Tradition

4 Christmases.
4 puke sessions.
4 fevers.
Miss Neverpoop is nothing if not predictable. It wasn't a total loss, as she had enough energy to open presents and play with them. She likes to string the process out over six hours rather than tackle the gifts in one furious rip-fest. Her favorite gifts so far:

• A barbie pony with interchangeable heads. Never mind that she owns no Barbies. It is the sheer fact that it has a little equine wardrobe that can be dismantled. Including heads.


• A Dora the Explorer coloring book with pictures that appear when water is brushed on. 4 pictures that dry and disappear, only to be rejuvenated by a fresh mopping.


• The Fisher Price Digital Camera. Pics below.

Name that tune

"I never worked a day in my life. I just laid back and let the big beat lead me."

My buddy Lush (Turgid) has earned this motto for himself. He exudes the back-of-the-beat soul that one would need to wear this on a T-shirt without having to explain it to anyone. Down to the rooster-on-a-noose tattoo on his calf, it's clear that not only does he march to his own drum, but also owns it. What time is it? According to the antique pocket watch that's resting in his hamfist, it's time to be cool.

"It's clobberin' time."
"I'll buy that for a dollar."
"Holy cow!"
"And that's the way it was."
"Don't touch that dial."
"Come on down!"
"Up, up, and away!"
"Excelsior!"
"Be prepared."
"Vir Quisque Vir."
"Tune in, turn on, drop out."
"I shall return."
"Double down."

The good ones have a motto, a slogan, a guiding principle that when uttered conjures their image in the minds of those who hear. It is more than a mission statement, and more than a bumper sticker. It truly embodies their physical and emotional presence in a tiny verbal punch.
Who do you know who carries one of these? Which are your favorite famous lines for famous folks? What line would you assign to someone in your life? So here you go, reader. A challenge that might be meme-worthy:

You tell me: when I enter the room, what song plays? Or what slogan fits me in your mind.
I tell you: what song plays when you enter my room, or a slogan that I think fits.

Go!

For this no Yello Sub?

Recently Dr. Wife learned that her company is undergoing a merger. By "merger" I mean a hostile takeover in which everyone is up a creek with an invisible paddle that no one will tell them the location of.
Here is what we know.

She has to reapply for her job. She knows this because when she was sent to HR to get questions answered, she was met with a room full of computers and instructions to apply for her job online.

The job will be posted for other applicants.

If hired, there will likely be a pay cut.

If hired, she may be without work for the week before and the week after Christmas because her current business ceases to exist before the new one offers jobs.

The salary bonus that they have been dangling before her to get her to do the work of two people the last six months is vapor.

Her main hope is that her main boss, who likes her work, doesn't quit in the process.

She has worked so damn hard for so long with no reward, and now this. We had hoped that by working for a non-profit firm she could avoid some of this sort of BS, but that is apparently not the case. She has done all that one could ask of her, and then some. She just doesn't deserve this.

I'm mad. I'm punch people mad. I'm kick doors down and push people into traffic mad. I have a few silent moments right now. It's probably best for the world. I can't even crack jokes I'm so mad.

Antischmacterial

7:15 a.m., just 4.5 hours after falling asleep after a blues gig. The room is still dark and I am still asleep.

daughter: "Don't worry, Daddy, I got it out."
me: "That's nice dear."
daughter: "Yeah, you're still asleep, so I just did it myself."

drip. drip. drip.
I awaken and look into the proud face of my self-dressed daughter. She is holding a roll of toilet paper. It is thoroughly soaked. And dripping on the floor. And down her arm.

daughter: "Yeah, it fell in the toilet."
me: "So you reached in and got it, huh?"
daughter: "Yeah, but I was already done with it, so that's okay."

Scooz me

Thursday night I worked late. Another round of parent teacher conferences. And although it was a useful night, I was glad to come home to find a cheerful hopping daughter. We popped some popcorn, I fixed Grandma a margarita, fired up some Winnie "El Pooh", and sat with The Tiny Wonder for some snuggle time.

It was all cute peaceful Daddy-time until the potty break began. Tiny feet raced to the potty with cries of "I don't need help!" I waited. Actions occurred appropriately, but no child emerged. Instead, I heard a tiny, fake fart.

"PBBT." *giggles*

More farts. *cackles*

More variety and volume. *intense chuckles*

Pretty soon the bathroom was echoing with a continuous roll of fart-laugh-slobber. It lasted 10 minutes while my mother and I just shook our heads in silent recognition of a dominant gene rearing its clown-wigged head.

Dad: "Come on, honey, it's time to get ready for bed."
Daughter: "But I need to tooty some more."
Dad: "I think you've done a pretty good job already."
Daughter: "Oh. Scooz me. *giggles*"

She hate me

The kids don't care about it as much as I do. This is the typical lament we science teachers share. And because I didn't recognize this, I bored the hell out of my class today.

I thought to myself, "Self, you should play for them a broadcast from Science Friday that discusses the relationship between evolution and intelligent design. After all, you are beginning a unit relating evolution to environmental science and you teach in a catholic high school."

So I fired up the intertubes. The radio program played. I took notes on the board, along with the kids. At important points, we paused and discussed. At first, ideas were shared. I got the students used to identifying the various panel guests on the program. But as the hour wore on, I could see it. The thin film of detachment covering their once bright and shiny eyes. The strings of drool began their inexorable reach down, down, down to the desks.

How could this be? The discussion was entirely about communication! It contained no science jargon (which amounts to triptophan for kids). I paused for interaction with carefully planned questions! I asked them to share with partners their opinions! It was IRA FLATOW for crying out loud!

I just wanted them to know why there is a debate at all. If scientists are so sure of evolution, how can their be arguments against it? And, more importantly, I want them to not just accept evolution, but be good scientists and look at the data and evaluate.

I wanted them to care.

Rookie mistake.

I can get kids interested in science by providing relevance. But true caring? Can anyone do that? Can any teacher move a student from being interested in something new to truly caring? I believe not. Caring comes from the heart, not the mind. I can inform, and inquire, and cause inquiry, but caring comes from experience. It is experience that causes us to care. Some event in our lives must reach down to that core and really change us. I can set the stage for those moments, but I can't force them.

Route 66

I've been musing lately with the idea of taking a group of students on a summer trip. Some outdoor excursion steeped gently in science. French teachers find themselves traipsing off to France. Geography teachers explore Australia. Hell, even PE teachers take kids on ski trips. Why not me?

But where do we go? I've got some thoughts: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, canoe trips... I should probably stay stateside for my first foray.

Where, were you my student, would you like to go with me? Fun is important, and the world offers an education that no classroom can match.


*for those who read the first draft, my apologies for the poor editing ;)

Why the blues?

I'm a 31 year old white guy. So why do I want to play a form of music that, frankly, doesn't connect to my target demographic at all?

It has to do with the role of a blues bassist. Solid. Locked in. Supportive. Essential. It is who I want to be in and out of music.

I just don't want to be the front man. If I was on the cover of the CD case, you'd turn it over and put your beer on it. I lack the looks and the flash needed to be the face of band. But I can be the backbone.

So what is the root of me? What is it that makes me important to the people I love? I think it's that I provide something solid in a pretty transient world.

The Black Crows, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Solid, based in blues, and except for Flea, can you name the bassists? Probably not. But turn on an album and cut the bass on the EQ. Is it as good?

