.
We're home in a few minutes. We kick back to toons, chocolate milk, and fish sticks.
Supernurse gets home, and resumes her disguise as mild-mannered Superwife. She shares pizza with Trainboy- he's a growing boy. I fall asleep on the couch- it's just a guy thing. Some might call it a weenie's camp-out.
And that was the 4th.
Publicserf
Saturday, July 05, 2003
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
HodgePodge for $50.
A little bit ago Trainboy announced that he'd farted in the bathtub. It must have been important to him. Thanks for sharing.
When we were getting groceries he pointed at a garlic press and informed us, "Those are levers." He was right. Not bad for 6.
Ms. Pikachu was the only student to attend all the scheduled summer flute lessons. No bonus, award, or mention in the newspaper. She was robbed! Certainly the instructor can see that either Ms. Pikachu is a serious student, or she has a serious mother. It's the mother.
It seems to me the human body needs 'x' amount of sleep per day. Deprive it of sleep and sooner or later it will get it back. The debt accumulates. Stay up too late too often and you risk a premature burial. Fortunately for me, I'm married to the SuperNurse/HolyWife. I'm not dead till I miss church. You, on the other hand, had better get your sleep.
I don't care for the current fashionable pants that are halfway up the calf. Every time I seem them I think, "Big rain forecast?" The worst are the mid-calf pants with bell-bottoms. Good God, is it just a test to see who will wear anything if it's declared fashion? They scream, "I am clueless, I am pliable!" Either that or, "I've grown eight inches and vomit so much I haven't put on a pound." I try to convince myself these capri/clamdigger/flood pants have an upside- they show a little leg. But they don't work for me, it's not enough leg. So greedy, and I'm comfortable with that.
There you have it- nothing is too petty for me to bitch about. My feminine side is a real bitch.
Living in the 'hood you can see every variation on current fashion by just sitting on the porch and watching the local posers pass by. Sometimes it isn't pretty. A couple days ago a fellow walked by with his shirt just on his arms. It was as though he'd started to put his T-shirt on and decided, "no, I ain't going to put my head through the hole like everybody else. I'll wear it like this to be different, maybe attract a fine babe or three, and I'll still have it handy to pull on if I want to go into a store and buy beer." It wasn't hot outside. It was fashion genius. He was the day's King Poser in a kingdom of posers.
To save some of these posers the mental challenge of coming up with a new way of being special, how about these:
-shave your face, but let the neck grow
-cut gaps into your eyelashes
-when that gets tired cut matching gaps into your eyebrows
-grow long temple locks like an orthodox Jew, and shave the rest of your head
-wear a diaper on your head, it gives you that paternal look chicks dig
You say those are stupid ideas? well yeah. But they're different, apparently that's all that counts, and that's all that was promised.
But on the topic of 'things chicks dig-' what is it with women getting excited when men growl? You remember the Ohio Players? There was one guy who had his fro' over one eye and ended every phrase with "ow." You'd think breathing hurt. But every time he went "ow" women screamed, you could almost hear the eggs splash. All those eggs splashed like rain- really appropriate when they did "Fire."
On Star Trek the Klingons are the personification of males' aggressive tendencies. But all the growling they do for foreplay is just their Phil Donahue touchy-feely give-the-women-what-they-want side. They'd rather have a beer and a woman who's instant-on. Yes, behind those tribe-of-linebacker facades they're just guys in need of plastic surgery and comfortable clothes.
The wife ironed my shirts last night. She said she'd ironed the church baptism robes and just decided to do my shirts while the iron was hot. Was I going to argue? That would be a "no." It was strange, but I took it as a sign she loves me, for whatever reason.
I had to take the Intrepid to the mechanic because the air conditioner wasn't conditioning. It was just recharged a month ago. He did his thing, and we went to Wally World for more stuff. When we picked the car up he informed me the evaporator has a leak, fixing it would run around $1,000. He recharged it, and charged me half the usual price. He said at least we'd be cool through the weekend. Two Dodges, one without air, one losing it. Why can't Dodge make an air conditioner that lasts? It's enough to make me buy...... something else. Something stylin', somethin' swervy', sumpin' growly.
Maybe a Ford.
That will close out Hodgepodge for today.
The wife/editor has informed me this post wasn't funny, but that it doesn't have to be.
Oh well.
Just a disclaimer: I don't really care what women wear, the wife keeps my opinion from mattering anyway. Ladies, if you want to wear capri pants that's your decision, go ahead. Don't be dissuaded by what other people think, that's just a different herd-think. They're probably comfortable and cool, form should follow function. Just don't wear them in an Islamic theocracy. But I still think bell-bottoms that are mid-calf are senseless. And my opinion still doesn't matter here, or in Paris.
If that isn't enough butt-kissing let me know.
Publicserf
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
HodgePodge for $50.
A little bit ago Trainboy announced that he'd farted in the bathtub. It must have been important to him. Thanks for sharing.
When we were getting groceries he pointed at a garlic press and informed us, "Those are levers." He was right. Not bad for 6.
Ms. Pikachu was the only student to attend all the scheduled summer flute lessons. No bonus, award, or mention in the newspaper. She was robbed! Certainly the instructor can see that either Ms. Pikachu is a serious student, or she has a serious mother. It's the mother.
It seems to me the human body needs 'x' amount of sleep per day. Deprive it of sleep and sooner or later it will get it back. The debt accumulates. Stay up too late too often and you risk a premature burial. Fortunately for me, I'm married to the SuperNurse/HolyWife. I'm not dead till I miss church. You, on the other hand, had better get your sleep.
I don't care for the current fashionable pants that are halfway up the calf. Every time I seem them I think, "Big rain forecast?" The worst are the mid-calf pants with bell-bottoms. Good God, is it just a test to see who will wear anything if it's declared fashion? They scream, "I am clueless, I am pliable!" Either that or, "I've grown eight inches and vomit so much I haven't put on a pound." I try to convince myself these capri/clamdigger/flood pants have an upside- they show a little leg. But they don't work for me, it's not enough leg. So greedy, and I'm comfortable with that.
There you have it- nothing is too petty for me to bitch about. My feminine side is a real bitch.
Living in the 'hood you can see every variation on current fashion by just sitting on the porch and watching the local posers pass by. Sometimes it isn't pretty. A couple days ago a fellow walked by with his shirt just on his arms. It was as though he'd started to put his T-shirt on and decided, "no, I ain't going to put my head through the hole like everybody else. I'll wear it like this to be different, maybe attract a fine babe or three, and I'll still have it handy to pull on if I want to go into a store and buy beer." It wasn't hot outside. It was fashion genius. He was the day's King Poser in a kingdom of posers.
To save some of these posers the mental challenge of coming up with a new way of being special, how about these:
-shave your face, but let the neck grow
-cut gaps into your eyelashes
-when that gets tired cut matching gaps into your eyebrows
-grow long temple locks like an orthodox Jew, and shave the rest of your head
-wear a diaper on your head, it gives you that paternal look chicks dig
You say those are stupid ideas? well yeah. But they're different, apparently that's all that counts, and that's all that was promised.
But on the topic of 'things chicks dig-' what is it with women getting excited when men growl? You remember the Ohio Players? There was one guy who had his fro' over one eye and ended every phrase with "ow." You'd think breathing hurt. But every time he went "ow" women screamed, you could almost hear the eggs splash. All those eggs splashed like rain- really appropriate when they did "Fire."
On Star Trek the Klingons are the personification of males' aggressive tendencies. But all the growling they do for foreplay is just their Phil Donahue touchy-feely give-the-women-what-they-want side. They'd rather have a beer and a woman who's instant-on. Yes, behind those tribe-of-linebacker facades they're just guys in need of plastic surgery and comfortable clothes.
The wife ironed my shirts last night. She said she'd ironed the church baptism robes and just decided to do my shirts while the iron was hot. Was I going to argue? That would be a "no." It was strange, but I took it as a sign she loves me, for whatever reason.
I had to take the Intrepid to the mechanic because the air conditioner wasn't conditioning. It was just recharged a month ago. He did his thing, and we went to Wally World for more stuff. When we picked the car up he informed me the evaporator has a leak, fixing it would run around $1,000. He recharged it, and charged me half the usual price. He said at least we'd be cool through the weekend. Two Dodges, one without air, one losing it. Why can't Dodge make an air conditioner that lasts? It's enough to make me buy...... something else. Something stylin', somethin' swervy', sumpin' growly.
Maybe a Ford.
That will close out Hodgepodge for today.
The wife/editor has informed me this post wasn't funny, but that it doesn't have to be.
Oh well.
Just a disclaimer: I don't really care what women wear, the wife keeps my opinion from mattering anyway. Ladies, if you want to wear capri pants that's your decision, go ahead. Don't be dissuaded by what other people think, that's just a different herd-think. They're probably comfortable and cool, form should follow function. Just don't wear them in an Islamic theocracy. But I still think bell-bottoms that are mid-calf are senseless. And my opinion still doesn't matter here, or in Paris.
If that isn't enough butt-kissing let me know.
Publicserf
-
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
This one turned out almost painfully self-absorbed, oh well.
-Buddy Hackett and Katherine Hepburn are dead, and not necessarily in that order. Not that the order is important either. Last in first out, or first in first out, only an accountant would care. The gentlemanly thing would be a lady first, so all right, Katherine and Buddy it is. If that’s too familiar- then it’s Ms. Hepburn and Mr. Hackett. By now everybody should be happy, depending on your perspective.
As a kid death announcements weren’t of any interest- usually never knowing the deceased. Unless it was a relative close enough to get me out of school I didn’t care. Going to a funeral was never any fun, but it was still a day out of school. Death could have an upside. Deaths during summer vacation were such a waste.
Now I’m middle-aged and each death is a black frame on fond memories. Hepburn, Hackett, Peck, Stewart, Berle, Landon, Harrison, Orbison, - I’ve admired some, laughed at a few, and enjoyed them all. They were old friends without ever making their acquaintances.
Entering my own autumn, the leaves of the older generation fall faster and faster. There is sadness at their loss. And there is sadness knowing my generation will soon begin to move through its final burst of color to fall in turn. It is just a matter of time. The clock ticks, the calendar turns, the leaves fall. The ground will catch us all.
When younger, death couldn’t come soon enough. I would pray that I’d die soon, “Please take me home, right now.” Right there is a pretty good indicator of an unhappy childhood. But God is no vending machine; he reserves the right to say “no.” That seemed to be all he had to say. My luck seemed to be worse than Bill Bennett’s. Not realizing it, it was better, God wasn’t saying “no,” he was saying “wait, you can’t believe what’s coming.”
And suddenly I was dating the cutest girl, and she thought I was worth a “yes.” It seemed like a miracle- I was married to her. It still amazes me. Then it was two children as adorable as their mother. Blessings beyond belief, it was worth the wait. Death is no longer something to rush to. Heaven is an eternity; time as a husband and father is only a few ticks. Heaven can wait. God knows it’s nothing personal.
It is a great comfort to be a Christian. Some might mock my faith as wishful thinking, it is not, it is faith. Wishful thinking is wanting something I can’t have. Ask the wife, she has the list. My faith is knowing that heaven is coming, and I’m going there. I believe it because the Bible tells me so.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
This one turned out almost painfully self-absorbed, oh well.
-Buddy Hackett and Katherine Hepburn are dead, and not necessarily in that order. Not that the order is important either. Last in first out, or first in first out, only an accountant would care. The gentlemanly thing would be a lady first, so all right, Katherine and Buddy it is. If that’s too familiar- then it’s Ms. Hepburn and Mr. Hackett. By now everybody should be happy, depending on your perspective.
As a kid death announcements weren’t of any interest- usually never knowing the deceased. Unless it was a relative close enough to get me out of school I didn’t care. Going to a funeral was never any fun, but it was still a day out of school. Death could have an upside. Deaths during summer vacation were such a waste.
Now I’m middle-aged and each death is a black frame on fond memories. Hepburn, Hackett, Peck, Stewart, Berle, Landon, Harrison, Orbison, - I’ve admired some, laughed at a few, and enjoyed them all. They were old friends without ever making their acquaintances.
