Good f***ing riddance, 2001
We're about to slam the door on the year that will go down as the worst of my lifetime, so far. (I'm told 1968 was a pretty bad year, too, but I was only around for half of it, and I don't remember it very well. 1980 sucked, too, but that was for personal reasons. Anyway ... ) I don't have any profound sendoffs for 2001, except to exhort you to think about what really matters and to exhort you to spend every day of 2002 making sure that the things that really matter to you are the things to which you devote your energy, every day.
Sunday, December 30, 2001
Saturday, December 29, 2001
More from Malaise-ia
That's my new country: Malaise-ia. Professionally, it's where I live right now.
Malaise (n.), 2 : a vague sense of mental or moral ill-being. That according to merriam-webster.com. I can't seem to generate any enthusiasm for my work. Part of it is that I'm fairly sure I'm not performing up to standards; a bigger part is that I don't know what the standards are.
In 1993, my last year in Anytown, I was "promoted" to a newly created position. Newspaper newsrooms are really resistant to anything that's different or that smacks of change. Anybody who takes a newly created position is viewed with suspicion, becuase the new position usually doesn't fit cleanly into the very militaristic newsroom hierarchy. I had this job for 11 frustrating months before bolting, and I vowed I'd never take a newly created position ever again.
I kept that vow for seven years. I'm not even sure what made me think this job would be better. I got a decent raise, but I gave up a four-day work week, so it kind of evened out. I left a position where I used my main talents -- designing pages and making deadlines -- for a position which exploits my greatest weakness: an apparent abject lack of leadership skill. Making it worse, in the Very Militaristic Newsroom Hierarchy, the people who I am supposed to "lead" don't report to me. So they have no incentive to be led by me, which might be fine because I'm not sure I'm particularly interested in leading them.
I've become firmly convinced you're either a creative person or a leader. In many ways, the two skills are mutually exclusive. The truly creative will buck leadership at every opportunity, and good leaders will quash such bucking (except, of course, when it makes them look good). I've worked with good leaders who are creative, but not more creative than me. I've known many people more creative than me, but not one of them would be worth a fart in a leadership position.
So:
Next week, I'm putting all the cards on the table. I've scheduled talks with people in authority to determine whether it's me or the job. If it's me, I can fix me. If it's the job, they'll have to fix the job.
We'll see what happens.
That's my new country: Malaise-ia. Professionally, it's where I live right now.
Malaise (n.), 2 : a vague sense of mental or moral ill-being. That according to merriam-webster.com. I can't seem to generate any enthusiasm for my work. Part of it is that I'm fairly sure I'm not performing up to standards; a bigger part is that I don't know what the standards are.
In 1993, my last year in Anytown, I was "promoted" to a newly created position. Newspaper newsrooms are really resistant to anything that's different or that smacks of change. Anybody who takes a newly created position is viewed with suspicion, becuase the new position usually doesn't fit cleanly into the very militaristic newsroom hierarchy. I had this job for 11 frustrating months before bolting, and I vowed I'd never take a newly created position ever again.
I kept that vow for seven years. I'm not even sure what made me think this job would be better. I got a decent raise, but I gave up a four-day work week, so it kind of evened out. I left a position where I used my main talents -- designing pages and making deadlines -- for a position which exploits my greatest weakness: an apparent abject lack of leadership skill. Making it worse, in the Very Militaristic Newsroom Hierarchy, the people who I am supposed to "lead" don't report to me. So they have no incentive to be led by me, which might be fine because I'm not sure I'm particularly interested in leading them.
I've become firmly convinced you're either a creative person or a leader. In many ways, the two skills are mutually exclusive. The truly creative will buck leadership at every opportunity, and good leaders will quash such bucking (except, of course, when it makes them look good). I've worked with good leaders who are creative, but not more creative than me. I've known many people more creative than me, but not one of them would be worth a fart in a leadership position.
So:
Next week, I'm putting all the cards on the table. I've scheduled talks with people in authority to determine whether it's me or the job. If it's me, I can fix me. If it's the job, they'll have to fix the job.
We'll see what happens.