Would you miss me if I wasn't playing in your band? If I am living my life right, the answer is yes.

Reduce, reuse, recycle

The Goober Pea and I were on the way home from pre-school.

daughter: "Look! I have little fuzzies on my legs like you, Daddy."
me: "Yes, but yours are little and fine and blonde. Mine are thick and dark."
daughter: "Why?"
me: "Because I'm a big old daddy."
daughter: "Yeah, but not too old. We can still keep you."
me: "I'm glad."
daughter: "Yeah. Pretty soon you'll be too old and then we'll have to get a new daddy."
me: "No way! Only one old daddy for this family!"
daughter: "But when you are too old we will have to get a new one. OK?"

Does she know something I don't?

My ACT proved it long ago

Was there any doubt?
Though I am a little concerned about the low computer scoring... I had better geek a bit more in that field...
Wouldn't want people to think I was socially capable...

Clean thoughts

A standard fixture in every good science class is the long, black-topped experiment table. It gleams glossy, its days marked by on the barest of nicks; scars from the Battle of Education. It's badges are two, small, ringed holes.

Many assume that these holes are to support lab equipment during fits and bursts of hands-on education. But the Insidious Dr. Science(!) knew their true purpose, and he shared it with me in a temple lab in the ruins of a shrine dedicated to Robert Hooke.

They are finger locks. Teenagers are compelled to discover them through trial by fire.

CSG*: "Mr. Rover, come here!"
Me: "No. I am old. You come here, lazy youth."
CSG: "Mr. Rover, come here!"
Me: "Dare you ignore this lesson, child?! Fine. I shall approach that you may learn."
CSG: "I put my finger in this hole and I can't get it out! It's too tight! I'm stuck!"
Me: "Of course you are, my child. It was written in the Tome of Hypotheses. 'If the finger lock is present, the child must become ensnared.'"
CSG: "How do I get out?"
Me: "You must remain calm. Your mind must recede, allowing your body to slow for 3 days, growing ever slimmer, until it is freed. Or, dish soap could work."

This child owes me cookies for many reasons. Feel free to list them all.

*CSG = Catholic School Girl

I'm getting too old for this...

Friday night was the local catholic schools' sweat-and-stink sleazefest (also known as back-to-school dance). First, let's address the facts that you are all wondering about.

Yes, it is coed, as it involves several of the local schools.
No, they were not wearing their uniforms, you sick monkeys.
I was there as a chaparonne, required as part of the job.

The job itself was relatively straightforward.

1. Stand around looking important.


2. Prevent teenage boys from hitting each other.


3. Keep the 1200 some odd dancing pheromone factories from knocking over the DJ stage.


4. Walk into the middle of the sweaty, grinding, hormonal, mass of teenage bodies and tell the girls not to grind their booties onto the crotches of the boys.


5. Stop the crowd surfing.

Let's just say that any successes achieved in any of this were only when students realized I was in their immediate vicinity. At several points, stopping in the throng even became dangerous. I realized this when suddenly a mini-skirt clad teen butt started bouncing against my thigh. Nope, she didn't bother to look first to see if I was a chaparonne. She just found a pelvis and tried to dry hump it. When I tapped her shoulder to get her attention, all I got was an embarassed grin and an immediate vanish into the dance.

Now most of you are thinking to yourselves, that doesn't sound so bad. But let's explore my options.

1. Smile and enjoy it: that makes me a dirty old man and gets me fired.


2. Stop the rump rub: that prevents me going to jail and embarasses a girl into behaving.


3. Freak out, scream, and curl into a ball: I considered this, actually, but I was worried that being horizontal would only make things more dangerous.

Sure, there's a little part of me that feels hypocritical for stopping the simulated soft-core that was going on that night. But then I remember that in 12 short years, I will get to club the pancreas out of a teenage boy for trying to dance that way with my daughter. And a quiet peace comes over me.

It's made of people!

Aspect 3: Big Red Soda. In my never-ending quest for the Essence of Texan, I have come across something called "Red Soda" or "Big Red Soda". They appear to be much the same, but that is all I know of them. At first, I thought they might be bottled by the folks at Nihi, a division of RC that still produces Peach Nihi soda in some parts of the country, as well as grape and blue cream soda. But I was wrong.
So what is this stuff? Damned if I know. All anyone can tell me about it is that it's "good with barbecue." This makes it competition with beer in my world, and that's a competition nothing can win. When asked what flavor it is, folks around here reply, "Why, it's red, silly."
Red is a color. Not a flavor. I even marginally disapprove of strawberry, cherry, or cinnamon, the internationally accepted flavors designated as red, being called red.
So will I try it? Dare I sample something whose only claim to the world is "I'm red"? I shall. The next time I approach a fountain, I will swerve away from the Cherry Coke, or Dr. Pepper, or even my more usual water. My cup will runneth over with Red Soda, and I will drink with gusto. And maybe a straw. Hell, I drank Lone Star beer. I can handle anything.

Chaos and rain

Since most of you waited until after the weekend to respond to my blog, you can only blame yourselves for my current employment. That's right. I now teach catholic school girls.

It really wasn't what I wanted to do, but it seems to be sitting alright in my craw. It is time for Miss Neverpoop (yup, she's at it again) to start pre-school, I couldn't afford out of state tuition for graduate school, and our house in Kansas hasn't sold. This left us financially pinched. And, let's face it, I'm not a homebody. I had expected to be able to work on painting, repairing, sorting, organizing, and unpacking. Instead, I found myself pacing the boxes in our garage, fuming at life. Not a good scenario. The depression was creeping in.

It was actually that silly meme blog I posted that really pointed it out. If I was a color, I'd be gray. Dr. Wife was surprised by this.

Dr. Wife: I thought your color would be blue.
me: No, I've always been gray.
Dr. Wife: No. In college, and for quite some time after, you were blue. Not bright blue, but true blue.
me: I suppose. But I'm certainly gray now.
Dr. Wife: I know, but you can change that.

So I got to thinking; what was it that made me gray? The truth is, it was not having a dream and the opportunity to pursue it. College was a time for dreams, and I lived them fully. I thought that the future held something for me, and that I was gaining by pursuing. I was alive in a very blue way.

I haven't felt that way in a long time. I haven't really had a dream or a goal. Being around my friends in Mexico reminded me that people admired and respected me, but I don't really understand why. So I have gone back to something that used to inspire me; teaching.

As for the burnout, I was certainly there. But it seems that time off treats me just as badly. I am hoping that working with such a very different bunch of kids, in a very, very different setting will help me feel connected again. I am also teaching a course that I am not even remotely familiar with. It will be nice to be a student again. Speaking of which, one of the perks to this new job is that they will pay for me to take a course every semester, even working on a Master's degree. I can have my cake and eat it, too.

So it remains to be seen... will this be good, or bad. My only concern is that the large jug of holy water just down the stairs from my room boils every time I pass...

In trouble...

I have been offered a job teaching physics and environmental science at an all-girls catholic high school. I have to decide whether or not to take it by Sunday. Discuss.

Meme yes, nap no

I am listening to the girl talk and sing to herself in the next room. She is in bed (read, bouncing around the room) and doing her best not to fall asleep. Naps are her enemy, and she occassionally wins. The cold she and I are fighting makes her grumpy and needy, but she isn't getting the exercise she needs to conk out. So she is getting some enforced room time that is about to expire. It's a shame. I could use a nap myself, but I can't sleep with her singing.