Entering my own autumn, the leaves of the older generation fall faster and faster. There is sadness at their loss. And there is sadness knowing my generation will soon begin to move through its final burst of color to fall in turn. It is just a matter of time. The clock ticks, the calendar turns, the leaves fall. The ground will catch us all.
When younger, death couldn’t come soon enough. I would pray that I’d die soon, “Please take me home, right now.” Right there is a pretty good indicator of an unhappy childhood. But God is no vending machine; he reserves the right to say “no.” That seemed to be all he had to say. My luck seemed to be worse than Bill Bennett’s. Not realizing it, it was better, God wasn’t saying “no,” he was saying “wait, you can’t believe what’s coming.”
And suddenly I was dating the cutest girl, and she thought I was worth a “yes.” It seemed like a miracle- I was married to her. It still amazes me. Then it was two children as adorable as their mother. Blessings beyond belief, it was worth the wait. Death is no longer something to rush to. Heaven is an eternity; time as a husband and father is only a few ticks. Heaven can wait. God knows it’s nothing personal.
It is a great comfort to be a Christian. Some might mock my faith as wishful thinking, it is not, it is faith. Wishful thinking is wanting something I can’t have. Ask the wife, she has the list. My faith is knowing that heaven is coming, and I’m going there. I believe it because the Bible tells me so.
Monday, June 30, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I’m catching up here. I’ve moved a couple posts to their correct days, just because I could. Kinda hate to make excuses, but I'm tired. One of these days the blog will look better, but not today.
Arriving home from work there wasn’t anybody in the house. Look out the kitchen window and there you have it- the wife has started to mow the back yard. Feeling manly, in an irritated kind of way, I go out back and mow the back yard. It’s a safe bet you won’t see any other yards in the neighborhood being mowed by a guy who looks like he just got home from the cubicle. Then the lawn is mowed, and then it is time to get some groceries.
Then I wrote this. Now I’m going to post stuff back to 6/27 and go to bed.
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I’m catching up here. I’ve moved a couple posts to their correct days, just because I could. Kinda hate to make excuses, but I'm tired. One of these days the blog will look better, but not today.
Arriving home from work there wasn’t anybody in the house. Look out the kitchen window and there you have it- the wife has started to mow the back yard. Feeling manly, in an irritated kind of way, I go out back and mow the back yard. It’s a safe bet you won’t see any other yards in the neighborhood being mowed by a guy who looks like he just got home from the cubicle. Then the lawn is mowed, and then it is time to get some groceries.
Then I wrote this. Now I’m going to post stuff back to 6/27 and go to bed.
-
Sunday, June 29, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
6/29
Went to church Sunday morning. We always do. Admittedly, if I could I’d probably sleep in and just ask for forgiveness. Not the HolyWife, uh uh, Sunday has one reason and one reason only- get your butt out of bed and into church. Through droopy eyes I admire the strength of her resolve. Appreciating how she takes her spiritual responsibilities so seriously- I get dressed.
Church was a dud. Our preacher was off to a convention, we got someone in missions instead. The guy is out there living his belief, have to admire him for that. But he could really use some work as a speaker. So hard to stay awake. Through still-droopy eyes I ogle the wife and stay awake. It’s okay, God understands, I tried, but the flesh is weak. Sometimes you have to play it.
After church we went to the airport. There were supposed to be plane rides for the kids after the pancake breakfast. There was hardly anybody left in sight. Just a few middle-age kids playing with their radio-control planes. And we are out of there.
To Best Buy we go. We get the Monkees’ first-season DVD set. You laugh. I don’t care. Sure the show was dumb and got dumber, but the music was good. Good tunes performed well. The kids love the music. While traveling the Trainboy will bounce in his seat to the beat. Ms. Pikachu always requests her favorite Monkees CD. I love the music, lots of favorites. It’s a good time. Then it’s on to home. You’ll get the rest of a Monkee rant later. Promise, threat, take your choice.
I got out a shovel and scraped off the grass/weeds in a strip near the fence in the back yard. On the cleared strip went one of those flower seed rolls. It’s really too late to do it, but better late yadda yadda. Then there came the recollection of a can of flower seeds left from last year that’s supposed to be for prairie wildflowers.
Widen the strip. Sweat some more. Sprinkle seeds on strip and on the seed roll too. Supposedly the seed roll could be left as is. The canned seed is supposed to be covered. They need dirt. Trainboy and I go to K-Mart to get dirt- three bags full. Trainboy spots a toy VW, I get a spontaneous hug. Life is good. Got a couple Icees too, we are deserving. Three dirt bags does a nice job of covering the seed. If the seed is still any good we could have a nice butterfly garden. Oh joy. Really. Oh joy.
Mow the front lawn.
Then it’s back inside and a week’s worth of laundry awaits. After a couple loads I sit down on the couch with the kids. They’re still watching the Monkee DVD’s. They love ‘em. Lots of kid laughter. I fall asleep before finishing an episode. Wake up in the middle of the night and go to bed.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
6/29
Went to church Sunday morning. We always do. Admittedly, if I could I’d probably sleep in and just ask for forgiveness. Not the HolyWife, uh uh, Sunday has one reason and one reason only- get your butt out of bed and into church. Through droopy eyes I admire the strength of her resolve. Appreciating how she takes her spiritual responsibilities so seriously- I get dressed.
Church was a dud. Our preacher was off to a convention, we got someone in missions instead. The guy is out there living his belief, have to admire him for that. But he could really use some work as a speaker. So hard to stay awake. Through still-droopy eyes I ogle the wife and stay awake. It’s okay, God understands, I tried, but the flesh is weak. Sometimes you have to play it.
After church we went to the airport. There were supposed to be plane rides for the kids after the pancake breakfast. There was hardly anybody left in sight. Just a few middle-age kids playing with their radio-control planes. And we are out of there.
To Best Buy we go. We get the Monkees’ first-season DVD set. You laugh. I don’t care. Sure the show was dumb and got dumber, but the music was good. Good tunes performed well. The kids love the music. While traveling the Trainboy will bounce in his seat to the beat. Ms. Pikachu always requests her favorite Monkees CD. I love the music, lots of favorites. It’s a good time. Then it’s on to home. You’ll get the rest of a Monkee rant later. Promise, threat, take your choice.
I got out a shovel and scraped off the grass/weeds in a strip near the fence in the back yard. On the cleared strip went one of those flower seed rolls. It’s really too late to do it, but better late yadda yadda. Then there came the recollection of a can of flower seeds left from last year that’s supposed to be for prairie wildflowers.
Widen the strip. Sweat some more. Sprinkle seeds on strip and on the seed roll too. Supposedly the seed roll could be left as is. The canned seed is supposed to be covered. They need dirt. Trainboy and I go to K-Mart to get dirt- three bags full. Trainboy spots a toy VW, I get a spontaneous hug. Life is good. Got a couple Icees too, we are deserving. Three dirt bags does a nice job of covering the seed. If the seed is still any good we could have a nice butterfly garden. Oh joy. Really. Oh joy.
Mow the front lawn.
Then it’s back inside and a week’s worth of laundry awaits. After a couple loads I sit down on the couch with the kids. They’re still watching the Monkee DVD’s. They love ‘em. Lots of kid laughter. I fall asleep before finishing an episode. Wake up in the middle of the night and go to bed.
Publicserf
Saturday, June 28, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Thought we were going to go visit family. The weather was wrong, or was it the moon phase? No matter, we stayed home.
For the evening we went to the local college campus for an outdoor symphony. It was part of the local July 4th –week celebration. The symphony played well, I just didn’t care for most of what they played. Damn me for a heretic, but I almost never care to hear Copeland. Perhaps the theory is that we rejoice in Americana, the holiday thing, it doesn’t matter, I don’t appreciate Copeland’s stuff, I just can’t wait till it’s over. It’s like bad lovin’.
They did two pieces written by a local composer. The piece from his musical was eminently forgettable. The song with lyrics was sung by the composer, hated it. The music was predictable, the singing heavy-handed, the lyrics were cliché ridden. He got a standing O. Couldn’t believe it, a standing O just for being local. I laid on the blanket, making no attempt to get up, neither did the wife or kids. What a bunch of critics we were. This is going to sound terribly vain, but I thought that I, even I, could write better lyrics.
Ms. Pikachu continued to play her Game Boy. Trainboy was fed his hot dog by the Superwife. I continued to lay there, looking at the sky, doing nothing to justify my existence.
As the sun slowly went down the clouds to the south darkened. It became apparent lightning filled the formerly friendly-looking clouds. Mother Nature put on her own fireworks display. It was too far south to threaten the scheduled show- no thunder could be heard. It was as though she was a wildly gesturing mute.
Continued to lay, continued to look. The sky overhead turned from bright blue-gray to darker hues. The darker it got the colder the air became. Above me beckoned a solitary star, growing brighter as I got colder. The surrounding crowd continued to murmur, only the wife and kids were distinct. I wondered if this was anything like death would be. Not that it mattered, there’s no hurry to find out.
The symphony finished it’s program with a patriotic/military medley. And it was dark enough for fireworks. Somebody cued up a disk of Disney favorites. Couldn’t believe it, not that I minded. Just thought, hey, you’ve got a freakin’ symphony here, it might behoove you to use it. But there was a reason, the fireworks were timed to the music.
It was nicely done. Impressive actually. Beautiful fireworks nicely timed and choreographed. It was just amazing that a relatively small town can have such a sophisticated display. Technology advances and it trickles down.
The wife watched while sitting on her right hip and leaned on her right arm. Irresistable. I scooted up behind her and snuggled. So soft, so warm, so wonderful. Everytime we saw a good one we squeezed the other. Did I say it was wonderful? It was wonderful. In a big crowd with the kids and it was still so romantic. Life was good.
The symphony draws an older crowd. When the show was over we quickly gathered up our things and headed for the parking lot. Since we moved faster than the average fine-arts partaker we were able to beat the rush out of the parking lot. The wife was happy.
Last year at a Little River Band/Paul Revere concert we sat in the parking lot for 30 minutes. So there’s a lesson for you- if you want to beat the rush, hang with old folks. But if you have to go to Marilyn Manson, well, you get what you deserve.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Thought we were going to go visit family. The weather was wrong, or was it the moon phase? No matter, we stayed home.
For the evening we went to the local college campus for an outdoor symphony. It was part of the local July 4th –week celebration. The symphony played well, I just didn’t care for most of what they played. Damn me for a heretic, but I almost never care to hear Copeland. Perhaps the theory is that we rejoice in Americana, the holiday thing, it doesn’t matter, I don’t appreciate Copeland’s stuff, I just can’t wait till it’s over. It’s like bad lovin’.
They did two pieces written by a local composer. The piece from his musical was eminently forgettable. The song with lyrics was sung by the composer, hated it. The music was predictable, the singing heavy-handed, the lyrics were cliché ridden. He got a standing O. Couldn’t believe it, a standing O just for being local. I laid on the blanket, making no attempt to get up, neither did the wife or kids. What a bunch of critics we were. This is going to sound terribly vain, but I thought that I, even I, could write better lyrics.
Ms. Pikachu continued to play her Game Boy. Trainboy was fed his hot dog by the Superwife. I continued to lay there, looking at the sky, doing nothing to justify my existence.
As the sun slowly went down the clouds to the south darkened. It became apparent lightning filled the formerly friendly-looking clouds. Mother Nature put on her own fireworks display. It was too far south to threaten the scheduled show- no thunder could be heard. It was as though she was a wildly gesturing mute.
Continued to lay, continued to look. The sky overhead turned from bright blue-gray to darker hues. The darker it got the colder the air became. Above me beckoned a solitary star, growing brighter as I got colder. The surrounding crowd continued to murmur, only the wife and kids were distinct. I wondered if this was anything like death would be. Not that it mattered, there’s no hurry to find out.
The symphony finished it’s program with a patriotic/military medley. And it was dark enough for fireworks. Somebody cued up a disk of Disney favorites. Couldn’t believe it, not that I minded. Just thought, hey, you’ve got a freakin’ symphony here, it might behoove you to use it. But there was a reason, the fireworks were timed to the music.
