No 'Year in Review' here
Today's a day for looking forward, not back. Of course, it took me a few paragraphs to remember that.
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
That sneaked up on me
Yikes? It's Dec. 31 already? Where did my two thousand two go so fast? What a freaking wild ride this year has been.
Here's hoping for a peaceful 2003. I don't have a lot of hope that we'll get through 2003 without war, or some rough times, or without some austerity brought on by some bad financial decisions that we made last year. But I can hope for a peaceful, secure year in our house.
I sincerely hope for the same for your house. Be careful tonight. We all get a fresh calendar tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it.
Yikes? It's Dec. 31 already? Where did my two thousand two go so fast? What a freaking wild ride this year has been.
Here's hoping for a peaceful 2003. I don't have a lot of hope that we'll get through 2003 without war, or some rough times, or without some austerity brought on by some bad financial decisions that we made last year. But I can hope for a peaceful, secure year in our house.
I sincerely hope for the same for your house. Be careful tonight. We all get a fresh calendar tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it.
That day, Part II
I find the most interesting stuff by simply looking at the logs for this site. I'm too cheap to get rid of the advertisement above, and I'm too cheap to pay for web hosting for this site, and I'm too cheap to pay for a log program that will tell me anything beyond the barest stuff. So I don't know the specific search terms by which strangers land on this site (but thanks for coming by anyway.)
Anyway: I find that one of the archive pages that gets hit the hardest is April 2002. I'm not sure why, but I noticed that the story about my dad's car accident is on that page. Because I'm bored, and I've had a stressful day, I'm idly surfing the web. I plug "Nov. 24, 1987," the day of the accident, into Google and see what comes up. I find this fact in a story about weather extremes in my hometown:
"Most precipitation in one day: 6.27 inches on Nov. 24, 1987."
My memory of it, apparently, is "raining like hell." I didn't know that factoid, or if I did, I somehow forgot it among everything else that happened that day. All that precipitation was a major factor in an event which changed the lives of everybody in my very large extended family.
Raining like hell. Idly surfing the web. Whipped back in time at 1.6 GHz processor speed.
I had a very complex relationship with both of my parents, but particularly my father. He was 18 when I was born, and from what I'm told, he wasn't around a lot the first three years of my life. My parents were married, but apparently only in a matter of speaking. My mom contends I missed crucial bonding time with my dad because he was working, or gallavanting, or doing whatever a 20-year-old married man does with his time.
My dad apparently settled down a bit after my sister was born, six days before my third birthday. He worked second shift at a factory in Anytown; he usually had left for work by the time I got home from school. I remember feeling negative thoughts whenever I turned the corner and saw his car parked in front of the house. I don't know why; having him around wasn't particularly unpleasant. I think it was more because I didn't like any disruption in my routine, and his presence generally was a disruption in my routine.
My dad never quite understood me. I was a very small boy when I was a small boy, so I had little interest for sports. My pursuits leaned more toward the intellectual; his boyhood interests leaned toward sci-fi movies and superhero comic books. He tried to connect with me through what interested him when he was a boy, and it failed. Probably, I was kind of a jerk about it at one point.
I remember thinking from an early age that I was my father's intellectual superior. In my early double-digit ages, I did everything I could to make sure the wedge between us was firmly lodged.
Then, a month after my 12th birthday, my mother moved out. She moved into an apartment complex where children weren't allowed. My sister and I stayed with my dad. To say he wasn't taking it well would be the understatement of this or any century.
It was a different time, certainly, and a different place. A parent who left children 12 and 9 alone as much as he did would probably find himself facing charges today. In 1980, we just kept the doors locked and didn't answer the phone. We also stayed up until all hours, fairly secure in the knowledge that the sun was going to make an appearance before he did. We were almost always right.
Those two years featured my dad's only real dalliance with the bottle, but it was ugly. He was an incompetent drunk. Not violent, by any means. He was more of a melancholy drunk. And it always made him throw up. Whether he had one beer or 10 shots, the beverage always made a re-appearance. Most mornings, as we were getting ready for school, the sounds of last night emanated from the one bathroom in our house. "Boo-hoo-hoo ... bleaaaauuuh ... Boo-hoo-hoo ... "
Then there were the women, and, occasionally, the women's other boyfriends. One Friday night, a strange man knocked at our door. Clearly, he was very pissed off. And big. Because it was daylight, and because I had briefly taken leave of my senses, I answered the door. The dude was loaded for bear, but he was somewhat disarmed by the sight of a 12-year-old kid on the other side.
"Uh," he said, "I'm looking for Donna. Is your dad around?"
"No," I said, knowing full well that this dude was another jilted husband or boyfriend of one of my dad's flames. "But if I see him, I'll kick his ass for you."
The guy tried really hard not to laugh. He turned around and left without further comment, other than, "Uh, OK." My heartbeat went back to normal sometime in 1982.
These episodes didn't help the lack of bonding between my dad and me. Now, not only did I think I was his intellectual superior; at 13, I believed myself also his moral superior.