So, here's a meme I stole from hideehogal. For those of you who don't know how a meme works, if you read it, you do it for yourself and post the results. The basics of this one involve just completing the sentence. I added some reasons in there for fun.

I am meme:

If I were a stone, I would be... limestone. Not the best looking, but dependable to build with.
If I were a tree, I would be a... silver maple. Again, my best isn't obvious at first glance.
If I were a bird, I would be a... raven. Kinda sneaky.
If I were an insect, I would be a... caterpillar. Fuzzy.
If I were a machine, I would be a... all naughty jokes aside; an old truck.
If I were a tool, I would be a... Phillips screwdriver. Nothing fancy but essential.
If I were a fruit, I would be a... peach. Fuzzy and sweet!
If I were a flower, I would be ... columbine.
If I were a kind of weather, I would be... a crisp breeze.
If I were a mythical creature, I would be a... ancient wizard.
If I were a musical instrument, I would be a... cello. Oddly enough, it's one I don't play.
If I were a kind of profession, I would be... a life coach. I do that quite a bit, I think.
If I were an animal, I would be a... bear.
If I were anything in the world, I would be... a mountain.
If I were a color, I would be... grey.
If I were a fragrance, I would be...cookies. Everyone likes the smell of cookies, right?
If I were an emotion, I would be... comforted. I am the best when I can bring this to my girl.
If I were a state or feeling, I would be... peaceful.
If I were a sound, I would be....a contented sigh.
If I were an Element, I would be... oxygen. Not always on the front of your mind, but just try to get by without me!

Cheap therapy...

I was having a frustrating day. I discovered that my new hopes of starting in on a Master's degree have to wait a year until I establish Texas residency. And I can't apply for teaching jobs here because my certification is lost somewhere in the pile of crap that remains in the garage since the move. I had started getting hopeful, which was a definite mistake.

So, I decided to tackle a job that I could complete. First, I found a stud in the ceiling by my favorite method: hammer and nail. Then, I drilled a hole using my power drill. POWERTOOLS RULE!!!! I then took a big utility hook and screwed it into the stud. Sure, it's against my lease. But right now my care level for such things is dialed in at about a -3.

The final result; a perfect place to hang the Snotter Daughter's souvenir from Mexico. Now, I need a little rope to adjust the height a wee bit...

Jam can scram

The last couple of trips to the jam session have left a bitter taste in my mouth. Last night, it was crowded enough that I managed to play two songs. As the new guy, I get stuck with the other new guys. I get up there and am told we're playing The Thrill is Gone in A minor. No problem. I've done that a million times. Until I catch some dirty looks and cold shoulders from the horn section. What? Have I screwed up? Yes, it sounded off, but I played the part... It turns out, around here, they play it a little odd, with a turn at the end that I (having not played with these guys before) wasn't aware of. I caught on, but it wasn't until I had certainly shot myself in the foot with the cool kids. Damn.

I'm a little pissed. All I got was a look that said "F-you" when I needed someone to tell me F-E (the missing two notes). Sure, I missed the notes. But really, throw the new guy a bone. At the end of the tune, the horn players walked off stage. The next turned out even worse, as the guitar player named a tune that the drummer and I hadn't heard, and started a lead solo without cluing any of us in to the key. More of me on stage sounding like crap.

I know this is a lot of whining. I probably have beach sand left in my butt or something. But I think I am done with this jam session for a while. I am tired of looking like an ass because of poor communication. I know I will screw up from time to time, but I'd sure like it to be my own fault. And holding a jam in a performance setting isn't what I am into.

I was spoiled by the jam sessions at the Americana Music Academy. These guys got together in an old house. Varying levels of ability. We would sit in a circle, and one of the players would name a tune, play a little rhythm, and we would pick up and join in. It was a true learning experience. I think the jam session here is a chance to prove yourself and show off for other good musicians. It really isn't about learning. I wish I had a place to host one of the kansas-style jams I am used to. I need a learning opportunity, where failure is part of the process.

Jiggity jig

Geek paradise.

Mexico. It was a fantastic, relaxing, refreshing, warming time with some people that I have learned to love more than my own limbs. I did enough that I feel that I experienced the Yucatan, saw enough to appreciate my own comfortable life, and relaxed enough to feel rejuvenated.
I will share more as time allows. The in-laws are visiting on the return trip with the newly-spoiled toddler, and I am going to be busy for a bit more. I'll even throw in a few pics that we took that will hopefully give you a glimpse.

This was taken at the coral reefs we could see from our balcony. Snorkeling rules.

Mexico bound...

That's right. The vacation dreamed of for the last couple of years is about to occur. It is disturbingly complicated in its execution. We are flying one grandparent to pick up El Toddler Grande and take her back to Colorado. Then when the vacation is finished, we will fly another grandparent back with La Hija del Fuego to Texas. That is three round trip tickets just for babysitting. Damn.

The upside is, Dr. Wife and I will be surrounded by some of our best friends in scenic Puerto Morelos, a tiny fishing village between Cancun and Play del Carmen. Add tequila, snorkeling mask, and a little sight seeing. It should be a good week.

The tiny little village has what they call an "internet cafe." I will blog some from the road, if time permits. Maybe even a picture or two.

Until I depart, go ahead and give me some advice for the trip (other than not drinking the water). Go!

Flash stupid

I decided this morning that I would go find a nice nature trail in the city of San Antonio. I did some searching, and found a trail site that described the location of a 5 mile nature trail. After a brief Google Maps consultation, I took off.

My bad choice occurred when, upon arriving at the desired area, I found a road block. You know the ones, the orange and white saw-horses that are put up when, say, a road has flooded out. I mean, come on, who really believes those things anyway?

Now, I'm an experienced driver. I know that you don't drive into water. And there was none, so I followed a little dirt access path past the barracade. Oddly enough, another driver did this shortly afterwards.

I drove slowly down the road, looking for evidence of this trailhead, and as I reached the top of a hill, I saw that there was indeed flooding across the bottom. So, I turned around, figuring I'd try again another day and just hit the gym. The car behind me turned around after I did, obviously reaching the same conclusion. However, she did so much more quickly. Which is why the cop who was guarding the flooded road caught her first.

I finished turning around and attempted to drive calmly passed the officer and back out past the barricade. He gave me a gesture of "talk to the hand" which I interpreted to mean "stop."

At which point, he began the rather intense interrogation. The sole purpose of which seemed to be getting me to understand what a complete idiot I was. He examined my Kansas information, and listened to me explain that I was a clueless hiker looking for a trail (thankfully, marked up Google Map was handy). He berated me with some pretty deserving little jabs, and then asked me a rather odd question:

Officer: "Are you a mass murderer?"
Confused me: "No, sir. I'm a high school teacher."

I left with a stern warning, and I doubt the woman pulled over before me (who was waiting in her car during my questioning) got away as cleanly as I did. A tow truck was approaching as I left...