It was nicely done. Impressive actually. Beautiful fireworks nicely timed and choreographed. It was just amazing that a relatively small town can have such a sophisticated display. Technology advances and it trickles down.
The wife watched while sitting on her right hip and leaned on her right arm. Irresistable. I scooted up behind her and snuggled. So soft, so warm, so wonderful. Everytime we saw a good one we squeezed the other. Did I say it was wonderful? It was wonderful. In a big crowd with the kids and it was still so romantic. Life was good.
The symphony draws an older crowd. When the show was over we quickly gathered up our things and headed for the parking lot. Since we moved faster than the average fine-arts partaker we were able to beat the rush out of the parking lot. The wife was happy.
Last year at a Little River Band/Paul Revere concert we sat in the parking lot for 30 minutes. So there’s a lesson for you- if you want to beat the rush, hang with old folks. But if you have to go to Marilyn Manson, well, you get what you deserve.
Friday, June 27, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
This just in- the Supreme court overturned Sodomy laws by a 6-3 vote. The court opinions probably make for some strange reading. There are probably people who will read the ruling with heavy breathing.
You have to wonder how many couples never discuss current events, and suddenly the husband tries to make small-talk by mentioning the Supreme Court has been busy. The wife looks at him lovingly and says, "Legal doesn't mean mandatory. You have a better chance of getting me to memorize the Chicago Cubs roster. Don't go there, cuz you ain't going there. Honey, I will kill you first. " End of discussion. Uneasy silence. "Hey did you hear Sammy Sosa got caught with a corked bat? Um, forget it."
In unrelated news, Strom Thurmond is dead. Or maybe not unrelated. Maybe his wife got even after he got excited about the Court's ruling. Fortunately for you, the Serf does vulgar, but not THAT vulgar.
Before I forget, David Brinkley died. Sure, you know already. Kind of sad though. His career seemed to be one of second billing, 'Chet Huntley & David Brinkley.' Then he dies on the same day as Gregory Peck. "GREGORY PECK died today, we'll run a special tribute later and for the next several days. By the way, David Brinkley died." A day earlier and he would have had a day to himself. In media, timing is everything. Despite how it worked out, Mr. Brinkley is probably handling everything with his customary equanimity and dry wit.
I, on the other hand, will handle the coming day with my customary lack of sleep.
Public Serf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
This just in- the Supreme court overturned Sodomy laws by a 6-3 vote. The court opinions probably make for some strange reading. There are probably people who will read the ruling with heavy breathing.
You have to wonder how many couples never discuss current events, and suddenly the husband tries to make small-talk by mentioning the Supreme Court has been busy. The wife looks at him lovingly and says, "Legal doesn't mean mandatory. You have a better chance of getting me to memorize the Chicago Cubs roster. Don't go there, cuz you ain't going there. Honey, I will kill you first. " End of discussion. Uneasy silence. "Hey did you hear Sammy Sosa got caught with a corked bat? Um, forget it."
In unrelated news, Strom Thurmond is dead. Or maybe not unrelated. Maybe his wife got even after he got excited about the Court's ruling. Fortunately for you, the Serf does vulgar, but not THAT vulgar.
Before I forget, David Brinkley died. Sure, you know already. Kind of sad though. His career seemed to be one of second billing, 'Chet Huntley & David Brinkley.' Then he dies on the same day as Gregory Peck. "GREGORY PECK died today, we'll run a special tribute later and for the next several days. By the way, David Brinkley died." A day earlier and he would have had a day to himself. In media, timing is everything. Despite how it worked out, Mr. Brinkley is probably handling everything with his customary equanimity and dry wit.
I, on the other hand, will handle the coming day with my customary lack of sleep.
Public Serf
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
As a matter of fact, I have been busy. Starting with yesterday-
It rained and rained and rained. Which is to say- it rained all day. There was no van out front when I got home, odd. The wife and kids were home, normally not odd, but really odd without the van out front. Superwife looked a little uneasy. She told me how “odd” transpired.
She took Ms. Pikachu to her flute lesson and waited in the van with Trainboy. She decided against leaving the engine running. That was reasonable. It got muggy so she turned the fan on. That was unreasonable. By the time Ms. Pikachu was done with her lesson the battery was too run down to start the engine.
It had been her intent to return some library books after the lesson. It was eight blocks to the library, or eight blocks home. So all of them walked to the library in the rain. When they were done they crossed the street to the bus terminal and rode the bus home.
Quick quiz- How do you know you’re having a bad hair day? Answer- when the bus driver tells you that if you have a Title 19 card you can ride the bus for free.
Second quiz- How does the husband know the wife had a bad day? Answer- if you don’t know, repeat the first quiz.
The rain showed no signs of stopping so we drove over to the school and jump-started the van. I was soaked. But since the Superwife equates services with love some points must have been earned. The soaking was surely worthwhile, for someday there will be a reward, or maybe not.
Easy assumption- any husband who values marital happiness will make no comments regarding the wisdom, or lack of same, of the prolonged running of power accessories with the engine off. Which is to say, sometimes the smart thing is not to appear that way. She loves me, not only for services, but because I know when to shut up. Usually.
We went home, got the kids, and went to see ‘Finding Nemo.’ Everybody loved it. It was sweet, funny, and had humor for the adults who must stay with the children. Smart move Mr. Disney.
In all honesty, I liked what I saw, but fell asleep for at least a half-hour of it. So I can’t say I saw the whole movie. But it was good, and if you see it you should stay through the credits. There are sight gags anybody could enjoy until the screen goes blank.
Then it was time to eat. Right across the lot is the usual string of restaurants. We hadn’t done the IHOP before, so there we went. Ms. Pikachu was enthralled by the selection of syrups- four of them. So she had to have pancakes, and pancakes she had. When she was done she declared she couldn’t eat another thing till morning.
It would not matter to her, nor to you, but let me expound on the joy of pancakes. When we were kids, anytime we went on a trip Ma made pancakes, because if you fill your gut with pancakes you won’t be hungry for a long time. It’s true. There is wisdom there for the traveling family.
The only problem with this wisdom is that pancakes don’t agree with everybody. I love ‘me. Syrup, fruit, whipped cream, just pile them on. The more the merrier, while you’re eating anyway. Shortly after eating them I always feel sick, but not to the point where I blow chunks. So I still don’t feel hungry for a long time. The wisdom still holds, even if my stomach doesn’t want to.
Upon returning home from work today the wife informed me of an event taking place related to the 4th of July where a band would play, and they’d have hot-air balloons. We went and sure enough, a band played, and there were hot-air balloons, five of them. They were inflated about sundown. Every time the burners were touched the balloons would glow. Very cool effect.
The band was a local one. They’ve been together since the Great Flood so they sound pretty good for a bunch of geezers. I almost fell asleep while they did a cover of Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again.’ Almost. It’s impossible to sleep when offered a glass of lemonade and a bag of kettle corn.
Supermom and Trainboy went off to see the balloons close up.
Having a near captive audience Ms. Pikachu self-induced a fit of mania. She repeatedly said, with a loud voice, “I’m going to drink coffee, and eat beans, and have coffee-smelling farts.”
Small children looked at her like she was an alien and hid behind their parents. Fearful, yet too fascinated to look away.
Most of the parents looked at Ms. Pikachu, and then at me, smiling like “Have you got your hands full.” We do.
One of the nearby mothers was there with several kids. One of her kids was a girl about sixteen or seventeen. Said girl was wearing a tight t-shirt, low-rise jeans, and a thong. You couldn’t miss the thong; it was higher than the jeans and lower than the shirt. You wanted to say to the mother, “Have you got your hands full” but she probably already knew. It is a common problem. Saying "You've got kids," and "You've got your hands full" is redundant.
All kids want to be grown-up. All too often they make the wrong decisions to take shortcuts to adulthood. So the girls dress like sluts, the boys want to get drunk and take advantage of a slut, and all too often they smoke too. All done in an attempt to appear sophisticated and grown up.
The next thing they know they’re jump-starting a dead battery in the rain and wondering how they got old so fast.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
As a matter of fact, I have been busy. Starting with yesterday-
It rained and rained and rained. Which is to say- it rained all day. There was no van out front when I got home, odd. The wife and kids were home, normally not odd, but really odd without the van out front. Superwife looked a little uneasy. She told me how “odd” transpired.
She took Ms. Pikachu to her flute lesson and waited in the van with Trainboy. She decided against leaving the engine running. That was reasonable. It got muggy so she turned the fan on. That was unreasonable. By the time Ms. Pikachu was done with her lesson the battery was too run down to start the engine.
It had been her intent to return some library books after the lesson. It was eight blocks to the library, or eight blocks home. So all of them walked to the library in the rain. When they were done they crossed the street to the bus terminal and rode the bus home.
Quick quiz- How do you know you’re having a bad hair day? Answer- when the bus driver tells you that if you have a Title 19 card you can ride the bus for free.
Second quiz- How does the husband know the wife had a bad day? Answer- if you don’t know, repeat the first quiz.
The rain showed no signs of stopping so we drove over to the school and jump-started the van. I was soaked. But since the Superwife equates services with love some points must have been earned. The soaking was surely worthwhile, for someday there will be a reward, or maybe not.
Easy assumption- any husband who values marital happiness will make no comments regarding the wisdom, or lack of same, of the prolonged running of power accessories with the engine off. Which is to say, sometimes the smart thing is not to appear that way. She loves me, not only for services, but because I know when to shut up. Usually.
We went home, got the kids, and went to see ‘Finding Nemo.’ Everybody loved it. It was sweet, funny, and had humor for the adults who must stay with the children. Smart move Mr. Disney.
In all honesty, I liked what I saw, but fell asleep for at least a half-hour of it. So I can’t say I saw the whole movie. But it was good, and if you see it you should stay through the credits. There are sight gags anybody could enjoy until the screen goes blank.
Then it was time to eat. Right across the lot is the usual string of restaurants. We hadn’t done the IHOP before, so there we went. Ms. Pikachu was enthralled by the selection of syrups- four of them. So she had to have pancakes, and pancakes she had. When she was done she declared she couldn’t eat another thing till morning.
It would not matter to her, nor to you, but let me expound on the joy of pancakes. When we were kids, anytime we went on a trip Ma made pancakes, because if you fill your gut with pancakes you won’t be hungry for a long time. It’s true. There is wisdom there for the traveling family.
The only problem with this wisdom is that pancakes don’t agree with everybody. I love ‘me. Syrup, fruit, whipped cream, just pile them on. The more the merrier, while you’re eating anyway. Shortly after eating them I always feel sick, but not to the point where I blow chunks. So I still don’t feel hungry for a long time. The wisdom still holds, even if my stomach doesn’t want to.
Upon returning home from work today the wife informed me of an event taking place related to the 4th of July where a band would play, and they’d have hot-air balloons. We went and sure enough, a band played, and there were hot-air balloons, five of them. They were inflated about sundown. Every time the burners were touched the balloons would glow. Very cool effect.
The band was a local one. They’ve been together since the Great Flood so they sound pretty good for a bunch of geezers. I almost fell asleep while they did a cover of Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again.’ Almost. It’s impossible to sleep when offered a glass of lemonade and a bag of kettle corn.
Supermom and Trainboy went off to see the balloons close up.
Having a near captive audience Ms. Pikachu self-induced a fit of mania. She repeatedly said, with a loud voice, “I’m going to drink coffee, and eat beans, and have coffee-smelling farts.”
Small children looked at her like she was an alien and hid behind their parents. Fearful, yet too fascinated to look away.
Most of the parents looked at Ms. Pikachu, and then at me, smiling like “Have you got your hands full.” We do.
One of the nearby mothers was there with several kids. One of her kids was a girl about sixteen or seventeen. Said girl was wearing a tight t-shirt, low-rise jeans, and a thong. You couldn’t miss the thong; it was higher than the jeans and lower than the shirt. You wanted to say to the mother, “Have you got your hands full” but she probably already knew. It is a common problem. Saying "You've got kids," and "You've got your hands full" is redundant.
