Sometimes when I’m diapering my son I wish I paid more attention in junior high gym class. I probably should have taken notes during the part of the year when they forced us to learn wrestling (or in my case, how to be wrestled).
P.S. In case you are curious, the last time I really enjoyed gym class was when we got to play with a parachute back in elementary school. Pity that.
P.P.S. The title of the post is a funny. No DSS calls, please.
The biggest problem with driving a Toyota Prius to a place like Whole Foods is if there are enough of them there in different colors they want to get together to form a battle robot. You have to sit there patiently until they vanquish whatever foe happens to be around (Inorganicatron?) before you get your car back and can leave.
Lured by the announcement that free and legal (cough, cough) episodes of The Daily Show would eventually be made available on Fancast, I’ve been spending too much time sucking TV down a broadband tube.
I was perusing the selection when I came upon a sidebar with a listing of the Top Reality Shows on their service. Right at the top was American Gladiators.
And I thought, “wow, finally a reality show that matches my daily life!”
P.S. That’s me, of course, second from the left.
And now back to our regularly scheduled program…
Why yes, I’ve been a totally absent landgentry here at the dNblog for over a year and for that I apologize. A few things contributed to that absence.
First, much life was had. If you read some of the previous posts (especially those labeled “natal”) you can probably guess some of the story. I probably won’t backfill many of the details here unless they are particularly amusing.
Second, the whole “please register to see my personal posts” was a big downer for a number of reasons. Nobody registered (and why would you? It is like asking someone to create a new account to keep up with the kind of sandwich your friend’s grandmother eats every day). Plus, it wasn’t as fun to write posts kept in a secret garden no one could visit.
To fix that I’ve moved this blog to a domain that doesn’t include my last name and said name is conspicuously absent from the site. That removes the “stranger stumble upon our family’s personal details” potential that worried my spouse in regard to personal postings. If you already know that info or figure it out yourself (pretty easy to do), let’s keep this personal identifier between us, shall we? If this domain change messed up your RSS reader, my apologies.
In case you are curious, ‘omphalo.org” is the short version of “omphaloskepsis.org” Unfortunately that domain is taken in all of the reasonable top level namespaces so I’ve settled for the easier to type version.
So, please to enjoy. Looking forward to getting back to the old blogosaurus.
A few days ago I was driving my family to some place when I took a wrong turn. Turning left would have (I know now) placed us right at our destination, but instead I found myself in the wrong lane looking wistfully at the turnoff I wasn’t making.
We wound up heading down a highway that quickly dropped us into a town that didn’t look even remotely familiar. We had no map available (not that maps do any good when one is completely disoriented) nor an easy place to stop to get directions.
To get us found again, I realized I used the following maxims that felt remarkably like something I’d use at work:
As surprised or even more surprised than anyone else in the car, I managed to get us to the landmark I was hoping to find for getting us back on track. Once there, returning to our original road was easy. Unfortunately we couldn’t actually turn at the right place on to the road when coming from that direction, but that’s a story for another time.
Saw a Reebok t-shirt on the subway today that said “Just do what?” It’s a pretty amusing response to Nike’s ad campaign. I was thinking we should take this one step further by getting David Mamet to create t-shirts for both companies. I can see something like this:
t-shirt 1: Just do it!
t-shirt 2: Just do what?
t-shirt 3: The thing.
t-shirt 4: The thing?
t-shirt 5: You know, the thing.
t-shirt 6: The thing?
t-shirt 7: The thing.(and so on)
If you can’t wait for this to happen, you can buy some very nice Samuel Beckett t-shirts online.
I figure I might as well get this rant out now, all the better to laugh at my naïveté later on when I find myself doing it to other people.
My current suspicion is that everyone who gives birth in a hospital gets a handout on the way out with a set of instructions. These instructions prescribe a specific monologue one is supposed to recite next time someone tells you they are expecting a child. It goes something like this:
(person’s eyes start to focus on some point far in the distance)
Going to have a baby huh? Boy, will things change for you. No really, things are really going to change. You have no idea. You think you know what is going to happen, but you don’t know. You probably think you know what the word “change” means, but I’m telling you, you have no idea. You think the Industrial Revolution was a pretty big change? Well let me tell you, that was nothing compared to what you are about to experience…”
(and so on)
Now, I know people are trying to be helpful and supportive, and I appreciate that. But after hearing a similar unsolicited riff from four or five people, it can get a bit eerie. Kind of like wondering into the Annual Prophets of Doom Convention by mistake at a hotel. Hang out there long enough, and it’ll make anyone jumpy.
