Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Tuesday, January 30, 2007 Book Clubbed I thought I'd share with you a very nice note from someone who participated in our Donors Choose challenge last fall: Many moons ago you posed a challenge to your readers to step up to the plate through Donors Choose. I have had a very good life and remembered those who had touched it. I was lucky to come from a family that treasured books and all the adventures they offered. My parents nurtured the love of reading and words in all their kids. So, when you posed the challenge to offer that opportunity to others, I could not help but accept. Little did I realize how much I would get in return, and I just wanted to say thank you. In this day and age of charities soliciting more and more funding, it is all too easy to give and then move on. The only time you are reminded that you did something to salve your inner voice is at tax time as you dig out the receipts to report the same to Uncle Sam. (See, I am a good person, really I am...now take that taxation thing and get out of my face!) Well, I funded a project for what did not seem to me to be a very large chunk of change. I just saw the opportunity to share the love of reading with others who were struggling to discover the joy. Big whoop, isn't that what life is all about? Passing the chances on to others just seems like the thing to do. Then the mail came today, lo these many days since the donation (October). A large envelope was waiting as I got home from work. "Great" I thought, "another charity that is going to just keep wasting the money on mail solicitations." Did I mention I had had a rotten day so all my natural cynicism was oozing out all pores on overdrive? I was on the phone with a friend and started randomly going through my mail. I opened the fat envelope only to have over 60 small envelopes pour out on to the counter; all with my name on them in rather young handwriting. The class that I had sent a relatively small sum of money had written thank yous, drawn out letters on sheets of paper and then held them up in photos to spell "Thank you", all enclosed with a wonderful letter from the teacher. Photos taken of 14 year olds curled up with books, loving (or seemingly so) the joy of reading were enclosed as well. But more than anything the thing that struck home was the reality check. The repeated statement of "But you don't even know us and you bought us all these books." I shared the love of books, but more than that, I shared that you could love your fellow human. What I had lost track of was just how little it takes to spread that love, that thought, that respect. Thank you for reminding me never to take that for granted; for reminding me that all it takes is a little step outside of ourselves and our daily ruts. Thank you for allowing me to share that joy. * * * It's nice to hear from someone who has experience and spread a love of books. On a barely related note, one of Trash's coworkers found an Amazon reader review by someone who didn't so much love one particular book. The awesome part is that the author then responded to the review. And I think maybe he was drunk. The link is here. Sample paragraph: "your comments are not only invalid -- they're inaccurate, without substance, and degrading to a world class writer who has sold a million books, been on the wall street journal best sellers list more than 100 times, and has an immense following of people who are loyal followers my writing (as you can see from other reviewers)" And, just to be clear, [sic]. Doesn't that just make you want to buy all the rest of his books right now? Labels: books posted by M. Giant 4:31 PM 7 comments7 Comments:What an ass! Are they sure he is the author?
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Now THAT was a fun and interesting read!!! Meaning Mr. G's response to his critics. ;-D
By I think I might see why his books go through a dozen FULL edits.
By I'm not sure if I'm just looking in the wrong place, or if they took his comment down...but I can't find it.
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That author's response was great! Is it just coincidence the man has "GIT" in his last name? I think not.
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That letter is so beautiful, it made me cry. I hope you make the book donation an annual thing. I liked giving books in M. Small's name.
By Isn't Trash a librarian? She needs these!
By Saturday, January 27, 2007 ID This I normally avoid writing about my day job because I don't want to lose it, but after the week I've had I'm not sure I care any more. I exaggerate, but still. One of the benefits offered at work is non-taxable reimbursement accounts for parking, dependent care, health care, and so on. It saves you money, but you have to periodically fill out these forms for everything and fax them to some service center in Atlanta. The forms are a pain in the ass. I'm not sure exactly how much I'm saving in taxes, but I'd gladly pay double that amount to anyone who'd be willing to deal with these forms for me. Actually it wasn't so bad once I developed a filing system for the forms and the receipts that sometimes have to accompany them. One might even say I had almost streamlined the process. But obviously this wouldn't do, so the bank changed things. First of all, the company put the online resource for keeping track of our balances and reimbursements behind a new security wall. This meant that I'd been assigned a new user ID for this system, but I had no idea what it was. None of the other user ID's I already have for the company's nine other systems seemed to work. Some research revealed that the new user ID could be found on my paycheck. The only problem is that I have direct deposit and my company is too cheap to provide me with a printout of my semi-monthly compensation (which, fair play to them; I usually just threw the things out unless I expected to close on a new mortgage in the next few months, which doesn't happen often). Fortunately, it's possible to view my pay advisory online. I just had to go to another intranet site and pull it up. Did I know my user ID and password for that site? I did not. Fortunately, all I had to do to find it was log onto the primary intranet site. This is something I only have to do about once every 36 days or so. Which is inconvenient, given the fact that passwords are set to expire after 35 days, and you don't get prompted to create a new one. So for the first of many times this year, I called the 1internal 1-800 to have my intranet password reset. This brings one to a whole new level of humiliation, because the password reset requires you to navigate an automated phone tree that identifies you by voice recognition. So one periodically hears one's coworkers reciting seemingly random numbers into their handsets as one walks by. Then the evil robot lady at the other end tells you how many of the company's fifteen systems you have passwords and IDs for, and how many of those twenty-two systems you can reset your password. And then she makes you say, "Intranet ID" to her, out loud. And then she gives you a new password, which she promises will be effective within the next few days. But I prevailed. Armed with my new intranet ID, I did some digging and found my ID and password for the pay advisory site. Then I viewed my pay advisory and found my brand-new numeric employee ID number. With that information, I was able to register for the new reimbursement site, including setting my own password. Which, to be honest, I'm really not sure I remember what it is any more. All this User ID and password malarkey is especially annoying given the company's paranoia about information security. There are all these rules about passwords: never write them down or record them anywhere, never share them with anyone, never move your lips when you're typing them in, avoid using names and dictionary words in favor of more "secure" codes like "Q@3&7-~" and "$_fg^/*Z?;2". Even this wouldn't be so bad if all of the various password-requiring systems around here didn't require differently formatted passwords from each other. Some require two numbers, some only one, some alpha only, and a few are case-sensitive. And you can't complain because you're not supposed to use the same password for more than one system anyway, even though there are about thirty-eight of them. But the important thing is that I finally printed out some new forms (they also require some new information that I had to research in order to complete them) and faxed them off. And it only took me half the day. Now I just have to wait for the reimbursement funds to appear in my checking account, and being dreading the next time I have to do this. But at least I have a new intranet ID, right? This will come in handy next time I need it. Yesterday I tried to sign into a new system that we're supposed to start using. I asked a coworker if we'd been assigned a department-wide ID and password for this system, and she told me that we just needed to use our existing IDs and passwords for the primary intranet. No problem, I thought. I just reset mine the day before. I typed it in. It didn't work. When I called the evil robot lady for the fourth time in two days to reset my intranet password for the second time in two days, I learned something interesting: the voice recognition software works even when you're choked with rage. Labels: work posted by M. Giant 9:49 PM 7 comments7 Comments:Hee. The two user IDs and passwords I have at work open up either the computer charting system (with lots of delicious sensitive patient info) or the narcotics cabinet. You know, where we keep the drugs that one could either sell for a lot of money or use to kill somebody. What did they do when I started? Handed me a piece of paper with the IDs and passwords written down on them already.
