One rarely gets to see his family get this excited about laundry. Come to think of it, one rarely gets to feel this excited about laundry.
I blame our dryer.
The appliance repair guy visited our house again today. I must state, for the record, that this is not the same twit who darkened our laundry room two weeks ago. No, that turkey came, diagnosed a faulty door switch, said it would take about a week to order, then promptly went his way and completely failed to mention anything about our needing a new door switch to anyone who could do something about it. He was about as efficient an airhead as I ever hope to meet.
Mrs. Woody, after seeing me vent my spleen about park managers who failed for the umpteenth consecutive weekend to open the laundry room so I could feed their stinkin' dryer its steady diet of quarters in return for, oh, about 1/3 the load our dryer normally handles, decided (Mrs. Woody, that is, in case you've forgotten) to call Maytag and find out where, oh, where our missing repair person had gone.
That's when she found out that, according to that repair person, our dryer was perfectly fine. Only it really wasn't, Mrs. Woody pointed out. She'd just sent her husband back to the Dryer From the Vending Machine Inferno because he'd just confirmed that our dryer really was still dead.
Fortunately, the Maytag lady who handled the call was very gracious. She admitted that it was entirely the repair person's fault that we were still without a functioning dryer and promised to reprocess our order. No guarantees about timing, of course, which meant waiting yet another week, but we were, by now, quite desperate. Mrs. Woody also insisted, it goes without saying, that a different repair person make the visit. To this, also, the Maytag Lady assented.
So, today, right on schedule (although this, of itself, isn't special -- the twit was also right on time) our different repair person appeared. 15 minutes later we had a functioning dryer. We also found out (I would have written this into a script for any given sit-com) that it was, according to the repair person, the easiest part on the dryer to replace. "Open the door, two screws, and you've got it," he said. Of course. Silly me. At least it was covered by our extended warranty.
You may imagine that both the washer and our newly revitalized dryer have been pressed into indentured servitude since about 5 minutes after the repair person left the house. We're on load number 4 in the dryer, and number 5 is churning in the washer. We have probably another 2 to go before we're caught up. I have already folded more laundry today than I have in nearly a year.
Mrs. Woody, for her part, normally does the folding, but she's hip-deep in plans for our daughter's 9th Birthday Celebration, which involves a Harry Potter-Themed Sleepover for Five Little Girls. She's taking this extremely well, which probably means I'd better go check my Xanax prescription and see if it's lighter than I remember it from the other day. Of course, since I get to "assist" with decorating, herding, shopping, and doing voice-over work for the Sorting Hat, maybe I should hit the bottle instead.
Aw, who'm I kidding? Your daughter doesn't turn 9 every day, and she's having the time of her young life. I'll probably enjoy every minute of it, so long as my back holds out.
In the meantime, gotta run. Got laundry to fold, transfer, and wash. Gotta put more card stock in the printer. Busy, busy, busy.
Enjoying the "simple pleasures," as Mrs. Woody put it.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
#137 - Our Private Louvre
A yacht under sail cuts across the open ocean. The seas are a bit choppy, but she slices through each swell like a hot knife through butter. The skies are cloudy, meaning a good breeze to keep the sails full. The sleek hull bobs lightly up and down, yet remains pointed in a direction pre-determined by a wizened skipper.
To the north, the skies are darker. In fact, a squall is brewing, sending waves crashing against jagged rocks near the shore. This is not a welcoming beach with warm, gray sand. This is a coast accustomed to the sharp edges of volcanic rock that was tossed - almost casually - by a distant volcano now many centuries dormant. Instantly cooled and hardened by a cold, forbidding sea, the rocks serve as a reminder that a following sea is no guarantee of safe arrival. The waves here are respected by those who know them, and they carefully navigate around them.
Across a natural harbor, surrounded by these rough-hewn sentries, stands a beacon. A lighthouse erected nearly two centuries ago to guide those who must brave these waters in the name of trade and commerce. In stormy skies its bright lamp shines its warning to captains of these vessels: Keep your distance; these rocks have claimed more than their fair share of boats! Some were built stronger and sturdier even than yours, but in the end they were no match for the stone devils.
To the south, a safe harbor waits. Here a familiar shape makes its approach to its home slip. A "pleasure craft," they call it, complete with a fly deck (although its skipper cringes at the term - to him it was always the "bridge") and a trusty first mate. This first mate also happens to be the skipper's loving wife and companion of over forty years, and you never see one without the other. They both love the sea, although she loves it more because her husband is himself enamored of it. She simply wants to be where he is. It's a formula that has worked for literally decades together.
Four paintings hang on our walls in our little home. They are four friends of mine. I have grown up with them, and I knew the painter intimately. He was my grandfather, and my boyhood hero. He was, by trade, a calculating engineer. A master designer who was well-respected in his industry. An inventor, even, who helped a company design and build a small gas-powered engine that became the ancestor of all modern chain saws. But he was not typical of the stereotype that has become the modern engineer. He was a man of tremendous creative energy and quiet passion. His creative side manifested itself in two primary ways; he was both a musician and a gifted artist.
As a musician we were treated to jigs and reels at family gatherings. Mom would sit at the piano and Grandpa would tune up the fiddle. The family would gather in whatever room housed the piano and enjoy a concert we'd all pay good money to hear today. The repertoire could be altered to match the season: jigs and reels at Thanksgiving, and carols at Christmas time.
But it was the ocean where we spent my most memorable times with Grandma and Grandpa. We would take it in turns to sit on the fly de... excuse me, the bridge, and when it got too crowded we would retreat to the smallish cabin where Grandma reigned as the supreme Tour Guide. She would hold her young crew's interest with tales of the sea, the local harbors, the sight of the Queen Mary as it was prepared for its eventual use as a floating museum, and round after round of "My Dog Has Fleas" on the ukelele she always kept on board.
Grandma and Grandpa spent considerable time travelling when their children had grown and left them with an empty nest. The family had moved several times between the midwest and California, where they eventually settled for good. In their travels, Grandpa had stored up a vast bank of imagery that he decided to commit to canvas, most of it dealing with the ocean. There are a few desert scenes, to be sure. One ancient and lonely adobe hut stands out in memory amongst a desolation of saguaro cactus and yucca. But his seascapes captivated me from the time I was old enough to remember visits to Grandpa's boat.
Tall, three-masted schooners. Stormy seas. Crashing waves. All of them creating a kinship I have always felt with the sea; a kinship now shared with my own adoring and loving companion. Our living room is a shrine of sorts to the majesty of the ocean, and the wonderful memories of our childhoods. The paintings are one of my remedies for stress; if I can study them and enjoy the strokes of a master, and the hues of green and blue that evoke those tender memories, I can become a happier man.
I only once actually watched Grandpa paint. He didn't usually like to do that when family were visiting, wanting to be sociable instead. Also, I think painting was a private experience for him. A chance to create visual memories that held his imagination captive and whisked him away to one of those tall-masted boats.
Memories that I now hold vicariously.
Thank you, Grandpa. And God bless you.
To the north, the skies are darker. In fact, a squall is brewing, sending waves crashing against jagged rocks near the shore. This is not a welcoming beach with warm, gray sand. This is a coast accustomed to the sharp edges of volcanic rock that was tossed - almost casually - by a distant volcano now many centuries dormant. Instantly cooled and hardened by a cold, forbidding sea, the rocks serve as a reminder that a following sea is no guarantee of safe arrival. The waves here are respected by those who know them, and they carefully navigate around them.
Across a natural harbor, surrounded by these rough-hewn sentries, stands a beacon. A lighthouse erected nearly two centuries ago to guide those who must brave these waters in the name of trade and commerce. In stormy skies its bright lamp shines its warning to captains of these vessels: Keep your distance; these rocks have claimed more than their fair share of boats! Some were built stronger and sturdier even than yours, but in the end they were no match for the stone devils.
To the south, a safe harbor waits. Here a familiar shape makes its approach to its home slip. A "pleasure craft," they call it, complete with a fly deck (although its skipper cringes at the term - to him it was always the "bridge") and a trusty first mate. This first mate also happens to be the skipper's loving wife and companion of over forty years, and you never see one without the other. They both love the sea, although she loves it more because her husband is himself enamored of it. She simply wants to be where he is. It's a formula that has worked for literally decades together.
Four paintings hang on our walls in our little home. They are four friends of mine. I have grown up with them, and I knew the painter intimately. He was my grandfather, and my boyhood hero. He was, by trade, a calculating engineer. A master designer who was well-respected in his industry. An inventor, even, who helped a company design and build a small gas-powered engine that became the ancestor of all modern chain saws. But he was not typical of the stereotype that has become the modern engineer. He was a man of tremendous creative energy and quiet passion. His creative side manifested itself in two primary ways; he was both a musician and a gifted artist.
As a musician we were treated to jigs and reels at family gatherings. Mom would sit at the piano and Grandpa would tune up the fiddle. The family would gather in whatever room housed the piano and enjoy a concert we'd all pay good money to hear today. The repertoire could be altered to match the season: jigs and reels at Thanksgiving, and carols at Christmas time.
