Existential Blues

More of our words being used against us

2008-04-27T22:20:00.004-05:00

Part of the problem I have with blogging more frequently than a blue moon eclipsing the sun is that I keep holding out for those undeniable gems that really, truly must be shared with everyone I know. The sad thing is that having two boys ages four and five provides ample material for the average blog, and it's only my blog-snobbery that prevents me from spewing forth our daily comedy.

Take, for example, a scene from about a month ago now, when I had the kids on my own for the weekend. At some point on Sunday I looked toward the back seat of the car at Ben, who had stretched a green rubber band around his head like the most uncomfortable hair band I could imagine. What caught my attention, though - rubber band misuse being pretty standard fare with these two - was some hair that was sticking up from the crown of Ben's head. Not because of the rubber band - no, out of his earlobe-length mop emerged an Alfalfa-esque tuft of hair only an inch and a half long at most. Ben denied any knowledge of its existence, but I had a feeling that was somewhat less than true.

Later that evening I asked him again if something had happened, or if he or someone else had cut it. Ian, as if reminded of some great hilarity I shouldn't have missed, chirped, "Yeah, Ben cut it!" Ben responded to my raised eyebrow with a downcast expression that is as good as a signed, notarized confession to an interrogating parent. For whatever reason, he'd taken his craft scissors and chosen a lock of hair at a particularly unfortunate location, just for laughs or kicks or whatever else motivates five-year-olds. Not that he's the first, of course; Sarah knew of a girl who cut off an entire pigtail at a birthday party, and it was on someone else's head. The real kicker in this case was the further detail Ian provided: "Then he threw it under the couch!"

But hair grows back, and bad haircuts fade into memory, at least until the photos come out for high school graduation.

What probably won't go away, however, is Ben's uncanny ability to use our parenting tactics against us. The time he got the timer to make sure I didn't dawdle preparing dinner was funny, but now his knack for bending the word of the law to flaunt its spirit (or at least our intended purposes) has made me wonder if there's an attorney gene that we've somehow passed to him.

We base a lot of rules on age. Ben is five, so time-outs are five minutes long, and he has to eat five pieces of carrot or broccoli with dinner. Ian gets a pass on vegetables because he's only four, and we didn't get harsh on eating habits until Ben was five. Of course we wonder what we'll do when Ian turns five, since his diet is about as varied as that of a panda bear - and with less fiber.

Which brings us to today. Getting out of the house is usually an ordeal, since there is no priority lower in the mind of a four- or five-year-old boy than getting dressed. Nudity, furthermore, is de facto hilarious, and usually sparks fits of mirth that are either infectious or infuriating depending on how much time we have. This morning they ignored my entreaties to put their clothes on while I gathered their library books, and were running laps of the coffee table like ancient Olympians when I came downstairs. By that point I had lost my patience (or its tattered remnants), so I snapped at Ben, "Why do I have to ask you to do everything five times?!"

And the little brat said, "But I'm five..."

Vice and vitriol

2008-03-20T13:34:00.006-05:00

As Ben and Ian grow older, each of them comes more into focus as an individual. Ben has a good grasp on right and wrong, and an innate sense of justice. Ian also understands right and wrong, but he's usually more interested in what he wants, and he has a stubborn tenacity that would challenge even the Supernanny.

Ben can be disarmingly honest at times. Unfortunately, that often makes him a terrible keeper of secrets. When he stayed home with Grandma during spring break, he revealed while we prepared dinner that he had had three treats already that day, so Ian should be allowed to have dessert, but really it wouldn't be appropriate for him to have any more. And here I thought there was no such thing as too many treats from Grandma.

I wish some of that guilt would rub off on Ian, who would happily eat nothing but sweets all day, with the occasional bagel thrown in to reset his taste buds. About a month ago we couldn't figure out why he kept going under our bed - we assumed he was just playing or hunting dust bunnies - until we discovered the empty box of cinnamon graham crackers he'd apparently stolen from the pantry. Ballsy move, hiding contraband under the parents' bed. Explains why reverse psychology doesn't work with him: he's figured it out himself.

Ben's deceitful moments are less to enrich himself than to conceal things he knows will get him in trouble. Most of the time he and Ian get along famously; they'll turn off Saturday morning cartoons to play elaborate games of make-believe that would make Mr. Rogers proud. There are mornings, though, when the bickering starts before eight o'clock and escalates to physical and psychological warfare. While Ian resorts to hitting or pinching, Ben usually sticks with verbal abuse.

The other day, after bickering led us to separate them altogether, Ben was downstairs drawing (as usual) while Ian was in their bedroom looking at books. Ben called for Ian to see what he'd drawn, but Ian wasn't interested. Ben persisted, then became furious when Ian wouldn't budge. Neither of these things (Ian's stubbornness, Ben's frustration) was anything out of the ordinary, so I thought little of it. As I walked downstairs, Ben rushed over to the easel to block my view, saying it was a secret. Again, nothing new - he often wants to save the big reveal for when his work is complete.

Fast forward a couple of hours. I'm rolling up the used paper from the easel, and something catches my eye. It suddenly dawns on me that he said "secret," not "surprise." Ben draws a lot of planets and rockets and space stuff, but this time he'd drawn an asteroid high in the sky, a stick person labeled "Ian," and the caption:

Astaroyd fall on IAN!

Complete with an arrow indicating the asteroid's path toward his head. Ben undoubtedly hoped Ian would find this suitably menacing, and to a kid who thinks Peter Pan is a documentary, it probably would be.

Ben looked sheepish when I confronted him about drawing fratricidal fantasy threats, but I couldn't bring myself to punish him for something so comical. Nonetheless, the guilt must have weighed on him to some extent, because a little while later he dragged me back to his easel. With a conciliatory grin on his face, he showed me how he'd undone whatever damage he'd hoped to inflict on Ian with a sly amendment. Now the caption read:

Astaroyd fall on IAN! AND BEN

Sometimes wishing for mutual destruction is the closest you can bring yourself to apologizing.

Teddy, bared

2008-03-10T17:53:00.005-05:00

This weekend I took the boys to Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial, a public park in the middle of the Potomac so tucked away it's nearly impossible to get to. Not that it's terribly far from major roads - a five-lane bridge crosses the southern end of the island - but you need to approach from a certain direction, and if you miss the turn it would take fifteen minutes of backtracking to give it another go.

First of all, Roosevelt Island is part of the District of Columbia, but you can only get there from the Virginia mainland. Obvious, I know. Then there's the fact that it is accessible only from northbound George Washington Parkway, which is a beautiful drive, but one of Washington's least accessible roadways. On top of it all (and what gives the island a modicum of charm), a pedestrian bridge offers the sole point of entry. Something this challenging to reach must be a real treasure, no?

This being Washington, DC, the idea is somewhat greater than the reality. Tedd Roosevelt - great proponent of national parks, icon of the outdoorsman, and mustachioed adventurer - is memorialized not so much with a nature preserve as an island estate gone to seed. Two hundred years ago, John Mason, son of George Mason, cleared much of the island, built a home, and planted a very impressive garden of flowers and fruit trees with little regard to native flora. He left in 1833, however, and you can imagine what 175 years of neglect can do to a garden.

Nowadays the island looks like the backyard of that neighbor everyone wishes would take care of their landscaping for once, but on a grander scale. The human detritus accumulating along the shores is plentiful enough for a dozen Boy Scouts to make Eagle (there's what looks like a washed-out wooden dock at the north end, fer cryin' out loud), and most of the foliage surely started out as weeds.

What TR might find most disappointing is the fact that there is no point on the island that offers an escape from the surrounding urban thrum. Through the leafless branches of Winter, from most of the island you can see the city all around you: the Watergate Hotel to the east, Georgetown to the north, and the gleaming office towers of Rosslyn to the west. The south side is dominated by the aforementioned five-lane bridge, and we didn't explore the path beyond because it was posted with a warning that herbicide had recently been sprayed to keep weeds at bay. Yeah, good luck with that. The coup de grace, however, is the roar of commercial airliners taking off from Reagan National Airport that since 9/11 have been routed directly over Teddy's tiny haven. Central Park offers more isolation.

The Theodore Roosevelt Memorial itself is a bit more impressive, but it too looks neglected. There's a broad plaza encircled by a stagnant moat that gets cleaned every leap year or so, a couple of requisite fountains, and some engraved slabs of granite. The plaza is dominated by a statue of the Man Himself, although he's posed like he's hailing a cab. Teddy would rather be elsewhere.

All that being said, at least it was outdoors, and the boys proved their stamina is increasing by traipsing the full circuit of trails over more than an hour. They liked the boardwalk bridge through the swamp (the entire eastern side of the island, basically), and we actually managed to see some wildlife: a hawk flying low overhead, and a great blue heron that I would have snapped a great picture of if Ian hadn't been, well, Ian. We don't call him "Dear lord, will you please give us a moment of peace and quiet?" for nothing.

Damn the torpedoes!

2008-01-08T10:07:00.000-05:00

Ian is continually proving himself to be a problem solver, even if mortal peril is involved.

I came downstairs this morning to find Ian walking out of the kitchen with a cup in his hands. He said that he was thirsty, so he got it all by himself. But before he said that, I detected a momentary look on his face. One of those looks that says there's a bit more to the story that he's not telling me. Not quite surprise, not quite fear of getting in trouble, but maybe a sudden realization that the probability of retroactive parental approval is something less than 100%, so immediate distraction is required. Sort of like when someone walks in while you're wrapping their birthday present, except it's not their birthday, and you're not sure they'd want the gift you bought.