All kids want to be grown-up. All too often they make the wrong decisions to take shortcuts to adulthood. So the girls dress like sluts, the boys want to get drunk and take advantage of a slut, and all too often they smoke too. All done in an attempt to appear sophisticated and grown up.
The next thing they know they’re jump-starting a dead battery in the rain and wondering how they got old so fast.
Publicserf
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
I haven’t posted again for the past few days. It’s not that I’m avoiding it, it’s just been a busy time.
I went to work to find out I'd been scheduled to have the day off. My leave request said "mother-in-laws birthday." I headed home. The Superwife informed me she’s in Colorado. What to do, what to do? The wife knew what to do. We spent the morning watching a movie she’d checked out from the library. I don’t even remember what the movie was, or particularly liking it. But I do remember thinking, “this is the best use of my vacation time?” Not that it mattered.
Then she said we were going swimming because it was going to be 95 degrees outside. All the better reason to stay inside thinks I. We have air conditioning for a reason, right? The answer apparently is, “Wrong.” So off to the beach we went at 2:00. Hot. Real hot. Can people boil in the water? Hot.
The Superwife and the kids went into the water with a couple of rafts. They later reported to me they’d had fun. As is immediately apparent, I did not join them. I stayed in the van and took a nap. Why? Well, firstly, I was tired. Secondly, I’m too self-conscious to do it. Born shy, gotten worse, can’t get over it. I’ve tried rationalizing my way out of it, but have never been able to. It always comes down to feeling too embarrassed.
You’ll never see me in a swimsuit. You’ll never hear me sing. You’ll never see me talk in a group. Other people certainly do those things just fine. The wife and kids have no problems. The best I can figure is that I’m just wired that way. It’s just an extreme aversion to doing anything that could cause negative comments. Even if with my hearing I’d never hear them. Just the suspicion is more than I can bear. So it was nap-time for the Serf.
They played for a few hours, nap-time was over, and away we went. “Anybody hungry?” Yes’s came back. Um, how about the IHOP over there? We’ve never eaten there. Trainboy says no, he wants Burger King. Apparently kids don’t develop an aversion to constantly eating out of bags until they’re old enough to say, “Don’t trust anyone under 30.” So to Burger King we go.
Trainboy pulls the toy out of his freshly bagged meal and declares, “This is the one I’ve wanted!” You have to wonder how much food is sold at fast-food places just for the kids’ toys. Kids don’t care about nutrition. Kids don’t care about variety. Kids don’t care about taste. Parents just care about peace and quiet. So we reach into our bags and eat.
Then we went grocery shopping. Groceries and groceries and groceries. Don’t worry about a famine, you know somebody with food. Every kid seems to have their favorites that run in streaks. Right now Trainboy’s home cooking is fish sticks with lots of tartar sauce. It cannot be just any tartar sauce either. Fat-free profanes his mouth. Regular just won’t do either. By the Prince’s command it must be Kraft Tartar Sauce with Lemon. Nothing else is deserving of his attention. I’ll buy two or three bottles at a time just to make sure we don’t run out. That can save you a trip late at night. For fast food he’s strictly chicken nuggets and fries.
Ms. Pikachu’s fast-food of choice is a cheesburger and fries. While she was eating her fries she used them to scrape the cheese off her cheeseburger wrapper, then she reached over and scraped the cheese off my wrapper. She shared that she thinks fries and cheese are wonderful, but it would be even better if you put chocolate on them too. There’s an idea that could put your food back into the bag, after you’ve put the bag to your mouth.
She’s a chocoholic. She takes great pride in it. Just hand over the chocolate and nobody gets hurt. She claims all chocolate as though it's rightfully hers.
Oddly enough, her current favorite home food is cup-a-soup stuff. Add water, nuke to boiling, wait a couple minutes, and she thinks it’s just the best. At least it’s easy. What is probably the best about it is that she can do it herself anytime she wants some. A little chocoholic who wants some control.
Anyway, it seems that Ms. Pikachu is just like her mother. She looks like a copy with blond hair. Very bright, very personable, very fun to have around.
On the other hand, Trainboy also looks like his mother, but has a personality like mine. He's very quiet, thoughtful, and affectionate. We try to get him to speak up for himself, which is why if he wants to go to Burger King, we go. He needs to know his opinions matter.
You can't help but look at the two kids and think their personalities are so different they just have to be wired that way. People can make decisions to change, but there are limits. It just doesn't seem probable that an introvert can will themselves to be an extrovert. On the other hand, maybe it's just being willing to practice. I dunno.
I’ve been doing some computer-taught HTML stuff. One of these days this blog will start looking a little different.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
I haven’t posted again for the past few days. It’s not that I’m avoiding it, it’s just been a busy time.
I went to work to find out I'd been scheduled to have the day off. My leave request said "mother-in-laws birthday." I headed home. The Superwife informed me she’s in Colorado. What to do, what to do? The wife knew what to do. We spent the morning watching a movie she’d checked out from the library. I don’t even remember what the movie was, or particularly liking it. But I do remember thinking, “this is the best use of my vacation time?” Not that it mattered.
Then she said we were going swimming because it was going to be 95 degrees outside. All the better reason to stay inside thinks I. We have air conditioning for a reason, right? The answer apparently is, “Wrong.” So off to the beach we went at 2:00. Hot. Real hot. Can people boil in the water? Hot.
The Superwife and the kids went into the water with a couple of rafts. They later reported to me they’d had fun. As is immediately apparent, I did not join them. I stayed in the van and took a nap. Why? Well, firstly, I was tired. Secondly, I’m too self-conscious to do it. Born shy, gotten worse, can’t get over it. I’ve tried rationalizing my way out of it, but have never been able to. It always comes down to feeling too embarrassed.
You’ll never see me in a swimsuit. You’ll never hear me sing. You’ll never see me talk in a group. Other people certainly do those things just fine. The wife and kids have no problems. The best I can figure is that I’m just wired that way. It’s just an extreme aversion to doing anything that could cause negative comments. Even if with my hearing I’d never hear them. Just the suspicion is more than I can bear. So it was nap-time for the Serf.
They played for a few hours, nap-time was over, and away we went. “Anybody hungry?” Yes’s came back. Um, how about the IHOP over there? We’ve never eaten there. Trainboy says no, he wants Burger King. Apparently kids don’t develop an aversion to constantly eating out of bags until they’re old enough to say, “Don’t trust anyone under 30.” So to Burger King we go.
Trainboy pulls the toy out of his freshly bagged meal and declares, “This is the one I’ve wanted!” You have to wonder how much food is sold at fast-food places just for the kids’ toys. Kids don’t care about nutrition. Kids don’t care about variety. Kids don’t care about taste. Parents just care about peace and quiet. So we reach into our bags and eat.
Then we went grocery shopping. Groceries and groceries and groceries. Don’t worry about a famine, you know somebody with food. Every kid seems to have their favorites that run in streaks. Right now Trainboy’s home cooking is fish sticks with lots of tartar sauce. It cannot be just any tartar sauce either. Fat-free profanes his mouth. Regular just won’t do either. By the Prince’s command it must be Kraft Tartar Sauce with Lemon. Nothing else is deserving of his attention. I’ll buy two or three bottles at a time just to make sure we don’t run out. That can save you a trip late at night. For fast food he’s strictly chicken nuggets and fries.
Ms. Pikachu’s fast-food of choice is a cheesburger and fries. While she was eating her fries she used them to scrape the cheese off her cheeseburger wrapper, then she reached over and scraped the cheese off my wrapper. She shared that she thinks fries and cheese are wonderful, but it would be even better if you put chocolate on them too. There’s an idea that could put your food back into the bag, after you’ve put the bag to your mouth.
She’s a chocoholic. She takes great pride in it. Just hand over the chocolate and nobody gets hurt. She claims all chocolate as though it's rightfully hers.
Oddly enough, her current favorite home food is cup-a-soup stuff. Add water, nuke to boiling, wait a couple minutes, and she thinks it’s just the best. At least it’s easy. What is probably the best about it is that she can do it herself anytime she wants some. A little chocoholic who wants some control.
Anyway, it seems that Ms. Pikachu is just like her mother. She looks like a copy with blond hair. Very bright, very personable, very fun to have around.
On the other hand, Trainboy also looks like his mother, but has a personality like mine. He's very quiet, thoughtful, and affectionate. We try to get him to speak up for himself, which is why if he wants to go to Burger King, we go. He needs to know his opinions matter.
You can't help but look at the two kids and think their personalities are so different they just have to be wired that way. People can make decisions to change, but there are limits. It just doesn't seem probable that an introvert can will themselves to be an extrovert. On the other hand, maybe it's just being willing to practice. I dunno.
I’ve been doing some computer-taught HTML stuff. One of these days this blog will start looking a little different.
Publicserf
Monday, June 23, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Trainboy puts things together as best he can, but sometimes the results are amusing. He usually rides up front, and feels it's his job to inform me when the little green arrows say it's time to turn. If there's no green arrows we just keep going straight. It's like magic, the car tells us where to go. No wonder there are so many superstitions.
Giggles went home with her mother on Saturday. Here's a Giggles story- We were at a McDonald's drive-thru waiting for our order when a sprung-up pickup pulled up behind us. You couldn't miss him even though he was behind us. First of all, his headlights were about head high, the inside of the car was like daylight. Secondly, he had a powerful stereo and wasn't afraid to use it. We heard him before we saw him. Whump, whump, whump, whump.
Giggles declared, "I know that song!" She really knows her whumps apparently. She started hopping up and down. Ms. Pikachu couldn't resist, she started hopping up and down too. The car must have looked like it was nodding to the beat. The pickup driver smiled and waved. This only encouraged them. Laughs, yells, "He smiled and waved!" Even more enthusiatic bouncing. The stuff that inspires parent's nightmares. Okay, that story is done, time for another.
Ms. Pikachu has decided to take up the flute for Jr. High band. It's small, so it's easy for her to carry around. She realizes that her piano background makes it fairly easy to play. It seems like a good fit.
We watched RedHot a while back.
We've seen it before. The wife liked it so much I bought a copy from Amazon. It's a movie about some Russian classical music students wanting to learn rock and roll and they start playing it in secret. There's a lot of piano playing in it, both classical and rock. It seems to have inspired Ms. Pikachu to practice the piano again. So TV can have it's educational uses. But it's still used more for watching things like Ed Edd and Eddie
When I was a kid I never like the Three Stooges. I thought they were stupid, I didn't want to be stupid, I didn't want people to think I liked stupid. 'Ed, Edd and Eddie' is even dumber. I just love 'em. "Quit countin' your teeth Ed!" As I've gotten older I've learned I can embrace the stupid and still be me. "I am stupid, hear me roar. In numbers too big to ignore... I am voters." That was stupid.
Do that like Obi Wan Kenobi, "The force Luke, use the stupid force." Or, depending on your viewpoint, Darth Vader, "Give in to the stupid side of the force Luke. I'm your Father, Leia's your sister, life is stupid." A pretty good chunk of me is stupid, and I'm comfortable with that now. It's all part of...... growthfullness. Stupid growthfullness.
I have no idea where else to go with this post, apparently I've hit the stupid limit.
Publicserf
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Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Trainboy puts things together as best he can, but sometimes the results are amusing. He usually rides up front, and feels it's his job to inform me when the little green arrows say it's time to turn. If there's no green arrows we just keep going straight. It's like magic, the car tells us where to go. No wonder there are so many superstitions.
Giggles went home with her mother on Saturday. Here's a Giggles story- We were at a McDonald's drive-thru waiting for our order when a sprung-up pickup pulled up behind us. You couldn't miss him even though he was behind us. First of all, his headlights were about head high, the inside of the car was like daylight. Secondly, he had a powerful stereo and wasn't afraid to use it. We heard him before we saw him. Whump, whump, whump, whump.