Friday, December 28, 2001
Welcome
We have new readers joining us daily. Well, OK, we have a few new readers, and a sincere welcome to each of you. As a refresher, here are the rules:
--First and foremost, I do this for my entertainment, not yours. If you happen to find it the slightest bit interesting, I think that's fabulous. In the much more likely event it bores you silly, you can (according to Google.com) search 2,073,418,204 other web pages.
--It's unedited, which means it's unpolished, which means it's honest. Please forgive the occasional grammatical lapse or spelling error. (All ego aside, there won't be many.)
--It's honest, which means it may ruffle a feather or two, and I might let a potty word slip in every once in a while. The intent is not to offend, but if offense is taken, see the part of the first rule that starts with "you can (according to Google.com) search 2,073,418,204 ..."
--Why do I write this stuff? Mostly to stretch some long-dormant creative muscles my job no longer allows me to stretch. Partly, because there's the slightest chance that somebody might get a smile out of it, or a chuckle, or think, "What an f---ing idiot." If you think that, great; that means you're thinking.
Make liberal use of the "Hit me back" link. Make me think, too. That's how I know I'm alive.
We have new readers joining us daily. Well, OK, we have a few new readers, and a sincere welcome to each of you. As a refresher, here are the rules:
--First and foremost, I do this for my entertainment, not yours. If you happen to find it the slightest bit interesting, I think that's fabulous. In the much more likely event it bores you silly, you can (according to Google.com) search 2,073,418,204 other web pages.
--It's unedited, which means it's unpolished, which means it's honest. Please forgive the occasional grammatical lapse or spelling error. (All ego aside, there won't be many.)
--It's honest, which means it may ruffle a feather or two, and I might let a potty word slip in every once in a while. The intent is not to offend, but if offense is taken, see the part of the first rule that starts with "you can (according to Google.com) search 2,073,418,204 ..."
--Why do I write this stuff? Mostly to stretch some long-dormant creative muscles my job no longer allows me to stretch. Partly, because there's the slightest chance that somebody might get a smile out of it, or a chuckle, or think, "What an f---ing idiot." If you think that, great; that means you're thinking.
Make liberal use of the "Hit me back" link. Make me think, too. That's how I know I'm alive.
Thursday, December 27, 2001
To sleep, perchance to dream
I have young children, so it's safe to say I don't get a lot of REM sleep. I don't have a lot of dreams, and I don't have very many dreams I remember. I did have one last night, and it left me disturbed. Here's why: In dreams that involve driving, I am very often driving my first car. Memo to brain: My dream car is most definitely NOT a 1978 Mazda GLC 4-door hatchback that went 0-to-60 in about a year. I'd think I could do much better than that, if only in my dreams.
I have young children, so it's safe to say I don't get a lot of REM sleep. I don't have a lot of dreams, and I don't have very many dreams I remember. I did have one last night, and it left me disturbed. Here's why: In dreams that involve driving, I am very often driving my first car. Memo to brain: My dream car is most definitely NOT a 1978 Mazda GLC 4-door hatchback that went 0-to-60 in about a year. I'd think I could do much better than that, if only in my dreams.
Wednesday, December 26, 2001
Awright, back to work
It was a little weird to walk back into the newsroom of the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper today, 13 days after embarking on my longest stretch of time off since 1994. I apparently was among the very few who decided to come back today. Trying to shake off the post-vacation fatigue was even more difficult in a half-empty newsroom. Five cups of coffee only provided a headache to go along with my malaise. So much for the refreshing effect of a vacation.
A man named Chip Moody died today. I had never heard of him until about a month ago, when we were alerted his passing was imminent. Mr. Moody was a television news anchor, the only person to have anchored the news at all three major stations in our market. Each station was No. 1 during the time he worked there. I've been known to poke fun at television journalists (sorry, RER) and have been known to question all the money raked in by big-market "on-air talent." I never saw Mr. Moody on the air -- his last broadcast was in April 1999, five months before we moved to Texas -- but I stand today in awe of what he brought to his viewers. Our newspaper's Web site offers viewers a place for comments; most of the time, only wackos post, and much of what they post is gibberish. In response to the Chip Moody story, there were hundreds of comments, all of them thoughtful and well-written, paying tribute to this person who came into their living rooms twice a day for nearly 30 years. I have deep respect for anybody who has a deep respect for journalism, and from what I can tell, Chip Moody had a deep respect for journalism -- and the ability to connect with people in a way most of us can only dream of. Mr. Moody was 54 and had battled Hodgkins disease for nearly 15 years.