By I'm so happy right now. I have about six passwords but they are all based on the same inital bits and pieces (like ABC1 can also be ABC12 or ABC13 etc.) I just need to remember which iteration I'm on, and of course I'm on a different one for each system.
By A trick I learned from a colleague ages ago: use a mnemonic sentence that involves a number, like "Trash's Name Is Judy And She Is 30" would be tnijasi30. Or "My 2 Cats Are Both 12" for m2cab12. It looks like gibberish but you can actually remember the sentence. Or at least I can. Being creative and all you can probably even come up with sentences ABOUT the system in question, like "Reinbursement System Sucks 12 Ways From Sunday" resulting in rss12wfs.
By This is hilarious. I go through the same thing to pay my cell phone bill or access my credit card rewards. I like the mnemonic suggestion: it's worth a try.
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I work at a bank and we literally have about 27 systems that have different userIDs, passwords and requirements for each. At one point, I gave up and put them on a notecard and hid the notecard. Verboten, of course, but seriously, after calling our friendly password reset robot after getting locked out of my system for the tenth time in three weeks, I couldn't take it anymore. It's even more fun when you lock yourself out on the phone with a customer..."one moment, Mr Smith...oh, ARGH!"
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Yes indeed, like everyone else, I am driven to completely derail the point of all the complicated password application mess by writing them all down because I CANNOT REMEMBER which goes where, EVER, otherwise.
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Oh. My. God. I think I used to work for them. The scary thing is, there's really more than one company with stellar inefficiency.
By Tuesday, January 23, 2007 Morning People Trash and I have been getting up and going to work at the same time for almost five years now, and we're still not used to it. Trash doesn't understand why it takes me longer to get ready in the morning than it does her. I keep trying to explain that I have more work to do to make myself presentable than she does. We both have our standard ablutions, of course. Plus, in addition to the stuff I have to do in the bathroom that she does, I also have to shave, take my allergy meds, and…well, that's it, actually, now that my hair's only an inch long again. Getting dressed also takes me longer, just because of all the crap I have to stick in my pockets every day. I always ask Trash how much longer she'd take if she had to unload her purse every night and fill a new one every morning, but she never buys it. Plus it's my job to give Strat his breakfast and his insulin injection (a ritual now in its fourth year, thank you very much), and also frequently find Trash's socks, because she has some kind of block in that department. Still, it frustrates her that she ends up waiting for me. The fact that she does everything in her entire life like "Quick Carl" from those old Marathon candy bar ads in the 70s doesn't help. I know what you're thinking. I should just tell her she's better-looking than me to begin with, and therefore doesn't need to primp as much thanks to her huge genetic head start. Tried it. Many times. Doesn't work, even though it's true. Eventually, though, we fine-tuned the process enough so that we could get from bed to car in ten minutes if we needed to. Which, after a while, we frequently did. Once it became standard operating procedure, we didn't really see any reason to get up before 7:50 if we didn't need to be at work until 8:15. Most mornings the transition to cold floor from continued snuggling is put off for as long as possible. A couple years ago, however, something changed. Which is that a third human got added to the mix. Getting out of the house in ten minutes becomes quite a bit trickier when there's someone else who needs to be changed and dressed and then takes a half hour to suck down eight ounces of formula from a bottle. Then when he gets older you have to find actual food to put in front of him (which he still takes a half hour to get down), then hose him down and chase him around with a jacket, gloves, hat, and scarf before hijacking him off to day care. It's a whole other level of difficulty. We have to have a clearly defined routine, and any deviation from it results in disaster. But lately, something else has changed. Trash's mom is in town for the week, and she's been babysitting while we're at work the past couple of days. That means that if we need to, we can get up early and head out the door before M. Small is even awake. That's what we did this morning. I've been looking forward to moving all my stuff upstairs to the new bathroom, but this morning I realized that isn't going to happen. I realized it when I went downstairs in the predawn dark to do my bathroom stuff, while Trash stayed upstairs to do hers. Without an awakening child to change and dress and counsel through the debilitating tragedy of having to get out of bed (which, I shouldn't mock; I totally feel him there), she was able to take a bit more time in the bathroom than usual. And without a toddler breakfast to throw together, I actually had time to shave my whole face, with cream and everything. And yet we were still out the door within fifteen minutes. It took a couple of days with a live-in babysitter for me to truly realize the salutary effect of two bathrooms. Trash says it takes a live-in babysitter to reap the full benefits of two bathrooms. Either way, we didn't have to argue about it this morning because we never once got in each other's way. This addition seems like more of a bargain all the time. posted by M. Giant 4:56 PM 2 comments 2 Comments:
Aah, M. Giant! Your mornings sound relaxing compared to mine! We have to face all of the above with our Lucas (almost 3), not to mention the fact that my husband takes 40-minute bathroom breaks every single morning. His bathroom habits were developed and fine-tuned over many years, and there's no changing them now (believe me, I've tried). And yet he bitches at me because we don't get into work early enough!