One fiddle ... check

I am attempting to distill from the masses of people I encounter the true essence of Texan. Although the stereotyped "cowboy" and "Mexican" can be found, I'm pleasantly surprised at the range of characters. It is refreshing to know that my previous definition of "Texan" needs to change. So I am going to try to define and experience these common Texan commonalities, or Texanalities, as I filter them. My goal is to allow you, my precious reader, the dream of becoming a Texan without ever having to give into the stereotypes that you so feared (such as Fat Rattlesnake Rancher).

Aspect 1: Lone Star Beer. It seems to exist solely in 16 oz. tall cans, though it has recently been created as a "lite" beer. It is the favorite of cowboys, blues musicians, punks, psychobillies, and texicans alike. Upon cracking one of these tallboys open, one immediately tastes its peers: Schlitz, Natural Light, and Old Milwaukee. If it weren't for the good blues at the bar while I was consuming this rusty-urine flavored carwash water reject, I would have puked it back into the can. I will never drink it again. Ever. But since I have consumed one, I am closer to being Texan.

Aspect 2: Cowboy Boots. I am going to buy a pair. I haven't worn any since I was six, and I doubt that pair would fit anymore. It seems you don't have to be a cowboy to wear them here. Just willing to commit to wearing jeans. We may wait for winter for this experience. It seems that a true Texas man doesn't mind dehydrating through his undercarriage, but I like to let a cool breeze in from time to time. Cowboy boots around here can be worn with suits, slacks, dresses, kilts, jeans, but not shorts. It is amazing what a variety there are. There will be an entire blog about the shopping trip. Just you wait...

Duck, dodge, parry, thrust...

One of my favorite books is called Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson. In this book the main character, Hiro, thinks to himself,

"every man believes that he is tough. And when he believes he isn't tough, he still envisions that if he were to seclude himself in a Tibetan shaolin monastery and train for years, he could become the toughest, most bad-ass man alive." *

It is because of this, as well as a knowledge that someday boys will want to date my daughter, that I want to enroll her in a traditional Kung-Fu school. There, she would learn to kill with her bare hands, balance on bamboo poles, snatch the pebble from my hand, and wield the un-em-ori death touch. What father doesn't want this? Can there be an end to my life more honorable than my daughter driving her tiger strike through my chest to rip out my beating heart, screaming "I WILL marry, father, and your corpse will sit there quietly as I do!!"? I think not...

Dr. Wife, on the other hand, is a closet ballerina. While I am delivering deadly blows to imaginary enemies in the mirror, she is quietly doing pirouettes and plies, delicately balancing on her tip toes. The prettiness of it causes me some trauma, but I understand that all girls are raised to be prancing ballerinas (unless their fathers intervene with instructions regarding the proper usage of meridian pressure points in combat situations).

This has caused within our household the achievement of a compromise. Young Pie has taken her first gymnastics class at the local gymnastics/cheer/dance academy. Complete with leotard. How is this a compromise? The first years of Kung-Fu training involve teaching flexibility, resiliance in falls, balance, coordination, and the ability to follow direction from the Master. So does gymnastics. Dance focuses on basic moves, stretching and strength, balance, and an appreciation for grace and prettiness. So does gymnastics.

It remains to be seen where the Young Wonder will take this. She may choose to compete, to cheer, to dance, to ballet, to Kung-Fu, or none. But she will be prepared for the time when she must leap to the air and snap a kick into the throat of a young suitor who asked to hold her hand.

*This is quoted poorly from memory. Read the book, as it relates strongly to the influence of language on the development of society and the roots of communication. And it has a guy with a nuke tied to his brain.

Fragment #2

The process of prepping Miss Neverpoop for the movie began days earlier. I drove past the theatre and pointed it out...

"In there is a great big movie. We are going to go watch it with some other people. It's a movie about a rat who likes to cook. The movie is called Ratatouille."

The next step was talking about volume. Many wise guys told me their kids were afraid of the loud music, explosions, etc.

"This movie is so big that the music and sounds are loud. If they get too loud, you can sit on my lap until it's quiet again."

To which she replied,

"They just need to slow the movie down and calm down to make it a little quieter. Slow it down..."

So when Ratatouille began, she sat in my lap, eyes glued to the screen, tiny fist full of popcorn. Dr. Wife cajoled her onto her lap soon after, but that overwhelmed little smile stayed stuck to the screen the whole time.
Her take,

"I like Ratatouilles. They snuggle me and are nice and don't bite and they like to cook sometimes. I'm going to take a good nap tomorrow so we can go to the big movie again."

Fragment #1

It's been a blogtastic couple of days, so I will break it into little chunks. Hopefully, I will give these little views their due.

But first, let's paint a picture in your mind of the writer, and what the world around me is. First, rain. More flooding, but we're undamaged. It does leave Miss Neverpoop and I stranded a little more, as it isn't safe to drive these streets during the flash flooding. Then, the lack of poop. It has been more than a week, which means it was time for another dose of suppository glycerine.

Please tell me why my daughter holds in her poop until it hurts her. Please? After giving her the medicine, she looked at me and said, "Daddy, you weren't very careful with my body. You gave me an owie on my poopy hole. You need to be more careful with me." I am an awful, wretched creature.

She still is holding it in, but she and Dr. Wife have drifted off to sleep in a little cuddled mass in bed. Thanks to the glycerine, it will only be a matter of time before she unplugs, and her body mass drops by half.

So I am listening to the rain bursts roll through, watching some mindless TV, drinking bourbon and trying to forget that I hurt my little girl tonight. I know, following doctor's orders and all. But damn, her little face cuddling up to me, wondering why we had to do that...

In the next installment, I will tell you about Sammy's first movie at a theatre last week, and her opinion of Ratatouille.

Serious Parenting News

If your little ankle-biter loves Veggie Booty, you need to read this after throwing it away.
No joke.
Now.
We are lucky, with no problems, but it is giving some kids a serious case of Salmonella. That is a whole level of poop problems that I want nothing to do with.

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Prime again

I turned 31 today. Last year I spent the birthday soaking my feet in a wading pool on the porch while drinking cheap beer out of the cooler (softball leftovers). This year, I took my daughter to the gymnastics and dance academy for open gym, spent the afternoon trying not to clean the house, and playing play-doh fun factory. Another daddy birthday. Where are the strippers? The debauchery and hilarity? Well, none of that. Just a little fattening food.

The day did have a very bright side to it. I finally got to meet the family foretold to me by Mr. and Mrs. No-Hair oh so long ago. We had dinner with The Crazy Mexicans. Who, despite the nickname, were not crazy. They just have a two year old. That qualifies anyone as slightly insane, though they were as genuine and down to earth as you could ever ask for. I feel more at home tonight than I have felt since coming to Texas. I feel adopted by some great people.

My wife fell asleep while putting my daughter to bed. This is probably a 70% of the time occurrence. I suppose that means I get to dive into the book she got me for my birthday, The Gates of the Alamo. Not a bad ending for the day, though I will admit to having my goals set a little... differently... ;)

More Tales from Target...

After a ridiculous search through a poorly organized warehouse store (yes, I asked for help 3 times), Miss Neverpoop and I had this conversation:

• daughter: "Are you angry?"
• me: "No, I'm just frustrated with the store."
• daughter: "Can I see your angry face?"
• me: *grumpy face*
• daugher: "I can make an angry face, too."
• daughter: *much tinier grumpy face*
• me: "That's pretty good."
• daughter: "Mine's better. It helps me see in the dark..."
  

I believe her powers are beginning to manifest. It's early, but best not anger her...