Here's hoping he has some great stories to tell in the next place.
It was a little weird to walk back into the newsroom of the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper today, 13 days after embarking on my longest stretch of time off since 1994. I apparently was among the very few who decided to come back today. Trying to shake off the post-vacation fatigue was even more difficult in a half-empty newsroom. Five cups of coffee only provided a headache to go along with my malaise. So much for the refreshing effect of a vacation.
A man named Chip Moody died today. I had never heard of him until about a month ago, when we were alerted his passing was imminent. Mr. Moody was a television news anchor, the only person to have anchored the news at all three major stations in our market. Each station was No. 1 during the time he worked there. I've been known to poke fun at television journalists (sorry, RER) and have been known to question all the money raked in by big-market "on-air talent." I never saw Mr. Moody on the air -- his last broadcast was in April 1999, five months before we moved to Texas -- but I stand today in awe of what he brought to his viewers. Our newspaper's Web site offers viewers a place for comments; most of the time, only wackos post, and much of what they post is gibberish. In response to the Chip Moody story, there were hundreds of comments, all of them thoughtful and well-written, paying tribute to this person who came into their living rooms twice a day for nearly 30 years. I have deep respect for anybody who has a deep respect for journalism, and from what I can tell, Chip Moody had a deep respect for journalism -- and the ability to connect with people in a way most of us can only dream of. Mr. Moody was 54 and had battled Hodgkins disease for nearly 15 years.
Here's hoping he has some great stories to tell in the next place.
Sunday, December 23, 2001
The holidays, Anytown-style
Here's how it was: Christmas Eve, any year in the 1970s. Eight adult siblings (including my dad) and their spouses, probably 20 cousins (including me) ranging in age from 10 to just-born, a few ex-wives of the aforementioned siblings, and my grandparents, all packed into their house, which seated maybe six comfortably. Big, thick cloud of smoke hanging over the proceedings (apparently, back in the 1970s, secondhand smoke wasn't bad for kids). Somebody's dressed as Santa; one of my uncles, but I'm not sure who, and I certainly wasn't going to make my way through the crowd to figure it out. Not much food around, and certainly nothing I liked. We're supposed to start opening presents at 5:00, but it's 5:20, and one aunt-uncle-cousins bloc isn't here yet. They're always late. There's a Christmas tree in the corner, but you can hardly see it because it's covered with those shiny silver icicles. Small flashing lights on the tree inside, big flashing lights on the evergreen in the front yard, big flashbulb going off every once in a while on someone's Polaroid. If it's not snowing and it's above 20 degrees, a few of us will venture outside every once in a while to get away from the smoke and the noise. Back inside, the late arrivals have showed up. Wrapping paper is flying, cousins are hollering, and toys are piling up to the ceiling. If you have a cousin of the same gender and in the same basic age group, you got the same gift as he did. Conflict avoidance, of course. You can't play with anything, though; there's no room to play with anything. The family wasn't well-off, by any means; my dad and two of his brothers worked in the same factory, and they were on strike that winter. Or sitting out a temporary layoff. Didn't matter; none of the kids would have ever known the difference.
Here's what it became: Christmas Eve, sometime in the late 1980s. Same family, same gathering, although in the slightly larger house of the Uncle Who Made Good. Some of the cousins, such as myself, are in their late teens or early 20s. We're bringing girlfriends or boyfriends to the gathering, and we're not staying very long. We're getting gifts we really don't have a lot of use for, in complete honesty. And I can only stay until 6, because I have to go to work. There's more food around, but I've already been to one of the few places in Anytown that's open on Christmas Eve, probably the Waffle House. I leave, not particularly filled with Christmas spirit, but more relieved that I've made my appearance.