The ugly episodes ended justlikethat; my dad met a woman over Thanksgiving in 1981 and married her in Feburary 1982. She was a smart, strong-willed woman who had just graduated from college. She was nine years younger than my dad. Your quick math reveals that made her nine years older than me.
This 22-year-old woman suddenly found herself the stepmother of a teenager. Good thing she was strong-willed, because my sister and I did everything we could to run her off. And I mean everything. My dad, of course, was ill-equipped to deal with this, too. Getting remarried was supposed to make everything better. I don't think he took into account the fact that it might really piss his children off.
The clash of wills got really ugly over the next few years. I said a lot of really awful things to my father. I'm sure most other teenage kids do, too, but I really thought I meant a lot of it.
I don't remember the front end of one particular incident, but I remember how it ended. I said something to my father -- I can't for the life of me remember what -- but the next morning, I felt really, really awful about it. I was probably 17 then, so you can imagine how bad it must have been to make me feel remorse. I went down the next morning and woke him up (which he hated). I said, "Listen; no matter what I say, you're still my daddy and I still love you." I felt like I was about 40 years old. This was a major event in our house; nobody ever said, "I love you." It was not by any means that any of us didn't love any of the others; it was just that it was rarely, if ever, spoken.
I'm not sure what led me to apologize and humble myself before my father. But whatever it was seemed to click for both of us.
From that point, our relationship advanced to one of benign neglect. I'm sure he knew that I was, um, having the occasional beer and sneaking the occasional kiss when I was a senior in high school. "Just be careful," he said. "You're a smart kid. Be smart at night, too." I was, and I was, and I managed to evade trouble.
After years of financial struggle, my dad managed to scrape together enough for a down payment on a new house in 1987, my freshman year in college. We were leaving our old place on Madison Street with nary a regret. It was a bad neighborhood becoming worse, and we were all ready to leave after 13 years. I remember the night I packed my bedroom. My then-girlfriend came over to help. About midnight, we both fell asleep, fully clothed, on my bed. I was half-awake enough to hear my stepmother voicing serious disapproval of the situation. I heard my dad walk into the room. I feigned being completely asleep. He laughed a little bit. "I don't see a problem," he said. "Their shoes are still on, for Pete's sake." This summed up a lot of my teenage relationship with my dad. He didn't often like me, but I never thought he didn't trust me.
We moved into the new house on June 1, 1987. My dad could finally park his car in a garage. My stepmother could finally live in a house that had no remaining vestige of my mother's decorating tastes. I turned 19 the next month, and I really felt like my dad and I were beginning to understand each other.
I was pretty settled into a job that was going to lead to a career by that point. My dad appreciated the fact that I was working my ass off toward a goal, even if it wasn't the goal he would have chosen for me. "Just be careful," he said. "You're a smart kid." He neither approved nor disapproved of my decision to skip college in the fall of '87.
Later that fall, as I was deciding what I wanted to do with my life, I made up my mind to sit my dad down and talk to him about the choices he had made and the paths he had taken. After 19 years, I was ready to listen. The only task was going to be finding some time when he wasn't at work or sleeping. His work ethic bordered on obsession, much to my stepmother's chagrin. That was OK with me; I was at work or sleeping all the time, myself. Maybe over the holidays, I thought.
The weekend before Thanksgiving, my dad was building his company's float for our local Christmas parade. I couldn't stick around to watch; I had to cover a state football playoff game in Kansas City. I was spending the night up there, and payday was the following Wednesday. "You got 20 bucks?" I asked. Usually, that question would have been answered by an unfriendly laugh. These days, he dug in his pocket and found it. "Payday's Wednesday, right?" he said. "You'll have it back to me first thing."
Before Wednesday came Tuesday. The night of the record rainfall.
I find the most interesting stuff by simply looking at the logs for this site. I'm too cheap to get rid of the advertisement above, and I'm too cheap to pay for web hosting for this site, and I'm too cheap to pay for a log program that will tell me anything beyond the barest stuff. So I don't know the specific search terms by which strangers land on this site (but thanks for coming by anyway.)
Anyway: I find that one of the archive pages that gets hit the hardest is April 2002. I'm not sure why, but I noticed that the story about my dad's car accident is on that page. Because I'm bored, and I've had a stressful day, I'm idly surfing the web. I plug "Nov. 24, 1987," the day of the accident, into Google and see what comes up. I find this fact in a story about weather extremes in my hometown:
"Most precipitation in one day: 6.27 inches on Nov. 24, 1987."
My memory of it, apparently, is "raining like hell." I didn't know that factoid, or if I did, I somehow forgot it among everything else that happened that day. All that precipitation was a major factor in an event which changed the lives of everybody in my very large extended family.
Raining like hell. Idly surfing the web. Whipped back in time at 1.6 GHz processor speed.
I had a very complex relationship with both of my parents, but particularly my father. He was 18 when I was born, and from what I'm told, he wasn't around a lot the first three years of my life. My parents were married, but apparently only in a matter of speaking. My mom contends I missed crucial bonding time with my dad because he was working, or gallavanting, or doing whatever a 20-year-old married man does with his time.