Giggles declared, "I know that song!" She really knows her whumps apparently. She started hopping up and down. Ms. Pikachu couldn't resist, she started hopping up and down too. The car must have looked like it was nodding to the beat. The pickup driver smiled and waved. This only encouraged them. Laughs, yells, "He smiled and waved!" Even more enthusiatic bouncing. The stuff that inspires parent's nightmares. Okay, that story is done, time for another.
Ms. Pikachu has decided to take up the flute for Jr. High band. It's small, so it's easy for her to carry around. She realizes that her piano background makes it fairly easy to play. It seems like a good fit.
We watched RedHot a while back.
We've seen it before. The wife liked it so much I bought a copy from Amazon. It's a movie about some Russian classical music students wanting to learn rock and roll and they start playing it in secret. There's a lot of piano playing in it, both classical and rock. It seems to have inspired Ms. Pikachu to practice the piano again. So TV can have it's educational uses. But it's still used more for watching things like Ed Edd and Eddie
When I was a kid I never like the Three Stooges. I thought they were stupid, I didn't want to be stupid, I didn't want people to think I liked stupid. 'Ed, Edd and Eddie' is even dumber. I just love 'em. "Quit countin' your teeth Ed!" As I've gotten older I've learned I can embrace the stupid and still be me. "I am stupid, hear me roar. In numbers too big to ignore... I am voters." That was stupid.
Do that like Obi Wan Kenobi, "The force Luke, use the stupid force." Or, depending on your viewpoint, Darth Vader, "Give in to the stupid side of the force Luke. I'm your Father, Leia's your sister, life is stupid." A pretty good chunk of me is stupid, and I'm comfortable with that now. It's all part of...... growthfullness. Stupid growthfullness.
I have no idea where else to go with this post, apparently I've hit the stupid limit.
Publicserf
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Thursday, June 19, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
You might remember me mentioning the problems Iowa was having selecting a state quarter. At the time it was my impression that the Sullivans design was denied because they were human and either alive or dead, and therefore inadmissable. How wrong, how naive, how utterly embarrassing. How could this be? Where's the evidence? I got change.
There was a bright, shiny, new quarter, Abe Lincoln striding across Illinois with books under his arm. Another quarter was for Alabama and showed Helen Keller sitting in a chair with a book on her lap. Two new quarters, both showing a human. Surely there must be a reason those states got to use people and Iowa couldn't. Time to Google the US Mint.
http://www.usmint.gov/mint_programs/index.cfm?action=50_state_quarters_program.
Under 'Design Criteria' it says, "no head-and-shoulders portrait or bust of any person, living or dead, and no portrait of a living person may be included in the design." So you can have a person on the quarter, just not a bust. Perhaps this is to prevent confusion so children and foreigners don't think George Washington was a cross-dresser- that would be J Edgar Hoover.
Click on '50 State Quarters Program' and you get a US map. Drag the cursor over a state and you see it's quarter if already issued, or it's scheduled release date. Click on the quarter and you get an explanation of it and background on it's selection.
I know no art major, no art major is a friend of mine, I am no art major, but I look at the quarters and think, "A state full of talent and this is it?" Instead of Alabama's generic grandma in a chair with a book, how about just printing "Helen Keller" or "Alabama" in braille. It would be a coin even the blind could enjoy. That idea took all of about ten seconds, and I still think it's better than what they got.
While we're at it, instead of the paperboy on Illinois', how about just a log cabin and the legend "When this cabin's rockin' don't bother knockin.'" Alright, they can't all be winners, but if I hit .500 playing pro ball I'd be a rich legend. Since I don't play ball I am the Publicserf.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, you say. Well yes, that would be right. Just for a change of pace let me tell you which one my is favorite - Mississippi. Nice big magnolias, I find it pleasing. The worst? Give me a break, do some work yourself. It's a job only a masochist could love. Working for the gummint makes me a professional masochist, I can't do it for free.
One thing you learn when reading about the Mississippi quarter is that magnolias are not native to America. They were imported from Asia. It would seem that a lot we take as "natural" is not. The common plantain I pull up every evening and feed to the guinea pigs were brought over by the English, as were starlings.
People like to take a piece of home with them to make their surroundings seem more like a home, or just as a reminder of a vacation. How casually we commit environmental terrorism.
The next thing you know native species are choked out by new ones, lakes choked with new vegetation, readers choking from reading about it. I'm sick of this myself. I may as well get some sleep.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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You might remember me mentioning the problems Iowa was having selecting a state quarter. At the time it was my impression that the Sullivans design was denied because they were human and either alive or dead, and therefore inadmissable. How wrong, how naive, how utterly embarrassing. How could this be? Where's the evidence? I got change.
There was a bright, shiny, new quarter, Abe Lincoln striding across Illinois with books under his arm. Another quarter was for Alabama and showed Helen Keller sitting in a chair with a book on her lap. Two new quarters, both showing a human. Surely there must be a reason those states got to use people and Iowa couldn't. Time to Google the US Mint.
http://www.usmint.gov/mint_programs/index.cfm?action=50_state_quarters_program.
Under 'Design Criteria' it says, "no head-and-shoulders portrait or bust of any person, living or dead, and no portrait of a living person may be included in the design." So you can have a person on the quarter, just not a bust. Perhaps this is to prevent confusion so children and foreigners don't think George Washington was a cross-dresser- that would be J Edgar Hoover.
Click on '50 State Quarters Program' and you get a US map. Drag the cursor over a state and you see it's quarter if already issued, or it's scheduled release date. Click on the quarter and you get an explanation of it and background on it's selection.
I know no art major, no art major is a friend of mine, I am no art major, but I look at the quarters and think, "A state full of talent and this is it?" Instead of Alabama's generic grandma in a chair with a book, how about just printing "Helen Keller" or "Alabama" in braille. It would be a coin even the blind could enjoy. That idea took all of about ten seconds, and I still think it's better than what they got.
While we're at it, instead of the paperboy on Illinois', how about just a log cabin and the legend "When this cabin's rockin' don't bother knockin.'" Alright, they can't all be winners, but if I hit .500 playing pro ball I'd be a rich legend. Since I don't play ball I am the Publicserf.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, you say. Well yes, that would be right. Just for a change of pace let me tell you which one my is favorite - Mississippi. Nice big magnolias, I find it pleasing. The worst? Give me a break, do some work yourself. It's a job only a masochist could love. Working for the gummint makes me a professional masochist, I can't do it for free.
One thing you learn when reading about the Mississippi quarter is that magnolias are not native to America. They were imported from Asia. It would seem that a lot we take as "natural" is not. The common plantain I pull up every evening and feed to the guinea pigs were brought over by the English, as were starlings.
People like to take a piece of home with them to make their surroundings seem more like a home, or just as a reminder of a vacation. How casually we commit environmental terrorism.
The next thing you know native species are choked out by new ones, lakes choked with new vegetation, readers choking from reading about it. I'm sick of this myself. I may as well get some sleep.
Publicserf
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Okay, I've been bad, there hasn't been a posting for awhile. We've kept busy so there just hasn't been much time. I'm just going to relate a few events as I remember them.
On the last day of Vacation Bible School they had a program, and afterwards was lunch. Lunch was definitely geared for the kids, you got a hot dog, chips, and a Twinkie. There was no place left to sit in the room where we got the alledged food, so we headed back to the SaintlyWife's classroom.
Ms. Pikachu was feeling blonde. She danced in a circle, flailing her arms, and chanting "Twinkie wiener sandwich." It sings. It wouldn't have been surprising if someone walking by had called the minister in. He would have expressed concern, and I could have explained to him that it's okay, she's just feeling her blondeness. What else do you say about a kid who dances and chants "Twinkie wiener sandwich?" Maybe, "can we get her on ritalin?"
On another day we were eating at Arby's when I started ogling the wife again. Out shot Ms. Pikachu's hand again, right in front of my eyes. "Break contact" she again declared. Giggles asked why. Ms. Pikachu explained, "If I don't make him stop looking, he'll say something like "Crazy about you" and then he'll probably kiss her. In public." Giggles thought it was kind of sweet. Ms. Pikachu continued, "They are so weird I'm sure I'm adopted."
I told her I'd asked her mother about that, but the UberWife is pretty certain she wasn't. But I still thought she might be an alien. Giggles ventured, "There still might be space for her on the mother ship." Giggles can go with the flow, she fits right in.
Trainboy had his 6th birthday this past Sunday. UberMom had asked him what kind of a cake he'd like. He said chocolate, then he chose peanut butter frosting. She made the cake, and on Friday evening told me to make the frosting while she was at work. I've never done frosting before, but that's why there are cookbooks. I opened the Betty Crocker book to the index and quickly found 'peanut butter frosting.' Alphabetical order, I love that when it works. Went to the page indicated and started throwing ingredients into a bowl.
A couple of neglected grey-matter neurons sparked, and it occurred to me I was making peanut butter frosting without any peanut butter. Look again. It's a "Butter Frosting" recipe, the adjustment for peanut butter is below it. I now have a bowl of butter and sugar nicely beaten together. What to do, what to do. We move on is what we do. Throw in the peanut butter, add some more sugar, vanilla, and the recipe calls for milk. Hah. We're exploring brave new worlds here, in goes chocolate milk.
After it's all beat to the proper consistency I let the kids give it a try. Universally liked. Ms. Pikachu smiles and declares it tastes like a Reeses. The little chocoholic is pleased, it must be a winner.
On Saturday the wife frosted the cake and made railroad tracks with brown frosting. Then it was time to add the candles that look like a train. Couldn't find them. Before she left for work she asked me to find train candles. Went to Hy-Vee, they don't have them anymore. Went to Factory Card Outlet, they have lots of birthday stuff, but they don't have train candles. Went to Michael's, please, please, please have them. They don't either. But they did have a little wood train engine I could paint and assemble, it should work fine.
The Wife gets home late Saturday night and I show her my idea. She is not impressed. "Maybe you missed them at HyVee, we'll check after church tomorrow." Crap.
Sunday morning I'm out the door at 7:30. Anybody who knows me would know right there it was an act of God. I try HyVee again, I ask someone in the bakery section, nope, that's all they've got. I think, maybe Econofoods. Off to the north end I go. In the baking supplies area it's virtually the same selection as HyVee. So it's time to scout the baked goods area. Nothing. Then I see "The Book." The book with illustrations of different cakes they offer. Flip, flip, flip, and there it is- a circus train cake. Come to papa!
There is one, count him, one, guy working in the back of the bakery. He's cutting dough into rolls. I wait, hoping this works. He sees me, comes up, and asks what he can do. I tell him I have a cake with train tracks and no train. They sell a cake with a train, see, right there. I don't need another cake. Can you sell me just the train? He looks like I just got off the mothership, but he starts going through drawers, and drawers, and drawers. Should I offer to help look? I still need to get home and get ready for church.
He finds one and sets it on the counter in front of me. It even has little animals in the cages. And candles to fit on each car, six in all- it's perfect. Trainboy would love this. He says he doesn't know how much to charge for it, and must look it up. Then out comes another book and he looks, and looks, I fondle the circus train, so close, and yet... Eventually he walks over to me and slaps a label down. "$3.00, that's what we paid for it." He gets my most heart-felt expression of gratitude. The cashier gets $3.00 plus tax, and the train is mine. Oooh yeah. Points for me.
I get home, show it to the wife, she's happy. She shows it to Trainboy, he's happy. Oh yeah, Daddy's racking up the points.
After church we head back to the Uberwife's parents. Trainboy gets his cake. The cake is moist, the frosting is tasty, life is good.
The wife takes a large piece of tinfoil and wraps it around Trainboy's head. Then she crushes the top of it together, effectively making a spike out of it. I take a picture of him wearing it. Then it gets put on everybody in turn, and everybody's picture is taken. One of those totally goofy, surreal moments, just laugh and you're living Fellini. Looking at the pictures it's hard to believe everyone was sober.
Then it's pinata time! It's a German tradition. In the Old Country they just used France. Since that wasn't practical, the last time we were at Wally World he'd chosen one that looks like a cement mixer. All the kids take turns. They go around about three times before the job is done. The toughest thing they make in Mexico is pinatas. The most cold-hearted adjuster would have declared that mixer totalled though.