Here's how it is: Christmas Eve, 2001. The siblings are getting older; all the cousins are grown and many have kids of their own. Some are in Texas, some in Colorado, some in South Carolina, one in medical school. A few are still bumming around Anytown, doing the best they can with what they have. The Christmas gathering is a much smaller affair in a much bigger place, at the palatial estate of the Uncle Who Made Good. It'll probably be the only time my grandparents get out of their house all year. Phone rings a few times; it's the cousin from Texas or Colorado or South Carolina calling to wish the gathering a merry Christmas. The same aunt-uncle-cousins bloc, minus the cousins, will be late. Or they won't show up at all, which'll make Grandma sad, but probably nobody else will miss them. My own kids wouldn't have a clue how to conduct themselves in a large, loud group like the one I grew up with. It would just freak them out. We'll have our own gathering here in Texas; wrapping paper will fly, toys will pile to the ceiling; it'll have everything but the cloud of smoke.
Maybe soon we'll get that whole group together one last time. Maybe we'll do it at my grandparents' little house in Anytown. Until then, I'll count the memory as one of my best gifts of this or any year.
Here's how it was: Christmas Eve, any year in the 1970s. Eight adult siblings (including my dad) and their spouses, probably 20 cousins (including me) ranging in age from 10 to just-born, a few ex-wives of the aforementioned siblings, and my grandparents, all packed into their house, which seated maybe six comfortably. Big, thick cloud of smoke hanging over the proceedings (apparently, back in the 1970s, secondhand smoke wasn't bad for kids). Somebody's dressed as Santa; one of my uncles, but I'm not sure who, and I certainly wasn't going to make my way through the crowd to figure it out. Not much food around, and certainly nothing I liked. We're supposed to start opening presents at 5:00, but it's 5:20, and one aunt-uncle-cousins bloc isn't here yet. They're always late. There's a Christmas tree in the corner, but you can hardly see it because it's covered with those shiny silver icicles. Small flashing lights on the tree inside, big flashing lights on the evergreen in the front yard, big flashbulb going off every once in a while on someone's Polaroid. If it's not snowing and it's above 20 degrees, a few of us will venture outside every once in a while to get away from the smoke and the noise. Back inside, the late arrivals have showed up. Wrapping paper is flying, cousins are hollering, and toys are piling up to the ceiling. If you have a cousin of the same gender and in the same basic age group, you got the same gift as he did. Conflict avoidance, of course. You can't play with anything, though; there's no room to play with anything. The family wasn't well-off, by any means; my dad and two of his brothers worked in the same factory, and they were on strike that winter. Or sitting out a temporary layoff. Didn't matter; none of the kids would have ever known the difference.
Here's what it became: Christmas Eve, sometime in the late 1980s. Same family, same gathering, although in the slightly larger house of the Uncle Who Made Good. Some of the cousins, such as myself, are in their late teens or early 20s. We're bringing girlfriends or boyfriends to the gathering, and we're not staying very long. We're getting gifts we really don't have a lot of use for, in complete honesty. And I can only stay until 6, because I have to go to work. There's more food around, but I've already been to one of the few places in Anytown that's open on Christmas Eve, probably the Waffle House. I leave, not particularly filled with Christmas spirit, but more relieved that I've made my appearance.
Here's how it is: Christmas Eve, 2001. The siblings are getting older; all the cousins are grown and many have kids of their own. Some are in Texas, some in Colorado, some in South Carolina, one in medical school. A few are still bumming around Anytown, doing the best they can with what they have. The Christmas gathering is a much smaller affair in a much bigger place, at the palatial estate of the Uncle Who Made Good. It'll probably be the only time my grandparents get out of their house all year. Phone rings a few times; it's the cousin from Texas or Colorado or South Carolina calling to wish the gathering a merry Christmas. The same aunt-uncle-cousins bloc, minus the cousins, will be late. Or they won't show up at all, which'll make Grandma sad, but probably nobody else will miss them. My own kids wouldn't have a clue how to conduct themselves in a large, loud group like the one I grew up with. It would just freak them out. We'll have our own gathering here in Texas; wrapping paper will fly, toys will pile to the ceiling; it'll have everything but the cloud of smoke.
Maybe soon we'll get that whole group together one last time. Maybe we'll do it at my grandparents' little house in Anytown. Until then, I'll count the memory as one of my best gifts of this or any year.
Friday, December 21, 2001
Whew! That's finally over
The temporary semi-voluntary single dadhood ends in about two hours. The Wife and Young Daughter are on their way home from the Ozarks, and they're bringing her parents and lots and lots of holiday goodies. Can't wait, for any of it.