But it was the ocean where we spent my most memorable times with Grandma and Grandpa. We would take it in turns to sit on the fly de... excuse me, the bridge, and when it got too crowded we would retreat to the smallish cabin where Grandma reigned as the supreme Tour Guide. She would hold her young crew's interest with tales of the sea, the local harbors, the sight of the Queen Mary as it was prepared for its eventual use as a floating museum, and round after round of "My Dog Has Fleas" on the ukelele she always kept on board.
Grandma and Grandpa spent considerable time travelling when their children had grown and left them with an empty nest. The family had moved several times between the midwest and California, where they eventually settled for good. In their travels, Grandpa had stored up a vast bank of imagery that he decided to commit to canvas, most of it dealing with the ocean. There are a few desert scenes, to be sure. One ancient and lonely adobe hut stands out in memory amongst a desolation of saguaro cactus and yucca. But his seascapes captivated me from the time I was old enough to remember visits to Grandpa's boat.
Tall, three-masted schooners. Stormy seas. Crashing waves. All of them creating a kinship I have always felt with the sea; a kinship now shared with my own adoring and loving companion. Our living room is a shrine of sorts to the majesty of the ocean, and the wonderful memories of our childhoods. The paintings are one of my remedies for stress; if I can study them and enjoy the strokes of a master, and the hues of green and blue that evoke those tender memories, I can become a happier man.
I only once actually watched Grandpa paint. He didn't usually like to do that when family were visiting, wanting to be sociable instead. Also, I think painting was a private experience for him. A chance to create visual memories that held his imagination captive and whisked him away to one of those tall-masted boats.
Memories that I now hold vicariously.
Thank you, Grandpa. And God bless you.
Friday, June 09, 2006
#136 - One of the Mysteries of the Gospel
Ever wondered what, exactly, a Stake Sunday School presidency does?
Me, too.
Back in the day, Dad was the Stake Sunday School president. This was in the days before the 3 hour bloc, and Stake Conferences generally had a Sunday School session to keep the kids busy while the parents sat and listened to about 25 gazillion speakers. We all had our favorite speakers, by the way. "Oh, good. Bro. So-and-so from the High Council. Hand me that pillow, wouldja?"
But I digress.
We all figured that the Spirit must have had some sort of speech defect when he whispered Dad's name in the Stake President's ear. Well, maybe Mom didn't. But we kids sure did. "Dad? Our Dad? The Glowering Inferno? That Dad?"
But it turned out that Dad was one of the best S.S. Prezes ever. For one thing, Dad was a natural administrator. He was an aerospace professional and consummate businessman. He knew all about how to run an efficient organization, and the Sunday School is typically one of the loosest organizations on earth today. It was a challenge tailor-made to Dad's particular talents.
It also transpired that Stake Conferences were one of his favorite events when he served in that calling. Dad was never much for sitting in a two-hour long session of talk after talk. Plus, he had a real soft spot for kids. It actually amused him (more, I must say, than he ever let on at home) to watch these pint-sized people interact with life. So while many people tried to commiserate with Dad about having to deal with the little banshees, Dad would just smirk and secretly look forward to the show.
Even then, I never really knew what it was that a Stake Sunday School presidency did. Which is why you will not be surprised to learn that I have just been called as 2nd Counselor in the Stake Sunday School.
I believe I accepted at least partly out of sheer curiosity. The mystery surrounding Stake Sunday School is nearly impenetrable these days, especially since the 3 hour bloc program was instituted. I do know that we sustain them in Stake Conference during the sustaining of Church officers. About 3 seconds after we do, I have completely forgotten their names. Now, in my case it may well be that as my name is called in wards around the Stake, a few people will think, "Oh, that's that fellow that sang in our ward a couple years ago." But then they, too, will forget my name. I think they must specifically state this in your setting apart blessing. "We bless you that you will become safely anonymous in the Stake, and this cloak of invisibility will last until you are safely released." I actually could live with that.
Of course, at some level I believe this will be a fun calling. Teaching is my celestial calling. Music may be my eternal calling (once a Church musician, always a Church musician!), but it's teaching that I truly enjoy. The counselor in the Stake Presidency that extended the calling - who also happens to be a member of our ward - even paid me a very nice compliment: He told me that, in discussing my name with the Bishop (turns out I need to be released from my dysfunctional Public Affairs calling. Drat.) that they both agreed that I have a natural gift for teaching. He said that I have a way of bringing out the simplicities of the principles that I teach. Since I've only taught about three classes in the entire time I've been in this Stake, I'm glad he saw that.
So, for whatever reason, the Lord wants me in the Sunday School. The handbook, I must say, is sketchy at best about the calling. We "serve as a resource to ward Sunday School presidencies." We "instruct and advise individual presidencies as requested by the ward or directed by the stake presidency." In other words, we get to annoy ward Sunday Schools by announcing that we're coming for a little visit so we can disrupt their otherwise quiet Sundays.
Heh.
Oh, there's the inevitable meetings, of course. Presidency meetings, meetings with the Stake leadership, auxilliary training meetings, and so on. We also no longer have separate Sunday School sessions of Stake Conference. Not for a few decades now. But as long as I get to teach on occasion, so what?
I'll be in heaven.
Me, too.
Back in the day, Dad was the Stake Sunday School president. This was in the days before the 3 hour bloc, and Stake Conferences generally had a Sunday School session to keep the kids busy while the parents sat and listened to about 25 gazillion speakers. We all had our favorite speakers, by the way. "Oh, good. Bro. So-and-so from the High Council. Hand me that pillow, wouldja?"
But I digress.
We all figured that the Spirit must have had some sort of speech defect when he whispered Dad's name in the Stake President's ear. Well, maybe Mom didn't. But we kids sure did. "Dad? Our Dad? The Glowering Inferno? That Dad?"
But it turned out that Dad was one of the best S.S. Prezes ever. For one thing, Dad was a natural administrator. He was an aerospace professional and consummate businessman. He knew all about how to run an efficient organization, and the Sunday School is typically one of the loosest organizations on earth today. It was a challenge tailor-made to Dad's particular talents.
It also transpired that Stake Conferences were one of his favorite events when he served in that calling. Dad was never much for sitting in a two-hour long session of talk after talk. Plus, he had a real soft spot for kids. It actually amused him (more, I must say, than he ever let on at home) to watch these pint-sized people interact with life. So while many people tried to commiserate with Dad about having to deal with the little banshees, Dad would just smirk and secretly look forward to the show.
Even then, I never really knew what it was that a Stake Sunday School presidency did. Which is why you will not be surprised to learn that I have just been called as 2nd Counselor in the Stake Sunday School.
I believe I accepted at least partly out of sheer curiosity. The mystery surrounding Stake Sunday School is nearly impenetrable these days, especially since the 3 hour bloc program was instituted. I do know that we sustain them in Stake Conference during the sustaining of Church officers. About 3 seconds after we do, I have completely forgotten their names. Now, in my case it may well be that as my name is called in wards around the Stake, a few people will think, "Oh, that's that fellow that sang in our ward a couple years ago." But then they, too, will forget my name. I think they must specifically state this in your setting apart blessing. "We bless you that you will become safely anonymous in the Stake, and this cloak of invisibility will last until you are safely released." I actually could live with that.
Of course, at some level I believe this will be a fun calling. Teaching is my celestial calling. Music may be my eternal calling (once a Church musician, always a Church musician!), but it's teaching that I truly enjoy. The counselor in the Stake Presidency that extended the calling - who also happens to be a member of our ward - even paid me a very nice compliment: He told me that, in discussing my name with the Bishop (turns out I need to be released from my dysfunctional Public Affairs calling. Drat.) that they both agreed that I have a natural gift for teaching. He said that I have a way of bringing out the simplicities of the principles that I teach. Since I've only taught about three classes in the entire time I've been in this Stake, I'm glad he saw that.
So, for whatever reason, the Lord wants me in the Sunday School. The handbook, I must say, is sketchy at best about the calling. We "serve as a resource to ward Sunday School presidencies." We "instruct and advise individual presidencies as requested by the ward or directed by the stake presidency." In other words, we get to annoy ward Sunday Schools by announcing that we're coming for a little visit so we can disrupt their otherwise quiet Sundays.
Heh.
Oh, there's the inevitable meetings, of course. Presidency meetings, meetings with the Stake leadership, auxilliary training meetings, and so on. We also no longer have separate Sunday School sessions of Stake Conference. Not for a few decades now. But as long as I get to teach on occasion, so what?
I'll be in heaven.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
#135 - Mommy Solomon
One joyful aspect of the Move From Hades© is the fact that toys will now be divided equally between the girls, and stored in their individual rooms. (You may believe that Mommy and Daddy take especial pleasure in the idea of individual rooms. You would be correct.)
One not-nearly-so-joyful aspect of the MFH™ is the equal dividing of toys.
Turns out that this is a pretty big emotional/political (these words are synonymous, no?) deal. The Woodyettes are torn between two extreme emotions. On the one hand, this business of splitting up the toys is hard work. There's the bother of having to take time out of their busy schedules to sit down with Mommy and indicate whether or not they approve of the proposed divisi. Which leads to the other extreme emotion, which is being absolutely dead-set against their sister having any advantage, toy-wise, which leads to frequent episodes of Peyton Place a la Woodyettes.
"But, Mooooooommy, I've had that dolly since I was a little girl! You can't give that one to her! [Lower lip begins quivering here.] I'll never be happy again!"