Totalled describes the state of my mind, enough for now. Trainboy had a Happy Birthday, I'd settle for a decent night's sleep. Maybe tomorrow night.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Okay, I've been bad, there hasn't been a posting for awhile. We've kept busy so there just hasn't been much time. I'm just going to relate a few events as I remember them.
On the last day of Vacation Bible School they had a program, and afterwards was lunch. Lunch was definitely geared for the kids, you got a hot dog, chips, and a Twinkie. There was no place left to sit in the room where we got the alledged food, so we headed back to the SaintlyWife's classroom.
Ms. Pikachu was feeling blonde. She danced in a circle, flailing her arms, and chanting "Twinkie wiener sandwich." It sings. It wouldn't have been surprising if someone walking by had called the minister in. He would have expressed concern, and I could have explained to him that it's okay, she's just feeling her blondeness. What else do you say about a kid who dances and chants "Twinkie wiener sandwich?" Maybe, "can we get her on ritalin?"
On another day we were eating at Arby's when I started ogling the wife again. Out shot Ms. Pikachu's hand again, right in front of my eyes. "Break contact" she again declared. Giggles asked why. Ms. Pikachu explained, "If I don't make him stop looking, he'll say something like "Crazy about you" and then he'll probably kiss her. In public." Giggles thought it was kind of sweet. Ms. Pikachu continued, "They are so weird I'm sure I'm adopted."
I told her I'd asked her mother about that, but the UberWife is pretty certain she wasn't. But I still thought she might be an alien. Giggles ventured, "There still might be space for her on the mother ship." Giggles can go with the flow, she fits right in.
Trainboy had his 6th birthday this past Sunday. UberMom had asked him what kind of a cake he'd like. He said chocolate, then he chose peanut butter frosting. She made the cake, and on Friday evening told me to make the frosting while she was at work. I've never done frosting before, but that's why there are cookbooks. I opened the Betty Crocker book to the index and quickly found 'peanut butter frosting.' Alphabetical order, I love that when it works. Went to the page indicated and started throwing ingredients into a bowl.
A couple of neglected grey-matter neurons sparked, and it occurred to me I was making peanut butter frosting without any peanut butter. Look again. It's a "Butter Frosting" recipe, the adjustment for peanut butter is below it. I now have a bowl of butter and sugar nicely beaten together. What to do, what to do. We move on is what we do. Throw in the peanut butter, add some more sugar, vanilla, and the recipe calls for milk. Hah. We're exploring brave new worlds here, in goes chocolate milk.
After it's all beat to the proper consistency I let the kids give it a try. Universally liked. Ms. Pikachu smiles and declares it tastes like a Reeses. The little chocoholic is pleased, it must be a winner.
On Saturday the wife frosted the cake and made railroad tracks with brown frosting. Then it was time to add the candles that look like a train. Couldn't find them. Before she left for work she asked me to find train candles. Went to Hy-Vee, they don't have them anymore. Went to Factory Card Outlet, they have lots of birthday stuff, but they don't have train candles. Went to Michael's, please, please, please have them. They don't either. But they did have a little wood train engine I could paint and assemble, it should work fine.
The Wife gets home late Saturday night and I show her my idea. She is not impressed. "Maybe you missed them at HyVee, we'll check after church tomorrow." Crap.
Sunday morning I'm out the door at 7:30. Anybody who knows me would know right there it was an act of God. I try HyVee again, I ask someone in the bakery section, nope, that's all they've got. I think, maybe Econofoods. Off to the north end I go. In the baking supplies area it's virtually the same selection as HyVee. So it's time to scout the baked goods area. Nothing. Then I see "The Book." The book with illustrations of different cakes they offer. Flip, flip, flip, and there it is- a circus train cake. Come to papa!
There is one, count him, one, guy working in the back of the bakery. He's cutting dough into rolls. I wait, hoping this works. He sees me, comes up, and asks what he can do. I tell him I have a cake with train tracks and no train. They sell a cake with a train, see, right there. I don't need another cake. Can you sell me just the train? He looks like I just got off the mothership, but he starts going through drawers, and drawers, and drawers. Should I offer to help look? I still need to get home and get ready for church.
He finds one and sets it on the counter in front of me. It even has little animals in the cages. And candles to fit on each car, six in all- it's perfect. Trainboy would love this. He says he doesn't know how much to charge for it, and must look it up. Then out comes another book and he looks, and looks, I fondle the circus train, so close, and yet... Eventually he walks over to me and slaps a label down. "$3.00, that's what we paid for it." He gets my most heart-felt expression of gratitude. The cashier gets $3.00 plus tax, and the train is mine. Oooh yeah. Points for me.
I get home, show it to the wife, she's happy. She shows it to Trainboy, he's happy. Oh yeah, Daddy's racking up the points.
After church we head back to the Uberwife's parents. Trainboy gets his cake. The cake is moist, the frosting is tasty, life is good.
The wife takes a large piece of tinfoil and wraps it around Trainboy's head. Then she crushes the top of it together, effectively making a spike out of it. I take a picture of him wearing it. Then it gets put on everybody in turn, and everybody's picture is taken. One of those totally goofy, surreal moments, just laugh and you're living Fellini. Looking at the pictures it's hard to believe everyone was sober.
Then it's pinata time! It's a German tradition. In the Old Country they just used France. Since that wasn't practical, the last time we were at Wally World he'd chosen one that looks like a cement mixer. All the kids take turns. They go around about three times before the job is done. The toughest thing they make in Mexico is pinatas. The most cold-hearted adjuster would have declared that mixer totalled though.
Totalled describes the state of my mind, enough for now. Trainboy had a Happy Birthday, I'd settle for a decent night's sleep. Maybe tomorrow night.
Publicserf
Thursday, June 12, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
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As you are no doubt aware, my sister bought a big Buick. A car she will drive into retirement because that's the natural order of things. If you have doubts, look inside one, or a Cadillac, invariably you will see someone either heading for a retirement home or on a shopping trip from one. In her own words:
"With the car being big and black, and as the previous owner was the Chicago Plumbers Union, I've decided to call it 'the mafia mobile' When the kids come to check out the car, I open the trunk, and refer to how many bodies you could probably put in that trunk, but that it wouldn't have seen Jimmy Hoffa, as it's too new for that..........., of course the kids are too young to get the humor there!"
While that's true, there's no reason not to have the trunk dusted for fingerprints, or tested for DNA residue. It might help the Chicago PD close a few cases, and might increase the car's resale value due to historical interest. Did OJ ever drive a Buick while in Chicago (raised eyebrow)?
As for Jimmy Hoffa, maybe they never found him because his union brothers are playing a shell game where they shuffle him between car trunks. Maybe he's still alive, and eats so much drive-thru he needs a trunk that big. Or maybe not. So who knows.
Around Halloween she can scare the neighborhood kids with stories of her car being haunted by the Evil, Vile Insomniac Labor Leader who wants to take all their candy for union dues, and who still votes for John Kennedy.
Or, just for kicks she could always throw a few union-label lead pipes in the trunk and refer to it as her Mobile Labor Relations Bargaining Unit. "See the scuff by the door handle? That's where a scab went to the school of hard knocks. Knocked him so silly he couldn't handle an easy non-union job like Treasury Secretary. The moral of the story is to always hire union. If Nixon had, the leaks at the Watergate would have been fixed right, the guard would have been out for coffee and doughnuts, and Nixon could have finished his term. But no, he was a Republican and tried to get by with non-union immigrants. Caveat right-to-worker."
If my Intrepid holds up, it will probably be another five years before I start shopping for my own big Buick. Maybe when Sis loses her driving priviledges she'll sell hers to me. The car has character, it would work. It could make a body right popular with the goth set, and isn't that something we all want?
In a small town I could get a lot of calls from the funeral director, "Could you drive tomorrow afternoon? Shouldn't take but an hour, and there's free food afterward." Free food? The Cheapwife asks what time? Can we bring the kids?
If I had a Buick I'd probably be in the trunk tomorrow, exchanging hello's with Jimmy Hoffa. Looking a little pale Jimmy, get out much? Hello? Jimmy, hello? Quick, somebody get the Super Nurse!
I wrote it, it's my fault, I make no excuses.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
As you are no doubt aware, my sister bought a big Buick. A car she will drive into retirement because that's the natural order of things. If you have doubts, look inside one, or a Cadillac, invariably you will see someone either heading for a retirement home or on a shopping trip from one. In her own words:
"With the car being big and black, and as the previous owner was the Chicago Plumbers Union, I've decided to call it 'the mafia mobile' When the kids come to check out the car, I open the trunk, and refer to how many bodies you could probably put in that trunk, but that it wouldn't have seen Jimmy Hoffa, as it's too new for that..........., of course the kids are too young to get the humor there!"
While that's true, there's no reason not to have the trunk dusted for fingerprints, or tested for DNA residue. It might help the Chicago PD close a few cases, and might increase the car's resale value due to historical interest. Did OJ ever drive a Buick while in Chicago (raised eyebrow)?
As for Jimmy Hoffa, maybe they never found him because his union brothers are playing a shell game where they shuffle him between car trunks. Maybe he's still alive, and eats so much drive-thru he needs a trunk that big. Or maybe not. So who knows.
Around Halloween she can scare the neighborhood kids with stories of her car being haunted by the Evil, Vile Insomniac Labor Leader who wants to take all their candy for union dues, and who still votes for John Kennedy.
Or, just for kicks she could always throw a few union-label lead pipes in the trunk and refer to it as her Mobile Labor Relations Bargaining Unit. "See the scuff by the door handle? That's where a scab went to the school of hard knocks. Knocked him so silly he couldn't handle an easy non-union job like Treasury Secretary. The moral of the story is to always hire union. If Nixon had, the leaks at the Watergate would have been fixed right, the guard would have been out for coffee and doughnuts, and Nixon could have finished his term. But no, he was a Republican and tried to get by with non-union immigrants. Caveat right-to-worker."
If my Intrepid holds up, it will probably be another five years before I start shopping for my own big Buick. Maybe when Sis loses her driving priviledges she'll sell hers to me. The car has character, it would work. It could make a body right popular with the goth set, and isn't that something we all want?
In a small town I could get a lot of calls from the funeral director, "Could you drive tomorrow afternoon? Shouldn't take but an hour, and there's free food afterward." Free food? The Cheapwife asks what time? Can we bring the kids?
If I had a Buick I'd probably be in the trunk tomorrow, exchanging hello's with Jimmy Hoffa. Looking a little pale Jimmy, get out much? Hello? Jimmy, hello? Quick, somebody get the Super Nurse!
I wrote it, it's my fault, I make no excuses.
Publicserf
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I haven't accomplished much lately, but I am well-rested.
The wife is teaching Vacation Bible School this week. In addition to getting things ready for the lessons she has to come up with play activities. This is her busiest week of the year. The theme this year is something-like-geography. Yesterday, it was Antarctica. For play time she brought a clothes basket full of rolled-up white socks. Yes, we do have a lot of white socks.
The class was divided in half, each side got half the room. The object was to throw socks/snowballs to the other side of the room. When the time was up whichever side had the most socks lost. The kids loved it. Sock/snowball fight! She'll probably do it again today. You go with a winner.
Last night she was catching up on this blog when Trainboy walked by. She yelled, "Hey come in here, we need a hug!" He backed up, held up his right index finger and said, "just a minute," and disappeared. True to his word, in about a minute he was back, with a toy VW hug-bug tucked under his arm like a football. Thus armed he was able to give us a hug. Gotta love him.
When the wife goes on a bike-ride Trainboy has a seat above the rear wheel. If they spot a VW he yells hug-bug! and leans forward to give her a hug. She'll tell him he can save the hug for later, but he can never wait. He leans as far as he can and gives whatever hug he can manage. It may just be a hand on her hip, but she gets her hug. No delayed gratification here. Ya gotta love him.
We had matzoh-ball soup for supper. Obviously, it wasn't Passover. It may be hard for the average goy to imagine, but our kids requested it. They just love it. Giggles did not have any, Giggles did not want to try it. Giggles does not eat chicken soup, or anything resembling chicken soup. Ms. Pikachu was only too happy to eat her share. Fortunately there was a pizza in the freezer, Giggles did not starve.