By We have the same back and forth in the mornings. Why do men need time in the morning? Part of it is we're larger and have more muscles--burn more calories--need to eat more, and there are inevitable consequences after a night of digestion. Women don't need to be as regular as we do. Also you know it takes some time to wash our hairy arms, backs and knuckles.
By Saturday, January 20, 2007 Swiperphobia The trouble with being a blogger with a kid is the almost unavoidable pitfall of becoming a daddyblogger. Let's face it, though: I don't want to write about my day job (not only becaue I don't want to get Dooced, but also because it would bore you to tears), most of my paltry interactions with modern pop culture are already documented in exhaustive detail elsewhere, the house is finished, and the cats don't do much but lie around. Pretty much the bulk of my bloggable experiences are interactions with the child. But sometimes you have to stop and think and remember that one day, that child is going to be old enough to read some of this. He won't, but he'll be able to. And maybe someone will send him a link to a years-old entry that, when he's fourteen or fifteen, will utterly mortify him. And I'm not sure I want that responsibility. That said, there's this kid I know. He's about two. His first real nightmare was several months ago. He woke up late at night and cried, "Swiper took my cake." He didn't have any cake, and hadn't for a while, so the only explanation was that he'd had a bad dream. Those of you with toddlers and TVs already know who Swiper is. For the rest of you, Swiper is a character on the animated series Dora the Explorer. While Dora and her sidekick, a semi-retarded monkey named Boots, go about their adventures, they're regularly plagued by a fox named Swiper. Can you guess what Swiper does? Good guess, unless you guessed that Swiper is a compulsive credit card shopper, in which case guess again. But the truth is that Swiper is the worst thief in the world, and quite frequently fails to live up to his name. A couple of factors are responsible for this. One is that Swiper's approach in the vicinity is always heralded by "sneaky" theme music, which notifies Dora to announce, "Uh-oh! That sounds like Swiper the fox!" (Dora always yells everything). Plus Swiper pops into view a couple of times, giving us glimpses of his mischievous grin, gloves, and Dread-Pirate-Roberts mask, so Dora and Boots are sure to see him coming. Swiper's complete ignorance of the element of surprise gives Dora and Boots plenty of time to utter the phrase "Swiper, no swiping!" three times, which always succeeds in thwarting Swiper, leaving him to snap his fingers and groan, "Oh, maaaan" before scampering off. In other words, Danny Ocean he ain't. But even the worst thief in the world occasionally manages to pull off a job. On rare occasions, Swiper is actually able to get close enough to make his move before Dora and Boots can get out more than a "Swiper, nooooo--". Wherupon he snatches an item from Dora and Boots -- her backpack, a fallen star, whatever. And then the worst part is, he doesn't even bother making off with it. He just throws it or hides it somewhere and smirks at them, "You'll never find your [backpack/little star/blowgun] now!" Then he cackles and runs away, no richer except for the satisfaction of having briefly inconvenienced someone else. Because even in those rare instances where Swiper succeeds, Dora ad Boots quickly recover the item in question. Which is why a certain toddler's phobia is so puzzling to me. Recently, in the bath, he was reaching around behind himself and discovered a part of his anatomy that he had not been previously familiar with. Or, if he was, he didn't have a word for it. He commented briefly on this new discovery, and in a short time had settled on some kind of fixation with relation to it and a certain cartoon fox. Now hardly a bath goes by without at least one utterance of the phrase: "Swiper gonna take my hole." As a parent, you naturally want to protect your child from everything. You even want to protect him from the fear of everything. That's not always possible, of course; on a practical level, you do want him to be afraid to do things that may result in an injury, such as climbing a precarious stack of power tools to retrieve a sharp knife from on top of the fridge so he can use it to fish his firecracker out of the toaster. But aside from that, you want to be able to promise him that nothing bad will ever happen to him. Unfortunately, you can't promise that he'll never be hurt, or that nothing will ever happen to someone he loves, or that a favorite toy won't ever get lost. However, there are certain things that you can promise him will never happen. And one of those is that Swiper will never, ever ever take his hole. Being able to say that with confidence gives me a warm feeling inside. Let's just count the levels at which the success of such a heist is unlikely in the extreme. To start with, Swiper is: 1) The worst thief in the world. 2) Fictional. 3) Animated. 4) Based in a tropical jungle, and not the upper Midwest. 5) Confined to a fairly narrow M.O., targeting only things he can easily grab. 6) Not typically armed with anything he could use to steal a hole, whether it be a sharp knife or some kind of plug. And even if Swiper were somehow able to overcome these formidable obstacles in the course of attempting to perpetrate an act of anal larceny, getting past the kid's pants and diaper would afford his victim plenty of time to repeat "Swiper, no swiping!" the required three times. Any such attempt would certainly end in a disappointed "Oh, maaaan" instead of a smug, "You'll never find your poop-chute now!" Yet this child continues to fear becoming a victim of rectal theft. My certainty that this will never happen is something I just can't seem to communicate to him. All I can do is help him be more prepared. No, I'm not talking about getting him an Ass-Club or something. Whenever he mentions his fear of getting butt-jacked, I just say "Swiper, no swiping!" with him a few times. Then he goes, "Oh, maaaan" and everything's all better. I just hope his problems remain that easy to solve for a little longer. But I know that someday, he's going to be living in fear that somebody will find an embarrassing blog post written about him when he was two. But then that won't be just his problem. It'll be his dad's, too. Whoever his dad might be. Labels: m. small posted by M. Giant 7:35 PM 16 comments16 Comments:
I completely misread the title and was expecting to hear that M. Small was afraid of windshield wipers.
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Oh my God, that's hysterical.