See, I couldn't remember leaving that particular cup on the counter. Last night I'd cleaned the kitchen pretty thoroughly, and I was sure all our cups were in the cabinet above the sink. What did he do, climb onto the counter somehow? Without falling into the sink?

Oh no. If only. Turns out that rather than ask us for help, he dragged a dining room chair into the kitchen, then stacked his child-sized chair on top of it so he could climb up and reach the cabinet. Being four years old, he'd left his improvised scaffolding intact instead of destroying the evidence.

When I saw how close he'd come to disaster, I emphatically warned him never to do such a thing again. Trouble is, I'm not sure he could hear me over his glowing pride at his accomplishment.

It's crazy how different kids can be. Ben would have called for us to get him a cup before he even looked to see if one was within reach. Annoying? Sure, sometimes. But at least I don't have to worry as much about him doing a header onto the kitchen floor. More frequent stress perhaps, but lower levels. It probably averages out in the end.

Killing me softly, I hope

2007-11-03T10:52:00.000-05:00

Ben's quote of the day from yesterday:

"This shirt is killing my nipples!"

Don't even ask me to explain.

Outta time

2007-10-27T09:52:00.000-05:00

When Ben started kindergarten, our lives were suddenly on a more rigid schedule. Daycare didn't really care if we were five or ten minutes later than usual, but when you have a humorless schoolbus driver determining whether your child avoids a tardy, you start to watch the minutes a bit more carefully. 8:25? Plenty of time. 8:26? Getting close - might want to get things moving toward the door. 8:27? OH MY GOD WE NEED TO RUN NOW!

But Ben is a notorious dawdler. No matter how routine the practice, he needs to be reminded three times (usually at increasing volume and level of hysteria) before he'll take action. In order to cope with this habit, we bought an egg timer. Both our oven and microwave have built-in timers, but like most things digital, they lack a certain quality of their old-fashioned counterparts: namely, the ominous tick-tick-ticking and metallic staccato of the bell. Much in the way that the tell-tale heart drove its proprietor to madness, we hoped the egg timer would drive Ben to get dressed.

Ben received the egg timer with amused suspicion at first. We set it to five minutes, and Ben beat the buzzer by about four. Huzzah, we said to ourselves. Within days, however, Ben came to despise the egg timer. He never failed to get dressed with more than enough time left over, but I think the timer's cheap construction - which led to its occasionally failing to ring the bell when it reached the zero - left a sense of the unresolved. Ben came to see the ticking plastic pear as his nemesis, and I could see him wanting to stash it under the floorboards.

The timer did work, though. After a week we didn't even need it. If he took too long to get dressed, the mere threat of pulling out the timer got him moving.

Like those phrases you never realize you say until your child says them back to you, though, parental tactics can come back to haunt you. Kids notice everything, and whenever they see an opportunity to use something against its creator, they will. This morning, for instance, I was apparently taking too long to make waffles for breakfast, so Ben said:

"Daddy, I'm going to get the timer, and if you're not done by the time it goes off I'm going to be starving!"

It's precious moments like these

2007-10-26T19:39:00.000-05:00

Ian's mind-blowing question of the day:

"What would happen if a monster ate only the skin of us?"

Birth of sarcasm

2007-10-14T21:02:00.000-05:00

I remember the first time I tried sarcasm on Ian. He wasn't quite three years old, and we were all going to a waterpark for the afternoon. Ian seems to get a thrill every time he is told that he can do something cool, so he'll ask whether he can participate over and over again even after we've told him that, yes, "all of us" includes him. It's like candy to his ears. So even after telling him we're going to the waterpark while we're getting swimsuits on ("Why do we need swimsuits? The waterpark? YAY!"), while we're climbing in the car ("Where are we going? The waterpark? YAY!"), and while we're en route ("Are we going to the waterpark? We are? YAY!"), he still wasn't satisfied. Upon arrival, the first words out of his mouth were "The waterpark! Can I go, too?"

Momentarily forgetting that I was dealing with a toddler so temperamental that he would smash a banana in his fists if it so much as looks at him wrong, I responded with a jolly "Nope, no waterpark for Ian!" I assumed the sing-song tone of my voice would mean he'd either hear what he wanted to hear or not really hear me at all. Big mistake. After the longest single second ever - during which I could see the words enter Ian's head, bounce around like a pinball hitting nothing but rubber bands, then shoot straight down the middle before a single flapper could make contact - his eyes registered comprehension, his lower lip curled, and all the anticipation he'd built up disgorged in a sob so profound you'd think I'd just gutted his teddy bear in front of him. I had to walk him toward the water myself before he calmed down, and he looked askance at me the rest of the day.

In retrospect, maybe it wasn't so much being sarcastic as just being a prick. Sometimes I get those confused. Law school does that to people.

Today, however, Ian is days away from turning four, and he's finally started to figure things out. He's getting better at dressing himself, but long pants pose a challenge, so he asked me for some help. "Nope, no pants for you today," I said. "You'll just have to go to the park without them." For a moment I thought back to that day at the waterpark, wondering if I'd just ruined his day once again. But then a smile spread across his face.

Ian laughed and said "You're funny, daddy." I helped him with his pants, and we were on our way.

He's finally figured me out.

Kindergarten at last

2007-10-06T16:06:00.000-05:00

It's hard to believe that Ben has been in kindergarten for a month already. Of course, considering the pace at which school events have unfolded, it's no wonder. The first week alone, there was the first PTA meeting, a back-to-school picnic, and so many forms and volunteer opportunities (read: parental conscription notices) that suddenly all those refrigerator calendars I never bought started calling to me.

Ben hopped on the bus on Day 1 and never looked back. I don't mean that just figuratively - I have proof:

Of course, since Ben was already reading books for recreation, he had little to fear about the rigors of academia. That's not to say he hasn't learned anything, though. One evening during his second week I heard him call Ian an "idiot" during an argument, so his vocabulary is clearly expanding. Now that he has friends with older siblings, I imagine he'll learn much he simply hasn't been exposed to. I know my brother learned a lot years earlier than I, thanks to my lack of discretion. If you see a warning label on something, that means it's cool. Trust me.

Speaking of discretion, I also stepped into a new role that first week of school: that of an "adult." I don't mean the kind of adult who can vote, buy booze, and go to jail for real if one screws up, but the kind of adult who is feared by children. In other words, a true authority figure. At the back-to-school picnic I was picking up garbage behind the fence when one of a group of kids back there doing god-knows-what with all the hula hoops saw me and yelled "ADULT!" to his comrades, who promptly scattered. I might have interfered with whatever mischief they were up to had I not been momentarily blinded by power.

Kindergarten has given Ben a new sense of authority, too. He used to preface half of what he said with "You know what?" Not that he was ever asking a question, but his tone was generally inquisitive. Now he adds "you know" to the end of everything that comes out of his mouth, as if to say, This is in no way a question. I am making a statement of fact that is undeniable. I am in kindergarten, so I know. Actually it's more of a "yuh know," with an accent somewhere between Long Island and northern Minnesota. Which would put him right in the middle of Michigan, I guess. Huh.

I'm also discovering how true it is that parents make most of their friends through their kids once they start school. I've met more people in our neighborhood since he started kindergarten than I met in the entire year after we moved here. Everywhere we go, we're crossing paths with someone in Ben's class, or at least a fellow kindergartner at the same school. And Ben is either Mr. Popular or Mr. Forgetful, because everyone calls his name, but he never seems to know theirs. He puts up a good show, though, waving and treating everyone like a close friend while I exchange salutations with the parent, hearing and immediately forgetting the name. So I can do just what Ben is doing the next time we meet.

Poor Ian was none too pleased to return to his same old preschool after all the hullabaloo of Ben starting kindergarten. He wanted to go to a new school, too. Sorry kid, but you're not rich/dumb/poor enough for anything new. That's mostly good news. The best Ian got was a bump up to the next class level, which just so happens to be the one his brother just left, so all the teachers keep calling him Ben. Hardly a rarefied experience.

Don't worry, Ian. In a couple of years you'll be the one teaching your classmates all the cool stuff.

Tracking lesson

2007-09-21T19:12:00.000-05:00

UPS

1) Receive email notification of shipment
2) Click on link to UPS website
3) Go back to email, copy tracking number
4) Return to UPS website, paste tracking number
5) Click button to track packages
6) Receive error message, search for box to click accepting mysterious Terms and Conditions without ever reading said Terms and Conditions
7) Click button to track packages again
8) Receive package status

DHL

1) Receive email notification of shipment
2) Click on link to DHL website, which immediately informs me of package status

Conclusion: Sometimes brown isn't just a brand. Sometimes it's just the color of shit.

Alternate route advised

2007-08-10T09:38:00.000-05:00

I park in a commercial lot several blocks from my office. The area bordered by North Capitol Street and First Street NE between M and N is pretty desolate, containing little more than fenced asphalt lots surrounded by overgrown urban flora, a municipal maintenance garage, and a nightclub. Every Monday morning the sidewalks within a hundred-yard radius are littered with the detritus discarded by the nightclubs patrons: flyers for upcoming shows, broken Heineken bottles, and general garbage searching in vain for a receptacle.

Across the street from the nightclub is a patch of earth that I imagine once supported grass, but is now firmly and frequently tamped by the resident homeless and whoever might stumble over to keep it real over the weekend. There is usually a group of men milling about when I drive past, but the scene usually looks more like a siesta than anything.