At such times it's not surprising my mother nearly went nuts. Each of us kids had our own demands. I wouldn't eat poultry, younger brother wouldn't eat ham, yadda, yadda, yadda. Thank God for heat-and-serve food, it's probably raised the country's mental health level a good deal, at least the mothers'.
So much for the moment.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I haven't accomplished much lately, but I am well-rested.
The wife is teaching Vacation Bible School this week. In addition to getting things ready for the lessons she has to come up with play activities. This is her busiest week of the year. The theme this year is something-like-geography. Yesterday, it was Antarctica. For play time she brought a clothes basket full of rolled-up white socks. Yes, we do have a lot of white socks.
The class was divided in half, each side got half the room. The object was to throw socks/snowballs to the other side of the room. When the time was up whichever side had the most socks lost. The kids loved it. Sock/snowball fight! She'll probably do it again today. You go with a winner.
Last night she was catching up on this blog when Trainboy walked by. She yelled, "Hey come in here, we need a hug!" He backed up, held up his right index finger and said, "just a minute," and disappeared. True to his word, in about a minute he was back, with a toy VW hug-bug tucked under his arm like a football. Thus armed he was able to give us a hug. Gotta love him.
When the wife goes on a bike-ride Trainboy has a seat above the rear wheel. If they spot a VW he yells hug-bug! and leans forward to give her a hug. She'll tell him he can save the hug for later, but he can never wait. He leans as far as he can and gives whatever hug he can manage. It may just be a hand on her hip, but she gets her hug. No delayed gratification here. Ya gotta love him.
We had matzoh-ball soup for supper. Obviously, it wasn't Passover. It may be hard for the average goy to imagine, but our kids requested it. They just love it. Giggles did not have any, Giggles did not want to try it. Giggles does not eat chicken soup, or anything resembling chicken soup. Ms. Pikachu was only too happy to eat her share. Fortunately there was a pizza in the freezer, Giggles did not starve.
At such times it's not surprising my mother nearly went nuts. Each of us kids had our own demands. I wouldn't eat poultry, younger brother wouldn't eat ham, yadda, yadda, yadda. Thank God for heat-and-serve food, it's probably raised the country's mental health level a good deal, at least the mothers'.
So much for the moment.
Publicserf
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Monday, June 09, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Last night Trainboy became ill. He blew chunks on the bathroom floor. He was quite distraught, like he'd done something wrong. It reminded me of my Dad saying nothing was worse than having a sick kid. At the time I thought he meant that nothing was worse than having to deal with a sick kid because of all the trouble. Have a heaping helping of guilt with your sickness... feel better? Of course, after you grow up you realize he just meant there was nothing worse than not being able to help someone you love so much. I told Trainboy that getting sick happens and it wasn't his fault, the mess could be cleaned up. It was okay, and I just wanted him to feel better.
My sister is visiting from Tennessee. She brought along her youngest teen-age daughter, Giggles. Giggles and Ms. Pikachu are a couple of manic blondes. They could be sisters as easily as cousins. Giggles will stay for a few weeks.This week she'll help The Wife teach Vacation Bible School. Ms. Pikachu and Trainboy have a lot of fun when she's here. The level of noise rises exponentially. Fun, fun, fun. Where are my ear plugs?
My sister had told me she needed another car. Her Cutlass has served admirably but is on it's last legs. The fellow who sold me the Intrepid had a Black 1999 Buick Park Avenue. We scoped the web for reports and found it to be extremely reliable and had no accident history. A terrific price for the car. I took the afternoon off work and we went to the car dealer.
All six of us piled into the car. It's land-yacht big. Plenty of high-tech gizmos, including a compass in the rear-view mirror, heated side-view mirror. Nice car. Rode beautifully. 8-speaker sound, CD/cassette. Sold. The dealer said he'd replace the struts, touch up a few scratches, and sell it to her for less. He'll have it ready tomorrow, and she'll head back to Tennessee. Sis is happy. As long as it runs ok I'll be happy too.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Last night Trainboy became ill. He blew chunks on the bathroom floor. He was quite distraught, like he'd done something wrong. It reminded me of my Dad saying nothing was worse than having a sick kid. At the time I thought he meant that nothing was worse than having to deal with a sick kid because of all the trouble. Have a heaping helping of guilt with your sickness... feel better? Of course, after you grow up you realize he just meant there was nothing worse than not being able to help someone you love so much. I told Trainboy that getting sick happens and it wasn't his fault, the mess could be cleaned up. It was okay, and I just wanted him to feel better.
My sister is visiting from Tennessee. She brought along her youngest teen-age daughter, Giggles. Giggles and Ms. Pikachu are a couple of manic blondes. They could be sisters as easily as cousins. Giggles will stay for a few weeks.This week she'll help The Wife teach Vacation Bible School. Ms. Pikachu and Trainboy have a lot of fun when she's here. The level of noise rises exponentially. Fun, fun, fun. Where are my ear plugs?
My sister had told me she needed another car. Her Cutlass has served admirably but is on it's last legs. The fellow who sold me the Intrepid had a Black 1999 Buick Park Avenue. We scoped the web for reports and found it to be extremely reliable and had no accident history. A terrific price for the car. I took the afternoon off work and we went to the car dealer.
All six of us piled into the car. It's land-yacht big. Plenty of high-tech gizmos, including a compass in the rear-view mirror, heated side-view mirror. Nice car. Rode beautifully. 8-speaker sound, CD/cassette. Sold. The dealer said he'd replace the struts, touch up a few scratches, and sell it to her for less. He'll have it ready tomorrow, and she'll head back to Tennessee. Sis is happy. As long as it runs ok I'll be happy too.
Publicserf
Sunday, June 08, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
It was a baptism Sunday at church. The Wife is a deaconess, and was scheduled to help with the baptisms. Some of those wanting to be baptized were rather young kids. She had them all ready in their robes when one of the young girls announced she had to go potty, and asked if she could just relieve herself in the baptistry. "They'll be singing a song between now and when the baptisms start, we can all go to the bathroom." And away they went. At least the kid asked first.
After church we went to the wife's company picnic. It was held in the country at one of those pioneer village recreations. We parked, it was sprinkling. We have no umbrellas. Are you sure you want to get wet just for free food? Cheap Wife said yes. Cheap Wife will put up with a lot for something free. It was going to be a good walk to the village from the parking area.
There was a small tractor pulling a hayrack with benches on it. By the time we got to it, it was full. Stand there waiting for the next tractor and get wet, or start walking? Action is better, we started walking. We weren't much slower than the tractor. About the time we got halfway there it turned into a deluge. Are you sure free food is worth this? She was sure, she was resolute, she was enjoying getting wet. So were the kids. I tried to play my role as spoilsport, but it wasn't cold, it was just wet, lot's of wet.
Ms. Pikachu complained her feet were wet. It's raining, that's to be expected. "But it's coming through my shoes!" One more time, it's raining, you're walking on wet ground, it's to be expected. "Then can I role around in the mud?" I'm soaked myself, don't push it.
We got to the tents and got our food. It was standard picnic fare- hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans and a few others. It wasn't bad, quite acceptable actually. After I finished eating I kept ogling the wife. I can't help it, I'm still quite smitten. Ms. Pikachu reached over and put her hand in front of my eyes, "Stop that, break contact!" I told her that someday she'd bring a boyfriend home and I'd do the same thing to her. She laughed. I kept ogling, she kept doing it. She finds herself quite amusing, it doesn't help that I laugh too.
We wandered the grounds a little to see what entertainment was available. The kids didn't want to go on any rides- spoilsports, where do they get that? Ms. Pikachu declared herself thirsty, walked over to get under the edge of a tent, tilted her head back and drank the water running off. The guy manning the drink coolers looked at her incredulously. I told him she was kind of special. He laughed. In the next day or so we shall see if tent drippings make you ill.
On our way out we stopped at the saloon. Ms. Pikachu and Trainboy each got a long-neck. The barkeep even unscrewed the caps for them, just like the old west. It's like a time machine I tell you. Trainboy announced he wanted to get drunk from his (root) beer. Where does he get this, he's never seen the wife or me drink alcohol? I'll have to watch Cartoon Network a little more closely. Ms. Pikachu made no similar aspirations for her sarsparilla. Who could have told the difference anyway?
Would I willingly walk through the rain for the food again? That would be a no. But for doing something the kids will probably always remember with a laugh, that would be a yes.
Publicserf
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
It was a baptism Sunday at church. The Wife is a deaconess, and was scheduled to help with the baptisms. Some of those wanting to be baptized were rather young kids. She had them all ready in their robes when one of the young girls announced she had to go potty, and asked if she could just relieve herself in the baptistry. "They'll be singing a song between now and when the baptisms start, we can all go to the bathroom." And away they went. At least the kid asked first.
After church we went to the wife's company picnic. It was held in the country at one of those pioneer village recreations. We parked, it was sprinkling. We have no umbrellas. Are you sure you want to get wet just for free food? Cheap Wife said yes. Cheap Wife will put up with a lot for something free. It was going to be a good walk to the village from the parking area.
There was a small tractor pulling a hayrack with benches on it. By the time we got to it, it was full. Stand there waiting for the next tractor and get wet, or start walking? Action is better, we started walking. We weren't much slower than the tractor. About the time we got halfway there it turned into a deluge. Are you sure free food is worth this? She was sure, she was resolute, she was enjoying getting wet. So were the kids. I tried to play my role as spoilsport, but it wasn't cold, it was just wet, lot's of wet.
Ms. Pikachu complained her feet were wet. It's raining, that's to be expected. "But it's coming through my shoes!" One more time, it's raining, you're walking on wet ground, it's to be expected. "Then can I role around in the mud?" I'm soaked myself, don't push it.
We got to the tents and got our food. It was standard picnic fare- hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans and a few others. It wasn't bad, quite acceptable actually. After I finished eating I kept ogling the wife. I can't help it, I'm still quite smitten. Ms. Pikachu reached over and put her hand in front of my eyes, "Stop that, break contact!" I told her that someday she'd bring a boyfriend home and I'd do the same thing to her. She laughed. I kept ogling, she kept doing it. She finds herself quite amusing, it doesn't help that I laugh too.
We wandered the grounds a little to see what entertainment was available. The kids didn't want to go on any rides- spoilsports, where do they get that? Ms. Pikachu declared herself thirsty, walked over to get under the edge of a tent, tilted her head back and drank the water running off. The guy manning the drink coolers looked at her incredulously. I told him she was kind of special. He laughed. In the next day or so we shall see if tent drippings make you ill.
On our way out we stopped at the saloon. Ms. Pikachu and Trainboy each got a long-neck. The barkeep even unscrewed the caps for them, just like the old west. It's like a time machine I tell you. Trainboy announced he wanted to get drunk from his (root) beer. Where does he get this, he's never seen the wife or me drink alcohol? I'll have to watch Cartoon Network a little more closely. Ms. Pikachu made no similar aspirations for her sarsparilla. Who could have told the difference anyway?
Would I willingly walk through the rain for the food again? That would be a no. But for doing something the kids will probably always remember with a laugh, that would be a yes.
Publicserf
-
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
We went to the Quad-City Airshow today. It was a good day for an airshow, not too hot, and cloudy so the sun wasn't too bright. I love airshows. There's no such thing as a bad one, because you get to hang around airplanes in general, and warbirds specifically. The Wife took the day off to go with the kids and me. She's done a good job of learning the names of the planes, just because she knows I like them. One more reason I love her. We went with my brother and his family.
There were no WW2 bombers this year. No B-17, no B-25, no B-24, that's rather unusual. There were a few WW2 warbirds, fewer than normal. When flying, there was a P-51B. They have at least one P-51 each year. Not that I'm complaining, they're a beautiful plane. Despite being plentiful for a warbird you still don't get to see them often. P-51's have a very pleasant sound, almost like a fan humming.