We hear this word "never" quite a lot in this house. To my knowledge, none of her more dire predictions have ever held water.
Mommy intervenes. "Bring me all of your dolls that are this same size." This is a chore in and of itself, inasmuch as the Woodyettes -- particularly the Doodle -- have been accumulating dolls for decades. In fact, several of their dolls were collected for them several years before they were even conceived. Still, the dolls are produced. Turns out there are three.
Now Mommy must put on her Solomon Crown and decide who gets which dolls, and whether to split one in half. ("Bring me my sword!") On second thought, threatening to split a doll in half does little but send both girls into tizzies because they both believe, passionately, that the doll is theirs. So, Mommy decides to give two to Doodle, who happens to be the more ardent collector of baby dolls right now, and the disputed doll goes to Jelly. Five minutes later, both girls have forgotten there even was a conflict. Mommy Solomon triumphs once again!
There's also the problem that both girls have become dedicated pack rats. This is not good. We live in a storage-challenged home, and there just isn't room to keep collecting every darn'd thing that crosses our paths. One of the things that led to the Move From Hades® in the first place was the fact that their shared room had just become far too cluttered with stuff. Between the beds, the furniture, and the toys, there was literally no room to spare. No play room on the floor. No place to keep their special things. So, a key activity before we ever split them up was decluttering their existing room. We were ruthless. We were downright cruel. We were merciless. We did this whenever the girls left the house for any reason, such as birthday parties.
It goes without saying that whenever you weed your toybox, a certain amount of reprogramming is required. "But, honey, don't you remember? We donated those toys to little girls who need them so much more than you do!" After hearing this several times they begin to parrot it back. Mommy and Daddy might find themselves looking for a particular toy months later, absolutely certain that it must still be in the house. "Don't you remember, Daddy? We donated that toy to a little girl who needs it so much more than we do!" Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten.
Anyway, the culling continues. The Woodyettes are actually, as of this moment, taking things quite well. Mommy has been able to establish provenance in most cases, and the only conflict so far has been the baby doll episode. So Mommy Solomon continues to reign supreme in the Woody household.
As if there were ever any doubt.
One not-nearly-so-joyful aspect of the MFH™ is the equal dividing of toys.
Turns out that this is a pretty big emotional/political (these words are synonymous, no?) deal. The Woodyettes are torn between two extreme emotions. On the one hand, this business of splitting up the toys is hard work. There's the bother of having to take time out of their busy schedules to sit down with Mommy and indicate whether or not they approve of the proposed divisi. Which leads to the other extreme emotion, which is being absolutely dead-set against their sister having any advantage, toy-wise, which leads to frequent episodes of Peyton Place a la Woodyettes.
"But, Mooooooommy, I've had that dolly since I was a little girl! You can't give that one to her! [Lower lip begins quivering here.] I'll never be happy again!"
We hear this word "never" quite a lot in this house. To my knowledge, none of her more dire predictions have ever held water.
Mommy intervenes. "Bring me all of your dolls that are this same size." This is a chore in and of itself, inasmuch as the Woodyettes -- particularly the Doodle -- have been accumulating dolls for decades. In fact, several of their dolls were collected for them several years before they were even conceived. Still, the dolls are produced. Turns out there are three.
Now Mommy must put on her Solomon Crown and decide who gets which dolls, and whether to split one in half. ("Bring me my sword!") On second thought, threatening to split a doll in half does little but send both girls into tizzies because they both believe, passionately, that the doll is theirs. So, Mommy decides to give two to Doodle, who happens to be the more ardent collector of baby dolls right now, and the disputed doll goes to Jelly. Five minutes later, both girls have forgotten there even was a conflict. Mommy Solomon triumphs once again!
There's also the problem that both girls have become dedicated pack rats. This is not good. We live in a storage-challenged home, and there just isn't room to keep collecting every darn'd thing that crosses our paths. One of the things that led to the Move From Hades® in the first place was the fact that their shared room had just become far too cluttered with stuff. Between the beds, the furniture, and the toys, there was literally no room to spare. No play room on the floor. No place to keep their special things. So, a key activity before we ever split them up was decluttering their existing room. We were ruthless. We were downright cruel. We were merciless. We did this whenever the girls left the house for any reason, such as birthday parties.
It goes without saying that whenever you weed your toybox, a certain amount of reprogramming is required. "But, honey, don't you remember? We donated those toys to little girls who need them so much more than you do!" After hearing this several times they begin to parrot it back. Mommy and Daddy might find themselves looking for a particular toy months later, absolutely certain that it must still be in the house. "Don't you remember, Daddy? We donated that toy to a little girl who needs it so much more than we do!" Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten.
Anyway, the culling continues. The Woodyettes are actually, as of this moment, taking things quite well. Mommy has been able to establish provenance in most cases, and the only conflict so far has been the baby doll episode. So Mommy Solomon continues to reign supreme in the Woody household.
As if there were ever any doubt.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
#134 - Move From Hades™ Update
RoboMom was here over the holiday.
RoboMom is my wife's mother. When RoboMom is on a mission, folks either get pressed into service, or get the heck out of the way. This weekend, RoboMom's mission was painting.
We've reached that portion of the MFH© where there is no more furniture to relocate. What remains now is turning the affected rooms into livable, comfortable refuges. This involves a lot of painting, for two reasons. First, the previous owners of our nearly new house did a gosh-awful job of painting it. One of the first things we did when we moved in was take a critical look at the paint scheme and decide it had to go. Eventually. Second, we're talking about two little girls here. When you're talking about boys, you toss them in whatever room seems to make the most sense and forget about painting until they're old enough to quit leaving their grimey fingerprints everywhere. "We'll paint his room while he's on his mission," is a common theme among parents in the church. But girls are different. Girls are all about matching socks and hair accessories. Girls are color coordinated, for goodness' sake. Especially if Mommy has anything to say about it. So we're painting the girls rooms. Jelly loves purple, and her room will be painted in "Potentially Purple," if I remember correctly. (I'm not sure what could possibly be "potential" about purple, but it's a nice color.) Doodle, on the other hand, is into pink. Her room is now painted (thanks to RoboMom) in something that reminded me of "cotton candy," although I know that wasn't it. Need to look at the paint can again.
Both girls' rooms have white and pine furniture, so their colors are "highlighted" (how complicated can ya get??) with white. And, um, pine. Very tasteful. And, of course, the girls are thrilled with their colors.
RoboMom ran out of both time and energy this weekend, so Daddy will have to finish Jelly's room for her. (Note: If Woody had one-tenth of RoboMom's energy, Woody would be one manly stud-muffin. Sheesh.) RoboMom gave it a good start, mind. But we certainly can't have Jelly living in a partially painted parlor. A partially painted Potentially Purple parlor, for that matter.
So Doodle's room is about 95% complete, lacking only some of the pinkish accessories that will turn her room into the kind of doll-house cuteness that Mrs. Woody originally envisioned. Jelly's room is only about 50% complete, but it shouldn't take too long to bring it up to snuff. Meanwhile, the School Room looks like the inside of a storage container parked at the harbor. I have no idea where all this stuff is going to go. Neither, I'm betting, does Mrs. Woody. I'm tempted to simply park a dumpster under one of the windows and begin pushing. Then we'll just replace whatever might be missing.
It would be cheaper in the long run, but I might get a little push-back from Mrs. Woody.
RoboMom is my wife's mother. When RoboMom is on a mission, folks either get pressed into service, or get the heck out of the way. This weekend, RoboMom's mission was painting.
We've reached that portion of the MFH© where there is no more furniture to relocate. What remains now is turning the affected rooms into livable, comfortable refuges. This involves a lot of painting, for two reasons. First, the previous owners of our nearly new house did a gosh-awful job of painting it. One of the first things we did when we moved in was take a critical look at the paint scheme and decide it had to go. Eventually. Second, we're talking about two little girls here. When you're talking about boys, you toss them in whatever room seems to make the most sense and forget about painting until they're old enough to quit leaving their grimey fingerprints everywhere. "We'll paint his room while he's on his mission," is a common theme among parents in the church. But girls are different. Girls are all about matching socks and hair accessories. Girls are color coordinated, for goodness' sake. Especially if Mommy has anything to say about it. So we're painting the girls rooms. Jelly loves purple, and her room will be painted in "Potentially Purple," if I remember correctly. (I'm not sure what could possibly be "potential" about purple, but it's a nice color.) Doodle, on the other hand, is into pink. Her room is now painted (thanks to RoboMom) in something that reminded me of "cotton candy," although I know that wasn't it. Need to look at the paint can again.
Both girls' rooms have white and pine furniture, so their colors are "highlighted" (how complicated can ya get??) with white. And, um, pine. Very tasteful. And, of course, the girls are thrilled with their colors.
RoboMom ran out of both time and energy this weekend, so Daddy will have to finish Jelly's room for her. (Note: If Woody had one-tenth of RoboMom's energy, Woody would be one manly stud-muffin. Sheesh.) RoboMom gave it a good start, mind. But we certainly can't have Jelly living in a partially painted parlor. A partially painted Potentially Purple parlor, for that matter.
