YouTube

My test run of uploading video was successful. Apple's iMovie proved a cinch to use; the entire process of copying the video to our iMac, editing, exporting, and uploading took about fifteen minutes.

I couldn't think of anything in particular to record as a test, so I just set the camera on the desk and taped the boys watching the YouTube compilation "Funny Cats," which they ask to watch almost daily. The result is basically just a video of Ben and Ian laughing and offering some commentary, but all I wanted was to know what I could do and how. And who doesn't like to watch kids laugh, anyway?

Procrastination

Procrastination means you get to spend your birthday at the DMV.

Famous Last Words

The Pennsylvania Turnpike is bad enough when you have to watch your speed like a hawk to keep it within the range above 65 miles per hour deemed unworthy of attention from the state police. This is a small range, mind you. What counts as speeding on the Pennsylvania Turnpike is only just fast enough to avoid being tailgated on Michigan freeways, where Hemi engines roam freely and enjoy frequent exercise, eliciting little more than an approving grin from local law enforcement.

What's worse than the Pennsylvania Turnpike on an ordinary day? The Pennsylvania Turnpike on the last day of a holiday weekend, when it slows to a crawl as expat midwesterners make their way back to DC, Philly, and New York. After an hour of clutch-roasting stop-and-go, I wondered What could be worse than this?

Then it hit me. It hit Sarah about the same time. Then Ben. A certain familiar smell, which grew to a stench, which grew to a fog of war on our olfactory glands. Sarah and I exchanged knowing glances, then looked back at Ian, who remained stoically silent. "Aw, did you have to?" I said. We rolled down the windows to no avail. Ben started to cry, then to gag. I started to look for an emergency pull-off while wondering whether the car's hood would be too hot to act as a changing table.

As luck would have it, a sign appeared indicating an exit two miles ahead. I thanked the fates, then moved into the right lane. As I crept forward, I noticed something odd about the truck we had been following. Holes in the side. A glimpse of - what - a tail?

Cue enlightenment.

Then shame.

Then hilarity.

Ian just turned three, so I doubt he'll remember being scapegoated for the wafting odor of livestock. Heck, if we were lucky, it might have shamed him into using the potty. Alas, such was not the case. But at least we have another good story to tell at next year's Thanksgiving dinner.

Fog

Ian: "Look at all the smoke!"

Ben: "It's not smoke, it's fog."

Ian: "No, fogs go in the water. That's smoke."

Magic 8-Ball

CLUNK-clatter-clatter-clatter

"Ian! Do we throw things in this house?"

Parents ask the dumbest questions. Kids know better than to answer them. All I get is a pouty lip.

"Well, why don't we consult your victim?" Shaking it at arm's length, "Should we throw Magic 8-Ball?"

WITHOUT A DOUBT

"See? You broke it!"

Don't Spill the Beans

We joined the Friends of the National Zoo (abbreviated FONZ in tribute to the character who honored animals with his duck-tail 'do and cowhide jacket), so now we take the kids to the zoo at every opportunity so we won't feel ripped off. That's entirely untrue, of course. Becoming a member of a zoo with no admission charge was our way of making the transition from life where every public attraction costs as much as an off-Broadway show to life where every public attraction is Free! Gloriously Free! without feeling guilty.

Today's highlight for me was the invertebrates exhibit. The octopus that wowed Sarah and the boys three weeks ago was mysteriously absent from its tank, and considering a sign indicated that a "new" octupus would be arriving soon, I fear the worst. The Lobsters of Unusual Size seemed fine, though, and looked more menacing than Russell Crowe in a hotel room. Right next to the exit was a display of several large spiders on webs three feet across or more. One was wrapping up lunch, which drew me closer and closer for a better view until I realized that there was no glass between us, at which point I suffered a moment of arachnophobia and reflexively began stomping the floor around me. Hey, look before you judge.

Since we'd spent the entire day outdoors, I suggested a relaxing game before the kids' bedtime. "How about Don't Spill the Beans?"

Ben said, "No, that game's too hard. We always spill the beans."

Guess he expected the game to be won by achieving its title. Glad I didn't suggest Ants in the Pants.

Forklift

The other day I was driving my two boys to daycare when we passed a construction site. Ian (recently turned three) exclaimed "Look Daddy! A big green crane!" (Green is his favorite color, and he never fails to mention it if something is green. We could be driving over the Golden Gate and he'd point out a green truck beside us before he mentions the awesome red bridge)

"Well, it looks like a crane, but it's actually a forklift," I said. (I hope they look back on these corrections as I intend them. Hopefully they're thinking "Thank you, Daddy, for acknowledging my childish ignorance and expanding my knowledge base" and not "Shut up you damn know-it-all. One day I'll write about this in my memoir, My Daddy The Asshole.")

After a few moments of contemplation, Ben (not quite four and a half) asked, "Why does it lift forks?"

Relating this endearing snippet to Sarah, my wife, she of course laughed, then asked "Did you tell him it's called a forklift because it has the two prongs for lifting things?"

"No, I told him some people just need a whole lot of utensils, and the spoonlift and knifelift were probably in the garage."

Pepsi Forest

 

 

Somewhere along northbound Interstate 79 in West Virginia, there is a rest area with a path off to one side leading past some picnic tables and up into the forested hills. Enough wandering will presumably take you to a rustic cabin in a valley echoing with prodigious banjo-picking and perhaps the squeals of a befouled pig.

I was hoping to find some of nature's hidden treasures, but I had to settle for vintage litter, the poor man's Ötzi. How long ago did someone carelessly toss this can into the woods? I can't place the exact timeframe of the can's design, but I'd bet it was back in the days people were stilling buying the Chevy Camaro. My original thought was to say back when mullets were popular, but in West Virginia that particular fashion trend has outlived the Iroc-Z that went up on blocks behind the trailer, around the time (ironically) the Eagles decided to start touring again.

Tree-hugger and rabid recycler that I am, I couldn't bring myself to properly dispose of the Pepsi can. The gravity of so many years spent outdoors held it to the ground, as much a part of the landscape as the moss beside it.