All things considered, it went pretty well. The Old Daughter and The Boy are really quite well-behaved; not any more or less so than the average child. I certainly wound up with better kids than I deserved, and most of the credit for that goes to my wife, who has been a stay-at-home mom since just before the Boy was born in March 1999.
I'm not going to get on a soapbox about two-income families; I recognize that many two-income families are quite necessary, and not just to have a luxury lifestyle. But I can also tell you that parenting and maintaining a house is a full-time, 10-plus-hour-a-day job which requires a very large portion of your mental energy. I'm not going to judge what works for other people. I can tell you that having Mom at home is the best thing for my kids, and really, the best thing for me, for two selfish reasons: 1/I don't have to worry about her job schedule interfering with my job schedule and 2/because among all of her other wonderful qualities, she makes really, really good kids.
It's been fun, being a full-time dad. Now I'm ready to turn it back over to a professional.
The temporary semi-voluntary single dadhood ends in about two hours. The Wife and Young Daughter are on their way home from the Ozarks, and they're bringing her parents and lots and lots of holiday goodies. Can't wait, for any of it.
All things considered, it went pretty well. The Old Daughter and The Boy are really quite well-behaved; not any more or less so than the average child. I certainly wound up with better kids than I deserved, and most of the credit for that goes to my wife, who has been a stay-at-home mom since just before the Boy was born in March 1999.
I'm not going to get on a soapbox about two-income families; I recognize that many two-income families are quite necessary, and not just to have a luxury lifestyle. But I can also tell you that parenting and maintaining a house is a full-time, 10-plus-hour-a-day job which requires a very large portion of your mental energy. I'm not going to judge what works for other people. I can tell you that having Mom at home is the best thing for my kids, and really, the best thing for me, for two selfish reasons: 1/I don't have to worry about her job schedule interfering with my job schedule and 2/because among all of her other wonderful qualities, she makes really, really good kids.
It's been fun, being a full-time dad. Now I'm ready to turn it back over to a professional.
Thursday, December 20, 2001
The redesign, Part I
Using incredibly primitive tools and fumbling with the HTML (i.e., I see something, I change it, I see what happened), I have actually started the process of providing some sort of design to this thing. Right at the moment, however, I can't see the images. Minor detail.
Back to the drawing board. Tomorrow.
Using incredibly primitive tools and fumbling with the HTML (i.e., I see something, I change it, I see what happened), I have actually started the process of providing some sort of design to this thing. Right at the moment, however, I can't see the images. Minor detail.
Back to the drawing board. Tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 19, 2001
Please destroy my modem
I'm not wired like some people: I don't have a Palm Pilot, I can't get my e-mail on my cell phone, and I have no desire to have either such gizmo. However, I do get my work e-mail on my home computer, even when I'm on vacation. I don't have to look at my work e-mail while I'm on vacation; nobody asks me to; in fact, my boss asks me not to. But I'm out of control. I do it anyway. What's worse: I occasionally find myself answering e-mail from work while I'm at home. I just did so, a few minutes ago. It was a simple question, and the questioner deserved a simple answer. But she could have asked the question of three other people who likely are actually at work.
I must be stopped. I know this.
I'm not wired like some people: I don't have a Palm Pilot, I can't get my e-mail on my cell phone, and I have no desire to have either such gizmo. However, I do get my work e-mail on my home computer, even when I'm on vacation. I don't have to look at my work e-mail while I'm on vacation; nobody asks me to; in fact, my boss asks me not to. But I'm out of control. I do it anyway. What's worse: I occasionally find myself answering e-mail from work while I'm at home. I just did so, a few minutes ago. It was a simple question, and the questioner deserved a simple answer. But she could have asked the question of three other people who likely are actually at work.
I must be stopped. I know this.
News and sports and stuff
Unvarnished commentary, without the heavy hand of an editor or those damn ads. Here goes:
--Now they think Mr. Top Evildoer has -- gasp! -- changed his appearance. They keep getting the same question: "Well, Mr. Rumsfeld, you still haven't found the guy. Why not?" Today's answer: "Might be plastic surgery." Translation: "Hell if we know." One wonders if Mr. Top Evildoer might be questioning that decision to crash in Afghanistan (not that he had a lot of choice). I seem to remember hearing an awful lot of noise about what tough, battle-hardened, we-beat-down-the-Evil-Empire warriors they were. Yeah, right. That's why half of them are dead and the other half are huddled up in the hills, wondering what the hell they're going to do when the Dreaded Afghan Winter finally arrives. And where's their "leader?" You call this a war?