So Doodle's room is about 95% complete, lacking only some of the pinkish accessories that will turn her room into the kind of doll-house cuteness that Mrs. Woody originally envisioned. Jelly's room is only about 50% complete, but it shouldn't take too long to bring it up to snuff. Meanwhile, the School Room looks like the inside of a storage container parked at the harbor. I have no idea where all this stuff is going to go. Neither, I'm betting, does Mrs. Woody. I'm tempted to simply park a dumpster under one of the windows and begin pushing. Then we'll just replace whatever might be missing.
It would be cheaper in the long run, but I might get a little push-back from Mrs. Woody.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
#132 - Passing the Stress Test
My dear sister Chris posted this comment regarding my "Ticker Trouble:"
Heh.
It got me to thinking, though, about the stress I have in my life today, as opposed to what I used to have before I married Mrs. Woody.
It would be untruthful, of course, for me to state that I have less stress in my life than I did before. What I have now, though, is a different kind of stress. Let me try to illustrate:
I have led, basically, three different lives. The first was my childhood and youth. One might argue that this lasted approximately 45 years, but that defeats the purpose of categorizing my life in this manner. So for practical purposes, we will propose that my childhood/youth lasted until my first marriage at age 24. Stress during this period was measured in terms of wanting to already be grown up without having to deal with the responsibilities of being grown up. I have a son in this period of life right now. He ain't seen nothing yet.
Mrs. Woody likes to classify my first marriage as my "starter marriage." This is natural for second wives, I'm told, and I certainly have no argument with it. It is true, for example, that I learned a lot in that first marriage, and not just from the obvious mistakes, either. I have two children from that marriage, whom I love dearly, and each of whom have had their own trials and "issues" with which to deal over the years. We had experiences as foster parents that I would not trade for all the world, but that I have absolutely no desire to repeat in my life. Ever.
This period of life was stressful in ways that became somewhat destructive over time. We were married for nearly 12 years. In that amount of time I estimate I aged approximately 20 years based on the worries and physical challenges I endured in that timeframe. The physical stresses were primarily due to having to commute over 130 miles a day for 8 years, and not getting anywhere near enough sleep because my wife always wanted to have "deep" conversations precisely during those hours when I should have been dead to the world. Add to this mix the fact that my career was very nearly in the toilet during these years, and you have a recipe for a Molotov Stress Cocktail.
The actual reasons for our divorce are unimportant to this discussion, but suffice it to say that all those stresses contributed in one fashion or another to our demise.
The beginning of the third stage of my life, of course, is centered on getting reacquainted with my love and best friend, Mrs. Woody. (I don't ever call her this, by the way, but you are not allowed to know the mysterious yet deeply schlocky things that we use as endearments. Tough.) We are best friends in every sense of the term. We mesh so completely in our personalities that it sometimes is difficult to see where one ends and the other begins.
The stresses we have now are vastly different from the ones that nearly ruined me in my previous life.
The stresses of relationship are nearly non-existent. Whatever stress may arise is nearly always the result of my feeling a little selfish at some point. We just work too well together for that to ever be an issue. Neither is my career now the question mark that it once was. In fact, you might say I'm at the top of my game, career-wise. I certainly could stand to make more money, but in my current position one requires a formal degree from a reputable institution before one can ask for a promotion. I'm not sure if or when that might happen, even with company reimbursement available to me.
My new batch of children - the storied Woodyettes® - are still in their sweet ages and therefore the stress they cause is negligible.
So, what stresses does Woody deal with today?
Well, for one thing, even though I'm thriving in my career, the rules have changed. I work for a global company. I have internal customers that literally span the entire contiguous United States. They live and work in four time zones. I'm responsible for desktop applications that many of them use every day, and if anything goes wrong, I have to support. Last night was a good example; one of my programs had crashed (I actually fouled something up and had to fix it), and I was up until nearly 3:30 a.m. local time getting things back to normal. The beauty of the virtual office age. Even though I only work in the office for 8 or 9 hours a day, I work nearly that much at home now. So long as I have a wireless connection, I can work nearly anywhere. And, of course, my backlog automatically expands to fill my available time, whether in the office or at home.
Stress.
At home the stress is less obvious, but there nonetheless. Mrs. Woody and I both have physical challenges of differing levels. Hers are more extreme, and make for required adjustments in our work-sharing arrangements. I do more physical things around the house, but Mrs. Woody makes up for it by doing the cerebral stuff so I don't have to. She takes care of the finances, manages our menu planning (I do most of the cooking and cleaning), and, most notably, teaches our girls every single day. Literally. She is a full-time teacher to our Woodyettes. Almost ironically, most of Mrs. Woody's stress is worrying that I have to do so much at home, while most of mine is worrying about Mrs. Woody's comfort levels, and burning my candle at both ends. Shades of O. Henry.
Stress.
Oddly enough, it truly is one of those "hurts so good" things. Because we love each other so much, and because our perspectives are truly eternal in nature, we can endure whatever nonsense life chooses to throw our way. Sure we're stressed. Of course I don't get enough sleep. Who does these days? But every time I come home, even after running a short errand, I know I'm assured of a warm and loving reception from three special ladies in my life. I know that Mrs. Woody is truly as happy to see her "Bud" as she says she is. My small people make sure that "Daddy" knows just how much they love me by giving me great, big bear hugs as soon as I open the door.
Yep. It hurts. And it's a truly good kind of hurt.
Do I pass?
I don't envy you the stress test, tho. Maybe they could just monitor a normal day at work instead?
Heh.
It got me to thinking, though, about the stress I have in my life today, as opposed to what I used to have before I married Mrs. Woody.
It would be untruthful, of course, for me to state that I have less stress in my life than I did before. What I have now, though, is a different kind of stress. Let me try to illustrate:
I have led, basically, three different lives. The first was my childhood and youth. One might argue that this lasted approximately 45 years, but that defeats the purpose of categorizing my life in this manner. So for practical purposes, we will propose that my childhood/youth lasted until my first marriage at age 24. Stress during this period was measured in terms of wanting to already be grown up without having to deal with the responsibilities of being grown up. I have a son in this period of life right now. He ain't seen nothing yet.
Mrs. Woody likes to classify my first marriage as my "starter marriage." This is natural for second wives, I'm told, and I certainly have no argument with it. It is true, for example, that I learned a lot in that first marriage, and not just from the obvious mistakes, either. I have two children from that marriage, whom I love dearly, and each of whom have had their own trials and "issues" with which to deal over the years. We had experiences as foster parents that I would not trade for all the world, but that I have absolutely no desire to repeat in my life. Ever.
This period of life was stressful in ways that became somewhat destructive over time. We were married for nearly 12 years. In that amount of time I estimate I aged approximately 20 years based on the worries and physical challenges I endured in that timeframe. The physical stresses were primarily due to having to commute over 130 miles a day for 8 years, and not getting anywhere near enough sleep because my wife always wanted to have "deep" conversations precisely during those hours when I should have been dead to the world. Add to this mix the fact that my career was very nearly in the toilet during these years, and you have a recipe for a Molotov Stress Cocktail.
The actual reasons for our divorce are unimportant to this discussion, but suffice it to say that all those stresses contributed in one fashion or another to our demise.
The beginning of the third stage of my life, of course, is centered on getting reacquainted with my love and best friend, Mrs. Woody. (I don't ever call her this, by the way, but you are not allowed to know the mysterious yet deeply schlocky things that we use as endearments. Tough.) We are best friends in every sense of the term. We mesh so completely in our personalities that it sometimes is difficult to see where one ends and the other begins.
The stresses we have now are vastly different from the ones that nearly ruined me in my previous life.
The stresses of relationship are nearly non-existent. Whatever stress may arise is nearly always the result of my feeling a little selfish at some point. We just work too well together for that to ever be an issue. Neither is my career now the question mark that it once was. In fact, you might say I'm at the top of my game, career-wise. I certainly could stand to make more money, but in my current position one requires a formal degree from a reputable institution before one can ask for a promotion. I'm not sure if or when that might happen, even with company reimbursement available to me.
My new batch of children - the storied Woodyettes® - are still in their sweet ages and therefore the stress they cause is negligible.
So, what stresses does Woody deal with today?
Well, for one thing, even though I'm thriving in my career, the rules have changed. I work for a global company. I have internal customers that literally span the entire contiguous United States. They live and work in four time zones. I'm responsible for desktop applications that many of them use every day, and if anything goes wrong, I have to support. Last night was a good example; one of my programs had crashed (I actually fouled something up and had to fix it), and I was up until nearly 3:30 a.m. local time getting things back to normal. The beauty of the virtual office age. Even though I only work in the office for 8 or 9 hours a day, I work nearly that much at home now. So long as I have a wireless connection, I can work nearly anywhere. And, of course, my backlog automatically expands to fill my available time, whether in the office or at home.
Stress.
At home the stress is less obvious, but there nonetheless. Mrs. Woody and I both have physical challenges of differing levels. Hers are more extreme, and make for required adjustments in our work-sharing arrangements. I do more physical things around the house, but Mrs. Woody makes up for it by doing the cerebral stuff so I don't have to. She takes care of the finances, manages our menu planning (I do most of the cooking and cleaning), and, most notably, teaches our girls every single day. Literally. She is a full-time teacher to our Woodyettes. Almost ironically, most of Mrs. Woody's stress is worrying that I have to do so much at home, while most of mine is worrying about Mrs. Woody's comfort levels, and burning my candle at both ends. Shades of O. Henry.