Why?

A conversation on the way home from Target:

• daughter: "Are those clouds moving?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Why?"
• me: "The wind is pushing them."
• daughter: "I can't see them moving."
• me: "They're very big, so they move slowly from our view."
• daughter: "Are those clouds moving?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Why?"
• me: "The wind is pushing them."
• daughter: "Is the wind pushing them?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Why?"
• me: "Above the northern half of Texas right now is a low pressure system. This is an area where the air isn't pushing hard. All of the high pressure, moisture-filled air from the gulf is pressing in on it and spinning past us in a generally counterclockwise motion. That's why we have all of these storms popping up over us."
• daughter: "Do monkeys poop?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Do elephants poop?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Do flamingos poop?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Do gorillas poop?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Do hippopopotomuses poop?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "I want to color one."
• me: "okay. We printed one out for you at home to color."
• daughter: "Do monkeys poop?"
• me: "yep"
• daughter: "Don't talk, daddy. It's supposed to be no talking."

It's pronounced yawn-ee...

Alright, so I am kicking butt and taking names at the gym now. But I need a good soundtrack to work out to.
This is your mission: I need upbeat, driving music to get me moving. And you will build the playlist. It can be from any genre, lyrics are optional, but I probably won't include showtunes.
Comment with the songs I should buy (steal) and include! Go!

It's only wafer thin...

I received some bad news yesterday when attending my new gym orientation session. It appears I am obese. According to the dude with the calipers who pinched me four times on my upper body, I am just over the line into obese.
He then promptly asked me how the hell a whale got so far inland, and whether or not I feared harpoonists. Or, he said something about how my BMI indicates that I really am just slightly above normal. But I heard that as, "don't feel bad, fatty fat fatterton. Someday we'll learn how to dig holes big enough to hide your body from sight and the general public won't have to live in fear of your blubber any more."

Here's how my brain handled it...

• Cognitive side: suck it up. You know you're not obese, but you are smart enough to know you need to join a gym and get in shape.
• Emotional side: that huwt my widdle feewings.
• Evil side: listen you scrawny little track-champ. I learned how to snap your neck with a punch to the head when you were still wondering what color your pubic hair would be. Give me one more reason to show you that intense rage trumps muscle right now.

So, I combined all of them and went through a tour of the weight machines with him. He was convinced, and I agree, that free weights will help me build muscle faster. But I am going to ignore soon-to-be-punched-boy and trust my physical therapists.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Dora and Diego only provide Daddy one hour of shower, blog, and news time in the morning. I suppose she could watch more TV, but I wouldn't want her to get so fat that she can't help her father shuffle his mouth-breathing gargantuan body through the buffet line.

One for Lush...

On Thursday, I found a blues jam to head for. It was pretty hip. It took place on a large stage set up for big shows. There wasn't much of a crowd, but I got to play with a full horn section, which is a damn rare treat. It was even cooler when I found out that the saxaphone player was a guy named Bobby Rey, a Texas saxaphone legend whose claim to fame was playing with the Hollywood Argyles in 1960 when they recorded Alley-oop. I know this will impress no one. Except Ben.

A little spacing could help...

It is always important to proof your work...

Kill it kill it!

I am trying to help a friend in Lawrence, and needed to use the good ol' intertubes. Here is my setup (warning, geekspeak follows. Real words found after geekspeak.):

• Cable Modem (decent enough, supplied by giant cable conglomerate that didn't want to use mine).
• New Wireless Router (less than 3 months old, 802.11 g/b broadcast so the older lappy can use it).
• Desktop in bedroom (using a wireless connection, because there's no cable in the master bedroom, wtf).
• Laptop in dining room (about 6 meters from the wireless router).

The computer in the bedroom has no trouble browsing the interwebs, and is connecting with excellent signal strength. However, it cannot access the router using its address and a browser. Curious.

The laptop cannot do a damn thing. No IP address can be obtained, though signal strength is excellent.

After the proper hip gyrations, troubleshooting, chicken sacrifices, go-spurs-go chanting, and restarting, no success. At this point, I decided to go for the repair method that is recommended by every tech person on the planet. Unplug the router, wait 10.234 seconds, then plug it back in. Restart the lappy and try again. It works.

Here is why I am pissed off. I KNOW NOTHING!!! I DON'T KNOW WHAT CAUSED THE PROBLEM, OR HOW IT WAS CURED!!! To me, this method of repair is like going to the doctor, and having her stop your heart, slap on the paddles, and rid you of the flu by reincarnation. It's the Dr. House method of IT work.

Who is the bitch who designed this "feature" into wireless routers? Why do they all do this? Show me his face and I will shake it off his head.

Do you want to know the right way to fix a computer? Ask Dr. Wife. The laptop had a problem: the power supply jack had broken free of the motherboard, to the point where no amount of wiggling would allow it to take a charge, rendering it ultimately useless. Her solution was to dismantle it, find the broken part, order a replacement, remove the old piece and its solder, solder on the new piece, and put it all back together. That's how you fix a computer. You blindly rip out its guts, trust your instincts, and use molten metal to rebuild it better, faster, stronger. We have the technology...

Y'all gots one a'dem blawgs?

After a brief but refreshing stop in South Bend (pre-Mexico trip warmup), we have arrived in San Antonio. The apartment, although sizable, is now filled with hastily packed boxes, and we are wading through them, room by room, trying to find such sundries as bowls, underwear, toddler paraphenalia, and screwdrivers. I found the scotch last night, and thankfully a liquor store (not in a box).

I had forgotten about apartment living, so we will start this off with initial impressions. It's a nice enough place; clean, well-manicured, gated. It has the usual quirks, such as broken items painted over rather than repaired (paint doesn't hold shelves in place, by the way). We hear running and thumping from neighbors. Even in the duplex we have lived in we didn't get that. It's tough for me to tell if Miss Neverpoop is awake and jumping or if it is the neighbors. But there are two things we have that have made the hasty move managable: a two car garage (read: box room) and a swimming pool.

Ah, the swimming pool. The ultimate in toddler bribery devices. She will do most anything (except poop) to swim in the pool (hence swim diaper). She loves the thing. It is clean, the kids who are there are all supervised. And Sammy is happy.

So what's next?

• Goal 1: make the home livable and de-cluttered.
• Goal 2: find a public library and a park to hook Sammy up with some form of non-daddy climbing entertainment.
  
• Goal 3: find a good preschool full of minions to do Sammy's bidding.
• Goal 4: get daddy a job.

When the ol'blue truck o'fun arrives, we will begin exploring the world. Speaking of exploring, have you ever been forced to watch an episode of Dora the Explorer repeatedly? If so, watch this now! Do it! Don't question it! Just do it!

Mae Culpa

Since my other post is a bit serious, I decided I'd try a something more conversational to round out the night. So, meme it shall be, thanks to The Bookpusher. 8 random tidbits about me.

1. There lives a man named Derek, who hates me so much he would gladly kill me, and I don't know why.
2. I bought a harmonica last week. I do not yet play the harmonica.
3. I don't like to rewatch movies or reread books.
4. I was born with pyloricstenosis. My stomach wasn't connected to my intestines properly.
5. I like to travel because of the complete anonymity of being a face in the airport.
6. I met my wife in a chemistry class designed to help us all get to know each other. She immediately went back to her roommate and told her that she would never even consider dating me. I immediately started dating the student advisor who ran the little group.
7. I have been on the cover of the newspaper in Lawrence twice, and didn't know it either time until after the fact. Once was yesterday, so I am told.
8. I don't really like animals. Not at all. No hatred or malice, just a complete dislike.