My dad apparently settled down a bit after my sister was born, six days before my third birthday. He worked second shift at a factory in Anytown; he usually had left for work by the time I got home from school. I remember feeling negative thoughts whenever I turned the corner and saw his car parked in front of the house. I don't know why; having him around wasn't particularly unpleasant. I think it was more because I didn't like any disruption in my routine, and his presence generally was a disruption in my routine.
My dad never quite understood me. I was a very small boy when I was a small boy, so I had little interest for sports. My pursuits leaned more toward the intellectual; his boyhood interests leaned toward sci-fi movies and superhero comic books. He tried to connect with me through what interested him when he was a boy, and it failed. Probably, I was kind of a jerk about it at one point.
I remember thinking from an early age that I was my father's intellectual superior. In my early double-digit ages, I did everything I could to make sure the wedge between us was firmly lodged.
Then, a month after my 12th birthday, my mother moved out. She moved into an apartment complex where children weren't allowed. My sister and I stayed with my dad. To say he wasn't taking it well would be the understatement of this or any century.
It was a different time, certainly, and a different place. A parent who left children 12 and 9 alone as much as he did would probably find himself facing charges today. In 1980, we just kept the doors locked and didn't answer the phone. We also stayed up until all hours, fairly secure in the knowledge that the sun was going to make an appearance before he did. We were almost always right.
Those two years featured my dad's only real dalliance with the bottle, but it was ugly. He was an incompetent drunk. Not violent, by any means. He was more of a melancholy drunk. And it always made him throw up. Whether he had one beer or 10 shots, the beverage always made a re-appearance. Most mornings, as we were getting ready for school, the sounds of last night emanated from the one bathroom in our house. "Boo-hoo-hoo ... bleaaaauuuh ... Boo-hoo-hoo ... "
Then there were the women, and, occasionally, the women's other boyfriends. One Friday night, a strange man knocked at our door. Clearly, he was very pissed off. And big. Because it was daylight, and because I had briefly taken leave of my senses, I answered the door. The dude was loaded for bear, but he was somewhat disarmed by the sight of a 12-year-old kid on the other side.
"Uh," he said, "I'm looking for Donna. Is your dad around?"
"No," I said, knowing full well that this dude was another jilted husband or boyfriend of one of my dad's flames. "But if I see him, I'll kick his ass for you."
The guy tried really hard not to laugh. He turned around and left without further comment, other than, "Uh, OK." My heartbeat went back to normal sometime in 1982.
These episodes didn't help the lack of bonding between my dad and me. Now, not only did I think I was his intellectual superior; at 13, I believed myself also his moral superior.
The ugly episodes ended justlikethat; my dad met a woman over Thanksgiving in 1981 and married her in Feburary 1982. She was a smart, strong-willed woman who had just graduated from college. She was nine years younger than my dad. Your quick math reveals that made her nine years older than me.
This 22-year-old woman suddenly found herself the stepmother of a teenager. Good thing she was strong-willed, because my sister and I did everything we could to run her off. And I mean everything. My dad, of course, was ill-equipped to deal with this, too. Getting remarried was supposed to make everything better. I don't think he took into account the fact that it might really piss his children off.
The clash of wills got really ugly over the next few years. I said a lot of really awful things to my father. I'm sure most other teenage kids do, too, but I really thought I meant a lot of it.
I don't remember the front end of one particular incident, but I remember how it ended. I said something to my father -- I can't for the life of me remember what -- but the next morning, I felt really, really awful about it. I was probably 17 then, so you can imagine how bad it must have been to make me feel remorse. I went down the next morning and woke him up (which he hated). I said, "Listen; no matter what I say, you're still my daddy and I still love you." I felt like I was about 40 years old. This was a major event in our house; nobody ever said, "I love you." It was not by any means that any of us didn't love any of the others; it was just that it was rarely, if ever, spoken.
I'm not sure what led me to apologize and humble myself before my father. But whatever it was seemed to click for both of us.
From that point, our relationship advanced to one of benign neglect. I'm sure he knew that I was, um, having the occasional beer and sneaking the occasional kiss when I was a senior in high school. "Just be careful," he said. "You're a smart kid. Be smart at night, too." I was, and I was, and I managed to evade trouble.
After years of financial struggle, my dad managed to scrape together enough for a down payment on a new house in 1987, my freshman year in college. We were leaving our old place on Madison Street with nary a regret. It was a bad neighborhood becoming worse, and we were all ready to leave after 13 years. I remember the night I packed my bedroom. My then-girlfriend came over to help. About midnight, we both fell asleep, fully clothed, on my bed. I was half-awake enough to hear my stepmother voicing serious disapproval of the situation. I heard my dad walk into the room. I feigned being completely asleep. He laughed a little bit. "I don't see a problem," he said. "Their shoes are still on, for Pete's sake." This summed up a lot of my teenage relationship with my dad. He didn't often like me, but I never thought he didn't trust me.
We moved into the new house on June 1, 1987. My dad could finally park his car in a garage. My stepmother could finally live in a house that had no remaining vestige of my mother's decorating tastes. I turned 19 the next month, and I really felt like my dad and I were beginning to understand each other.