So hear-ye, hear-ye, I get it. Something, something I can’t possibly understand, something big, is about to happen. Check.
Alrighty, then.
P.S. I’m grateful to the people who, after channelling the required message from Gozer the Gozerian, refocus their eyes long enough to tell me how much joy and fun having a kid will be. That helps bring the Anxiety-o-meter back out of the red zone, at least for a few minutes.
P.P.S. Update: science weighs in on the side of the Prophets.
So, I’m a bit behind on the blogging thing. How behind?
Almost precisely 35 weeks behind. Yes, that picture is for real. I took it myself back in November.
Shortly after I got married, close to 15 years ago, I started to write an essay called “A Hyphen is a Very Small Tightrope.” It was going to be a humorous but poignant retelling of the brain mastication that eventually led me to hyphenate my name. I had fantasies of selling the piece to Ms. magazine (and maybe having Gloria Steinem herself compliment me on how enlightened I was). I’ve got the nascent essay around here some place, but every time I look at it it makes me wince for the same reason everyone’s junior high school picture makes them flinch. Perhaps some day I’ll actually rewrite the essay and send it to Ms..
Pan ahead 15 years. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s another essay about ready to be written: “A Positive Pregnancy Test Is Also a Very Small Tightrope.”
And just like I felt with the first incarnation of this metaphor, I’ve got one end of the tightrope in my hand and the other is tied to who knows what? Nor do I have a good idea of what I do when I get to that side. Wish it was as simple as “stop on the platform, wave at the crowd with a flourish and drink in the applause.” Just FYI, that didn’t work for marriage either.
Back to blogging. I’ve got a bunch of stuff backed up around the fun with pregnancy that I may try to post here if I have a spare moment. I can assure you that I don’t intend this to turn into a blog entirely about pregnancy or poopy diapers. There are plenty of better blogs for that sort of thing. But given this stuff has/will consume my life for a while, the blog will no doubt include some of it. If these topics aren’t to your liking, I’ve created a new category for those posts (’natal’) so you can just avoid them.
I learned at a recent routine physical that I needed a booster for my tetanus/diphtheria vaccination. I was given a charming handout written by the Center for Disease Control back in 1994 (really) to help me mull over the benefits and risks of the shot. As I pondered the sheet in front of me that had obviously been copied hundreds of time (perhaps from the original in a monastery some place in Italy), I couldn’t get over the pictures on it.
The first one (above) is obviously of a child, arms wide up, thrilled to be receiving a vaccination. It’s a simple ironic tale where you know the end won’t be particularly happy. More problematic for me was the second picture (to the right of this paragraph).
Try as I might, I could not figure out what an older couple serving coffee could have to do with a tetanus/diphtheria shot. This started to bother me so I began asking everyone if they had any ideas. The nurse who brought the shot in didn’t know. The doctor that administered the booster had no idea. The two phlebotomists in the lab wouldn’t even begin to speculate. No one else seemed to even care about this enigma burning in front of me in all of its mimeographed glory.
I left the medical center that day with no answers and a slight dismay over the lack of curiosity left in today’s medical system.
P.S. The whole sheet can be found here. If you happen to bump into the Surgeon General, would you be so kind as to ask about this for me?
From the Boston Metro’s 3/22/06 ‘Health Guide’ (read: advertising) insert:
Headline at top of page 17: “The Ring Boxing Club Comes to Boston”
(…turn page)
Headline at top of page 19: “March is Brain Injury Awareness Month”
Sheesh, it’s clear I’ve hung around people in the GLBT community for a long time when:
Bathroom fixtures with built-in motion sensors seems to be a growing standard in the public restrooms I’ve been visiting lately. The toilet or urinal flushes when you are done, the faucet turns on when you put your hands on it, soap is dispensed, paper towels provided upon demand.
I don’t want to make any sort of argument about the adverse impact this is having on our society, but I have noted two problems:
First, the number of times I have found myself standing in front of my toilet at home, waiting patiently for it to flush itself seems to be growing. Not a good sign.