Consider yourselves memetagged.

With a drink

I'm having troubles gripping the idea of my imminent move south. I have made a list of chores to do, easily beyond my means, and am merely biding my time until the move occurs.

Then what?

This is really the part of this that is giving me the most trouble. At some point, I will be in Texas. Here are my top contenders:

1. Go back to school to study business.
2. Go back to school and get a masters in something so that I can teach at a community college.
3. Get some IT training and an IT job (exactly what, I don't know).
4. Find some mindless job, maybe in a coffee shop serving cookies and cappuccino.
5. Sit in the fetal position and worry about this damn house not selling and watching our few months of two paychecks whither away into oblivion.

It is weird for me to be so directionless. It will also mark the first time in 25 years I am outside of an academic setting. It has been easy to just follow it along. Stepping out has me weirded out.

Mostly, I just feel adrift. I am not a provider, a homeowner, a leader, a teacher, a band mate, or any of the other titles that have comforted me over the years. I feel like the title of dad is the only one left for me. And although it's a good job, and one that I want to do better than any other, it leaves me lonely for Me. I'm not improving anymore, and I lack the drive to decide how to go about it.

I'm growing a mental beer gut, I think.

Race til ya drop...

I just finished my last day as a teacher. I have been working non-stop trying to get done, and now it's done. I am so worn out I can't even really think about it yet. Thankfully, I was spared most of the sappy goodbye stuff because we were all in such a rush to get our rooms emptied out for remodeling.

I'll write more when I think more. Now, time to write a new chapter.

And I would do anything for love...

I thought I knew what I was getting into with this fatherhood gig. I expected the sleepless nights. I anticipated losing the roles of man, husband, individual, in favor of the bigger title of Daddy. But I never anticipated having to lubricate a little girl's anus so that she could drop a turd.

Before you call SRS, hear me out. She hadn't crapped in two weeks. I have been giving her laxatives for the last five days, hoping for a less invasive solution. I have upped the fruit quantity through the roof, and she eats a cup of shredded wheat on the way to school every morning.

But today, despite the best efforts of a reassuring and loving Daddy, it had to be done. She didn't eat all day, and refused to play in favor of sitting on the floor trying to shove the poo back up into her body by sheer force of toddler will. So at the advice of the local nurse practitioner (read: saint), I bought a small bulb of glycerin suppository complete with narrow tube.

She trusted me, the deed was done, and after a few moments of futile angry struggle in which our tiny-fisted soldier knew the gates were opened, the beast was released.

I will spare those of you with weak stomachs, or the ability to do math well enough to know that no 27 pound child should have their weight cut in half in a few traumatic moments. Suffice it to say she still put up a valiant struggle.

She sleeps now, our soldier against defecation. Her belly newly filled with apologetic ice-cream with sprinkles. She lost this round, but I promise she is happier for it.

Another night...

Last night's tantrum fest was hellacious. Two hours of whining and screaming pixie of evil, followed by 3 minutes of exploding, door-slapping daddy. It was not one of our high points. If that weren't bad enough, she picked up where she left off for the hour and a half I see her conscious before preschool. At least I'm not alone in this behavior. We did finish the evening with "I love you's" and "I'm sorry's". Both of us.

Thankfully, much planning, preparation, and scheming on the part of Love-and-Logic daddy, as well as an extra reading of Green Eggs and Ham, maneuvered us into a scream-free night of sleeping daughter.

Now, to quickly clean for the realtor's open house tomorrow.

Oh, did I mention I gave the girl some laxatives before putting her to sleep tonight? You see, she's afraid to poop. After 10 days of no poop, I am afraid. Very afraid.

House of Lies

Well, it turns out that an agreement to let my wife move into a house, rent it, and buy it can change on mother's day while she drives to the house to sign the papers. That's right, it was sold out from under us. Dr. Wife is now in San Antonio, living in a motel, trying to find an apartment to rent. Our stuff moves in three weeks.

I'm so fucking mad right now I could throw bricks at kittens.

Baby drive south

For those folks in the area, we are hosting a little bye-bye shindig on Saturday 5/12 for the new Dr. Wife. Come on by between 3:00 and 6:00pm and say a little goodbye to the good doctor, because on Sunday she moves to Texas. The newly-three-year-old and I will be following her down at the start of June.

Here's another pic of the house. We dig it. Yes I covered the address. If you want to know where it is, let the bribery commence.

So humble

We have had our offer accepted, and will be renting this place until our home sells, at which point we will buy it. The back yard is full of more twisted versions of these trees, and there are already solid anchors for swings and hammocks. It has a lovely room just aching for guest room status, though I do ask that you all come visit a few at a time. If you all visited at once it would be a wild and naughty time in that room that I just don't think Texas is ready for.

It is ready to move in, though it needs new windows. The nice part is, we won't have to move our stuff into storage or an apartment. We can move right on in. I can fill the whole garage with junk, as is the way of my people.

So look out, San Antonio. We's is a comin'.

The man behind the curtain

The haggle for a new car for Dr. Wife is in full swing. It is stressful as hell...

"Let's not talk totals... let's talk monthly payments..."

"Let me go speak with the manager and see how these numbers look..."

"I will have to tell you, this is good news for you..."

It's all a bunch of smoke, mirrors, and hogwash. Luckily, we happen to be good with numbers. Like the pope is good with prayer, we are good with numbers. So we aren't taken in by much. After two hours of haggling, we are now waiting for loan approval tomorrow. Hopefully, a new Mazda 3 is in our immediate future.

It really is a sick little dance. They try not to let us know the numbers they want to hide, and we try not to agree to jack shit. Then they get our money and we get a car. Strange little business, and stressful as hell. I think I need a drink.

Between these tavern walls

Saturday was the last gig with The Resistors. It couldn't have gone off much better, truth be told. We were at a regular haunt of ours, The Music Box. It's a shitkicker of a bar, known only to locals of Weston who don't have the dollars for the nicer bars in town. Whiskey Tango. Perfect crowd for us.

I imagined that the last show would be a tearful farewell, with lots of sappiness and safely hetero back slapping hugs. It was just too much fun to get all choked up, though. We played probably our best set ever right off the bat, and from then on it was dancing, smart assing, and hard rocking blues. It was perfect. At the end of the night, the owner had to cut us off. We were ready for more, even after playing for four hours.

I thought when I joined a band that I was building a hobby. I didn't think I would be developing brothers, a support group, or a piece of my own soul. But I did. I'm not exactly the rock star type; never good looking enough or desirous of that much attention. But damn I love playing on stage. It gets me going when people get up and dance, or when you look out and realize the whole bar is singing along. I even like the smell of beer, smoke, sweat, and pheromones that I reek of as I load my amp back into my truck at the end of the night.

So how do you celebrate a show like that with your buddies? How do you wrap it all up with just the right bow? Waffle House.

I will miss these guys, and the band I helped build. They have a new bassist who is a great guy and a fantastic musician, so they'll still be going strong. As for me, I know that I will just have to find some Sultans of Swing to call my own in San Antonio. It's in my blood. It makes my heart pound.