Yesterday I exited my parking lot onto N, and saw that down by the nightclub there were more people in the street than off, so I slowed, expecting them to move aside once they saw me approaching. Then I saw two of them locked in a struggle, one of them obviously on the defensive. At that point I stopped. It wasn't the first fight I've seen, and since the others appeared disinterested I half expected them to pause for traffic so I could proceed. While I was assessing the situation, however, the two broke apart, one ran to the curb and picked something up, then hurled it toward the other. When I heard the crack of a rock ricochet off the nightclub wall, I concluded that an alternate route was in order.

Fortunately my dad taught me to drive using my mirrors, so I immediately threw the car into reverse, confirmed that the road behind me was clear, and hightailed it back into my fenced lot. Not that there's a gate to keep people out, but at least it was half a block from the fight, and offered another exit to M Street. A couple of the guys ran toward me as I was backing away, but I think it's most likely they simply didn't want to be there when police responded to the 911 call I was placing.

I'm debating which route to take home tonight.

Cotton candy moustaches

2007-07-02T11:29:00.000-05:00

If I had to pick one state of the weather to live with for the rest of my life, yesterday's would be it. Cool morning warming to the mid to high seventies, puffy clouds lazing about in the sky, low humidity (a miracle in this glorified swampland), nice breeze, bright sunshine that was comfortable even out of the shade. It might get boring after a while with no rain, sweltering heat or bitter cold, but I doubt it.

Ben was sick last week for his school trip to the zoo, so I promised him we would go this weekend. We arrived a little before noon, snagging one of the last parking spots, which was really an adversely possessed portion of the sidewalk. But why did they need a sidewalk at the end of a parking lot median anyway? I had seen others park there before, so I knew to take it quickly before the cars ahead of me circled the lot and came up empty. You know that guy everyone glares at for benefiting from prior experience? Yeah, that was me.

We meandered from one exhibit to the next, with no agenda and no sense of urgency. That's the best part of living so close to everything DC has to offer: we can take our time, and if we run out, we can always come back again. The pandas ticked off a lot of tourists by hiding in the back of their enclosure, but we've seen those lazy furballs several times, so it hardly mattered to us. Last time one was passed out in the shade giving everyone a nice clear view of only his yellowish butt; I saw a lot of cameras dejectedly tucked back into their bags.

Ben could hardly restrain himself the moment he spotted someone carrying cotton candy, because I'd told him we would have some if it were available. Tracking it down turned out to be a walking version of Where's Waldo. Neither of the two main cafés had any, and the one person I asked gestured vaguely uphill. We finally located it beyond the reptile house, and Ben suddenly forgot how tired his feet were and ran for it. I don't think Ian had ever had cotton candy before, but he showed no sign of his typical resistance to new food items before digging in with gusto. After a few bites, they seemed to get more enjoyment out of giving themselves pink moustaches than eating it. This is why I carry wetwipes with me at all times.

No wait. This provides a better sense of how useless a napkin would be against cotton candy (click for the full effect):

After that, I knew we needed to find an outlet for the coming sugar rush, stat. Fortunately the kids' play area wasn't too crowded, and they made friends to play tag with. Or something like tag. They mostly just chased each other around in circles, but somehow managed not to yak pink goo in the process. I don't think I had enough wetwipes for that.

By the time we made our way toward the exit, it was after 5:30. We'd spent nearly six hours at the zoo. We ducked into the barn to see the goats and donkeys, and on our way out a frenzied guy pushing a stroller asked me the fastest way to Amazonia (the rainforest exhibit) because it was closing in less than half an hour. His southern accent was so strong you could almost hear the cars sitting on blocks in his backyard, and he hollered to the rest of his family, "Come AWN! We see goats ever' DAY!" I am not making this up.

The rest of the day was sublime. We drove home with the windows down, and I played them Mrs. Robinson for the first time. Then the second. Then the third and maybe a couple of times more. Sound of Silence, Homeward Bound, Cecilia... Songs for driving and feeling groovy.

I picked the first ripe tomato from our garden, and it tasted better than any tomato I've ever bought. I'm now thoroughly hooked on gardening. The avocado I had at home was at its peak, and the two combined made for fantastic guacamole. I also discovered Stirrings Simple Mojito Mix at Whole Foods, making mojitos dangerously easy to make at home now. The boys mellowed out with Mr. Rogers, which made me feel all sappy and nostalgic.

And here I was worried about wrangling the kids solo for the weekend while Sarah is out of town. Pfft. We had a great time.

Swedish engineering is still subject to the limitations of aging rubber and fiber

2007-06-20T11:44:00.000-05:00

We have a Swedish washing machine in our house - a front-loading, water-conserving machine by a company I've never heard of (Asko). The other day it stopped working, leaving a load of laundry soggy but unwashed. I initially blamed the power outage we'd experienced over the weekend, but putting it through another wash cycle only made the clothes a bit soggier. A bit smellier, too, since the load had now been sitting for a couple of days. And we're talking workout clothes and underwear here, so I imagine 300 bacterial Spartans had now become 300 billion, preparing not only to defend their territory but establish a vast empire.

Ordinary people might call the landlord or a repair shop at this point, but not I. No, I inherited my dad's DIY mentality, which generally means If I can't do it myself, I'll at least get to the point where I'm sure I can't.

Being an avid diagnostician - and feeling a special bond with this machine born in the land of my ancestors - I was pretty sure that there was a problem with the drive belt. Sure enough, it had snapped and lay coiled neatly below the drive motor. Our neighborhood hardware shop somehow always has what I need (Car battery terminal? Yup! Programmable thermostat? Sure! Hollow-point torx wrench? YOUHAVEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME!) to look for a replacement, but my luck was sure to run out sooner or later. I can't find a local supplier for this brand to save my life, so I went online to find somewhere to order a replacement. As luck would have it I found a place, and they'll even do same-day shipping. Even better, you can order online and pick up in their store!

But they only have one retail store for local pickup. And where is it? Canton, Michigan. Five minutes from where we used to live. Figures.

Separation anxiety

2007-06-11T08:26:00.000-05:00

This morning we stopped by the local elementary school to register Ben for kindergarten. I know - it seems like just yesterday he was running around the yard fighting with Ian over toys, making us cut the crust off his sandwich, and getting frustrated putting his sandals on. Oh wait - that was yesterday.

Anyway, Sarah ran in with a bunch of paperwork while I waited in the car with the boys. Ian wanted to go inside, but I explained that we weren't going to kindergarten quite yet; Ben would be going there at the end of the summer. Ben broke the news to Ian gently:

"I'm sorry, Ian. I'm going to kindergarten, but you're staying at my old school. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, Ben."

I'm not sure Ian fully understands that his big brother won't be nearby anymore. All I know is that it will be a sad day when reality sinks in.

Ikea's tap runs dry

2007-06-06T12:12:00.000-05:00

Being of Scandinavian descent, I appreciate Ikea's approach to selling furniture. Every aspect of furnishing a home - from manufacturing to shipping to the retail stores themselves - has been thoroughly examined in the effort to bring good design to the masses at low cost. Sure, I've been let down a few times by quality issues, like the folding chair that wouldn't unfold, but for the price I paid I could hardly complain. It's like getting Wal-Mart's Every Day Low Prices without the Every Day Low Standards.

And those meatballs! With the gravy and lingonberry sludge, I just can't help myself.

The Woodbridge, Virginia Ikea has become a recreational destination for us. It's only a short drive from home, and the boys actually nag us to go. Without family nearby, Småland (their supervised children's play area) offers our only respite from parenthood that doesn't cost $10-12 an hour. There was that one day we both called in sick after we dropped the kids off at preschool, but we really were sick, so that hardly counts. We don't have any room left in the house for even the smallest disposable housewares, but sometimes we'll just browse the labyrinthine floors and dream about being able to afford something that doesn't come packed into a flat box.

But this past weekend Ikea disappointed me. We went to the Ikea Cafe for a bite to eat before setting the boys free in Småland, and as I had done on prior visits, I grabbed a glass for some icewater. When I told the cashier that it wasn't for a soft drink, however, she informed me that my only options were soft drinks or bottled water. So I could buy something that's bad for my health, or something that's bad for the environment. Chagrined, I decided to take one for Kermit and headed for the lingonberry juice. When in Rome, you know. Or Stockholm.

Right there next to the lingonberry juice fountain was the Dispenser Formerly Known as Water, now stripped of its label and actuating lever. They didn't replace the water with another drink - they just disabled the water dispenser.

I would hardly consider myself an enviro-nazi (I've only seen Al Gore's movie once, figuring he would argue that repeated viewing would just waste energy), but I can't help finding this offensive. I didn't really want lingonberry juice. But I really really didn't want to send yet another unnecessary plastic bottle into the ecosystem. Even if Ikea recycles, energy and materials are still invested in the process, and it's better not to consume them at all. Reduce comes before Re-use and Recycle, doesn't it?

I can only assume that Ikea is attempting to pad its bottom line by closing a gap in its Cafe revenue, requiring customers to pay for any and all beverages. But is this the right way to do it? According to the New York Times, even upscale restaurants are switching from bottled water to tap water for environmental reasons. Whatever benefit they reap is surely outweighed by the bad karma.

Is a simple glass of water really too much to ask for?

15 seconds of fame

2007-06-05T12:29:00.000-05:00

So there's this ridiculous internet fad called lolcats, where photos of innocent cats are given absurd captions for comic effect. Most of them imply that cats have horrific spelling and grammar, which couldn't be further from the truth. I'm guessing a dog started this whole thing. I mean seriously, can you imagine a cat uttering such nonsensical gibberish?

Considering how difficult it is to add text to an image, someone was bound to create a website that would help people with the process. Sure enough, about a month ago someone did. All of a sudden, anyone and everyone could create lolcats, and the fad snowballed. Even I succumbed, digging through the photos of our cats for promising candidates and giving them appropriately butchered captions.