I was pretty settled into a job that was going to lead to a career by that point. My dad appreciated the fact that I was working my ass off toward a goal, even if it wasn't the goal he would have chosen for me. "Just be careful," he said. "You're a smart kid." He neither approved nor disapproved of my decision to skip college in the fall of '87.
Later that fall, as I was deciding what I wanted to do with my life, I made up my mind to sit my dad down and talk to him about the choices he had made and the paths he had taken. After 19 years, I was ready to listen. The only task was going to be finding some time when he wasn't at work or sleeping. His work ethic bordered on obsession, much to my stepmother's chagrin. That was OK with me; I was at work or sleeping all the time, myself. Maybe over the holidays, I thought.
The weekend before Thanksgiving, my dad was building his company's float for our local Christmas parade. I couldn't stick around to watch; I had to cover a state football playoff game in Kansas City. I was spending the night up there, and payday was the following Wednesday. "You got 20 bucks?" I asked. Usually, that question would have been answered by an unfriendly laugh. These days, he dug in his pocket and found it. "Payday's Wednesday, right?" he said. "You'll have it back to me first thing."
Before Wednesday came Tuesday. The night of the record rainfall.
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
Friday, December 20, 2002
It's beginning to look a lot like ... oh, never mind
Stop me if you've heard this one already: I don't really like the holidays. Never have. Growing up in Missouri, it was always too cold to enjoy the two weeks off from school. I'd rather have been in school than at home. In college, December featured the mad scramble to come up with money for the next semester. In my business -- one in which we make a new product 365 days a year -- it means lots of people are taking time off, and deadlines are early, and people have to double up on their work so they can be off on the holiday, and, of course, not everybody can be off on the holiday, so somebody's holidays are less than happy.
My first raucous night as a page designer was Christmas 1989 -- the night Billy Martin died. The skeleton Christmas-night crew in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle consisted of me, who had been laying out pages full-time for exactly two months, and the agate clerk, a guy who was really looking forward to getting out at 9 p.m. so he could continue his holiday drunk-fest. Then, about 8 p.m., we learned we had a Really Big Story. All the bosses were out of pocket. It was just me and Agate Guy.
We did it, and did it pretty well. He edited a few stories, I tore up the section front and assembled a nearly open inside page (which had heretofore been filled with the dregs of whatever we could fill it with, being that not much happens on Christmas.) We made our deadlines, readers in Anytown learned much about the tragic death of the acerbic former Yankees manager at the hands of a drunk driver (the only surprise was that Martin wasn't actually the drunk driver; he was the drunk passenger), and I had my first really bad night under my belt.
After I got married, Christmas in Anytown became a mad scramble to get from my relatives' celebration to The Wife's relatives' celebration. Neither side was ever happy with the amount of time we spent with it. Moving to Cincinnati in 1993 was a relief, if simply for relieving us of that obligation.
Now, of course, Christmas is great fun for the kids, but lots of hard work for Mom and Dad ... well, yeah, mostly Mom. The Wife is the Christmas Angel of our house, busting her ass to make sure everybody else has a happy and memorable holiday. We've been married long enough to have actual Christmas traditions -- a real tree (this year's model is still sitting on its side in the garage, waiting for us to decorate it), chocolate-covered pretzels and the world's best Chex Mix. The Very Cool In-Laws are flying in from Anytown this year, as they did every year when we lived on the Edge of America the last time. Bottles of wine will be opened, toys will be distributed, Santa will drop by, and we'll get ready to close out 2002 -- a year that seems to have gone by really, really fast, especially considering everything that has happened.
It's still been a semi-incomplete holiday. We didn't send any Christmas cards (we'll get to them next year, really); we didn't string lights up on the house; and that aforementioned tree still needs to be decorated. We're still trying to get settled here on the Edge. Our petition to postpone Christmas until Feb. 19 was denied, so we're doing the best we can with the energy we have.
There's no larger point to any of this, except: Here's a sincere wish to anybody who's reading this for all the best of the holiday season, whatever that means to you. Take a minute amidst all the hubbub to reflect on the things that mean the most to you, and resolve to make those things the things to which you give the most energy.
Stop me if you've heard this one already: I don't really like the holidays. Never have. Growing up in Missouri, it was always too cold to enjoy the two weeks off from school. I'd rather have been in school than at home. In college, December featured the mad scramble to come up with money for the next semester. In my business -- one in which we make a new product 365 days a year -- it means lots of people are taking time off, and deadlines are early, and people have to double up on their work so they can be off on the holiday, and, of course, not everybody can be off on the holiday, so somebody's holidays are less than happy.
My first raucous night as a page designer was Christmas 1989 -- the night Billy Martin died. The skeleton Christmas-night crew in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle consisted of me, who had been laying out pages full-time for exactly two months, and the agate clerk, a guy who was really looking forward to getting out at 9 p.m. so he could continue his holiday drunk-fest. Then, about 8 p.m., we learned we had a Really Big Story. All the bosses were out of pocket. It was just me and Agate Guy.