Group Hug

I am thrilled to be a part of Link Crew, a division of the Boomerang Project. Let me give you the premise:

A freshman starts high school. On the first day, they enter a gym and are immediately greeted by a hoard of clapping, cheering, smiling upperclassmen. They move to the bleachers, where they proceed to relax and laugh as an outgoing goofball guides them through activities that gradually get them more and more involved with each other. Just as this might get dull, they are pulled from the bleachers and through a series of efficient people moving maneuvers, they find themselves divided into completely random groups. And there to guide them is an upperclassman. A Link Leader.

The Leader then whisks them away to a secluded room, where they work through a series of activities that guide them to getting to know names, personal stories, and which allow them to come together to solve common problems. And then they discover that this group, which they have shared their life story with now, will be with them all year, helping them through all of the challenges ahead with the guidance of their Link Leader.

I have put together this program at my school, and I love it. And this year, I have had the chance to teach other teachers how to put this together as a Coach with Boomerang. And I love it. It feels like being a camp counselor again. I work my butt off for three days with the most creative, supportive, affirming people one could hope to ever see. For a brief time, I enjoy teaching again. I forget the stress, the pain in my heart, and the pain in my body. I sleep little and laugh much. The curriculum is challenging and engaging, and the analytical pedagogical part of my brain has tiny little orgasms.

When it comes down to it, this is the part of teaching that matters to me. Not science, not grades, not administrative silliness. It is helping people understand that the key to making life better for kids is to enable them to rise above their challenges through supporting each other.

Boom boom.

Scare tactics

Yesterday’s bomb threat was called into the local police. A school (no district or building named) is going to be bombed, said the voice.

Nice. So part way through the first class of the day, we receive an email notifying us of this, and telling us that there is nothing to worry about according to the police. At which point, the rumor mill begins and despite the ultra-secure lock down (21 exits, two security guards, you do the math), students begin leaving in droves. Even after a suspect was arrested and the all clear given, parents continued to call their kids on their cell phones and tell them to get the hell out. Even worse were the kids who called mommy pretending to be scared, then high-fived their friends as they got the clear to go spend the sunny day roaming the town.

In the middle of this, of course, were some of the wonderful standardized tests that No Child Left Behind uses to evaluate our success as teachers. Is there any way to void these test scores and take them under normal conditions? Nope. Kids bail partway through the test, their score tanks. Funding cut. Teachers fired. Class sizes increase. Learning suffers.

Very glad to be leaving teaching. The upside is, I was forced to surrender my lab activities for the day. My seven remaining students and I took the sidewalk chalk outside and made a giant periodic table.

I miss him

"Hi. I know this is odd, but I live in Kansas and I have some bad news for you. Your son/nephew/friend/son-in-law/brother Eddie has died suddenly. I am at the hospital now with his wife. She needed me to call you, because she is hurting right now. We think it was related to a blood clot. It was unexpected, fast, and we are hurting. I am his friend, his mentor, his beer-drinking buddy. He was my poker teacher, my daughter's No-Hair friend, and my hallway companion. Please come if you can, and I will call you again when I know more."

I came when the EMT's called for me. I drove his wife to the hospital, and held her as the Chaplain told us the awful truth. He had beaten Hodgkin's Lymphoma, survived the Marines in Desert Storm, devoted his life to bringing to others a strength to fight. And a damn blood clot took him down as he prepared to go see a doctor. His wife, Jen, is the sweetest, gentlest person and they loved each other dearly. And her world has crashed around her.

It is an awful honor, to make that call again and again. To serve Eddie and Jen, to stand when they couldn't. But oh it has laid me low. And I fear for Jen.

Eddie, my friend, I miss you so much. I keep seeing you in the doorway of my classroom, and I stand alone where we used to laugh and scheme.

How awful to measure my years in Kansas in terms of tombstones. Steve, Eli, Art, Scott, Zach, Pam, Eddie. Is this what years gain me? Is it a growing list of loss? Is there a Sunday in this terrible calendar that will give a day of rest for the wives, the parents, the brothers, the friends?

I pray that my phone doesn't ring, or that I don't have to pick it up to call. "Hi, my name is Colin, and although we have never met, I am handing you pain and sorrow. Forgive me."

And the winner is...

We are moving to San Antonio, Texas. The Cancer Research Therapy Center has offered Dr. Wife a great job. She will start at the beginning of May, and I will move down and join her as quickly as we can sell the house and finish teaching.

It is going to be a whirlwind couple of months. So come catch a Resistors show and drink a bye-bye beer with me.

I cannot imagine the chaos that the next few months will bring. Back surgery, ending school, finding a new career, moving to texas, buying a new home, selling a home. Crazy I tells ya, crazy.

Whether vain

Despite my dislike of yard work, spring is good for my soul. I spent my last day of break outside. I finished removing last summer's rust from my daughter's little wagon, leaving a coat of red Rustoleum gleaming in the sun.

I found the local hippie hangout, The Bourgeois Pig, ordered a Boulevard Stout, and set about organizing my lesson objectives for my last two months of teaching.

I can't help but be a bit melancholy about that. I feel I am leaving a job unfinished. But that's the nature of it. Teaching is static. A new class, the same topics. Rinse. Repeat. I see the upcoming months full of work and chaos and am finding comfort i the little task of chemistry teaching.

I had placed a lot of hope in physical therapy and epidurals. I feel cheated that I have to endure another surgery just to walk right. I want to lift bags of mulch to the garden. I want to carry my daughter into her bed when she falls asleep watching the heffalump movie. I've spent my life hating my body. And, despite how shallow it is, I'd like to be strong and handsome. I would like it if I didn't have to resent my body.

The young and good looking stroll by arm in arm, or eying an arm to arm. It's nice to watch and admire. The wind is threatening skirts and ball caps cocked crooked. It is time for a stroll to see if I can regain some feeling of foot or hope. I'd take either.

These chips need more salt

I spent the day at a casino. Playing poker. Texas hold 'em. What the hell? Certainly not normal for me. Spending 15 bucks on new underwear stresses me the hell out, so how could I sit down with $120 and play some 3-6 limit cards, much less for over 5 hours? There are a few factors that come into play...

• The teacher across the hall, affectionately dubbed "No Hair" by my daughter. He's bald, and plays a lot of poker. At a casino, online, with friends, at the drop of a hat, he will break out his mad poker skillz. He talked me into joining in, and gave me pointers before hand and during lunch to improve my play. Sound advice, from a man who spends as much time playing as I spend chasing my daughter.
  
• Spring break is only spring break if at least one day out of the break I goof off. I hadn't done that yet, and today was the last day. So far the break has consisted of house cleaning, bad spinal news and more physical therapy, and potty training.
  
• I needed to have a sustained, day long control-freak heart attack.

I was shaking like meth addict three days into rehab. I made some beginner blunders, that's for sure. But damn, it was fun. I folded, checked, raised, called, bluffed, got caught bluffing, and had a great time. It has some limitations for me as a lifelong hobby...

• First, it is a solo thing. Sure, you're in a group, but it's not a chatty, friendly bunch of guys. It's a bunch of people trying to trick you into talking your money into their hands.
• Secondly, it's money. Want to know what I stress about? Money. More than anything else in the world. It makes me a little nauseous. I never spend $100 for fun, much less gamble with it.
  