--The Texas Rangers now have Carl Everett and John Rocker on the same team. At least when Everett starts hurling accusations of racism, we'll know who the target is. Who's next? Albert Belle? Can Ray Lewis play baseball?
--Grant Hill is to the Orlando Magic what Bill Walton was to the San Diego Clippers: a weak-boned waste of money. If my memory serves me correctly, Walton played 16 games in three years for the Clippers. Hill has played 18 games in two years. Not a bad way to earn $93 million. Wonder if Hill can be Sixth Man of the Year five years from now.
--The Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper has launched a holiday marketing campaign with the slogan, "Discover the wonder inside." Yeah, discover the wonder inside and skip all that depressing shit on the front. I've actually learned a lot this week being a regular, time-starved news consumer. What I'm learning is that newspapers really are doomed. More on that later.
--In local news: We're on Day 3 of the semi-voluntary single dad experiment. While Mom and the Young Daughter are cooling their heels in the Ozarks, I'm herding kids in Texas. Things are going fairly well: The Boy is napping as we speak, and the Old Daughter will be grounded when she comes home from school for transgressions committed yesterday. Don't even remember what they were now, but apparently I was fairly upset at the time. Frozen pizza last night. Today's menu: Steak.
Which means I must go check to see if I have baking potatoes. That's my day, and I'm sticking to it.
Unvarnished commentary, without the heavy hand of an editor or those damn ads. Here goes:
--Now they think Mr. Top Evildoer has -- gasp! -- changed his appearance. They keep getting the same question: "Well, Mr. Rumsfeld, you still haven't found the guy. Why not?" Today's answer: "Might be plastic surgery." Translation: "Hell if we know." One wonders if Mr. Top Evildoer might be questioning that decision to crash in Afghanistan (not that he had a lot of choice). I seem to remember hearing an awful lot of noise about what tough, battle-hardened, we-beat-down-the-Evil-Empire warriors they were. Yeah, right. That's why half of them are dead and the other half are huddled up in the hills, wondering what the hell they're going to do when the Dreaded Afghan Winter finally arrives. And where's their "leader?" You call this a war?
--The Texas Rangers now have Carl Everett and John Rocker on the same team. At least when Everett starts hurling accusations of racism, we'll know who the target is. Who's next? Albert Belle? Can Ray Lewis play baseball?
--Grant Hill is to the Orlando Magic what Bill Walton was to the San Diego Clippers: a weak-boned waste of money. If my memory serves me correctly, Walton played 16 games in three years for the Clippers. Hill has played 18 games in two years. Not a bad way to earn $93 million. Wonder if Hill can be Sixth Man of the Year five years from now.
--The Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper has launched a holiday marketing campaign with the slogan, "Discover the wonder inside." Yeah, discover the wonder inside and skip all that depressing shit on the front. I've actually learned a lot this week being a regular, time-starved news consumer. What I'm learning is that newspapers really are doomed. More on that later.
--In local news: We're on Day 3 of the semi-voluntary single dad experiment. While Mom and the Young Daughter are cooling their heels in the Ozarks, I'm herding kids in Texas. Things are going fairly well: The Boy is napping as we speak, and the Old Daughter will be grounded when she comes home from school for transgressions committed yesterday. Don't even remember what they were now, but apparently I was fairly upset at the time. Frozen pizza last night. Today's menu: Steak.
Which means I must go check to see if I have baking potatoes. That's my day, and I'm sticking to it.
Monday, December 17, 2001
Holy keystrokes! He's back!
Enough already. I just flipped through my site and realized I was averaging one post a week. That's bad. So, armed with some inspiration -- somebody actually reads this! -- I'm going to bat out some stuff.
I'm in Day One of semi-voluntary single dadhood. The wife and the Young Daughter extended the trip to Missouri for several days, which meant the Old Daughter and The Boy and me are left to fend for ourselves in Texas. This is how I'll spend Days 5 through 10 of the Thirteen-Day Holiday Break. We got through Day 1 basically unscathed; the Old Daughter stayed home from school with a mild cough and major fatigue (driving through Oklahoma will do that to you.) A three-hour nap from The Boy and a little bit of spaghetti and by golly, everybody's happy. This parenting thing isn't so hard after all.