We did it, and did it pretty well. He edited a few stories, I tore up the section front and assembled a nearly open inside page (which had heretofore been filled with the dregs of whatever we could fill it with, being that not much happens on Christmas.) We made our deadlines, readers in Anytown learned much about the tragic death of the acerbic former Yankees manager at the hands of a drunk driver (the only surprise was that Martin wasn't actually the drunk driver; he was the drunk passenger), and I had my first really bad night under my belt.
After I got married, Christmas in Anytown became a mad scramble to get from my relatives' celebration to The Wife's relatives' celebration. Neither side was ever happy with the amount of time we spent with it. Moving to Cincinnati in 1993 was a relief, if simply for relieving us of that obligation.
Now, of course, Christmas is great fun for the kids, but lots of hard work for Mom and Dad ... well, yeah, mostly Mom. The Wife is the Christmas Angel of our house, busting her ass to make sure everybody else has a happy and memorable holiday. We've been married long enough to have actual Christmas traditions -- a real tree (this year's model is still sitting on its side in the garage, waiting for us to decorate it), chocolate-covered pretzels and the world's best Chex Mix. The Very Cool In-Laws are flying in from Anytown this year, as they did every year when we lived on the Edge of America the last time. Bottles of wine will be opened, toys will be distributed, Santa will drop by, and we'll get ready to close out 2002 -- a year that seems to have gone by really, really fast, especially considering everything that has happened.
It's still been a semi-incomplete holiday. We didn't send any Christmas cards (we'll get to them next year, really); we didn't string lights up on the house; and that aforementioned tree still needs to be decorated. We're still trying to get settled here on the Edge. Our petition to postpone Christmas until Feb. 19 was denied, so we're doing the best we can with the energy we have.
There's no larger point to any of this, except: Here's a sincere wish to anybody who's reading this for all the best of the holiday season, whatever that means to you. Take a minute amidst all the hubbub to reflect on the things that mean the most to you, and resolve to make those things the things to which you give the most energy.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
Incredibly weird stuff that I notice
I am such a geek. Frequent readers know this already. New readers will become 100 percent convinced.
Was reading the profile of Lance Armstrong in the latest Sports Illustrated (I think it was the latest Sports Illustrated, anyway; I might well be about two issues behind, thanks to the change of address.) Pretty good story; I have deep respect for Lance Armstrong the athlete and Lance Armstrong the Texan. He clearly is not a big believer in bullshit. I admire that.
But, of course, I must always bring these little missives back around to me.
With this article is a picture of Armstrong sitting on the tailgate of a black Suburban which serves as his "chase vehicle" when he goes on long rides. On this Suburban is a Texas license plate: RFI-7K7.
First thing I notice: Two things are wrong with that plate.
That particular Texas license plate would be numbered letter-number-number, letter-letter-letter.
Texas does not use vowels in regular-issue license-plate numbers.
Some photo editor apparently thought to go into Photoshop and rearrange the letters and numbers on that plate -- I guess so as not to give away this vehicle's license number to a worldwide audience. As someone who evaluates the content of photographs as part of my job, I'm somewhat mystified by this. I'm even more mystified by the fact that I would notice.
I wonder how much I could accomplish if I could clear my head of useless knowledge such as the intricacies of the Texas license-plate numbering system.
I am such a geek. Frequent readers know this already. New readers will become 100 percent convinced.
Was reading the profile of Lance Armstrong in the latest Sports Illustrated (I think it was the latest Sports Illustrated, anyway; I might well be about two issues behind, thanks to the change of address.) Pretty good story; I have deep respect for Lance Armstrong the athlete and Lance Armstrong the Texan. He clearly is not a big believer in bullshit. I admire that.
But, of course, I must always bring these little missives back around to me.
With this article is a picture of Armstrong sitting on the tailgate of a black Suburban which serves as his "chase vehicle" when he goes on long rides. On this Suburban is a Texas license plate: RFI-7K7.
First thing I notice: Two things are wrong with that plate.
Some photo editor apparently thought to go into Photoshop and rearrange the letters and numbers on that plate -- I guess so as not to give away this vehicle's license number to a worldwide audience. As someone who evaluates the content of photographs as part of my job, I'm somewhat mystified by this. I'm even more mystified by the fact that I would notice.
I wonder how much I could accomplish if I could clear my head of useless knowledge such as the intricacies of the Texas license-plate numbering system.
Friday, December 13, 2002
Raaaaaaain on meeeeeeeeeeeeee ...
In a past life, I went through a phase where I really liked The Who. I got over it quickly. Please stay tuned for more in a special edition of Random Stray Thoughts, The Series:
Gave much better advice to Favorite Co-Worker in Texas today. Oddly, it was 180 degrees from my previous advice. I'm sure that helped her even more.
Got a Christmas card from the Ex-Boss. It read in part, "I guess we're missing you a lot more than you're missing us." Nothing personal, but, probably, yeah. Although I sure could go for a burrito or some fajitas from Y.O. Ranch.
Total Christmas cards received so far: 6. Total sent: 0.
At what point does one have to open the drain on the pool during a heavy rainstorm? I wonder if we're getting to that point. We're so unqualified to own a house with a pool.