Lolcats have become so prevalent that today the Houston Chronicle even published a story about them. And what should I find among their cited examples? None other than my very own lolcat, featuring our very relaxed Beatrice:

You know, I had hoped to be cited in the newspapers someday, but this isn't exactly what I'd envisioned.

Part of the problem

2007-05-15T07:53:00.000-05:00

The only downside of living in a city that is a popular tourist destination is having to compete with tourists. Once spring break arrives, whole herds of teenagers or senior citizens wearing matching T-shirts graze the food court at Union Station, where until now I've enjoyed a peaceful lunchtime most Fridays. I take some consolation in the fact that the stellar Indian food at Aditi is always overlooked in favor of pizza and chicken wings, so my wait in line isn't any longer than usual, but it's getting harder to find a seat. Last week I found a two-top next to three women at an adjacent table, and when I asked if anyone was sitting there, one responded "You are!" I didn't have to ask if they were from the Midwest. After a few minutes, though, others from their group started to gather, and before you know it I'm ceding the opposite side of my table, drafting food court treaty provisions in my head, hoping to finish my curry before everyone forgets I had a legitimate claim.

Being rather new to the area, there's still plenty we'd like to see ourselves, too. Fall and Winter were great times to catch up on a lot of stuff we hadn't seen in a while and explore the sights that were always too far down the priority list to cut the mustard when we were just visitors. Like the Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial. Didn't know there was a Theodore Roosevelt Memorial? Let alone an island? Yeah, neither did we. It holds up a commuter freeway, and since 9/11 airport traffic has passed directly overhead, so it's not exactly the remote wilderness Teddy may have wanted. If you like mosquitoes and goofy statues, though, do put it on your list.

For Mother's Day we had grand plans of visiting Great Falls Park, making an afternoon of nature's majesty just ten miles from home. So did everyone else, apparently, because a police car was blocking the entrance when we arrived, and most of the cars passing by could be seen turning around with disappointment on their faces. We were among them, but at least we could tell the kids we'd just come back another time - no big deal. So we resorted to Plan B:

Security weakness by design

2007-05-11T10:16:00.000-05:00

I have a pretty simple email address (only seven letters, no numbers or symbols), so I've gotten used to receiving emails meant for other people. It's not spam - it was meant for an individual person, just not me. I usually reply with a "Sorry, wrong email address," and that's that. Most of the time, I get an apology or a "Thanks for letting me know." One real estate agent tried to sell me a house while he had my attention even though I wasn't the intended client, but that's rare.

The messages I've received by accident have ranged from the mundane (forwarded jokes, baby pictures, nice-meeting-you-at-the-convention) to the embarrassing (think Taxicab Confessions). The first email that made me really worry about security issues, though, was from a hospital. A patient had made a mistake writing out her email address, so I ended up with correspondence that included home address, social security number, you name it. I immediately contacted the hospital to alert them of the error, and felt relieved that the information hadn't ended up in the wrong hands. I'm not sure what you'd do with the identity of someone from back-country Arkansas, but I've never wanted a credit card at Wal-Mart, either.

A few days ago I received an email asking me to confirm my email with some website called Plaxo. I'd never heard of it, so I assumed someone mistyped their email address again and deleted the message. The next day I received another email from Plaxo, then a couple more within hours. Assuming the message would keep coming, I looked for something to click on that would DISconfirm my address, but this is all the email contained:

I figured my problem needed "additional help," so I sent an email to validation@plaxo.com as instructed. The next day I received this response:

I tried to use the E-mail Validation Troubleshooter, but following the link took me to a login screen. Since it wasn't my account, I couldn't know the password, so I emailed Plaxo again, recounting my experience and telling them that there had been a mistake. The response?

One of the three email addresses listed made it clear that their registered user's name was Kevin, but they went ahead and addressed their reply to Karl. Apparently, sending an email to validation@plaxo.com validated my email address, so now I'm anticipating a flood of emails meant to go to some guy whose typing skills leave something to be desired. I shot off yet another email to Plaxo, telling them that their confirmation process is a one-way street with no exit.

Then it hit me. If my email address had been confirmed, would I be able to claim that I had forgotten my password and get a new one sent to me? I returned to the Plaxo login screen, clicked on "Lost Password," entered my email address, and sent off the request. Within seconds, I received this:

Followed the link, entered a new password, and I was in. All I wanted to do was get my email off of the account, but I could have taken whatever information I could find in this stranger's account. Scary.

This is an example of poor design leading to weak security. By not providing a way to say no to an email confirmation, anyone who received it in error could gain access to the intended user's account. Plaxo appears to be just an internet address book, but if a similar weakness existed elsewhere, a serious breach of privacy could arise. This isn't just a bad way to run a company - it's bad news for the users. Simple mistakes shouldn't lead to security lapses. Here's hoping that Plaxo can provide a bad example that others will learn by.

Recent photos

2007-04-18T09:36:00.000-05:00

This is what happens when in snows in April in DC:

Ben:

Ian:

A short-lived cherry blossom:

Self-portrait with kite:

Life before modesty

2007-04-16T20:02:00.000-05:00

Nearly five years after becoming a parent, the extent to which all parents are teachers keeps becoming clearer day by day. Depending on the knowledge of the parents, some subjects are best left to formal education (Art if the parents are engineers, Math if the parents are artists, for example). Sometimes, though, it's hard to curb a child's curiosity, and you find yourself in a corner looking for a quick exit. Tonight, while reading a book based on American Indian legend, Ben asked why there weren't any people in the story, and in my attempt to explain evolution to a five-year-old I'm pretty sure I left him imagining monkeys swinging through the jungle with human babies clinging to their fur. Oh well, better that than the alternative.

Other lessons parents offer are purely practical, like the fact that fire is hot and you'll get hurt if you touch it. Yesterday I was discussing corporal punishment with a friend, and we shared the view that some lessons require it in order to drive the point home. What do you do when your child reaches out toward a burner on the stove? Scold him? Let him burn himself? The former is woefully inadequate, and the latter is excessive (not to mention likely to earn you a file down at the child welfare agency).

The way I see it, some situations call for artful emotional scarring - something that will put The Fear in them such that further instruction is unnecessary. It's for their own good, of course. When discipline is generally administered through scolding and time-outs, a spanking might be the best way to send a message with the desired force; a little physical harm is intended to prevent a lot of physical harm. Sometimes a serious discussion might suffice if the danger is not imminent. This morning another friend of mine told me about a coworker who wanted to make sure her son never left her side while out in public, so she told him the story of Adam Walsh, the boy who was kidnapped and found murdered, and whose father went on to host American's Most Wanted. Now I'm not exactly sure how old her son was at the time, but that might be a bit too much emotional scarring for a kid to handle. Especially when you leave in details like decapitation. It apparently worked, but I can't help but wonder how the kid sleeps at night.

Sometimes the hardest lessons are the most subtle. Living in Washington, DC, Ben and Ian have probably seen more demonstrators than I did in my entire life before college. How do you explain war to a child? Whenever I try something like that, I feel like Mister Rogers on Xanax, attempting to explain suffering in happy terms. When Ben overheard me telling Sarah about today's murderous rampage at Virginia Tech, describing the killer as "not a nice person" who "hurt some people" seemed like the grossest understatement I'd ever made. There are some things you just don't want to know, kid.

Of course, not all the difficult lessons are depressing. Many are difficult because they're best taught by example. Not wanting to give my boys the impression that aggressive behavior and name-calling are appropriate, I've had to dial down the road rage during the daily commute and keep certain sentiments to myself. Which is hard in a city where the level of asshatted driving goes up to 11.

Last week we started reading Charlotte's Web before bedtime. Death is one of those difficult subjects, and I'm hoping the story will help Ben conceptualize certain facts of life. It might just turn him into a vegetarian, though. And here I was hoping that he'd at least be in high school before he started to guilt-trip me for my personal vices. Anyway, sometimes the challenging subjects have to do with the type of person I strive to be, and strive to raise my children to become. Tonight I finished a couple of short chapters, and told him that tomorrow we'd read Chapter Nine, "Wilbur's Boast."

"What's a boast?" Ben asked.

"Ummmm... a boast is when you talk too much about how good you are at something."

"..."

"Say you're really good at drawing (which you are). It's okay to tell people that you really enjoy drawing, but it's not really polite to always tell everyone that you're a really good drawer."

"Why is it not polite?"

"Well, if you tell someone you're really good at something, it might make them feel bad if they can't do it as well. What if someone told you they were a really good painter, and you weren't as good at painting? Would that make you feel bad?"

Ben shook his head and said, "It would make me want to be a better painter."

Here I am trying to teach modesty, and Ben comes back with soundbites from a motivational seminar. I don't know whether to feel proud of his self-assuredness and eagerness to learn, or afraid of his budding megalomania. I went with pride, telling him that was a good way to think about it, and he should always want to keep learning and practicing in order to succeed.

I can always tell when Ben is turning things over in his mind, because he gets quiet and still, and he's content to have me leave his bedroom without objection. Tonight was one of those nights. I don't know what he'll make of my efforts to teach him certain things, and who knows what the future holds, but these are the occasions when the responsibility of parenting really bears down on me. My only hope is that I get it right more often than I screw it up. And that my kids don't turn out Republican.

Peanuts

2007-04-11T22:39:00.000-05:00

I was never much into Peanuts, but when this strip was published, I immediately cut it out of the Sunday comics and laminated it. Something about it struck me, and it's my favorite single comic strip to this day. I would probably call Calvin & Hobbes my favorite comic overall, but I can't say there was one in particular that I felt summed things up for me personally as succinctly as this single day's Peanuts.