Stress.
Oddly enough, it truly is one of those "hurts so good" things. Because we love each other so much, and because our perspectives are truly eternal in nature, we can endure whatever nonsense life chooses to throw our way. Sure we're stressed. Of course I don't get enough sleep. Who does these days? But every time I come home, even after running a short errand, I know I'm assured of a warm and loving reception from three special ladies in my life. I know that Mrs. Woody is truly as happy to see her "Bud" as she says she is. My small people make sure that "Daddy" knows just how much they love me by giving me great, big bear hugs as soon as I open the door.
Yep. It hurts. And it's a truly good kind of hurt.
Do I pass?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
#131 - Ticker Update
Okay, since folks are asking, here's the latest:
Nothing.
Seriously, I haven't had any episodes since one minor one on Saturday. This happened five years ago when I had this same symptom. I wore the halter monitor for the requisite 24 hours and they found nothing. The silly things went away on their own.
Since then, of course, I went through another bout of caffeinated sodas until about two and a half years ago. I've since quit, but they may have contributed to this latest round of palpitations. (It's also possible that having had to use so much Sudafed lately may have played a part. Stimulants are stimulants.)
I visited with the cardiologist on Monday, and he acknowledges that, while the episodes have stopped, the problem may still exist, whatever that may be. So he wants to pursue it. At the very least, he'd like to rule out any true heart disease that may require long term treatment.
So I have tests to look forward to. I've already visited the vampire. They're checking for cholesterol and thyroid levels. I'll have to do the monitor, of course. And then I get to do a stress test. After that I get to revisit with the cardiologist and see what may (or may not) be the next steps.
It's quite possible that the final diagnosis will be something like: "STAY OFF THE DOGGONED CAFFEINE, DUMMY!" You know, watch the diet, exercise more, that sort of thing. And I'll try to be a good boy and play along.
Nothing.
Seriously, I haven't had any episodes since one minor one on Saturday. This happened five years ago when I had this same symptom. I wore the halter monitor for the requisite 24 hours and they found nothing. The silly things went away on their own.
Since then, of course, I went through another bout of caffeinated sodas until about two and a half years ago. I've since quit, but they may have contributed to this latest round of palpitations. (It's also possible that having had to use so much Sudafed lately may have played a part. Stimulants are stimulants.)
I visited with the cardiologist on Monday, and he acknowledges that, while the episodes have stopped, the problem may still exist, whatever that may be. So he wants to pursue it. At the very least, he'd like to rule out any true heart disease that may require long term treatment.
So I have tests to look forward to. I've already visited the vampire. They're checking for cholesterol and thyroid levels. I'll have to do the monitor, of course. And then I get to do a stress test. After that I get to revisit with the cardiologist and see what may (or may not) be the next steps.
It's quite possible that the final diagnosis will be something like: "STAY OFF THE DOGGONED CAFFEINE, DUMMY!" You know, watch the diet, exercise more, that sort of thing. And I'll try to be a good boy and play along.
Monday, May 22, 2006
#130 - The Lost Decade
I sort of missed the Sixties. I was born at the tail end of the Fifties, so the whole Sixties experience for me was little more than watching a bunch of long-haired freaks who were incapable of stringing coherent thoughts together protest things by sitting down a lot. The more interesting ones included a lot of spit in their invective, which only served to make them look that much goofier.
I say this by way of explaining that I have no pharmaceutical reason for missing the last decade of my life.
I'm quite sure I lived it; my email files go back at least five or more years as partial proof. The most potent medication I've ever taken that wasn't prescribed for me is Aleve. I stopped dropping Afrin in the Eighties because I was getting perpetual nose-bleeds, so I know that can't be it. I kicked my caffeine addiction two and a half years ago. Further proof that I was alive and well during the past ten years.
So how is it that Mrs. Woody and I, who just got married yesterday, spent this past weekend celebrating 10 years of wedded bliss?
We have kids, for instance. When did they get here? I mean, they were just little pinkish blobs of drool yesterday, and suddenly today they both have grown at least as high as my armpits. So I guess that means that Mrs. Woody and I must have gotten married at least two days ago.
No. Wait... if I remember my high school biology correctly, kids take at least 10 months to gestate, and I have two of them, and one of them is clearly older than the other one, so that's 10 times 2, plus a little time off in between, so that would be, lessee, carry the 4 and divide by 2, at least two years ago that Mrs. Woody and I got married.
But that can't be right, either. Dagnabit, I have old anniversary cards that say schlocky things like "Fifth Anniversary" and "has it really been that long?" So apparently we've been married more than five years. So if we've been married five years, I guess it's not such a stretch to say we've been married for ten.
But if that's true, where did it all go? I'm looking at our wedding photo and I'm noticing a few differences. I'm rounder than I was in the picture, and I know that didn't get here overnight. Also, there's a lot more gray on my temples, and the beard I was sporting on our wedding day has disappeared. My skin just gets too sensitive anymore to support the facial hair, and that, too, can't be something that developed just yesterday.
The funny part, of course, is that Mrs. Woody looks just as pretty today as she does in the picture, so apparently we haven't been married for ten years. Either that, or Heavenly Father is having one of his little jokes, and keeping Mrs. Woody looking young and beautiful and turning me into the 2,000 Year Old Man.
Don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed the weekend we spent together. Having only one weekend a year that we can spend together, on our own, is a special treat for us until the girls grow up and move out and GET MARRIED AND HAVE KIDS OF THEIR OWN!! Buwahahahahaha!!!
Sorry.
What I mean is, Mrs. Woody and I find these anniversary weekends (so, okay, I guess we've had a few of them at least) to be wonderful retreats. We've even discovered, to our pleasant surprise, that it doesn't even matter where we go or what we do. Just being together and having no pressures on our time is refreshing and relaxing. It allows us to look back with fondness on our past, while enjoying the anticipation of a lifetime (and beyond!) together.
In the meantime, I've lost a decade. I know it's around here, somewhere. Maybe after we get the house settled down after the Move From Hades™, we'll find it. Mrs. Woody claims to have photographs of us over the past ten years, and is threatening to put them in tastefully done scrapbooks.
This is my life. I just can't remember where I put it.
I say this by way of explaining that I have no pharmaceutical reason for missing the last decade of my life.
I'm quite sure I lived it; my email files go back at least five or more years as partial proof. The most potent medication I've ever taken that wasn't prescribed for me is Aleve. I stopped dropping Afrin in the Eighties because I was getting perpetual nose-bleeds, so I know that can't be it. I kicked my caffeine addiction two and a half years ago. Further proof that I was alive and well during the past ten years.
So how is it that Mrs. Woody and I, who just got married yesterday, spent this past weekend celebrating 10 years of wedded bliss?
We have kids, for instance. When did they get here? I mean, they were just little pinkish blobs of drool yesterday, and suddenly today they both have grown at least as high as my armpits. So I guess that means that Mrs. Woody and I must have gotten married at least two days ago.
No. Wait... if I remember my high school biology correctly, kids take at least 10 months to gestate, and I have two of them, and one of them is clearly older than the other one, so that's 10 times 2, plus a little time off in between, so that would be, lessee, carry the 4 and divide by 2, at least two years ago that Mrs. Woody and I got married.
But that can't be right, either. Dagnabit, I have old anniversary cards that say schlocky things like "Fifth Anniversary" and "has it really been that long?" So apparently we've been married more than five years. So if we've been married five years, I guess it's not such a stretch to say we've been married for ten.
But if that's true, where did it all go? I'm looking at our wedding photo and I'm noticing a few differences. I'm rounder than I was in the picture, and I know that didn't get here overnight. Also, there's a lot more gray on my temples, and the beard I was sporting on our wedding day has disappeared. My skin just gets too sensitive anymore to support the facial hair, and that, too, can't be something that developed just yesterday.
The funny part, of course, is that Mrs. Woody looks just as pretty today as she does in the picture, so apparently we haven't been married for ten years. Either that, or Heavenly Father is having one of his little jokes, and keeping Mrs. Woody looking young and beautiful and turning me into the 2,000 Year Old Man.
Don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed the weekend we spent together. Having only one weekend a year that we can spend together, on our own, is a special treat for us until the girls grow up and move out and GET MARRIED AND HAVE KIDS OF THEIR OWN!! Buwahahahahaha!!!
Sorry.
What I mean is, Mrs. Woody and I find these anniversary weekends (so, okay, I guess we've had a few of them at least) to be wonderful retreats. We've even discovered, to our pleasant surprise, that it doesn't even matter where we go or what we do. Just being together and having no pressures on our time is refreshing and relaxing. It allows us to look back with fondness on our past, while enjoying the anticipation of a lifetime (and beyond!) together.
In the meantime, I've lost a decade. I know it's around here, somewhere. Maybe after we get the house settled down after the Move From Hades™, we'll find it. Mrs. Woody claims to have photographs of us over the past ten years, and is threatening to put them in tastefully done scrapbooks.
This is my life. I just can't remember where I put it.
Monday, May 15, 2006
#129 - Happy (??) Mothers Day! - Updated
Mothers Days should never be filled with extreme highs and lows in the same day, but that seems to happen all too frequently.