Good music cures anything.
In a past life, I went through a phase where I really liked The Who. I got over it quickly. Please stay tuned for more in a special edition of Random Stray Thoughts, The Series:
Thursday, December 12, 2002
Mississippi bashing
I've noted previously in this forum that my political beliefs lean ever-so-slightly to the right. But that leaning apparently can be tipped easily, and Trent Lott may have tipped me back to dead center. You would think that in 30-some years of politics, he would have learned the little "engage-brain-before-running-mouth" aphorism. He's a poor representative of the Republican Party and, really, he has been for years. The good people of Mississippi -- many of whom largely agree with him, I'm sure -- won't drum him out of office. But I hope his days as Senate majority leader, at least, are numbered, preferably in the low single digits.
I share my house with a registered Republican -- I'm down as an independent, whatever that means -- and I probably lean farther toward the conservative side than most people in my demographic. But I'm having a really hard time getting behind this war thing, and I certainly shudder when people like Lott so easily show their true colors. It's not enough to throw me completely to the other side. On the contrary, it makes me sympathize with those who have lost interest in the whole process.
I've noted previously in this forum that my political beliefs lean ever-so-slightly to the right. But that leaning apparently can be tipped easily, and Trent Lott may have tipped me back to dead center. You would think that in 30-some years of politics, he would have learned the little "engage-brain-before-running-mouth" aphorism. He's a poor representative of the Republican Party and, really, he has been for years. The good people of Mississippi -- many of whom largely agree with him, I'm sure -- won't drum him out of office. But I hope his days as Senate majority leader, at least, are numbered, preferably in the low single digits.
I share my house with a registered Republican -- I'm down as an independent, whatever that means -- and I probably lean farther toward the conservative side than most people in my demographic. But I'm having a really hard time getting behind this war thing, and I certainly shudder when people like Lott so easily show their true colors. It's not enough to throw me completely to the other side. On the contrary, it makes me sympathize with those who have lost interest in the whole process.
Stuff for others
Confidential to the Really Smart Cousins: I understand some big decisions loom, for each of you. I offer this for some guidance. Doesn't suck, for December. Seriously, I hope everything works out the way both of you want it to, whatever way that is.
Confidential to Lynniechan: Wow, and thanks. I'm humbled. Please know I'll work my ass off to make sure it stays that way. Special talent needs to suck up to no one. You certainly fall in that category.
We'll return to regular programming shortly. Thanks for your indulgence.
We'll return to regular programming shortly. Thanks for your indulgence.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
Off with my head!
I feel like I'm carrying the weight of the world around in my head, and it's trying to get out my eye sockets. I suspected the headache might be caffeine-related; either not enough or too much. Just so I'd know for sure, I tried curing the "not-enough" problem. Apparently, that wasn't it. Can't kill it with coffee, can't kill it with ibuprofen, can't kill it by dropping 40 pounds on my toe just so I'll forget how much my head hurts.
Because of the extra weight in my head, I was off my game at work, which I hate. I have been cranky at home, which I hate even more. Being off my game at work makes me more cranky at home. You might see a pattern there. I'm a little surprised my house key still works.
Meanwhile, back in Texas, my Favorite Co-Worker is struggling with her future. As mentioned somewhere deep in the archives, I was part of a newly created five-person department at the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper. Now, I'm gone, and last I heard, I'm not going to be replaced. Sports Guy is headed west in a few weeks, and his position will probably go to the sports department. We've kind of left Favorite Co-Worker -- who isn't going anywhere -- holding the bag. She has some in-house options, but nothing really attractive. Her other option is to try to help the Ex-Boss rebuild the newly created department without a lot of support from above or from elsewhere in the room. I don't envy her, and when she called seeking advice tonight, I wasn't helpful ("Do what feels right," or some crap like that.) I'm blaming that on The Headache, too.
Maybe it's the change in the weather, or something. The only thing that seems to help is sitting in a dark quiet room with a towel over my head. Oddly, that probably won't help me at work.
I feel like I'm carrying the weight of the world around in my head, and it's trying to get out my eye sockets. I suspected the headache might be caffeine-related; either not enough or too much. Just so I'd know for sure, I tried curing the "not-enough" problem. Apparently, that wasn't it. Can't kill it with coffee, can't kill it with ibuprofen, can't kill it by dropping 40 pounds on my toe just so I'll forget how much my head hurts.
Because of the extra weight in my head, I was off my game at work, which I hate. I have been cranky at home, which I hate even more. Being off my game at work makes me more cranky at home. You might see a pattern there. I'm a little surprised my house key still works.
Meanwhile, back in Texas, my Favorite Co-Worker is struggling with her future. As mentioned somewhere deep in the archives, I was part of a newly created five-person department at the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper. Now, I'm gone, and last I heard, I'm not going to be replaced. Sports Guy is headed west in a few weeks, and his position will probably go to the sports department. We've kind of left Favorite Co-Worker -- who isn't going anywhere -- holding the bag. She has some in-house options, but nothing really attractive. Her other option is to try to help the Ex-Boss rebuild the newly created department without a lot of support from above or from elsewhere in the room. I don't envy her, and when she called seeking advice tonight, I wasn't helpful ("Do what feels right," or some crap like that.) I'm blaming that on The Headache, too.