By At least he doesn't have an irrational fear of cows in the yard. I think my nephew might have been as old as 6 before he would go out in the front (cow-less) yard.
By Brilliant! It's quite impressive that M. Small was able to take 2 unrelated ideas and bring them together with a "swipper gonna steal my hole" I love it.
By That made me laugh until I cried. Dora has a lot to answer for.
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I have tears from laughing so hard.
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Hilarious. I about peed my pants!
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Well, that was the hardest I have laughed in weeks. Thanks, M. Giant, for sharing the story of some kid you know. And thanks, nameless kid, for making my day.
By That reminds me - I have to get rid of those 3 or 4 Dora DVDs that my 5 and 6 year olds no longer have any interest in. As much as they loved Dora, they have moved on now, and we are grateful. SpongeBob is a bit more tolerable than Dora. And "Between the Lions" kicks some serious poop-chute....
By This is one of my favorite posts ever!
By You have a great way with words - this post was excellent.
By When my daughter was about two and a half, she LOVED Dora (she's three and hot and cold for Dora now). So we got her a little set of Dora figures. She was petrified of the Swiper. We had to take it out of rotation. There must be something terrifying about that fox for toddlers that we just don't get. Anyway, great post. Good luck defending the hole from that sneaky fox.
By Thank you - I needed that laugh so much. It's been a really crappy couple of weeks. I just hope I don't have to explain myself the next time I'm giving my two-year-old her bath, and collapse in a pile of giggles.
By "Swiper gonna take my hole." So funny! Man I hate Dora. The constant yelling, the repetition, the inane songs, etc., ad nauseum. Of course that means my 2.5 year old loves it! But he never gets to see it because we only record shows we can bear to watch (Maisy, Jack's Big Music Show, Oswald), and he has no concept of live t.v. Poor child is deprived.
By I am getting ready to move, and am completely frazzled - as in every single thing in the WORLD, including my poor husband, is getting on my last nerve. I decided to take a break from packing and check what my favorite bloggers are up to. I read your story of M. Small, and laughed until tears were literally running down my face. I'm still blowing my nose. (The neighbors I'm about to leave behind probably now think our apartment is inhabited by hyenas.) Thanks for some much-needed levity. You have a lucky kid.
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good comments here. check out this site for a new ad about Dora the Explorer illegally crossing the border.
By Thursday, January 18, 2007 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, M. Giant!!!! Thanks for making each day better than the one before. We love you. Love, Trash. M. Small, Strat, Phantom, and Turtle posted by M. Giant 2:26 PM 8 comments 8 Comments:Happy birthday, M. Giant. I hope you and the family and the cats have a great birthday evening.
By Happy happy birthday, M. Giant! Here's to a year of terrorists, babies, and cats!
By Let me also wish you a wonderfull birthday, M. Giant. Thanks for the weekly laugh.
By Normally I'm just a lurker, because I have my own toddler and aspire to write and like to connect with the stories -- but you and Uncle Bob over at the DHAK have the same birthday! Hmmmmm.....
By Veerryy innntterresting, Lisa. Has anyone claimed to see both of them at the same time?
By Happy Birthday, Little Dude.
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Happy Birthday!
By Happy birthday!
By Tuesday, January 16, 2007 Rude Awakening It's amazing how quickly we forget that we're living in new construction. Our upstairs bedroom is our new haven, our new second bathroom means no more calling dibs when we arrive home in a rush, and M. Small is safe and secure shuttling back and forth between his new bedroom and his new playroom. It's still not 100% finished, by any means. The new bathroom still doesn't have any towel bars up or cabinetry up, because we've been putting it off. There's also no door on the shower stall as of now, so if we were to shower up there, a lot of wiping up would have to follow, and then we'd have no place to hang the many wet towels up afterward. Overall, though, it's sometimes hard to remember that only a month ago, we couldn't even come up here without putting shoes on first. Occasinally, however, we get a slightly more forceful reminder. I don't even remember what I was dreaming about or what my first thought was when I heard the crash at 3:15 this morning. Maybe that the side of the house had been struck by a wrecking ball, or perhaps an F-14. You know how sometimes you're awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of your cat knocking something to the floor? Imagine your cat is Gamera. Trash claims I "bounded" out of bed, although my reaction time seemed pretty slow to myself at the time. Trash was right behind me, but only because I sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door and I had a head start. We first checked M. Small's room two doors down, and were relieved to see that not only had his crib had not spontaneously collapsed, but he had slept peacefully through the cataclysm. I noticed nothing else amiss on the way back to our bedroom. Trash, who had been sleeping on her good ear and therefore hadn't been as thoroughly rousted as I had, went back to bed. I turned on our closet light. Our closet hardware consists of a hanger bar attached to a narrow shelf in single unit. We've been making use of this since a couple of weeks ago, with about half of Trash's clothes hanging there so far, and some of my random clutter spread on the shelf. Like I said, the bar and the shelf are all one piece, and the entire assembly had, of its own accord, come free of the wall and crashed to the floor. Clothes, hangers, shelf contents, and all were on the floor. Five feet from my head. Which would explain the racket I'd heard. The formerly lovely "Secret Garden"-colored back wall now sported a series of ragged craters where the wall anchors had ripped themselves out. I told Trash what happened, and started to bend down to do…I don't know what. Pick stuff up? Try to fix it? Trash told me to leave it until the morning. No argument from me. They're her clothes, anyway. We could wait until morning to pick them up and brush off the fragments of….well, whatever the idiots who originally built this house in 1950 used instead of sheetrock. I think that's probably what happened. The contractor, who has been scrupulously honest and trustworthy all along, never warned us about any weight limit that we should abide by, so I assume he had no reason to think the shelf wouldn't hold. It was attached to an original wall, not one of the modern new 5/8" gypsum wallboards, which is always an iffy proposition unless you bolt stuff to a grappling hook spread out wide on the inside of the wall's surface. And I'm not worried that the contractor will fix it, or how. Honestly, I don't care how it gets fixed. By the time he's done, it can have support pillars and suspending straps for all I care. I'm just really glad it didn't happen when somebody was in there; Trash getting her clothes, or M. Small getting into trouble, or one of the cats getting some Z's in a sock hamper (which I don't see happening again any time soon). 3:15 A.M. was probably the best time for this to occur. We could be sure it hadn't been caused by any specific event, yet nobody was on that side of the doors to maybe get squished. This way was for the best. At least, that's what I told myself when I was still trying to get to sleep at 3:45. posted by M. Giant 9:05 PM 4 comments 4 Comments:That's a very refreshing glass half-full outlook. I'm also glad nobody was hurt. =)
By Right after we moved into our house last year, we were awaken by a loud crash in the middle of the night. We didn't have to hunt around to figure out the source, though. The curtain rod right next to our bed had ripped out of the wall and crashed to the ground. So not only were our hearts beating out of our chests, the light shining through the window kept us from getting back to sleep. We hang everything now with those giant wall anchors.