Whether or not Charles Schulz had anything particular in mind when he wrote this, he had the good sense to leave it up in the air so nearly anyone can identify. There are any number of reasons to believe that the world has gone mad. It would be easy to make a statement regarding apathy, but Schulz went beyond that. By having Charlie and Sally reassure Snoopy when he barks at their window, I think Schulz is offering a more complicated commentary on complacency. Your watchdog might be looking out for you, but sometimes it's the intangible that is the greatest menace.

Metro Ride

2007-04-02T09:24:00.000-05:00

Heading home Saturday on the Washington Metro after the 41st Annual Smithsonian Kite Festival:

If I had a little money...

2007-03-27T21:51:00.000-05:00

During my commute home this evening, I stopped at the intersection of Constitution and 23rd beside an impeccable 80s-vintage Rolls Royce. I checked out who was behind the wheel - because that's what people behind the wheel of Rolls Royces want - and saw a white-haired baby boomer who looked like he bought the car new with gold bars from the family vault. His windows were rolled down, and I could hear the music he was playing:

Abba.

"Money Money Money."

It's a rich man's world, indeed.

School dress codes

2007-03-21T11:35:00.000-05:00

There's an article in today's San Francisco Chronicle with the headline: "Fighting for the right to wear Tigger." In a nutshell, a 7th-grader landed in detention because her socks did not conform to the school's dress code. On Monday, the American Civil Liberties Union filed suit against the school district on behalf of six students and their parents, claiming that school policy violates their constitutional rights. According to the article:

The school's "unconstitutionally vague, overbroad and restrictive uniform dress code policy'' flouts state law, violates freedom of expression, and wastes teachers' and students' time and attention that would be better spent on education.

Or litigation, apparently.

The Napa Valley Unified School District's dress code permits solid colors only, with pictures and logos strictly forbidden. So, naturally, one student considers it perfectly reasonable to wear argyle socks with Tigger on them. That or she doesn't care one wit about the oppressive dress code. I'm betting on the latter.

Toni Kay, now an eighth-grade honors student, said Tuesday that she's been cited more than a dozen times in the last 1 1/2 years, and sent home from school twice

Someone's obviously itching for a fight, and the parents obviously have little regard for the dress code as well. Why shouldn't my baby be allowed to wear Tigger socks?

Well, there are several reasons. District Superintendent John Glaser has said that the dress code is intended "to ensure the safety and protect the instructional time of all students." The principal of the school in question, Michael Pearson, says "We do not have to deal with issues of kids who are dressing a certain way because their parents are able to shop at the fashionable stores. You cannot tell on my campus the kids that come from a low-income family." They're not alone; the U.S. Department of Education has also supported these views.

I'm with the schools.

People who sue the school district because their child was sent home for violating the dress code infuriate me. These same people probably complain every time their property taxes go up, too, all the while pursuing costly litigation against the school district. Brilliant.

There are better ways to show your disdain for school policies. You want to show The Man you think the rules are ridiculous? The most effective way is to operate within the rules while exploiting their weaknesses.

Personal anecdote time:

I went to a Catholic junior high and high school. Until the 1970s, it was a coat-and-tie establishment. By the time I got there, the dress code had grown lax, requiring little more than casual dress pants and a button-down shirt. In my sophomore year, they outlawed flannel shirts; you can imagine the ire that arose as a result in 1991-92. The next year they tightened the reigns a bit further, but I don't remember how. For my senior year, they reinstituted the requirement to wear a tie.

HOWEVER: They didn't specify much regarding the tie you had to wear. This was probably in deference to Mr. Hall, one of the English teachers, who never wore the same tie twice in a given year. He had a closet in his classroom full of them, including a gag tie that reached all the way to the floor. Not even the administration was going to crack down on this old fossil.

So I made it my mission to wear the most outrageous, hideous ties I could find. Some I found in my dad's closet, and some I bought at the thrift store. For a couple of months straight I wore the same tie, but I modified it every day with various colored markers. One day I burned a hole in it at lunch. My coup de grâce, however, was the day I slipped it over a straightened wire coathanger before putting it on. Throughout the day I could bend it into different shapes. When I walked by the assistant principal with my tie jutting straight out from my chest, I was finally forced to take it off and put on a normal tie. Everyone in the principal's office was laughing, though - even the staff.

Why must righteous indignation always lead to legal action? If students want to fight school policy, then they should do so while demonstrating their ability to function within the system. If parents want to fight school policy, then they should run for the school board or support candidates who share their ideals. Random carelessness is no way to achieve your goal.

Maybe the problem starts at home, not in the schools. In order for my kids to appreciate the flexibility of school policy, I'll just have to make the dress code at home even stricter. Solid colors? Plural? Forget that noise. From this day forward, unless they're heading to or returning from school, all clothing must be black. Head to toe.

They'll look just like Sarah did in high school.

Free Music Meets Free Market

2007-03-07T20:11:00.000-05:00

The other day there was a story posted to Digg about Barenaked Ladies. No, not barenaked ladies - Barenaked Ladies. They're a rock band. If you haven't heard of them, I'm sorry that you've been missing out for nigh on fifteen years. Hard to believe I picked up their first CD half a lifetime ago, but it's true.

But this isn't about Barenaked Ladies. It's about Amie Street, an online music store that just started offering their new album. Like the much better known iTunes Store run by Apple, Amie Street sells music over the web. Amie Street is very much unlike the iTunes Store, however, in two key regards. First, the music is DRM-free, which may or may not be important to you. If you know what DRM stands for, it probably is.

Even more interesting, however, is Amie Street's pricing structure. While 99 cents per song is pretty much the industry standard, all music on Amie Street starts out entirely free. That's right, free. But only to the first customers through the door. As more customers show up to buy a particular song, the price increases gradually, maxing out at 98 cents.

Sound like a revolutionary business plan? It is, and here's why. I've seen a variety of selling strategies before: artists giving away music for free, letting buyers name the price, etc. But Amie Street is unique in the way its pricing structure has the potential to benefit both listeners and artists.

It's all about surplus. Surplus, in economics, is essentially a measure of how well someone made out at the negotiation table. In the world of buyers and sellers, there are always buyers who feel they got a great deal, and sellers pleased with the amount they squeezed out of the buyers. Say the negotiated price for a record is $10. If the buyer went to the table willing to pay $13, then his surplus is $3 - the amount he was willing to shell out but didn't have to. If the seller, on the other hand, would have gone as low as $7 before walking away, then her surplus is also $3 - the amount she got paid above what she was willing to accept. Equilibrium, in the classic sense, is the point at which both sides feel they got a fair deal, but nothing to brag about.

What's revolutionary about Amie Street is the way its model hands all the surplus over to the buyers. Here's a graph of the classic version of supply and demand, with shaded areas showing the surplus:

Amie Street's model is different. While I don't know exactly how many songs they will sell at a given price, I imagine their supply curve looks something like this:

Even at a price of $0, Amie Street will sell some number of songs. As the quantity sold rises, though, so does the price. Once the price hits 98 cents, the supply curve plateaus. Why? Because at that price, Amie Street will sell to however many buyers come along. The final sales figure is entirely dependent on demand. The profit is the same for each additional song sold at full price, and Amie Street shares the bulk of the wealth with the artist (70% according to the website).

The interesting stuff happens among the buyers. Barenaked Ladies are a popular group; overall demand is pretty high. Within hours of their new songs appearing on Amie Street, the price had climbed to the full 98 cents on all but a few, and all were selling for the maximum price after only a day. The lucky few who bought early made out like bandits: some paid nothing, while many others surely paid far less than they would have otherwise. All that surplus ended up in the buyers' pockets. Amie Street sold each song for exactly what it was willing to accept; there was no surplus whatsoever on the supply side. The graph now looks like this:

All that blue makes for happy buyers.

So that's an illustration of how Amie Street's business model benefits consumers. But why would any rational seller give away all that surplus? Wouldn't Amie Street and the artists who sell on the site make more money if they just started the price at 98 cents? Heck, why not charge twice as much when songs first come out to take advantage of the ardent fans who want the new material as soon as possible no matter what the cost? Turn all that blue to red, and capture the surplus for the seller.

That might work for some artists, especially the most popular ones with the largest fan base. But for others - particularly relative unknowns - Amie Street's model has the potential to grow their market and reap greater rewards in the long run.

See, Amie Street's pricing structure encourages early adoption. That is, by dangling the carrot of free downloads, they encourage buyers to seek out and discover new music. Not everything is guaranteed to be good, but diamonds in the rough certainly stand a better chance of being found. Like a song but don't love it? You might not be willing to shell out 98 cents, but a dime? Sure! It might even grow on you over time, so you recommend it to a friend, who might also like it enough to buy it at a lower price. If the product is good enough, this process repeats, and the fan base grows.

Lots of artists rely on word of mouth to expand their audience, but Amie Street gives them the potential to accelerate the process. It's hard to imagine the obstacles between buyer and seller being lowered much further than offering free downloads over the web; all it takes is a little initiative to bridge the gap. Amie Street's supply curve is always the same, but as the audience grows, demand grows, and the demand curve shifts.

The greater the demand, the higher the sales. Higher sales means more money for both Amie Street and the artist. With enough success, the surplus given away by the seller may be entirely recouped.

If the product is good enough, an artist might ultimately find its songs selling for full price, without any of the marketing and production costs typically spent by major labels. The costs of distribution through Amie Street are almost entirely marginal (per unit rather than a large fixed sum), so it is easier for artists to get their music into the market. Even for Amie Street much of the cost of operation is marginal; bandwidth in particular is a perfect example of a marginal cost.