A nice surprise was the F4U Corsair. If you sniff and say that Corsair was actually built by Goodyear, and was, therefore, an F4G, I shall have to congratulate you, and then beat you with a pitot tube. The Corsair was the first one I'd seen airborne. I'd read many times of the Japanese referring to them as the "whistling death." I expected something shrill, but it wasn't that way at all, it was more of a low whistle. Perhaps it becomes louder at higher speeds, but it doesn't matter, it was just a thrill every time it made a pass. In the back of my head was a little voice screaming, "you kick ass, you kick ass!" I smiled from ear to ear.
There was a mock dogfight between the P-51 and a Jap Zero. Of course, the P-51 'won,' which was kind of silly. Flying slow at low altitude they were in the Zero's domain. In real life the P-51 pilot would have been lucky to get out of there alive. Even though it was all beyond belief it was fun to watch them fly. You want to know what I really wanted? No you don't, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I wanted the Zero up there with a Hellcat. The two greatest carrier fighters of the Pacific. Not that I'm complaining. I was grateful for what I got, I just wanted more.
Or they could have put the Corsair up there, it was a famous Pacific fighter also. The P-51 certainly saw service in the Pacific. But when you think Pacific Theater, if you think of it at all, you think Wildcat, Hellcat, Corsair, Lightning. If you include China- P-40 Warhawk. Flying Tigers! Ding Hao! Sorry, but the P-51 got it's name in Europe. The P-51 should be up there with a Messerschmitt or Focke-wulf.
While I'm dreaming, how about one of the ME-262's they scratchbuilt in Seattle? Oh baby. They couldn't even pretend the P-51 would win. Not unless the P-51 came at it while it was taking off or landing. Whoosh. You can see them at:
http://www.stormbirds.com/
Well I can dream can't I?
There was an A-10 Warthog demo. Always cool. If I was a tanker for the bad guys nothing would give me nightmares like an A-10 plinking tanks. Iraqi tankers must have been insomniacs. Or they pretended they were infantry.
There was an F-117 Stealth fighter flyby. On the one hand, they're certainly an impressive piece of technology, on the other, calling it a fighter seems a misnomer. They're black for a reason, they fly missions at night. They would never fight an air-to-air duel. They aren't a fighter, at least not in the usual sense of aircombat. They're a precision mini-bomber.
What was particulary neat about the Stealth was that last night Trainboy and I had put together a model of one. When I drove by the hobby shop I just decided to stop and pick up a model to make with him. Cosmic moments.
Last, but not least, because there were six of them, were the Blue Angels. What can you say, beautiful blue F-18 Hornets flown low in close formation, the smell of jet fuel, ear-splitting noise. They're impressive. But I've seen them at least a half-dozen times before. They did one maneuver I hadn't seen them do. Coulda run for the parking lot. Shoulda run for the parking lot. Long lines to get out of the parking lot. Not that it mattered, we'd spent an afternoon looking at airplanes.
The kids liked the airplanes, I think. Trainboy just loved the Shock Wave jet-powered truck. It's something they must throw in for the beer drinkers. Can you imagine that thing four-wheelin' man? Four-wheelin! What all the kids REALLY liked was the Army display. They got to climb on a Bradley, and a self-propelled 155 mm gun. There was also a humvee to climb into and sit behind the wheel. Conspicuous by it's absence was the Abrams tank. Must be due to that Iraq thing. I would say M1A1 Abrams, but some geek would say, "surely you mean the M1A2?" Hardware snobs, gotta hate 'em.
Then we went up to the Wife's parents. Mr. Phillips was there. Mr. Phillips was a B-25 pilot in WW2. Why didn't I ask him if he wanted to go along? Blown opportunity. Oh well, maybe next year. He told us some stories about flying in the Big One. So today I got an air show and first-person stories about WW2 flying. I'm a happy boy tonight.
Publicserf
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
We went to the Quad-City Airshow today. It was a good day for an airshow, not too hot, and cloudy so the sun wasn't too bright. I love airshows. There's no such thing as a bad one, because you get to hang around airplanes in general, and warbirds specifically. The Wife took the day off to go with the kids and me. She's done a good job of learning the names of the planes, just because she knows I like them. One more reason I love her. We went with my brother and his family.
There were no WW2 bombers this year. No B-17, no B-25, no B-24, that's rather unusual. There were a few WW2 warbirds, fewer than normal. When flying, there was a P-51B. They have at least one P-51 each year. Not that I'm complaining, they're a beautiful plane. Despite being plentiful for a warbird you still don't get to see them often. P-51's have a very pleasant sound, almost like a fan humming.
A nice surprise was the F4U Corsair. If you sniff and say that Corsair was actually built by Goodyear, and was, therefore, an F4G, I shall have to congratulate you, and then beat you with a pitot tube. The Corsair was the first one I'd seen airborne. I'd read many times of the Japanese referring to them as the "whistling death." I expected something shrill, but it wasn't that way at all, it was more of a low whistle. Perhaps it becomes louder at higher speeds, but it doesn't matter, it was just a thrill every time it made a pass. In the back of my head was a little voice screaming, "you kick ass, you kick ass!" I smiled from ear to ear.
There was a mock dogfight between the P-51 and a Jap Zero. Of course, the P-51 'won,' which was kind of silly. Flying slow at low altitude they were in the Zero's domain. In real life the P-51 pilot would have been lucky to get out of there alive. Even though it was all beyond belief it was fun to watch them fly. You want to know what I really wanted? No you don't, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I wanted the Zero up there with a Hellcat. The two greatest carrier fighters of the Pacific. Not that I'm complaining. I was grateful for what I got, I just wanted more.
Or they could have put the Corsair up there, it was a famous Pacific fighter also. The P-51 certainly saw service in the Pacific. But when you think Pacific Theater, if you think of it at all, you think Wildcat, Hellcat, Corsair, Lightning. If you include China- P-40 Warhawk. Flying Tigers! Ding Hao! Sorry, but the P-51 got it's name in Europe. The P-51 should be up there with a Messerschmitt or Focke-wulf.
While I'm dreaming, how about one of the ME-262's they scratchbuilt in Seattle? Oh baby. They couldn't even pretend the P-51 would win. Not unless the P-51 came at it while it was taking off or landing. Whoosh. You can see them at:
http://www.stormbirds.com/
Well I can dream can't I?
There was an A-10 Warthog demo. Always cool. If I was a tanker for the bad guys nothing would give me nightmares like an A-10 plinking tanks. Iraqi tankers must have been insomniacs. Or they pretended they were infantry.
There was an F-117 Stealth fighter flyby. On the one hand, they're certainly an impressive piece of technology, on the other, calling it a fighter seems a misnomer. They're black for a reason, they fly missions at night. They would never fight an air-to-air duel. They aren't a fighter, at least not in the usual sense of aircombat. They're a precision mini-bomber.
What was particulary neat about the Stealth was that last night Trainboy and I had put together a model of one. When I drove by the hobby shop I just decided to stop and pick up a model to make with him. Cosmic moments.
Last, but not least, because there were six of them, were the Blue Angels. What can you say, beautiful blue F-18 Hornets flown low in close formation, the smell of jet fuel, ear-splitting noise. They're impressive. But I've seen them at least a half-dozen times before. They did one maneuver I hadn't seen them do. Coulda run for the parking lot. Shoulda run for the parking lot. Long lines to get out of the parking lot. Not that it mattered, we'd spent an afternoon looking at airplanes.
The kids liked the airplanes, I think. Trainboy just loved the Shock Wave jet-powered truck. It's something they must throw in for the beer drinkers. Can you imagine that thing four-wheelin' man? Four-wheelin! What all the kids REALLY liked was the Army display. They got to climb on a Bradley, and a self-propelled 155 mm gun. There was also a humvee to climb into and sit behind the wheel. Conspicuous by it's absence was the Abrams tank. Must be due to that Iraq thing. I would say M1A1 Abrams, but some geek would say, "surely you mean the M1A2?" Hardware snobs, gotta hate 'em.
Then we went up to the Wife's parents. Mr. Phillips was there. Mr. Phillips was a B-25 pilot in WW2. Why didn't I ask him if he wanted to go along? Blown opportunity. Oh well, maybe next year. He told us some stories about flying in the Big One. So today I got an air show and first-person stories about WW2 flying. I'm a happy boy tonight.
Publicserf
-
Friday, June 06, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-Ms. Pikachu is one of those kids that always wants a pet. She’s had fish, gerbils and others no longer in memory. She currently has guinea pigs. Note the plural, for therein lies a cautionary tale. To start she had one pig, a female.
Trainboy’s class had a guinea pig, and they needed someone to take care of it over a holiday break. Trainboy volunteered. No problem, it was just one more pig. The pig was named Buddy. Not too surprisingly, Buddy was a male. The farther down the food chain something is, the more fertile. We didn’t want an exciting new career in rodent breeding. What to do, what to do. We got another bin to put Buddy in. Ms. Pikachu was instructed to never put Buddy in with her pig. Buddy survived the holiday just fine and was returned to his home at school.
A few weeks later Ms. piggy was noticeably plumper. Surely she was just eating too well. As if. Ms. Pikachu admitted that one day Buddy looked lonely, so she put him in with Ms. Piggy, and the rest was biology 101. Fortunately, they’re cute pets. When held they purr, and they chirp, it’s almost a Cardinal's whistle. Unlike gerbils, they never try to escape. Our indiscrete piggy had five more, a sixth didn’t make it. Trainboy was upset for a few days over the loss of one of Buddy’s offspring.
Lot’s of Ms. Pikachu’s friends said they wanted one. Apparently their parents begged to differ. Perhaps they feared an exciting new career in rodent farming also. One of them was taken by a cousin, leaving us with Ma Piggy and four more. At least we had the extra bin for when they got older.
I’m not big on having pets in the house, but the critters are definitely cute, and demanding. If they see you they start to whistle for food or water. The wife started responding to it first, they got her trained pretty well. Now just to get some quiet, when I get home I rip up a few handfuls of plaintains and dandelions. The lawn will probably be cleared of weeds by summer's end. I walk in the door, they start to chirp, they get their fresh greens. I’m sure they’re impressed with the service and think I'm better trained than the wife. Not so. Service is my life.
Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-Ms. Pikachu is one of those kids that always wants a pet. She’s had fish, gerbils and others no longer in memory. She currently has guinea pigs. Note the plural, for therein lies a cautionary tale. To start she had one pig, a female.
Trainboy’s class had a guinea pig, and they needed someone to take care of it over a holiday break. Trainboy volunteered. No problem, it was just one more pig. The pig was named Buddy. Not too surprisingly, Buddy was a male. The farther down the food chain something is, the more fertile. We didn’t want an exciting new career in rodent breeding. What to do, what to do. We got another bin to put Buddy in. Ms. Pikachu was instructed to never put Buddy in with her pig. Buddy survived the holiday just fine and was returned to his home at school.
A few weeks later Ms. piggy was noticeably plumper. Surely she was just eating too well. As if. Ms. Pikachu admitted that one day Buddy looked lonely, so she put him in with Ms. Piggy, and the rest was biology 101. Fortunately, they’re cute pets. When held they purr, and they chirp, it’s almost a Cardinal's whistle. Unlike gerbils, they never try to escape. Our indiscrete piggy had five more, a sixth didn’t make it. Trainboy was upset for a few days over the loss of one of Buddy’s offspring.
Lot’s of Ms. Pikachu’s friends said they wanted one. Apparently their parents begged to differ. Perhaps they feared an exciting new career in rodent farming also. One of them was taken by a cousin, leaving us with Ma Piggy and four more. At least we had the extra bin for when they got older.
I’m not big on having pets in the house, but the critters are definitely cute, and demanding. If they see you they start to whistle for food or water. The wife started responding to it first, they got her trained pretty well. Now just to get some quiet, when I get home I rip up a few handfuls of plaintains and dandelions. The lawn will probably be cleared of weeds by summer's end. I walk in the door, they start to chirp, they get their fresh greens. I’m sure they’re impressed with the service and think I'm better trained than the wife. Not so. Service is my life.
Publicserf