Second, whenever I’m in one of these restrooms, I find myself feeling like I’m auditioning for a part in Oliver Twist. I wander from device to device, palms outstretched as if I’m on the verge of saying “Please, sir, I want some more.” The fixtures have been very generous so far, But some day, when they add the tech needed talk to each other, that may not be the case. My plan is to hire a solicitor to bring with me to the bathroom should this happen. (”Listen here, Sink, my client has made a perfectly reasonable request for water.”)
A couple of days ago we heard a few noises on the roof but didn’t think much of it. Yesterday, the following scene transpired:
Spouse sits in den, watches syrupy TV show series on DVD.
(with some alarm) Spouse: Um, there’s a squirrel.
Me: Ok, that would explain the noises we heard.
Spouse: No, I mean: there’s a squirrel. Right here. In the den. With me. And the cats.
Me: Alrighty, then.
I swoop into the den, grab a cat, instruct spouse to grab a cat, and request an immediate exit omnes. A couple of minutes later, I gingerly step into the room and see that there is indeed a very small, very scared looking squirrel curled up in one corner of the room.
First step: find the number and call the animal control officer for the town. Recorded message says “Sorry, we’re not in until tomorrow, try calling either the police or the animal rescue league.”
Squirrel looks like it would be hip to a rescue right about now (from us), so I call the Animal Rescue League. Recorded message says “Sorry, we’re not in until tomorrow, try calling your local police or animal control officer.”
Seems like we have exactly one option, so I call the cops.
Nice lady policeperson: We don’t have animal control on right now, so you might want to try shooing it out.
Me: Um, we’re in a multi-level house and not even on the bottom level. I don’t think we could really shoo it directly out of the house.
Policeperson: Oh. Well, you could try opening a window.
Me: Opening a window, huh? And then try to shoo it out the window? That’s what you’d suggest?
Policeperson: Yes. Call me back and let me know how it goes, Honey.
(yes, she did really call me “Honey.”)
I’m more than a little dubious, but I go over and open the window. It is an awfully long way down. My spouse and I exchange a look along the lines of “making the squirrel jump to its death doesn’t seem very nice, does it?”
More confab, and we decide maybe we could catch it in the cat carrier and take it out of the house. Around now we call a pair of sane friends who think this is a bad idea. One thinks shooing out the window may be possible, but unlikely and the other recommends leaving a little trail of yummies to bait it out the window. (what it does when it gets out there, besides maybe tip the waiter, isn’t specified).
Various objections start to form in my mind to this plan: can’t really think of what to use for bait (we’re not a big peanut butter and cracker family), what if we actually lure other family members into the open window, and then there’s the long-way-down factor to contend with when it actually gets to the window. Back to the drawing board.
Pull our housemates into the scenario. Confab, confab, confab. We decide to call some of the pest control places with pictures of squirrels in their phone book ads. Two places that advertise 24-hour service have answering services and promise to “page their technicians.” (who never called back). I think “I don’t really need a technician. I’m a technician. I need someone to help with squirrels.” Third place actually answers their phone themselves.
Good news: sure, they can come out, and either remove the squirrel or put a trap down and come back later if they can’t catch it then. Bad news: that will be $275. Confab, confab. Housemate suggests buying a trap. Home Despot (sic) has a trap for $40.
Call pest control place back, owner says that having us do the initial trap and having them come out tomorrow to deal with situation more permanently would be fine (though “it is like going to a hardware store and buying some paint and brushes to paint your dining room. Will it look as good as a professional job?”). We decide to chance it. We set up plans for the followup visit for the next day (average cost: $300-$400). Pest control person is nice enough to offer a few tips on the do-it-yourself traps. We also talk a bit about what one can do with a trapped squirrel. Apparently, even without a subway pass, they can return from distances of 30 miles. Still, we express a desire not to have the animal destroyed and they are cool with that. Apparently there is a place (really) that takes animals like this.
Housemate and spouse heads out to Home Despot. While they are out, squirrel shimmies back under the broom closet door in the den from which it came. I quickly jam a yoga pranayama pillow into the door crack (Light on Pest Control) to keep it from coming back into the den.
Back with trap in hand, we spend a few moments deciding whether to use the housemate’s smooth or chunky peanut butters for bait (we choose smooth, for the record). Figure out how to set the trap, leave it in the sealed room and bed down for a nice relaxing night’s sleep. Or rather, attempt at sleep but waking up at every little house noise.