Maybe it's the change in the weather, or something. The only thing that seems to help is sitting in a dark quiet room with a towel over my head. Oddly, that probably won't help me at work.
Sunday, December 08, 2002
A wonderful life, indeed
I can bore you (or make you gag) with the post about The Wife or yet another one about the Old Daughter. Because it's my forum, I get to choose. I'll give you the one about The Wife and save the kid for another day. Don't say you haven't been warned.
The Wife's favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life. She only gets to watch it once a year, but you can set your watch by the tear welling in her amazing blue eye when the kid says, "Whenever a bell ringth, an angel geth hith wingth." I offered to buy it for her on DVD, but she said, "No, you're only supposed to watch it once a year." I have no choice but to believe her.
It seems somehow fitting that she would choose that film as her favorite. She doesn't know how much of an effect she has on the world at large. She thinks she's just another stay-at-home mom driving a minivan. She actually said this once: "What's wrong with being average?"
She brings unquantifiable happiness to every person with whom she comes into contact. She doesn't necessarily wake up each day planning to do that; she doesn't schedule it; it's not part of any kind of personal philosophy or any special effort on her part. She does it just by being her. It's a quality I wish I had more of.
I try to tell her she's one of the world's special people. She blows me off. "I'm just me," she says.
That's my point exactly. The world is a better place because she's just her.
I can bore you (or make you gag) with the post about The Wife or yet another one about the Old Daughter. Because it's my forum, I get to choose. I'll give you the one about The Wife and save the kid for another day. Don't say you haven't been warned.
The Wife's favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life. She only gets to watch it once a year, but you can set your watch by the tear welling in her amazing blue eye when the kid says, "Whenever a bell ringth, an angel geth hith wingth." I offered to buy it for her on DVD, but she said, "No, you're only supposed to watch it once a year." I have no choice but to believe her.
It seems somehow fitting that she would choose that film as her favorite. She doesn't know how much of an effect she has on the world at large. She thinks she's just another stay-at-home mom driving a minivan. She actually said this once: "What's wrong with being average?"
She brings unquantifiable happiness to every person with whom she comes into contact. She doesn't necessarily wake up each day planning to do that; she doesn't schedule it; it's not part of any kind of personal philosophy or any special effort on her part. She does it just by being her. It's a quality I wish I had more of.
I try to tell her she's one of the world's special people. She blows me off. "I'm just me," she says.
That's my point exactly. The world is a better place because she's just her.
Friday, December 06, 2002
That's my kid
The Old Daughter's spelling words were fireplace, everywhere, railroad, airport, crust, mantle, core and rock. Her assignment: write a story incorporating these words, in 15 minutes. Here's what she wrote, spelling and punctuation intact:
She's 8. I'm impressed.
The Old Daughter's spelling words were fireplace, everywhere, railroad, airport, crust, mantle, core and rock. Her assignment: write a story incorporating these words, in 15 minutes. Here's what she wrote, spelling and punctuation intact:
The Magic Book
I was sitting by the fireplace when I found an old dust-covered book. The title was Earth. I had just arived at my Aunt Lollvile's house from the airport and by railroad to her house. I opened the Earth book and the room began to spin. It spinned faster and faster! and then it stopped. I was inside the earth! I saw the mantle, crust and core. It was so cool! You can go everywhere in that book! I got rocks for my rock collection.
She's 8. I'm impressed.
Thursday, December 05, 2002
I'm repeating myself
I was just about to note that the Cousin Who's On TV was born on the same day as Tyra Banks (happy 29th to both of you, by the way), but ... wait, I did that last year. It occurs to me that the post below borrows heavily from a post from last year. I'm running out of material. (Which, incidentally, also happened in late November and early December ... of last year.) What this means is this: Life is becoming good, and content, and reasonably conflict-free again. I'm spending more of my energy in places that matter and less in places like this one. This is a good thing.
I was just about to note that the Cousin Who's On TV was born on the same day as Tyra Banks (happy 29th to both of you, by the way), but ... wait, I did that last year. It occurs to me that the post below borrows heavily from a post from last year. I'm running out of material. (Which, incidentally, also happened in late November and early December ... of last year.) What this means is this: Life is becoming good, and content, and reasonably conflict-free again. I'm spending more of my energy in places that matter and less in places like this one. This is a good thing.
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
Home for the holidays, sort of
I was going to go back to Anytown for the holidays this year. Had it all planned out; was going to load up the kids in the minivan and head back up for that annual chaotic scene. We haven't done Christmas in Anytown since 1994, the year the Old Daughter was born. The Boy and the Young Daughter have never experienced Christmas with the extended family.
Then, a couple of months ago, we moved back to Florida from Texas. A seven-hour drive just turned into $1,800 worth of plane tickets. We won't be going to Anytown for Christmas this year, and yeah, I feel a little bit guilty about it.