By Slightly off topic, but regarding the new bathroom and the shower that you are unable to use until you get a shower door... You can get an inexpensive tension rod and put up a shower curtain as a temporary fix. And no more calling dibs when you have a shower rush, if such a thing happens in your household. Glad you're all safe and sound!
By That sound you described?? Happened in my house a few months back. Around 5 am. (Why is it always in the morning!!?) Awesome part about it is, I now have the closet I've always wanted. Double hanging, a shoe rack that girfriends pay to see, and room to grow. Not a bad trade-off for 2 mins of my heart stopping.
By Saturday, January 13, 2007 Class Struggle I'm a little bummed this morning, because M. Small is going to his first official "class" in anything. Trash is bringing him, along with Bitter, and I have to stay home and write. I've got at least 33 recaps and a book due over the next seven months, so Trash is making that possible logistically. I'm just glad he's not taking a fencing class or something. Trash found this class for preschoolers in the local community education catalog. I haven't seen the official description, but according to Trash, it's more or less some kind of "movement" class. "I don't think he really needs a class in movement," I told her that night when we were lying in bed, exhausted from chasing him around the house all day. Trash made some noises about how it's good for him to get into some kind of organized activity outside of day care, and how it'll be good for them to get out of the house regularly on weekends (the fact that the first session happens to be the coldest day of the year is just an unexpected perk). And it's not like the class is all that demanding. Trash said it sounds a lot like toddlers marching around a big room with their parents, waving scarves and stuff. M. Small has already got a head start on this; as the entire staff and the single other customer of a Richfield McDonald's can tell you, he spent the majority of a Tuesday night visit stomping around the dining room going "March, march, march, march." Dude has marching down. Adding the scarves shouldn't raise the difficulty level too much. This all makes sense to me, and I'm all for it. I just don't see why I don't get to come along. "Quit pretending you want to be there," Trash laughed. "Okay, maybe not every week, but I want to see what it's like." "Whatever." "At least bring the video camera." "Shut up." This morning, getting him ready, she dressed him up in a turtleneck, a sweater, and dark blue chinos. "Isn't he going to a movement class?" I wondered to myself. "Shouldn't he be wearing, like, a tank top and yoga pants? Maybe some leg warmers?" But she's the mom, so she knows what she's doing. Besides, I have to stay home and work on my book, so I don't really get a vote. UPDATE: Trash just called from the car and gave her review of the experience: "Not unbearable at all." She said that M. Small didn't really listen to directions, but it didn't really matter because none of the other three boys did either. The eight to ten girls, on the other hand, followed directions to the letter, swirling around the center of the room as if segments of some hive mind. It also turned out that Trash was right about the dress code; all the other boys were dressed just like M. Small, while all the girls were dressed up like little ballerinas. I guess another benefit of this class is to help him further socialize traditional gender roles, which is something we have admittedly been slacking off on. This just makes me wish even more that I had video. I think I'm just going to have to crash the class one of these weeks. posted by M. Giant 9:29 AM 0 comments 0 Comments:Wednesday, January 10, 2007 Kid Lit Don't get us wrong; we're thrilled that M. Small loves books. We just wish he loved better books. Would it kill him to sit through a few pages of Robert B. Parker at bedtime? The chapters are short and everything. Okay, we really shouldn't complain, especially given how much he loves his board books by Sandra Boynton and Kit Allen. We love those too. Here are a few we don't love: That's Not My Car! The story, such as it is, gets going right on the cover when the book's mouse protagonist observes of the car next to him, "Its windows are too shiny!" The quest continues within the pages, as the mouse eliminates additional cars from being his, by virtue of the door being too rough, the hubcaps being too lumpy, et cetera. And each of these qualities is demonstrated right on the page, for M. Small to touch. Lately, we've taken to letting him finish each sentence with an adjective of his own choosing. It's like Mad Libs with a two-year-old. "Its tires are sooo…." "Hungry!" It's important to point out that none of these cars could possibly be confused with each other; every one is a different color and model from all of the others. There's even a giant pink DeSoto-looking thing whose radiator is toooooo bumpy (it always takes a supreme effort on my part to read this page as, "That's not my car! Its tail fins are tooooo cheesy). Finally, the mouse finds his car. "That's my car!" he rejoices. "Its bumper is so squashy." The mouse's car, by the way, is a blue jeep. The only blue vehicle in the book, and the only jeep. Also, if I haven't mentioned it, all of the cars are car-sized, and the mouse is, if not mouse-sized, kitten-sized at best. I don't see how he expects to reach the steering wheel or the pedals. Or the door handle, for that matter. Furthermore, if you need to identify your car strictly by tactile criteria, maybe you shouldn't be driving in the first place. Let's hope his bumpers are very squashy indeed. I See You I can't decide whether M. Small's love for Dick and Jane books is hopelessly square or defiantly retro. He has two of them, and the one currently in rotation is the one where Jane and Sally trick Dick into finding their dolls instead of themselves. End of story. At least it's better than Come and Go, the one where Mother gets all dressed up and walks off alone without a look back all Julianne Moore in The Hours, forcing her abandoned children to pursue her down the street. She pretends like she was just going to the market, but we know better. Come and Go also features one of those not-so-rare occasions where the dialogue goes past stilting and straight into disturbing: "Come, Sally! Come! Come! Come! Come, Sally, Come!" The Very Busy Spider Eric Carle hit gold with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and he seems to have been coasting on ripoffs of himself ever since. This one is about a spider with Asperger's syndrome who ignores all of the barnyard animals that want to include her in their activities because she's got her hands full gumming up a fence. Two things make it bearable: M. Small knows all the animal sounds, so he can "read" the beginning of each page. And you can survive the seven mind-drilling repetitions of the sentence "She was very busy spinning her web" by stressing a different word on each page. "She was very busy spinning her web…She was very busy spinning her web…still not sleepy?" Thank God for books like Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus (or "Pigeon School Bus" as he calls it), which is more like a very short graphic novel. And thank God for the fact that he likes going to bed earlier now. posted by M. Giant 4:59 PM 25 comments 25 Comments:Topping my list of books my kid loved at 2+ and I, not so much -- Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and Chicka Chicka 1-2-3. Cute in concept, but didn't hold up so well to the million repeated readings he demanded. Also a squicky moralistic tome about sharing called "First Friends" that his grandparents gave him. "You can see my truck." "Wanna hold my duck?"