My gut reaction when I first read about Amie Street was that it was another marketing gimmick. But the more I think about it, the more I think they're re-writing the rules of the music industry. For years there have been questions about the long-term viability of making music, and there have been plenty of losses along the way. Amie Street might have on its hands a practical solution that pleases both buyers and sellers simultaneously. If it catches on, it might be leading a revolution.

Finger lickin' good

2007-02-28T18:39:00.000-05:00

Tonight for dinner we stopped by the grocery store and picked up a rotisserie chicken. From the moment Ian heard what was on the menu, he whined "I don't want chicken!" We told him he was perfectly free to eat only broccoli and beets for dinner, but he thought he could get what he wanted - pasta, apparently - if he complained enough. So naive.

Ian kept up this refrain all the way until his plate was being set in front of him, despite our assurances that he'd had it many times before and scarfed it down. When he touched it, he found a new objection.

"It's wet!"

I think he meant that it was simply moist, as chicken should be. As opposed to the chicken I grew up with, which was cooked so thoroughly Julia Child suddenly needed a drink of water even from afar.

Ian finally relented and tried a single thin strand of meat.

"Mmmmmmm! You didn't tell me this was the good chicken!"

A steady diet of fauna

2007-02-25T10:30:00.000-05:00

I'm in a listy kind of mood this week. Today I present:

Animals I ate yesterday

1) Cow

2) Chicken

3) Pig

4) Tuna

5) Salmon

6) Lamb

7) Squid

8) Shrimp

Also waffles.

Items I swept from under the couch last night

2007-02-23T12:02:00.000-05:00

> Dust and cat fur, naturally

> Two socks

> Two slippers

> One pencil

> One Duplo-size Lego

> One seed pod that looks like this

> One toy car from McDonald's

> Two Thomas & Friends steam engines (Percy and Duck)

> Two Thomas & Friends cars (magnetic flatbed and circus cage)

> One stegosaurus from Dinosaur Checkers game

> Cardboard tube from roll of paper towels

> Four valentines

> One relatively fresh, medium-size yellow onion

I swear I just swept there a month ago.

What the devil?

2007-02-14T19:17:00.000-05:00

A couple of months ago I was browsing BoingBoing and stumbled across the Egg Cuber, a device that can only be described as entirely pointless but immediately infatuating. With this amazing tool, a perfectly normal hardboiled egg can be turned into the most freakish of foodstuffs - something that once upon a time might have gotten you tossed into a pond in Salem.

Now cubic eggs are cool and all, but what good are they if you're not showing them off? And there's only one way eggs ever dress to impress: devilled eggs. When the thought of square devilled eggs occurred to me, I realized it addressed a couple of my (admittedly lesser) frustrations. On a normal dish, devilled eggs slide around and are hard to manage. You can get a special dish for devilled eggs, but that requires extra cupboard space, and I tend to dislike single-function dishes. Because really, what else can you do with a devilled egg plate, except maybe serve up some tasty Rocky Mountain oysters? A flat-bottomed devilled egg would stay in place while packing closer together on a standard dish - it's the best of both worlds. I'm ignoring, of course, the fact that the egg cuber still takes up cupboard space.

Especially if you buy three.

Why, you ask? Well, the egg needs to be put into the cuber while it's still warm, and it retains its shape best if it's chilled in the refrigerator. Making even a dozen devilled eggs would take all day with only one cuber, but three at a time is doable. Three can chill while three more cook, and they'll all be ready to switch around the same time. I found mine at thegadgetsource.com, but they can apparently be found in Asian markets for even cheaper.

For best results, place next to quality beer (or just enjoy one between batches):

Extracting the cubed eggs looks like so:

Try to gauge where the yolk has ended up, and cut in half accordingly. Odd shapes can always be masked with the filling, though, so no biggie.

The yolks in a cubed egg need a bit more coaxing than usual to extract, so I found that a fork was helpful.

For the filling, anything goes. I'm a minimalist when it comes to devilled eggs, so I just blend the yolks with mayonnaise, kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper, and cayenne. I might throw in a dash of horseradish for kicks. Pickle relish? Not a fan.

If you want to turn the geek level up to eleven, as I do, make a nifty little stencil for the paprika with two L-shaped pieces of paper taped together. When going with the square theme, it's best to overdo it a bit.

The resulting appetizer is a surefire conversation starter. The conversation might start with "What the hell?" But for me, that's par for the course.

There are a few more photos in this Flickr set.

Must be going around

2007-02-08T13:26:00.000-05:00

I knew it was a bad sign that Ben only wanted one slice of pizza.

He ate a banana after that, so he wasn't full, but he declined to finish even what he had. Now Ben refusing pizza is like Paris Hilton turning away from the camera, so you can imagine my concern. Ian got sick at school last Friday, so I feared the worst. Sure enough, a couple of hours after he went to bed, Ben could be heard making sounds you don't make willingly, and we found him wallowing in the remains of his dinner. And Ian's, and mine, and Sarah's from the looks of it. Barf was everywhere: on his pajamas, his pillow, his sheets, his blanket, the floor, the walls, the cats, the toys downstairs, you name it. It's a testament to how far I've come with respect to disgusting parent duty that I didn't add to the carnage myself.

We replaced the sheets, changed him into fresh pajamas, and tucked him back in. Not an hour later he was awake again suffering round two. Fortunately we had yet another spare set of sheets and pajamas (a miracle in our house), so we got him clean and comfortable a second time. Poor Ben was exhausted by that point, and he kept lamenting that he didn't like throwing up. I hear ya, buddy. I'll take any sort of gastroinstestinal distress over vomiting; so long as the digestive process doesn't go into reverse, I can live with it.

The saddest part was when he became concerned that he wouldn't get better by Saturday morning.

"But I won't be able to eat waffles!" he sobbed.

He likes our Saturday-morning waffles. More than pizza, apparently.

So far I've managed to avoid the stomach bug this season, but last week I came down with something even more fun. It all started last week when what appeared to be a zit appeared between the knuckles of my right pinkie finger. Strange location for a zit - usually they pop up on the tip of my nose like an evil junior high flashback - but whatever. Within a day, though, it had decided to wage war, first incapacitating the entire finger, then most of my right hand. When I began to feel searing, burning pain all the way up to my elbow, I caved and went to urgent care. They were concerned enough to put me on IV antibiotics, so I felt validated in bucking my habit of avoiding doctors at all cost.

For reference, you can see a picture of my finger here. It was initially diagnosed as cellulitis, but a culture revealed it to be an antibiotic-resistant strain of Staphylococcus. Which explained why the entry-level antibiotics I had been taking were having little effect. They upgraded me to Cipro, the antibiotic that became a household name during the anthrax scare a few years ago. So if you're planning to launch another anthrax attack on DC, please do it this week - it'll save me a lot of hassle.

I'm apparently one of the lucky few among the general population falling victim to the latest evolution of infectious bacteria. They're not just for hospitals anymore, nosirreebob! Ever the trendsetter, I am. By the time everyone else catches up, I'll be all like staph infections were so much cooler back when it was just me.

Sound it out

2007-01-31T13:07:00.000-05:00

Ben walks into the bedroom while I'm getting dressed, toting a book.

"Daddy, does this say 'president?'"

I look at the book, Duck for President.

"Wow! Yes, it does!"

"I sounded it out all by myself."

"That's fantastic, Ben. Great job!"

"Duck for President... What's a president?"

Must... bite... tongue...

"Well Ben, ask me again in a couple of years, and maybe I'll have a respectable answer to that."

A selection of Ben's latest drawings

2007-01-30T23:50:00.000-05:00

Ben's drawings keep getting more elaborate. There is usually a narrative behind them, too, beyond what's easy to decipher. The concentric circles next to the stop sign? Those are fireworks. I'm not really sure why they're there, but I'm sure kids would be more enthusiastic about going to school if there were fireworks at the bus stop every morning.

He calls this one "How to Get Dressed":

More to come as I scan and upload.

4 going on 14

2007-01-30T12:57:00.000-05:00

A few months ago Ben exhibited the first signs that he was progressing far more rapidly than we had ever hoped. I was expecting a few years of tranquility somewhere in his middle childhood, but no. He has decided to go directly from toddler to teenager without passing Go, collecting $200, or beginning kindergarten. He is, of course, still well under the height requirement to get on the cool rides at Cedar Point, but the seeds of petulance have already been planted.

Ben has always been sensitive. Nearly a year ago he came home from daycare upset about something, and finally confided to my mother-in-law that someone had been mean to him. Last fall, though, when I picked him up from his current preschool, he sulked over to me looking grumpy. I asked him what happened, but he just sulked. Trying to coax out a response, he hissed "I just don't want to talk about it!" That was Sign #1.

Peer pressure has also reared its ugly head earlier than I expected. It hasn't stopped Ben from wearing a tiara and carrying a purse when his class is playing dress-up, but some criticism is apparently registering with him. Yesterday he told me that his friends said the zucchini muffins we include in his lunchbox "look disgusting." Sign #2. Granted, his friends aren't wrong; they look nice and tasty when they're fresh, but after a day they turn a bit grey, and look like they've been in the bathtub too long. He still ate them, but it's only a matter of time before others saying they look disgusting turns into Ben insisting they taste disgusting, so he won't eat them. Then the only vegetable in his diet will be ketchup. Which might satisfy the school board, but not our Whole Foods ethics.