• Last, time. Poker takes time, and frankly, I don't have much. I would have to trade out my bass playing hobby, and I'd rather give up my liver than my bass.

So I will go again, and I will like it. I will even seek out opportunities to play. But I think the folks at 1-800-BETS-OFF won't be hearing from me anytime soon.

Oh, and how did I do? My $120 went back in the bank, I bought lunch, and I have enough left for a trip to the bookstore. It probably would have been better for my financial future if I had lost it all, but coming home with extra cash is great for the ego.

Dr. Wife Out on the Job Town

It has been a rocky road for the soon-to-be-Dr. Wife on the old job front. Here's the snapshot:

• Job interview and subsequent offer from a promising small company in Virginia. Company immediately purchased and everyone laid off.
• Job interview in New Jersey scheduled. The next day, this gigantic company ate another gigantic company and called a hiring freeze to digest itself.
• An old colleague in San Antonio working for a non-profit cancer firm called to set up an intview for her at his old job. Interview scheduled, all seems stable.
• Monday morning, New Jersey called. It seems the company burped and made room for a few more essential employees (taste like chicken). So they flew her out that afternoon.

So this week she flew to Jersey, will interview for a day and a half, will fly to San Antonion, will interview for a day and a half, and will then fly home to get back to her 12 hour days writing the dissertation. It is wearing her out, but I will be surprised if this doesn't net her offers in Jersey and Texas.

So what say you, wise readers? Jersey, or Texas?

Put the needle on the record

It has been one hell of a week. Tuesday and Wednesday were 13 hour work days, with parent teacher conferences in the evening. It is exhausting to manage kids all day and parents in the evening. The upside is, I get tomorrow off as reward. Then next week is spring break. I will be napping. I can almost taste the sleep...

Today, however, was another epidural injection. I find it ironic that to begin the process I must first roll onto my side and curl into the fetal position. Then the anesthesiologist numbs my back with a topical anesthetic. This is then followed by the insertion of a long, sturdy needle through my back muscles and into the fluid space around my disc and spinal column. Then he pushes cortisone steroids into it. The feeling is a lot like boiling water moving down the muscles of my leg into my foot in a flash of pain.

Useless statement of the day: I don't like it.

It has left me shuffling stiffly around the house. I'll be able to function again tomorrow, and will know in a week whether or not this has done any good.

Beach Blanket Bingo

I'm pretty pumped this week about my weight loss achievements. I am back in the same size jeans I wore at the end of college, and they look good. I'm well below 200 pounds for the first time since then as well.

Despite the back troubles, I am keeping on track with the get fit goals. I've been a bit of a slacker this week, but am looking forward to some meal planning this weekend that should get the ball rolling again.

The impetus? Puerto Morelos Mexico.
My fraternity brothers and I have rented a house for a week in July. A few assorted wives and friends will be coming along. The daughter will be with grandparents, so it will be sun, cervesas, and swimming for grown ups.

I want to be good looking in the ol' bathing suit. Not necessarily abs of steel, but I certainly want people to be glad my shirt is off on the beach. Hell, I want folks to be glad my pants are off at the beach...

Stuck by stuckhere...

Are you jealous, as I am, that many cool kids get to go to the south by southwest music festival (affectionately referred to as SXSW)? Do you crave to be a part of the rock and roots action? Are you instead drinking a beer in your living room trying to hide from the daunting pile of dirty laundry mere feet from your couch? Then this is your lucky day! Thanks to the festival administrators and one baddass website you can download several hundred free tunes from the bands involved. It's legal and encouraged!
It's almost like I'm there. Except it's creepy when I wave a lighter and scream freebird at my computer...

New job...

I am about to enter my last quarter as a teacher. I'm throwing in the towel. I surrender. It has been something that I have excelled at and pushed the boundaries of. But enough is enough. It's a tough job that gets worse as you get older.

I am still, however, completely clueless as to what comes next. More school? A new career? And where will that be? My wife has about a month left until she is Dr. Wife, PhD. Although that sounds glamourous, it is really just stressful, as she is interviewing for a select few jobs that happen to all be located on edges of the US. Currently, we are in the wheat-fed middle.

So help me out. Career advice, por favor!

Limping...

So here is the problem. A few weeks back, I herniated two disks in my back. Same story as 5 years ago. No specific injury or incident. All of a sudden, I couldn't walk. Immense pain that crippled me for a week. Then the pain let off, and left me with some sciatic issues. Half of my left leg is subject to bursts of immense pain. The other half is constantly numb, including my left foot.

Last week I had an epidural injection of cortizone. That's a big ass needle shooting steroids into my spinal space. It hurt, and so far has done nothing. The good news is, it's the first in a series of three. Oh, shit. That's the good news.

I am praying desparately that this doesn't mean surgery, but that little floating chunk is taunting me... like it knows how much I want to rip it out and start riding a bike.

The eye of the beholder...

photo copyright Matt Whitlock of Zeta-Alpha Studios, 2005

Every now and then, I feel unkempt. Not quite together. My clothes seem to fit poorly, my hair not quite disciplined, and I truly doubt that the wife will remain as such.

Then I attend a Truckstop Honeymoon show. And halfway through the gritty vaudevilian banjo/bass thwacking goodness I look around. And that, my friends, puts it all in perspective. There is nothing uglier than a bunch of grinnin' hillbillies. Overalls, dirty denim, sweat-stained flannels, and straw hats that have obviously been chewed by mouths lacking all requisite teeth. I felt dashing.

The music of the two is as genuine and real as they. It tells of getting kicked out of summer bible camp, chasing a mosquito fogging truck on bikes, and the things that make momma cry. It is written by two people who obviously mated for life and are as comfortable with each other as, well, old denim.

The married couple that make up the band aren't exactly models themselves. Katie, the prettier of the two, thumped the strings of the upright bass in worn out jeans, self-cut hair, and horizontal stripes stretched across her pleasantly pregnant belly. Singing makes her damn good looking, despite a rather intense gaze. Her husband, Mike, well...

Some people are born for their jobs. Looking at Mike, he was given an option: serial killer or redneck roadshow rockstar. At times his eyes blaze maniacal. His unwashed, uncut, unshaven head dances over the top of his banjo with an eerily lucid awareness. I promise you all, I will continue attending their raw performances if for no other reason than to prevent him from slipping into his alternate career. Because he would be just as good at that.

And for those with an ear for banjo and meth, check out Fast Food Junkies, the opening band. Damn fine night in Kansas, it was. Damn fine.

Crocus

It is blustery cold, but the crocuses are blooming in the garden. While some may call this a wonderful harbinger of spring, I know it for the truth. It is time to begin yardwork.
Mowing, weeding, mulching, pruning, dethatching, fertilizing, watering, repeating. I can't stand it. If it grows, it makes me sneeze. And yet I am compelled by neighborhood guilt and patriarchal tradition to make myself into some sort of harvestless farmer.
I dream of green concrete, wrought iron ivies, and sprinklers that spray single malt into my mouth as I lounge by a self cleaning pool...

A journey of 1000 miles...

I'm not an accomplished writer, but I'll give it a shot. Let's make a deal; you read, I'll write. I'm not swearing to volume or high quality, just some musings from time to time. An occassional smirk may occur.