By Oh, M. Giant, you don't know me from Adam, but I must recommend a book for you and M. Small to read together: Charlie Parker Played Bebop, by Chris Raschka. It has jazz and pigeons and a cat and nonsense rhymes and the best illustrations EVER.
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I really, really recommend any of Babette Cole's books (The Trouble With My Mother, The Trouble With My... etc.) as funny and actually good.
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Hmmmmm, I think I'd have to vote for the classic Go, Dog. Go! as our least favorite kids' book that is oft-requested by our kiddo. "Do you like my hat?" "No! I do not like that hat!" "Goodbye!" "Goodbye!" I mean, seriously, WTH? (And that isn't even how "goodbye" is spelled in the book, but I refuse to spell it any other way.) There's another Eastman classic that is right up there on the ick list for us too - Big Dog, Little Dog, but other Eastman books are on our favorites list (Snow and The Best Nest for example), so we can't just ban the author in question.
By I have to admit, two of my favorite books to read my kids are mentioned above as non-favorites - Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and Go, Dog, Go. The rhymes in Chicka Chicka seems to roll off your tongue, and you get a healthy dose of the ABC's. And Go, Dog, Go was the first "long" book that my toddler was able to sit through, and we love anything by Eastman (aka Dr. Suess). But one of my least favorite books is also a Dr. Suess book - Fox in Socks. The rhymes definitely do not roll of your tongue. Also on the least favorite list - the books you get after seeing Santa at the mall. Just imagine mall-themed books called "Giving" and "Sharing".
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I love Go, Dog, Go. I can even still recite some of the lines, 20 some odd years later. ("To the tree! To the tree! To the top of the tree! It was a dog party! Big dogs, little dogs!")
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You know which book we hate at our house? The Runaway Bunny. HATE. IT.
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Wow, who can resist commenting on kids' books? Clearly not me, either! I'll cast a vote for the Chicka-Chicka oeuvre. I only wish there were more of them. My current favorites of my 3-year-old's collection are the Frog and Toad books, Caps For Sale, and Leo the Late Bloomer. Caps is probably number one because we get to watch him act out all the arm shaking and foot-stomping and it's unbelievably cute. For us.
By I have to second the recommendation of Keving Henkes. The illustrations contain little in-jokes for the parents too.
By My favorite books to read my little ones were "Green Eggs and Ham", which I can still recite word perfect, and "The Monster at the End of This Book" starring lovable, furry, old Grover. My kids loved turning the pages and watching Grover/Mommy become increasingly hysterical about reaching the end. Um, probably not a good bedtime story, though.
By There are some great adoption kids books out there, and some terrible ones. I don't know if you have them already, but Jamie Lee Curtis wrote a great one.
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You totally have to get the Max the Bunny books by Rosemary Wells--cute and funny and the one about the dragon shirt even has an iron on transfer, so, rock on. Also the Frances books by Russell and Lillian Hoban because they have silly little songs about toast.
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Sandra Boynton....I haven't thought of her in a long time. I painted huge Boynton animals on the walls of my daughter's nursery back when I was young and had time to do crap like that. One of my hobbies is collecting all of the children's books I loved and grew up with and then shared them with my child; she also has fond memories of these:
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Hairy Maclary by Lynley Dodd.
By My favorite book as a toddler was "Milkman Bill." (Now out of print, I believe.) My parents made it "disappear" behind a couch, and we didn't find it until I was five. I was happy to find it...my parents were decidedly not.
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When I was a kid, I loved the Anatole books, written by Eve Titus and illustrated to great effect by Paul Galdone. Anatole is a mouse who works anonymously in a French cheese factory, and who is devoted to his (large) family. Unfortunately, many of these books are now out of print, but they can often be found used.
By Another series that was a huge hit with my kids at that age were the "Sam" books by Barbro Lindgren. "Sam's Cookie", "Sam's Ball", etc.; Sam is an adorably grubby little guy whose companion is his dog. Things like this happen: Sam gets a cookie, it's a good cookie, doggie take's Sam's cookie, conflict ensues...They are very cute & toddlers relate to the stories; fun for the grownup reading it, too.
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Having worked in a bookstore that focused on children's books:
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Possibly a bit too old for M.Small right now, but if you get a chance, grab any of the books Fred Gwynne wrote (Yes, that Fred Gwynne.)
By "Love You Forever" is kind of mushy/creepy, but the rest of Robert Munsch's stuff is pretty funny and entertaining. My almost-two-year-old loves them right now and I don't mind repeated readings either, although even the best kids' books get boring when you have to read them four times a day.
By I'm glad to see someone else feels the same way about "Love Your Forever"! I was all misty until the last third, where it gets weird.