Now he's starting to get opinions. I'm not talking about infants and toddlers having a favorite toy or preferring jumping on the bed to sleeping in it. I'm talking about a kid electing to veto a decision that has already been made. This morning, as Ben was getting dressed, he announced that he didn't like the underwear I'd laid out for him, so he went back to his drawer and chose a different pair. Never mind that I had made sure his outfit was coordinated from head to toe - even where it didn't matter - and that his selection clashed mightily with his shirt. Nope, Ben had an opinion, and he was going to act on it, by golly.

What's next? Is he going to start picking out all of his own clothes? Is he going to object to wearing the same outfit Ian has on? Because really, there's a practical purpose behind that. If we're out and one kid goes missing, we can simply point to the other and say, "He's dressed just like that, officer!" And when he's found, we can prove he's ours because they're a matching set, and what are the chances of that being coincidental? We've tested this theory, and it worked flawlessly. Pretty soon, though, they'll start wanting crap from Abercrombie.

At this rate, things should get really interesting by junior high.

I need a larger bathroom

2007-01-26T12:01:00.000-05:00

Sort of lends a whole new depth of meaning to "shaking the dew off the lily," doesn't it? For those who felt the need to elaborate on the metaphor, now you can simultaneously put the dew on the lily. I bet you can save time cleaning, too. "Oh that? Little spots of pollen." Not that you'd notice anything with that giant yellow whatever-it's-called erupting from the bowl. God forbid you stagger into the bathroom in the middle of the night and mistake the urinal for the toilet. Better mount that sucker high on the wall.

The best part? It's only $10,500! A pittance for a pisspot of such caliber.

Things that go bump in the night

2007-01-25T13:05:00.000-05:00

Last night I tiptoed into the kids' bedroom after they'd fallen asleep to put away some of their freshly-folded laundry. Ordinarily I would have left it on the nearest level surface until morning, but I needed said surface for my laundry, so something had to move. I contemplated stacking mine on top of theirs, but I've been burned too many times by clothing avalanches. Hell if I want to fold things twice.

On the way out, I noticed Ben was precariously close to the edge of his bed. He was facing toward the middle, though, and he rarely falls out, so I decided not to risk waking the proverbial giant and let him be. Not two minutes later, I was climbing into bed myself when I heard a whump that was too loud to have been made by one of the cats, so I immediately headed back to check on Ben. Sure enough, there he was on the floor, sitting up but looking groggy, a bit like Senator John McCain at the State of the Union address the night before. Luckily, he climbed back into bed without fuss and was none the worse for wear.

Looks like it might be a while yet before we let one of the kids use the upper bunk.

Snow!

2007-01-22T13:48:00.000-05:00

Ben's months of prayers were finally answered when it started snowing yesterday. Of course, watching it fall from the sky, he immediately asked when we could make a snowman. I'm sure our neighbors wouldn't have minded our collecting all the snow from their property in order to construct a single snowman, but fortunately Ben settled for rolling snowballs around the yard. I kept waiting for him to pelt Ian with one (or vice versa), but to no avail. Maybe next time.

Even an inch of snow can be crippling here. In Michigan, crews salt the roads like fast food joints salt their fries. Salt is ubiquitous and plentiful. It supports the automotive industry by rusting through metal and necessitating new car purchases. In DC, however, real estate is far too precious to waste under an enormous salt dome, and snowstorms are so infrequent that the city usually chooses to shut down rather than put up a fight. Government workers are fond of their numerous holidays, and one or two snow days during the winter are seen as an entitlement. Lobbyists for digital cable providers probably make a flurry of calls (Ha!) to Capitol Hill the night before inclement weather is predicted to arrive, urging them to shut the government down. Especially during sweeps week.

As luck would have it, we were out beyond the beltway when the snow started falling, so we got to see how drivers here react to slick roads and ice-encrusted wipers. And let me tell you, most do not react well. Michiganders are far from universally capable, but aside from a few twits who spend the warmer months forgetting what it's like to have no stopping power, the majority are passably competent. Here in DC, however, a good number think that if you're having trouble gathering forward momentum because a wheel is spinning on ice, the obvious solution is to spin that wheel faster. I saw a BMW apparently built before traction control came standard demonstrating that water can indeed go directly from ice to steam if you simply hit 5,000 rpm. Meanwhile, my midwestern experience and Subaru all-wheel-drive crept past them all, the patient tortoise to their overeager hare. A Camaro driver looked dumbfounded and bitter. Of course, I suppose that describes most Camaro drivers, regardless of road conditions.

Uphill both ways

2007-01-19T14:33:00.000-05:00

One of Ben's Christmas gifts this year was an Adams Trail-A-Bike.

The Trek trailer we picked up a few years ago has been great for hauling both boys together, but it's also proved to be my most sensitive gauge of how quickly they're growing. I swear every time we went for a ride, they'd gotten heavier. A couple of hills out near the beltway actually had me in my lowest gear, which I don't think I'd ever even used before. I felt like a pansy until I did some mental calculations and realized I was hauling nearly 100 extra pounds back there. That's more than an entire Olsen twin! At least after the evening purge, that is.

Sharing the burden of child-towing with Sarah has been a double-edged sword. While I rejoice in how easy it feels with just one deadweight kid slowing me down, Sarah finally appreciates why I was so frustratingly slow sometimes. Now she's the one playing catch-up. Besides the added weight, the one disadvantage of the Trail-A-Bike versus a trailer is that kids' tendency to wiggle is far more noticeable on a single wheel. At one point last weekend Ben threw the two of them off-balance so often I started to wonder if I could make it home by attaching the Trail-A-Bike to my seat post, and the trailer to the Trail-A-Bike. I'd be like one of those extended trucks on the Ohio Turnpike, undulating as I hurtled along and striking fear into anyone wanting to pass. Might make for a good YouTube video, come to think of it.

In other news, Ben has been making quick progress in reading. He's halfway through his first level of phonics books already, allowing him to tell about the tan fat cat all by himself. At this rate, I figure he'll be blogging by first grade.

Legpit

2007-01-05T20:52:00.000-05:00

Michigan was warmer than usual over the holidays, but that didn't prevent the boys' skin from drying out due to the cold. We've been slathering moisturizer on their legs and arms ever since we got home. Tonight Ben decided he was ticklish when I tried to get the backsides of his knees (not that I hold it against him - it's just that he wasn't ticklish at all yesterday), so he squirmed away and said "Stop! You're tickling my leg armpit!"

He thought about that for a second, then changed his mind: "You're tickling my legpit!"

Makes sense to me. I'm totally adding that to my vocabulary.

The Ubiquitous iPod

2006-12-29T15:56:00.000-05:00

Sarah got her second iPod for Christmas, bringing our household total to three. We started with two Shuffles (the big ones - the size of a pack of gum - not the new ones, which are the size of a single Chicklet), and now we've added the Nano(RED). I love the PRODUCT(RED) campaign for the simple fact that it has turned altruism into an aspirational brand. I generally disdain the voracious consumerism that is pushed upon us nowadays, but if consumption can be focused to benefit The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria, then by all means people, hit the malls. And so far, the campaign seems to be working.

At first I resisted the iPod phenomenon. I saw those little white earbuds as yet another way that individuals isolate themselves from their environments, to our collective detriment. Do we really need constant entertainment? Can we not enjoy the sounds of our surroundings, or take advantage of the quiet in order to ponder our existence? Or at least what to make for dinner?

That was before I flew to DC beside a talker. And not just any talker - a Vietnam vet who had lost his mind, but didn't seem to realize it. I adhered to the stereotype that Vietnam vets were scarred by their experiences and generally reticent about the subject. This guy, however, shared fond recollections of Saigon prostitutes whose services could be had for a quarter. "A quarter! Can you imagine that? It was great!" And the women received a bonus if they filled a teacup by the end of the day. Not with quarters, mind you. I'll let you figure it out.

I learned then that some situations beg for insulation from your surroundings. I looked across the aisle at the guy wearing the white earbuds, and I lamented the fact that my simple magazine offered so little protection. I was grateful that I had brought my Shuffle along on my flight back from Michigan Wednesday morning, when I sat next a woman whose job somehow involved raisin growers and NASCAR. My wackometer was heading into the red, so when she engaged the neighbor to her left, I immediately plugged in those earbuds and breathed a sigh of relief. I'll stick to my own form of madness, thank you very much.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

2006-12-21T14:34:00.000-05:00

The weekend before last, we finally got around to taking the kids to the top of the Washington Monument. Ben had been talking about it since our first failed attempt, when I committed Parental Sin #1 (that being "making uninformed promises") by telling him could go before learning that you need to get tickets in advance, and they're usually all gone before lunchtime.

Fortunately, by December most of the tourists have their sights on far warmer climes than Washington, DC. It's amazing how quickly I came to view this as "my" city, where tourists are invaders rather than fellow visitors. Ben has yet to make that transition, however; when a park ranger asked where we were from, Ben said Michigan, not Virginia. Which prompted us to hurriedly explain that we're originally from Michigan, but now we live in Arlington. God forbid we be labelled tourists.

The 500-foot elevator ride to the top of the Monument is surprisingly fast. I swear the elevator at my prior workplace took longer to climb four stories, and all you got at the end was a view of the hospital helipad and a funeral home, so you could watch unlucky patients take their last flight and possibly their last drive, all from my office window. According to the guide (Elevator Ranger?), the Monument is the tallest free-standing stone building in the world with no structural steel. Which makes you wonder what holds up the elevator, and whether it's stopped Flintstone-style with your feet, or lowered gently by an underground dinosaur.

Anyway, the view from the top is pretty impressive, even through thick, narrow windows:

Here's the view to the west, including the Lincoln Memorial and World War II Memorial:

That bridge in the upper right corner? We drive that godforsaken thing every day.