We actually began our Mothers Day last Friday evening. This was partly because we knew we were going to be travelling on Sunday, and partly because we just couldn't wait. "We" being "me." It was time to give Mommy something she really, really needed that wasn't also considered a major appliance ("But, Dear, it's a Kirby! You know how expensive those things are??").
For some time now we've been looking for a new digital camera. Our old Fuji Finepix 3800 had about run its course, and was starting to give us a real attitude about work. You know how it is with adolescents. The camera is not quite two years old, but that's nearly 20 in digital camera years, and it's been getting uppity in its old age. So it's time to retire it, and we've been thinking seriously about getting a digital SLR. (Read: Woody's been thinking seriously about it. Mrs. Woody likes the idea, but wishes we could wait until the prices drop lower. Woody, on the other hand, thinks prices have been falling like granite, and that this is the time to strike. Which of course means that tomorrow I'll find an ad for the same darn'd camera for about $200 less than I just paid.)
So, you may have guessed, we got Mommy a new digital SLR camera. And she was thrilled, even though she knows this has to cover Mothers Day, our tenth wedding anniversary, her next birthday, Christmas, and (just for good measure) Kwanzaa this year. She is also intimidated, because this thing has an owner's manual that is about the same thickness and coherency as the U.S. Tax Code. So, even though she got the camera Friday night, and the battery's been charged since early Saturday, the camera itself will probably not see service for about another week. She's alternating chapters of the owner's manual and "The Da Vinci Code" for her recreational reading right now.
We made her work for it, too. We presented her with an old parchment that was probably burned in the Chicago Fire, and which contained a hidden message that told her what she'd just won. ("What do we have for our contestant, Don Pardo?")
Saturday was a bye for Woody. We needed to get the house ready for Sunday, and we pushed it right up to bed time. Then, on Sunday, a most wonderful gift for Mommy came in the form of two small personages at Church. Our Woodyettes, perennial winners of the Most Timid on Stage award, vowed to Mommy that they were planning to not only get up with the rest of the Primary kids in Sacrament, they were planning to by golly SING with the rest of the kids. And they did! For awhile there we were concerned that Jelly - easily the more timid of the two - was going to just melt out of sight and not even make it up on the stand. Then we were concerned that she was going to pull her usual trick of standing there looking for all the world like someone who's just been singled out to listen to fingernails on a chalkboard for the rest of her life. But by the second verse (thank goodness they sang TWO verses!), Jelly was actually moving her mouth. She was singing! Jelly and Doodle both got lots of smoochies and hugs when they got back to their seats, and Jelly looked like she'd just won the Boston Marathon. Exhausted, but hurting that good kind of hurt. Mommy, of course, had suddenly acquired leaky plumbing.
So much for the highs.
Our intention had been to leave immediately following Church and drive up to visit Mrs. Woody's mom and siblings for a surprise Mothers Day present. Mrs. Woody's brother had flown down from Utah, and we were asked to drive up to make it a full set of kids.
Unfortunately, I began having heart palpitations during Church and was uncomfortable enough that Mrs. Woody insisted that we visit the emergency room. I finally agreed, and we spent the next four hours sitting in the busiest emergency room I have visited in my entire adult life. They had patients crowded into hallways for treatment, and I began to feel cocky about the fact that I was still ambulatory.
Of course, it goes without saying that for the entire four hours we were there, I experienced NOT ONE SINGLE EPISODE of palpitation. Go home, the doctor said, and have your usual doctor check you out first thing tomorrow. It also goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that the moment we got home - I'm talking, like, within half an hour - I was having the silly palpitations again.
My chest betrayed me.
Meanwhile, poor Mrs. Woody was nearly beside herself with worry. Heart trouble is nothing to sneer at, and when it's your loving spouse it can be nearly unbearable.
Two things ameliorated the fear factor yesterday: First, she was able to gently suggest (Mrs. Woody never nags. Really.) that I get a blessing before we left Church yesterday. We had tons of Priesthood handy, and any one of them would have been all too glad to assist. Then, she was able to get hold of her visiting teacher, a wonderful lady who was more than happy to take our Woodyettes for the afternoon. We knew they would be cared for, and Mrs. Woody could concentrate on her hubby.
Today, of course, my friendly physician was unable to detect any sign of palpitations, but has referred me to a cardiologist who will, I assume, put me on the monitor. Maybe even give me a stress test.
Gotta look forward to that.
UPDATE: So, I am, like, feeling reeeeeal good right now. The dude in the white jacket gave me Xanax, and, like, I am feeling cosmic right now. Dude, I could give Rush Limbaugh a run for his zionist capitalist infidel money! I should, like, go on Oprah or something, man.
Also, I should point out that, not unlike my memory of my childrens' ages, I totally understated the age of the old digital camera. Like, it's nearly THREE years old, man. That's nearly 30 in camera years. But then, I remember knowing everything when I was 30, too. Wasn't that, like, last year, man?
We actually began our Mothers Day last Friday evening. This was partly because we knew we were going to be travelling on Sunday, and partly because we just couldn't wait. "We" being "me." It was time to give Mommy something she really, really needed that wasn't also considered a major appliance ("But, Dear, it's a Kirby! You know how expensive those things are??").
For some time now we've been looking for a new digital camera. Our old Fuji Finepix 3800 had about run its course, and was starting to give us a real attitude about work. You know how it is with adolescents. The camera is not quite two years old, but that's nearly 20 in digital camera years, and it's been getting uppity in its old age. So it's time to retire it, and we've been thinking seriously about getting a digital SLR. (Read: Woody's been thinking seriously about it. Mrs. Woody likes the idea, but wishes we could wait until the prices drop lower. Woody, on the other hand, thinks prices have been falling like granite, and that this is the time to strike. Which of course means that tomorrow I'll find an ad for the same darn'd camera for about $200 less than I just paid.)
So, you may have guessed, we got Mommy a new digital SLR camera. And she was thrilled, even though she knows this has to cover Mothers Day, our tenth wedding anniversary, her next birthday, Christmas, and (just for good measure) Kwanzaa this year. She is also intimidated, because this thing has an owner's manual that is about the same thickness and coherency as the U.S. Tax Code. So, even though she got the camera Friday night, and the battery's been charged since early Saturday, the camera itself will probably not see service for about another week. She's alternating chapters of the owner's manual and "The Da Vinci Code" for her recreational reading right now.
We made her work for it, too. We presented her with an old parchment that was probably burned in the Chicago Fire, and which contained a hidden message that told her what she'd just won. ("What do we have for our contestant, Don Pardo?")
Saturday was a bye for Woody. We needed to get the house ready for Sunday, and we pushed it right up to bed time. Then, on Sunday, a most wonderful gift for Mommy came in the form of two small personages at Church. Our Woodyettes, perennial winners of the Most Timid on Stage award, vowed to Mommy that they were planning to not only get up with the rest of the Primary kids in Sacrament, they were planning to by golly SING with the rest of the kids. And they did! For awhile there we were concerned that Jelly - easily the more timid of the two - was going to just melt out of sight and not even make it up on the stand. Then we were concerned that she was going to pull her usual trick of standing there looking for all the world like someone who's just been singled out to listen to fingernails on a chalkboard for the rest of her life. But by the second verse (thank goodness they sang TWO verses!), Jelly was actually moving her mouth. She was singing! Jelly and Doodle both got lots of smoochies and hugs when they got back to their seats, and Jelly looked like she'd just won the Boston Marathon. Exhausted, but hurting that good kind of hurt. Mommy, of course, had suddenly acquired leaky plumbing.
So much for the highs.
Our intention had been to leave immediately following Church and drive up to visit Mrs. Woody's mom and siblings for a surprise Mothers Day present. Mrs. Woody's brother had flown down from Utah, and we were asked to drive up to make it a full set of kids.
Unfortunately, I began having heart palpitations during Church and was uncomfortable enough that Mrs. Woody insisted that we visit the emergency room. I finally agreed, and we spent the next four hours sitting in the busiest emergency room I have visited in my entire adult life. They had patients crowded into hallways for treatment, and I began to feel cocky about the fact that I was still ambulatory.
Of course, it goes without saying that for the entire four hours we were there, I experienced NOT ONE SINGLE EPISODE of palpitation. Go home, the doctor said, and have your usual doctor check you out first thing tomorrow. It also goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that the moment we got home - I'm talking, like, within half an hour - I was having the silly palpitations again.
My chest betrayed me.
Meanwhile, poor Mrs. Woody was nearly beside herself with worry. Heart trouble is nothing to sneer at, and when it's your loving spouse it can be nearly unbearable.
Two things ameliorated the fear factor yesterday: First, she was able to gently suggest (Mrs. Woody never nags. Really.) that I get a blessing before we left Church yesterday. We had tons of Priesthood handy, and any one of them would have been all too glad to assist. Then, she was able to get hold of her visiting teacher, a wonderful lady who was more than happy to take our Woodyettes for the afternoon. We knew they would be cared for, and Mrs. Woody could concentrate on her hubby.
Today, of course, my friendly physician was unable to detect any sign of palpitations, but has referred me to a cardiologist who will, I assume, put me on the monitor. Maybe even give me a stress test.