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I see lots of others have suggested books. I'm not going to suggest a book. I am going to say that I bought my friend's child "That's Not My Snowman!" for his birth, and it follows the same theme (obviously): arms too lumpy, nose too squashy, mittens too fuzzy, etc. But no mouse protagonist.
By I teach preschool and my three year olds love Each Peach Pear Plum, and their two new favs are Lost and Found by Oliver Jeffers, about a boy who finds a penguin at his door, and Little Pea, about a pea who has to eat all his candy for dinner before he can eat his spinach. They both have great illustrations!
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My parents won't let me forget how much they HATE Curious George Takes a Job.
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I highly, highly recommend "Those Can Do Pigs" by David McPhail. It was one of those books you happen upon by accident, and it's so cute and funny. I'd never heard of the author before, but knowing what I've read about M. Small's personality, he'd love it (and it's parent-friendly, too).
By Sunday, January 07, 2007 Ups and Downs and More Ups After having lived in our new upstairs addition for a week now, we've discovered some pluses and minuses as compared to the prior arrangement. On the minus side: 1. Trash and I can't always hear each other yelling from different floors of the house any more. We can hear that the other person is yelling, just not what the other person is yelling. 2. When we take the laundry out of the dryer, we have to fold it and put it in hampers to carry upstairs, instead of just hanging it from the long pole I hung from the laundry room ceiling with telephone wire. 3. All the furniture and other stuff we had packed up in boxes and suitcases doesn't put itself back. 4. We had to be a lot more careful bringing stuff back up than we did bringing it down. We weren't too worried about gouging walls that were going to come down anyway. 5. Even though an entire level of the house is completely brand-new, we're already starting to spot dust bunnies (which are of course immediately terminated with extreme prejudice). 6. We seem to have somewhat less money in the bank than we did before. On the plus side: 1. M. Small loves sleeping in his new room, so much so that on weekends he's willing to stay in bed until as late as 8:30 a.m. His dad greatly appreciates this shameful decadence. 2. Our clothes are stored in closets, instead of from a long pole I hung from the laundry room ceiling with telephone wire. 3. If M. Small wakes up in the middle of the night, we can go into his room, comfort him back to sleep, make a stop at the bathroom, and get back in bed without ever having to negotiate stairs. Or at least we would, if M. Small didn't keep demanding crackers in the middle of the night. Maybe we should have built a pantry up here when we had the chance. 4. With all the toys moved up to his bedroom and playroom, our living room once again looks like a place where adults hang out occasionally. 5. I can get up out of bed without having to climb over the treadmill any more. 6. With Trash's computer moved back up to our new bedroom, with a proper desk and chair and everything, she can stop wrecking her back by perching on the too-short barstool. And while writing this entry, so can I. 7. We can close off the top of the stairs, the bathroom, and our bedroom, then let M. Small hang out by himself up here, shuttling between his bedroom and playroom, perfectly safe and happy, for as long as ten minutes in a row. Even if he's awake. 8. When people come over to watch TV, they don't have to watch it in our bedroom any more. 9. We're no longer sleeping twenty feet away from the catboxes. I think the pluses outweigh the minuses so far. posted by M. Giant 7:04 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:
"We're no longer sleeping twenty feet away from the catboxes"
By My husband shares his office (he works from home) wtih the litterbox. He practically weeps every time he sees me feeding the cats.
By Hello, pictures, anyone?
By Thursday, January 04, 2007 Three Cat Day Strat was due for a diabetes checkup last week. I had also noticed that certain scabby spots around Turtle's neck (which I had heretofore assumed she was getting while wrassling with the other kitties) were spreading, so she needed to go in for a check, too. And then Trash noticed that Phantom had the same kind of scabs, which caused us to worry that maybe it was some kind of contagious skin condition afflicting both the girls. Trash wanted me to make an appointment for all three of the little beasties. I reminded her of what had happened the last time we attempted that -- almost exactly two years before, no less -- but she was unfazed. "I'll come, too," she chirped gamely. "We'll bring the boy. It'll be a party!" Because wrangling three cats isn't going to be enough of a handful; we also need a two-year-old in tow. I feel confident saying that this was probably the worst idea Trash has ever had. That's because it may be the worst idea anyone has ever had. Fortunately, the plan never actually came to pass. The vet appointment was for Friday afternoon, when we were both off work for the day. But instead of joining me at the vet, Trash made lunch plans with someone else. She brought M. Small with her, which should be obvious because if she hadn't, you wouldn't be reading this because I'd be dead now. But I still had the challenge of getting three cats into the car and to the vet's office. Because the construction crew was at work upstairs and going in and out all the time, all three cats were already confined to the basement for the day. This was the one factor that was to my advantage. I decided to start with Phantom, who is the most skittish at the best of times. I was fortunate that she's also lazy, because when she's curled up on our bed next to Strat, she's usually too comfy to flee. I was able to pick her up without too much trouble, but when I tried to hold on to her with one arm while getting out the pet carrier with the other (I couldn't very well get the thing out and risk cluing her in before I caught her, could I?), she got away. I'm not fast enough or small enough to chase her everywhere she can go, and I knew that if I gave her half a chance, she'd dart into this alcove she knows that somehow gives her access to the space above our suspended ceiling, and I wouldn't see her again for days. Instead she made the tactical mistake of trying to flee upstairs. At the top, she saw that the door was closed and she was cornered, so she tried to dash back down again. But I was cutting off that route, and was able to grab her on the way down without losing more than a couple of fingers. I still had enough dexterity in my remaining digits to upend the pet carrier, open the gate, and drop her in, slamming the gate behind her, but I'm convinced that if she still had her front claws, you wouldn't be reading this because I'd be dead now. So then it was Strat's turn. He's not as small or agile as Phantom, but he's smarter and after the to-do with Phantom he was on high alert. And he hates the vet. So getting him into the carrier without releasing Phantom was an entirely other level of difficulty. Basically I put him on top of Phantom, prying his claws from the edges of the carrier's doorway, but not prying them far enough for Phantom to sneak out through the gap. All the while I maintained