This past weekend, I spent some time working on the car, hoping to rectify my failed emissions test. You see, the State of Michigan, being invested in its primary local industry, is far more interested in keeping its products on the road than keeping the air clean. Pollution in western Michigan is always blamed on Chicago, but where does the pollution from Detroit go? Lake Erie? Who gives a crap about Lake Erie?

Passing the emissions test has proven a greater challenge than I predicted. Not only is my car about ten years old, but without any requirement to keep it in prime running condition, I followed the path of least resistance (read: lowest cost) and let a few things slide. Like driving for about a year with my Check Engine light glowing. You know - the idiot light? Yeah, something like that. Now my tags are close to expiring, and the emissions gods have yet to answer my prayers. My advice for drivers subject to emissions testing? Test early.

Tomorrow we drive back to Michigan for the holidays. If the Thanksgiving traffic was any indication of what to expect, we'll spend two hours or more just getting out of the metro DC area. We might just reach the end of Toy Story before we leave the beltway.

Oh, and Santa? If by some miracle I'm not on your Bad list yet, I might need a new catalytic converter. Just leave it beside the bushes outside the garage.

Ian likes my shoes

2006-12-18T12:39:00.000-05:00

Christmas Music

2006-12-11T12:47:00.000-05:00

Okay, I confess: I like Christmas music. The day after Thanksgiving I whip out Volume 1 of A Very Special Christmas, and I only skip past the Pretenders. Take me to your winter wonderland, Annie Lennox. When you sing, Sting, I believe in angels. Maybe even Jesus. And few things made me prouder of Ben than his declaring "Christmas in Hollis" his favorite song on the CD.

I'm a sucker for the classics, too. Burl Ives will run through my head for an entire month and I don't mind. The only thing I can't take is when holiday music sounds like a funeral dirge. I got all excited when Aimee Mann released a holiday album, but if I were expecting her to make good on "I'll Be Home for Christmas" I'd put out a bowl of Xanax instead of marshmallows for her hot chocolate.

Even I get a little weary of listening to one holiday CD over and over again, though, so I set out to make my own compilation - something that would unite my Dr. Demento side and my Bing Crosby side without overindulging either. The best thing about this list is that each and every track is available at the iTunes Store, so you can download one or all. So here, for your consideration, is my Ultimate! Christmas! Mix!

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year"
by Andy Williams
from The Andy Williams Christmas Album (Remastered)

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen / We Three Kings"
by Barenaked Ladies with Sarah McLachlan
from Barenaked for the Holidays

"Sleigh Ride"
by The Brian Setzer Orchestra
from Boogie Woogie Christmas

"Run Rudolph Run"
by Bryan Adams
from A Very Special Christmas

"A Holly Jolly Christmas"
by Burl Ives
from Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

"Carol of the Bells"
by Celtic Woman
from Christmas Album

"Frosty the Snowman"
by Dan Tyminkski
from A Very Special Acoustic Christmas

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"
by Diana Krall
from Christmas Songs

"White Christmas"
by The Drifters
from Clyde McPhatter & the Drifters

"Winter Wonderland"
by Ella Fitzgerald
from Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas

"Baby, It's Cold Outside"
by Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Jordan
from Ella & Friends

"Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer"
by Elmo & Patsy
from Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

"I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"
by Gayla Peevey
from Vintage Children's Favourites

"Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!"
by Lena Horne
from Christmas Classics

"All I Want for Christmas Is You"
by Mariah Carey
from Merry Christmas

"Greensleeves"
by Méav Ní Mhaolchatha
from Celtic Woman Presents Meav: A Celtic Journey

"Good King Wenceslas"
by Mel Tormé
from Santa's Bag

"The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas to You)"
by Nat King Cole
from Christmas Classics

"Silver Bells"
by Perry Como & The Ray Charles Singers
from Perry Como: Greatest Christmas Songs

"I Saw Three Ships"
by Sting
from A Very Special Christmas, Vol. 3

"Come On! Let’s Boogey to the Elf Dance!"
by Sufjan Stevens
from Sufjan Stevens: Songs for Christmas

"I'll Be Home for Christmas"
by Tony Bennett
from Snowfall - The Tony Bennett Christmas Album

"O Holy Night"
by Tracy Chapman
from A Very Special Christmas, Vol. 3

"Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)"
by U2
from A Very Special Christmas

YouTube

2006-11-30T12:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-29T13:11:00.001-05:00

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

Famous Last Words

2006-11-27T13:54:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-15T11:46:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-11T20:41:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-10T20:55:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-09T12:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-06T13:59:00.000-05:00

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.

Bicycle Crash Test

2006-10-18T13:10:00.001-05:00

For some reason I can't stop laughing at this:

Oktoberfest by the Bay 2006

2006-10-16T12:05:00.000-05:00

Oktoberfest By the Bay was missing something. A certain ich weiß nicht was that might have made me glad I went.

Waiting in line outside for nearly an hour and a half was probably the most enjoyable part; at least I could talk with friends without having to shout. I could hear the horde inside long before I could see it. Once through the door (a privilege that cost $15), we learned that they were sold out of the liter-sized beer steins ($10), so there was no longer any hope of making $6 beers worthwhile. Various booths sold kitschy hats that looked more like souvenirs from a Harry Potter convention than anything a Deutscher might wear. The bratwurst on offer looked lamer than what I can get at the local county fair. The beer was good, but at $6 a pop I felt like I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a football stadium. The Jäger shots ($4 each or three for $10) couldn't have been more than half their claimed volume, so I stayed sober enough to feel ripped off, and the thin plastic test tubes did nothing to retain the cold necessary to keep Jäger palatable.

The warehouse lights of the pavillion lent nothing to the atmosphere, exposing the grimy, beer-saturated detail of every horizontal surface. Once the sun went down, the other side of beer consumption went on display outside in the form of every imaginable style of public urination, from the masculine arc into the Bay to the more gentle squat against the wall. The pier's moorings held fast the wallowing masses.

After an hour the music finally started, but "Brown-Eyed Girl" was hardly what I was expecting at Oktoberfest. Entertainment came in fits and starts throughout the evening, with the occasional traditional number thrown in between the chants of "ziggy zoggy ziggy zoggy hoy hoy hoy," obviously learned by most from studious hours spent watching "The Man Show."

Long after I decided that I needed a trip to a real bar to make up for the Oktoberfest experience, we finally took our leave of the event. From beneath the dumpsters emerged a rather large puddle I don't recall seeing on my way in. Revellers embarked on their journey homeward, some lightening their load along the way. For several blocks in every direction, the remains of well-used steins lay scattered along the pavement, thoroughly shattered along with my expectations.

Shenandoah National Park

2006-10-11T13:45:00.000-05:00

The changing leaves at Shenandoah National Park

Catfish at Wendy's

2006-10-10T10:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we treated the kids to Wendy's (which I love, but usually regret) on the way home from Shenandoah National Park. The location in Vienna is right next to a grungy tributary of the Potomac. On our way out, a woman on the creek side of the parking lot calls over and asks if I know something or other, but I couldn't understand what she said. She's wrangling a toddler, so I cross the parking lot.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Do you know how to de-hook a catfish? Weird question, I know."

Her son and a friend (around nine or ten years old) were fishing from the bank and had caught a six incher, but one kid was clueless and the other was afraid to try since being stabbed once by a catfish barb. Searching my memory with the lone keyword "catfish" pulls up a visual from twenty years ago of my father, somewhere on the Minong Flowag e in northwest Wisconsin, yowling as the one catfish I ever caught latches onto his thumb while he tries to free it from my fishing line.

"Um, sure. It's been awhile, but I'll give it a shot."

Peering into a tupperware of murky water, I see first that it's not just hooked, but also entangled in the fishing line like some sort of aquatic Bob Flanagan. Naturally, the hook is lodged in the roof of its mouth to boot, so between that and the fact that the stupid thing won't unclamp its jaws, it takes a minute to free it.

Meanwhile, the kids catch another catfish, this one nearly twice the size of the first.

"What the heck are you guys using for bait?"

"Bacon and sausage."

"Looks better than what I just ate."

"It's from Whole Foods. It's all I had in the house."

Suburbia at its finest.

Tattoos

2006-10-04T15:43:00.000-05:00

Tattoos are getting so common, I figure it's just a matter of time before the surprise gift in a box of Cracker Jack isn't one of those lick-em-and-stick-em temporary jobs that kindergartners put on to scare their parents, but the real deal: a tiny disposable gun and ink to start that tattoo addiction early. Even sorority girls have one now, so the people who are really into tattooing need to up the ante by getting ever more eye-catching tattoos in ever more visible locations. Already used up the space available on your arms and legs? No problem - your neck is the best place to show off your most cherished design. Seems the only thing that still carries a stigma is having little blue tears at the corner of your left eye. Of course it's only a matter of time before you gotta shank someone in a prison brawl to earn some street cred.

Now the kids with full sleeves and a crappy haircut are getting older and breaking into truly frightening territory: parenthood. Not that I object to tattooed parents. But am I the only one who feels somewhat surprised to see inked moms and dads walking down the street with an unembellished child? I always feel a bit thrown off - as if I expect tattoos to become part of one's genetic code, passed on to offspring just like eye color and fear of math.

"Oh look, little Tommy has his daddy's barbed wire armband. How adorable!"

"Was that a butterfly I saw peeking above Jessica's diaper?"

Naturally there might be some unfortunate instances of tattoos combining and mutating. Picture a pink heart-and-crossbones or Winnie the Pooh pissing on a Ford logo.

Call it unreasonable, call it insane, but this is one more reason I remain ink-free. Maybe I'll consider it after I have that vasectomy.