Today the pest control person shows up. Nothing in the trap. We open the broom closet door and surprise!…a small, scared squirrel in the corner of the closet. Pest control person deftly grabs the squirrel using some long-reach pincers and drops him in the trap he brought for the occasion. Squirrel starts screaming its head off. Pest control guy figures out that the squirrel got his foot wedged in gap in the trap and (using gloves) quickly frees it from the jam.
Squirrel stops screaming (phew, because by this time at least one cat is on the phone to her therapist), but proceeds to zoom around the inside of the trap at super-hero speeds for a few seconds. [Note to self: cat carrier idea, not so good.] Ask again about not killing the trapped squirrel and hear the reassuring words “No, this is a baby. They’ll be no killing” as he takes it out to the truck. Happy with the answer, really hope it is true. (exit squirrel).
The rest of the story isn’t nearly as exciting. It just consists of us paying a ton of money to get two one-way doors installed in our gutter area and the entire facia board area sealed with steel mesh. Today’s lesson: squirrels are cute, except when they are in your house. Then, not so much.
Our cats shed a great deal during the summer. It is hard to conceive of how much they shed unless you stop by our house. If we don’t vacuum once every few days there are these big puffy balls of excess cat hair all over the place on the floor.
In the past we’d refer to them as tumbleweeds, since they blow by like props in some Sergio Leone spaghetti western film. These days I’m more inclined to say our house looks like the set for a new remake of Heaven Can Wait. The one consolation is it is really, really fun to vacuum up a bunch of little clouds. Try it some time, you’ll see.
Various parts of the Jewish people believe various things about whether the religion gets passed down through one parent or the other. I don’t want to weigh in on that debate, but I’m pretty sure I know some things will definitely come though only one of us.
For instance, I’m pretty sure if a child of ours knows how to clean out the hair snare in our shower drain, it will have been via patrilineal descent.
I’m reminded of this each time I find myself standing in the shower, frantically flapping my foot on top of the drain like some berserk, impatient leprechaun in the hopes I can pseudo-plunge it enough to keep the distinction between taking a shower vs. standing in a bath clear.
P.S. As I sit here writing this, one of our cats is doing his own hairball rotor-rooter right at my feet. Ah, the critics!
I don’t know what you talk about in bed with your spouse, but this was part of our conversation last night:
Me: (something about the Hamburgler, can’t remember exactly what)
Spouse: You know, you don’t really see him in commercials much these days.
Me: Yeah, I think he moved on to feature films. Or perhaps daytime soaps.
(Nurse):But Doctor! The patient! We’re losing him!
(Doctor):burgle, burgle, burgle
The sad thing, of course, was that we both said that last line together.
Last week (why yes, I am catching up) I had a standard eye exam for which my eyes were dilated. I sat in the waiting room waiting for the drops to take effect, staring at nothing in particular because reading isn’t all that viable. [note to self: bring an old-time radio show to listen to next time].
As I looked around the room, my eyes lit upon the spine of a couple of books on the shelf. I couldn’t make out the title of the books. The more I stared and squinted, the more they looked like Greek to me. It turns out, they were Greek. The optometrist, who is Greek, had received a two volume Greek bible set as a present from one of his patients.
He told me that while in English we say something “looked like Greek to me,” in Greek, they say something “looked like Chinese to me.” This of course begs the question: what do Mandarin et. al speakers say in this case?
Last week my yoga teacher mentioned a lovely quote from Matsuo Basho (1644-1694). When I went to find the citation on the Internet, I encountered no less than eight different translations of the same quote:
The first is the most common one I found. Still, the presence of the others (with their use of “men” vs. “poets” vs. “wise” vs. “elders” vs. “masters”) leaves me a bit disquieted. It seems like there’s an important word choice here; which is most faithful to the text?
I wonder if Basho would have been amused by this situation.
Spent a little time last couple of weeks in a hospital waiting for other people. I’ve noticed that several hospitals stock their bathrooms with a soap called Soft ‘N Sure (a rich, creamy skin cleanser if you must know).
Once I got past the fact that the soap and I had the same middle initial, I started to think about how products like this could have worse names. I bet “Hard ‘N Uncertain” wouldn’t have sold nearly as well.
I’ve decided next time some stranger approaches me on the street or in the subway and asks:
So, do you read The Bible?
I’m going to respond:
Yes, and I act out all of the characters too. Why do you ask?