(That last sentence, I'm sure, is a chapter heading in the book. Words that Will Come Back to Haunt You.)
Also among the inspirations was getting to see the cousins from RER and Code Orange, if only for a few minutes. Always good to see the guys who dove head-first into the smart end of the gene pool. Gives me hope for my own progeny.
Enough already. I just flipped through my site and realized I was averaging one post a week. That's bad. So, armed with some inspiration -- somebody actually reads this! -- I'm going to bat out some stuff.
I'm in Day One of semi-voluntary single dadhood. The wife and the Young Daughter extended the trip to Missouri for several days, which meant the Old Daughter and The Boy and me are left to fend for ourselves in Texas. This is how I'll spend Days 5 through 10 of the Thirteen-Day Holiday Break. We got through Day 1 basically unscathed; the Old Daughter stayed home from school with a mild cough and major fatigue (driving through Oklahoma will do that to you.) A three-hour nap from The Boy and a little bit of spaghetti and by golly, everybody's happy. This parenting thing isn't so hard after all.
(That last sentence, I'm sure, is a chapter heading in the book. Words that Will Come Back to Haunt You.)
Also among the inspirations was getting to see the cousins from RER and Code Orange, if only for a few minutes. Always good to see the guys who dove head-first into the smart end of the gene pool. Gives me hope for my own progeny.
Saturday, December 08, 2001
Some housekeeping chores
--A belated happy birthday to our good friends at RER. He was born on the same day as Tyra Banks. There's something to be said about that; I'm not sure what, but there's something.
--Must endure only three more work days before a 13-day holiday break. Nothing could be better; even if I spend the bulk of the time just sitting around the house. I need to defragment my brain. Who knows; I might actually spend some of the time updating this thing.
--Little Sister gets some parchment from Medium-Sized Multidirectional State University next week. Comes complete with Latin words meaning "really, really smart." Couldn't be prouder.
On to the next thing. No such thing as a "relaxing weekend" around this place.
--A belated happy birthday to our good friends at RER. He was born on the same day as Tyra Banks. There's something to be said about that; I'm not sure what, but there's something.
--Must endure only three more work days before a 13-day holiday break. Nothing could be better; even if I spend the bulk of the time just sitting around the house. I need to defragment my brain. Who knows; I might actually spend some of the time updating this thing.
--Little Sister gets some parchment from Medium-Sized Multidirectional State University next week. Comes complete with Latin words meaning "really, really smart." Couldn't be prouder.
On to the next thing. No such thing as a "relaxing weekend" around this place.
Tuesday, December 04, 2001
Just another day at work
real memo received by real people:
Maintenance will be conducting required elevator load tests, one elevator at a time, this afternoon in the building. As a result you could hear loud "squealing" during the tests. Testing for each elevator will last about 30-45 minutes. Testing should be completed around 3:30pm-4pm.
real memo received by real people:
Maintenance will be conducting required elevator load tests, one elevator at a time, this afternoon in the building. As a result you could hear loud "squealing" during the tests. Testing for each elevator will last about 30-45 minutes. Testing should be completed around 3:30pm-4pm.
Saturday, December 01, 2001
Nov. 19-30: The lost days
Let's see: What did I do over the last 11 days that was worth writing about?
Well, nothing. There you have it. Nothing worthy of reportage, anyway.
Am using a new web browser. Opera. Kind of like it, at least most of it. Like Netscape, only somewhat better. Has a big ad at the top that I could lose for $39. Don't care that much.
In the absence of any original creativity, I'm going to dig through the archives and throw down some old stuff for consideration. Let me know what you think, if you have a thought. Stay tuned.
Let's see: What did I do over the last 11 days that was worth writing about?
Well, nothing. There you have it. Nothing worthy of reportage, anyway.
Am using a new web browser. Opera. Kind of like it, at least most of it. Like Netscape, only somewhat better. Has a big ad at the top that I could lose for $39. Don't care that much.
In the absence of any original creativity, I'm going to dig through the archives and throw down some old stuff for consideration. Let me know what you think, if you have a thought. Stay tuned.