Gotta look forward to that.
UPDATE: So, I am, like, feeling reeeeeal good right now. The dude in the white jacket gave me Xanax, and, like, I am feeling cosmic right now. Dude, I could give Rush Limbaugh a run for his zionist capitalist infidel money! I should, like, go on Oprah or something, man.
Also, I should point out that, not unlike my memory of my childrens' ages, I totally understated the age of the old digital camera. Like, it's nearly THREE years old, man. That's nearly 30 in camera years. But then, I remember knowing everything when I was 30, too. Wasn't that, like, last year, man?
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
#128 - Urgent Breaking MFH®™© Update!
Here at the official headquarters of the Move From Hades® we are pleased to announce that the Woodyettes spent their first night alone in their own rooms last night.
Daddy has very sore muscles and a huge grin on his face.
So, Primary Objective Number One has been successfully reached. All that remains now is a boat-load of painting, rearranging, tossing, and cleaning.
Piece of cake.
Daddy has very sore muscles and a huge grin on his face.
So, Primary Objective Number One has been successfully reached. All that remains now is a boat-load of painting, rearranging, tossing, and cleaning.
Piece of cake.
Monday, May 01, 2006
#127 - Major Family History News!
Ya just never know how, when, or where information is going to surface.
I believe I've mentioned that we found out about my Dad's adoption a couple of years after his death. We kinda, sorta knew about it, but it was fun to discover a legal document that proved it once and for all. That one document started a whole train of research and discovery that seemed to run into dead ends a year or so ago. I had communicated with a couple of cousins from Dad's birth family a while back, but that, too, ended after a little correspondence.
Last Friday night we were settling in for some Date Night relaxation. Mrs. Woody fielded a call from someone whose name sounded familiar. When she announced herself as one of Dad's half-sisters, Mrs. Woody hurriedly handed me the phone. I then launched into a half-hour conversation with a sweet lady who was about four years Dad's junior. Turns out Dad's birth mother had indeed shared her story with her kids, and they all had wondered what Dad was like. Knowing that Dad had passed away, and having two of her siblings already gone, the idea that she could have a conversation with her half-brother's son was exciting for her. And me.
It's hard to describe what it's like to begin to put these puzzle pieces into place. The adoption record showed nothing but a name of the birth mother. From that, we have discovered a whole new history with characters galore, plus another link to the Saints in Nauvoo. My discussions with this wonderful half-aunt (??) were all too brief, but yielded some neat information. We exchanged addresses and accepted a standing invitation to stop by for a visit whenever we pass through the area (they live in Pahrump, Nevada).
Tonight we heard from another half-sister. This one was even chattier than the older one, and gave me another set of leads to research for my family history. Addresses have been exchanged again, and we have another standing invite to visit in Seattle sometime soon.
Of course, there's no reason or responsibility on my part to research this line of my Dad's. Dad was lawfully adopted into a line of honorable people, and we are equally honored to bear their name. Also, the principle of adoption in the Church is itself an eternal one. We submit our family names to be sealed one with another in an unbreakable chain. If Dad's birth mother had to make a tough decision at such a tender age, it has no bearing on our ability to love the family that raised Dad and gave us our identity. We certainly can enjoy the revelations of where many of Dad's traits may have originated. Certainly there was some musical talent in that family, and I can't wait to see how similar their physical appearances may be. I'm sure we will grow to love this new extended family as well as our own adopted one. They surely are dying of curiosity about Dad's kids and grandkids.
There's one half-brother left that we haven't communicated with yet. I was told that he probably will call soon, although he is rather shy. But it is this brother I'm most anxious to see. If anyone may have a likeness of Dad, it may be this fellow. Or not.
One can never tell, with gene pools.
I believe I've mentioned that we found out about my Dad's adoption a couple of years after his death. We kinda, sorta knew about it, but it was fun to discover a legal document that proved it once and for all. That one document started a whole train of research and discovery that seemed to run into dead ends a year or so ago. I had communicated with a couple of cousins from Dad's birth family a while back, but that, too, ended after a little correspondence.
Last Friday night we were settling in for some Date Night relaxation. Mrs. Woody fielded a call from someone whose name sounded familiar. When she announced herself as one of Dad's half-sisters, Mrs. Woody hurriedly handed me the phone. I then launched into a half-hour conversation with a sweet lady who was about four years Dad's junior. Turns out Dad's birth mother had indeed shared her story with her kids, and they all had wondered what Dad was like. Knowing that Dad had passed away, and having two of her siblings already gone, the idea that she could have a conversation with her half-brother's son was exciting for her. And me.
It's hard to describe what it's like to begin to put these puzzle pieces into place. The adoption record showed nothing but a name of the birth mother. From that, we have discovered a whole new history with characters galore, plus another link to the Saints in Nauvoo. My discussions with this wonderful half-aunt (??) were all too brief, but yielded some neat information. We exchanged addresses and accepted a standing invitation to stop by for a visit whenever we pass through the area (they live in Pahrump, Nevada).
Tonight we heard from another half-sister. This one was even chattier than the older one, and gave me another set of leads to research for my family history. Addresses have been exchanged again, and we have another standing invite to visit in Seattle sometime soon.
Of course, there's no reason or responsibility on my part to research this line of my Dad's. Dad was lawfully adopted into a line of honorable people, and we are equally honored to bear their name. Also, the principle of adoption in the Church is itself an eternal one. We submit our family names to be sealed one with another in an unbreakable chain. If Dad's birth mother had to make a tough decision at such a tender age, it has no bearing on our ability to love the family that raised Dad and gave us our identity. We certainly can enjoy the revelations of where many of Dad's traits may have originated. Certainly there was some musical talent in that family, and I can't wait to see how similar their physical appearances may be. I'm sure we will grow to love this new extended family as well as our own adopted one. They surely are dying of curiosity about Dad's kids and grandkids.
There's one half-brother left that we haven't communicated with yet. I was told that he probably will call soon, although he is rather shy. But it is this brother I'm most anxious to see. If anyone may have a likeness of Dad, it may be this fellow. Or not.
One can never tell, with gene pools.
#126 - Move From Hades® Status
The Move has not gone away. Indeed, it's been sitting in the back of the house, festering like an untreated wound, waiting for some poor unsuspecting soul to blunder into its path.
I blundered.
Or, more accurately, my mother-in-law paid us a visit over the weekend. Now, first of all, I love my Mom-in-law. I really do. She's just a terrific lady who gave me the best thing that ever happened to me (Mrs. Woody!), and she's a real dynamo of a human being. She's been fighting cancer for the last six years, but still likes to roll up her sleeves and dive into whatever project is in front of her. So, except for those times when energy failed her, every time she's visited our home she's wanted to help us with our own projects. When Mrs. Woody informed me that a) Mom wanted to visit for the weekend (no problem!), and b) she wanted to "help," (code red!) I knew I was in for some sore muscles.
For those who've followed the MFH™ with any level of interest, let me catch you up:
We've moved all the furniture in four rooms so far. Our bedroom was first, followed closely by the living room, the dining room, and what has become our "school" room, which was our former family room. Still waiting in the wings, so to speak, are the two bedrooms, one of which is currently occupied by both Woodyettes. The other one, into which the older Woodyette will be injected, has served for the last several years as our "office." By "office" I mean "room which serves as the second storage shed we're not allowed to have on our property." The community of which we are part has some persnickety rule about only having one storage shed on our properties, and while the one we have is a beautiful size for our outdoor needs, we still have about a garage-size load of stuff that needs a home. The office currently serves as that home.
Unfortunately, our Jelly Woodyette needs that room now. The girls are finally old enough that they both need space. Their priorities are just different enough that one room cannot contain them anymore. The Doodle Woodyette loves to play with her dolls and/or watch videos and/or play with her games. The Jelly Woodyette, on the other hand, loves to sit quietly and read books. So, at any given moment of the day, one girl will be in the bedroom, playing, while the other one can be found in Mommy and Daddy's bedroom (the only quiet haven in the house), reading on our bed.
Thus, with Mom-in-law's incredible help, we managed to clear out enough of both rooms that we can actually begin the moving of major furniture from one room to another. We spent a fevered Saturday moving stuff from the office to the school room, where it resides on our school table (and under it, and around it, and even over it). This stuff requires either a new home or one massive trip to the donation bin. Either way, we're committed now. I'm even ready to entertain guests while this is in progress, just so we can sweep our arms dismissively in the direction of the mess and say, "Well, of course, this is just until we finish painting the girls' rooms."
So long as the floor stays vacuumed, I think even Mrs. Woody can live with that.
I blundered.
Or, more accurately, my mother-in-law paid us a visit over the weekend. Now, first of all, I love my Mom-in-law. I really do. She's just a terrific lady who gave me the best thing that ever happened to me (Mrs. Woody!), and she's a real dynamo of a human being. She's been fighting cancer for the last six years, but still likes to roll up her sleeves and dive into whatever project is in front of her. So, except for those times when energy failed her, every time she's visited our home she's wanted to help us with our own projects. When Mrs. Woody informed me that a) Mom wanted to visit for the weekend (no problem!), and b) she wanted to "help," (code red!) I knew I was in for some sore muscles.