A very good chance exists that 2002 will mark my grandparents' last Christmas. My grandfather is 85, and he had a massive heart attack in early October, right before we made the decision to move. My grandmother is 81 and in rapid decline.
Occasionally, I make selfish decisions. I always think the decisions are right, and honestly, I have few regrets. And, no, to be honest, I wouldn't sacrifice a long-term benefit to mitigate some short-term guilt. If I was to be brutally honest, I'd point out that my grandmother would not recognize my children at all and would struggle to recognize me. Which is not to say she wouldn't love them; she loves all children, and she loves all of the members of her family.
It is a selfish thing for me, in some ways. It's difficult for me to acknowledge my grandparents' failing health. I prefer to remember my grandfather as a strong, hard-working man with an opinion about everything and a willingness to take whatever time was necessary to share it. He wasn't always right, but he believed every word he said, and he'd work as hard as he needed to work to convince you. I prefer to remember my grandmother as the rock of the family, the strong-willed woman who raised eight kids under difficult circumstances; who doted on her grandkids or put them in their place, whichever was most necessary; and who was way smarter and sharper than most people with four times her education.
I prefer to remember my aunts and uncles as a raucous, fun-loving group. I prefer to remember our holiday celebrations as a place where nobody was safe from an insult, but where everybody was safe in the knowledge that love and respect and acceptance was the final rule.
I know it's not that way now. I know people are worried. I know that people are struggling to accept the inevitable. I know that people are struggling against the passage of time. I know that people, no matter what kind of front they're putting up, will be sad when they should be happy.
And I know I'll be a little sad when I should be happy, here on the Edge of America. I am happy to be here, and my family, being the loving, accepting bunch that it is, is happy that we're happy, even if we're off in another time zone.
I want to go to the wild family Christmas celebration one more time. I really do.
But I think I missed my chance.
I was going to go back to Anytown for the holidays this year. Had it all planned out; was going to load up the kids in the minivan and head back up for that annual chaotic scene. We haven't done Christmas in Anytown since 1994, the year the Old Daughter was born. The Boy and the Young Daughter have never experienced Christmas with the extended family.
Then, a couple of months ago, we moved back to Florida from Texas. A seven-hour drive just turned into $1,800 worth of plane tickets. We won't be going to Anytown for Christmas this year, and yeah, I feel a little bit guilty about it.
A very good chance exists that 2002 will mark my grandparents' last Christmas. My grandfather is 85, and he had a massive heart attack in early October, right before we made the decision to move. My grandmother is 81 and in rapid decline.
Occasionally, I make selfish decisions. I always think the decisions are right, and honestly, I have few regrets. And, no, to be honest, I wouldn't sacrifice a long-term benefit to mitigate some short-term guilt. If I was to be brutally honest, I'd point out that my grandmother would not recognize my children at all and would struggle to recognize me. Which is not to say she wouldn't love them; she loves all children, and she loves all of the members of her family.
It is a selfish thing for me, in some ways. It's difficult for me to acknowledge my grandparents' failing health. I prefer to remember my grandfather as a strong, hard-working man with an opinion about everything and a willingness to take whatever time was necessary to share it. He wasn't always right, but he believed every word he said, and he'd work as hard as he needed to work to convince you. I prefer to remember my grandmother as the rock of the family, the strong-willed woman who raised eight kids under difficult circumstances; who doted on her grandkids or put them in their place, whichever was most necessary; and who was way smarter and sharper than most people with four times her education.
I prefer to remember my aunts and uncles as a raucous, fun-loving group. I prefer to remember our holiday celebrations as a place where nobody was safe from an insult, but where everybody was safe in the knowledge that love and respect and acceptance was the final rule.
I know it's not that way now. I know people are worried. I know that people are struggling to accept the inevitable. I know that people are struggling against the passage of time. I know that people, no matter what kind of front they're putting up, will be sad when they should be happy.
And I know I'll be a little sad when I should be happy, here on the Edge of America. I am happy to be here, and my family, being the loving, accepting bunch that it is, is happy that we're happy, even if we're off in another time zone.
I want to go to the wild family Christmas celebration one more time. I really do.
But I think I missed my chance.
Monday, December 02, 2002
One-liners
Somebody keeps stealing my newspaper. Three times since we moved in 12 days ago. While I appreciate the fact that people want to see our work bad enough to steal it, keep your stinkin' hands off my paper!
Had the kind of weekend we hoped for when we moved. Neighbor kid's birthday party on Saturday (highlight: Party guest stung by scorpion; paramedics called. No serious injury); friend comes over on Saturday night, brings beer; family goes to (admittedly somewhat chilly) beach on Sunday. All in all, a great 48 hours.
After Sept. 10, 2001, I'm leery about declaring a lull in the news world. So I won't do so; I'll keep my discussion topics strictly to sports for the moment. A name to file away for the future: Michael Vick. He's the Mr. Excitement the Falcons thought they were getting 13 years ago when they drafted Deion Sanders.
Only 24 shopping days until Christmas. I'd like an extra-large can of Motivation, wrapped all pretty under the tree, so I can pull it out on Mondays and use it when my weekends are too good.