a death-grip on the scruff of his neck, which in most circumstances switches his brain to Blue Screen of Death mode. Panic still tends to override that effect, though. I'm afraid Phantom may have gained a few new scabs at that time. Turtle, meanwhile, had watched this entire scene from her perch on the sofa. I don't know if she was too stupid to realize she was next, or if she just thought I wasn't stupid enough to try the same thing with her. Further complicating matters is the fact that our second cat carrier is either lost, broken, or packed away so deeply that I couldn't get to it, so they all had to ride together. It wasn't until I went to pick up Turtle and tried to put her in the carrier with the other two that she made known her emphatic opposition to this plan. Here's where it could all go south. I had two highly agitated cats already in the box, and getting the third one in there was likely to cost me control of all three of them. And by this time I was late, so I knew I wouldn't have time to chase them all around the basement and under the furniture and through the heating ducts and so forth. So without releasing my grip on Turtle, and without opening the carrier, I brought the whole hissing, spitting, wriggling mess up to our tiny bathroom, where if one of them got out it would have no place to run or hide. I think they probably realized that, because none of them managed to escape the carrier. A minute later I was walking out to the car, leaning to one side while carrying a plastic box that bulged alarmingly downward. Turns out our initial diagnosis of the girls' neck-crusties were correct. It's just from scrapping. Strat was fine, as is Turtle, but I'm sorry to say that Phantom has developed some dental issues thanks to having the enviable condition of an allergy to her own plaque. We're going to have to start brushing her teeth. She still hasn't forgiven me for when I had to give her medicine for a week, TWO YEARS AGO, so I made it clear to Trash that the Phantom dentistry is going to be her job. The good news? The vet lent me a second carrier for the trip home, so they got to go double-decker in my car's shotgun seat. Strat and Turtle below, Phantom above. And then we left town for two days, so I didn't have to worry about receiving vindictive scabs on my own neck while sleeping. posted by M. Giant 9:10 PM 5 comments 5 Comments:
Please know that while I check in here most days, the cat stories are often the ones that leave me in teary-eyed hysterics. We took our 'little two', as we call them, to the vet a while back - I started with two carriers but noticed they were calmer being packed together.
By I think we need to take up a collection to buy y'all two more cat prisons!
By If I tried to put both my cats into one carrier, they would both be dead before I even got out the door. Even our house isn't quite big enough to contain their loathing for each other.
By We have three cats. They go to the vet separately. I only did the group outing once. NEVER AGAIN.
By I catch each of my three cats in pillow cases first, then put the whole bundle into a carrier. By the time they work their way out of the pillow cases we're in the car.
By Monday, January 01, 2007 Moving Back Up A couple of weeks ago, I lamented that Trash and I probably wouldn't get to sleep above ground again in 2006. That turned out to not actually be true, because we went down to Iowa this weekend for Christmas at her mom's house, and we slept in an upstairs bedroom. We'd totally forgotten how warm those things get. I don't think we even used all of our blankets the whole time. Oh, and then last night, New Year's Eve, we slept upstairs in our new bedroom for the first time. Except we didn't get to bed until after 2:00 a.m., so that doesn't technically count as 2006, I suppose. Yes, aside from a few minor touches and the bathroom plumbing, the upstairs addition is finally finished. We got home from Iowa yesterday afternoon, and before we even unpacked the car we started hauling stuff upstairs. Things got off to a slow start when we discovered that the A-shaped bookcase we'd planned to put in his new bedroom was too tall to fit up the stairs, but that obstacle was overcome when I took a hammer to the top shelf and shortened the legs with my circular saw. We really weren't in the mood to wait any longer. M. Small adjusted quite well to the change; he even "helped" me reassemble his crib in his new room, so there weren't really any surprises for him at bedtime. His main concern seemed to be "my changing table," but that might also be because we'd been changing his diaper on his Grandma's guest bed for the past two days. Maybe he just missed it. Our own room was appointed with the bare minimum for the first night: our bed (the box spring of which was even more reluctant to come back up the stairs than it was to go down), our two night tables, a bedside lamp, an alarm clock, a baby monitor, and a sheet hung over our giant rear window. You'd think that with all the time this has taken, we'd be a little more on top of the window-treatment aspect of moving in. We made more progress on moving in today. M. Small's bedroom is almost completely finished, except for whatever wall art goes up there. Our room now also contains our bedroom rug, Trash's computer desk, a cedar chest/window seat, and most of Trash's hanger clothes (my closet doesn't yet have a bar installed, but our built-in drawers are stocked with items for both of us). I even brought up a small bookcase, enough to hold roughly 0.3% of the books we have in boxes all over the property. The really amazing thing is that in the course of putting stuff where it belongs, I'm seeing areas of our garage and basement floors that I haven't seen in months. I forgot they were there. I was so used to these spaces being a maze of building supplies waiting to be used and storage bins full of stuff waiting to be unpacked. And don't get me started on the suitcases. We have so much stuff in suitcases that when it came time to pack for the trip on Friday I thought we were going to have to go and open a bank account somewhere so we could get a free duffel bag. Tomorrow is going to be the first day since August that I don't have to choose my underwear for the day out of a suitcase. I'm not sure if I'm going to know what to do with myself. Trash's greatest fear, of course, is that tomorrow morning they're going to show up and say, "Sorry, we weren't done. You're going to have to move everything back down now." In which case Trash will say, "Sorry, you are done. Take whatever you didn't finish off of our bill." It's going to take a little while to get settled in, figure out the new routine, and where everything goes. It's a lot like moving, only with less driving. And since the driving is often the easiest part of moving, we may have gotten the shaft. And after going through all of this, we're pretty sure we're never moving again. posted by M. Giant 8:10 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:A bar in the closet? Dude! Where do you keep the bartender?
By I'm so jealous. You guys got a whole new addition in less than the amount of time it has taken to rebuild a wall and add a pantry in our kitchen. Care to throw a few contractors our way?
By If anyone is interested in our contractor's information, it's Full Measure Construction in MN. If you want contact info, feel free to e-mail me at M.GiantATgmailDOTcom
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