For those who've followed the MFH™ with any level of interest, let me catch you up:
We've moved all the furniture in four rooms so far. Our bedroom was first, followed closely by the living room, the dining room, and what has become our "school" room, which was our former family room. Still waiting in the wings, so to speak, are the two bedrooms, one of which is currently occupied by both Woodyettes. The other one, into which the older Woodyette will be injected, has served for the last several years as our "office." By "office" I mean "room which serves as the second storage shed we're not allowed to have on our property." The community of which we are part has some persnickety rule about only having one storage shed on our properties, and while the one we have is a beautiful size for our outdoor needs, we still have about a garage-size load of stuff that needs a home. The office currently serves as that home.
Unfortunately, our Jelly Woodyette needs that room now. The girls are finally old enough that they both need space. Their priorities are just different enough that one room cannot contain them anymore. The Doodle Woodyette loves to play with her dolls and/or watch videos and/or play with her games. The Jelly Woodyette, on the other hand, loves to sit quietly and read books. So, at any given moment of the day, one girl will be in the bedroom, playing, while the other one can be found in Mommy and Daddy's bedroom (the only quiet haven in the house), reading on our bed.
Thus, with Mom-in-law's incredible help, we managed to clear out enough of both rooms that we can actually begin the moving of major furniture from one room to another. We spent a fevered Saturday moving stuff from the office to the school room, where it resides on our school table (and under it, and around it, and even over it). This stuff requires either a new home or one massive trip to the donation bin. Either way, we're committed now. I'm even ready to entertain guests while this is in progress, just so we can sweep our arms dismissively in the direction of the mess and say, "Well, of course, this is just until we finish painting the girls' rooms."
So long as the floor stays vacuumed, I think even Mrs. Woody can live with that.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
#125 - An Hour (or Two) in Jellyville
Life is interesting in Jellyville. I spent some time there yesterday, and I can tell you that Jellyville is nothing approaching a utopia, even though its primary citizen appears to have totalitarian control over all aspects of life. Everything has a purpose in Jellyville. However, those purposes appear to rotate at random, depending on the whims of its benevolent dictatress.
I found out, for example, that not only does Hogwarts exist in Jellyville, but so also does Hogwarts Junior. "There's a Hogwarts Junior?" I asked. "Yep. That's for kids who are six, seven, eight, nine, and ten," came the reply. "Does anyone else know about this?" I inquired. "Only Jellyville people," she replied.
Convenient, I must say. People in Jellyville have a lady president. Or they will, at least, when said primary citizen reaches the proper age. Whatever that may be. I think she's still a little fuzzy on the whole political process. "When I'm the president, I'll make sure everyone does their chores," said the future world leader. This is sound thinking. Also it probably lets her off the hook since everyone else will be doing chores, but she'll be doing president stuff. I didn't bother to ask her whether I was included in the masses of chore-doers.
There will be playgrounds in every store in Jellyville. There was a deplorable lack of playgrounds in every store we visited yesterday, although Payless at least had a video of Toy Story II playing while we were buying shoes for Citizen Prime. I let her take her wand into the shoe store on the premise that no one expects to see wands in a shoe store and I therefore won't be made to pay for it. She kept it hidden in a secret pocket of her denim jacket until the jacket got a little warm in the store. Then Daddy had to hold it. Daddies are jacket holders in Jellyville.
I put my foot down when we went to WalMart, though. "No wands in WalMart," said The Daddy. "Kids who go to Hogwarts Junior can take their wands everywhere. I wonder if Doodle would like me to turn her into a puppy?" She listed every one of her friends and wondered out loud what they'd like to be turned into. One friend would be an elephant, and the other one would be an ant, and of course, being friends, the ant and the elephant would have to hug, and wouldn't that look funny? An ant hugging an elephant? But maybe she wouldn't want to be an ant, so I could turn her into a chicken instead.
Daddy led Citizen Prime deep into the bowels of WalMart in a desperate search for a garden lighthouse. Since the gardener came I now have a basically blank slate with which to work, and Mrs. Woody and I love lighthouses. WalMart just happened to carry a solar-powered lighthouse that was perfect for our purposes, and we picked one up for an early Mothers Day present. "There are lots of flowers in Jellyville," came the pronouncement when we wandered through the Garden Center. "They're mostly purple, but we have some pink ones, too, so Doodle will like them." I wonder whose favorite color is purple?
My visit with Jellyville was a brief one, but highly instructive. I suspect it will not be my last. Jellyville, as a concept, has been around for a few weeks now. I'd like to bet it goes back even further, but I've only actually heard the name for the last couple of months. The town has been taking shape, I'm sure, for a few years, and it's social structures have been refined over the months as Jelly's own real-life experiences have broadened. She has a little network of friends whom she loves dearly. Her sister alternately is her best playmate and her most annoying nemesis. If Jelly is Citizen Prime, then Doodle is Secretary of State.
In constant motion, the imagine-verse is. If Hubble ever finds it, I suspect many current mysteries of science will finally be answered.
I found out, for example, that not only does Hogwarts exist in Jellyville, but so also does Hogwarts Junior. "There's a Hogwarts Junior?" I asked. "Yep. That's for kids who are six, seven, eight, nine, and ten," came the reply. "Does anyone else know about this?" I inquired. "Only Jellyville people," she replied.
Convenient, I must say. People in Jellyville have a lady president. Or they will, at least, when said primary citizen reaches the proper age. Whatever that may be. I think she's still a little fuzzy on the whole political process. "When I'm the president, I'll make sure everyone does their chores," said the future world leader. This is sound thinking. Also it probably lets her off the hook since everyone else will be doing chores, but she'll be doing president stuff. I didn't bother to ask her whether I was included in the masses of chore-doers.
There will be playgrounds in every store in Jellyville. There was a deplorable lack of playgrounds in every store we visited yesterday, although Payless at least had a video of Toy Story II playing while we were buying shoes for Citizen Prime. I let her take her wand into the shoe store on the premise that no one expects to see wands in a shoe store and I therefore won't be made to pay for it. She kept it hidden in a secret pocket of her denim jacket until the jacket got a little warm in the store. Then Daddy had to hold it. Daddies are jacket holders in Jellyville.
I put my foot down when we went to WalMart, though. "No wands in WalMart," said The Daddy. "Kids who go to Hogwarts Junior can take their wands everywhere. I wonder if Doodle would like me to turn her into a puppy?" She listed every one of her friends and wondered out loud what they'd like to be turned into. One friend would be an elephant, and the other one would be an ant, and of course, being friends, the ant and the elephant would have to hug, and wouldn't that look funny? An ant hugging an elephant? But maybe she wouldn't want to be an ant, so I could turn her into a chicken instead.
Daddy led Citizen Prime deep into the bowels of WalMart in a desperate search for a garden lighthouse. Since the gardener came I now have a basically blank slate with which to work, and Mrs. Woody and I love lighthouses. WalMart just happened to carry a solar-powered lighthouse that was perfect for our purposes, and we picked one up for an early Mothers Day present. "There are lots of flowers in Jellyville," came the pronouncement when we wandered through the Garden Center. "They're mostly purple, but we have some pink ones, too, so Doodle will like them." I wonder whose favorite color is purple?
My visit with Jellyville was a brief one, but highly instructive. I suspect it will not be my last. Jellyville, as a concept, has been around for a few weeks now. I'd like to bet it goes back even further, but I've only actually heard the name for the last couple of months. The town has been taking shape, I'm sure, for a few years, and it's social structures have been refined over the months as Jelly's own real-life experiences have broadened. She has a little network of friends whom she loves dearly. Her sister alternately is her best playmate and her most annoying nemesis. If Jelly is Citizen Prime, then Doodle is Secretary of State.
In constant motion, the imagine-verse is. If Hubble ever finds it, I suspect many current mysteries of science will finally be answered.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
#124 - Hail the Conquering Hero!
The gardener comes tomorrow.
I believe it happened when the neighbor's cat went missing. Normally this sort of thing does not invoke any real emotional response from me, except for the occasional snort as I attempt to hold back the booming guffaws just begging to come out. "Your cat, you say? Missing? [snort] [choke] [cough] Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that." But when the neighbor points out that, even were the cat alive, it would be impossible to see through the six foot jungle growing in my yard, I tend to pay attention.
The Woodyettes put the final stamp on the deal. They love to follow Daddy outside from time to time. They pretend to be Dora the Explorer carving a path through the trackless wilderness immediately behind our house. They followed me out a couple of days ago and had to send up signal flares so I could find them and guide them back to the house. Fortunately for me, I had been up on a ladder at the time, poking my satellite dishes back into alignment after they got sprinkled on a few days before. Made it easier to spot the flares.
That's when I called the gardener.
I've been meaning to do this for quite a while now. I simply have no time or energy to take care of a yard any more. (There are a number of reasons for this, none of which are important to this story.) Suffice it to say that I have not put mower to lawn once so far this year. And it's been a rainy winter/spring. To add to my stress, our community has rather tough standards about appearance and have been known to send me nastygrams in the past whenever I've let the mowing go for more than a month. There was only one thing standing between me and a professional service that would cut everything down and haul it away:
The phone.
Now, you have to understand that I consider myself to be a complete techno-geek. I adore anything and everything electronic. I have three home computers and my laptop from work, all on my wireless network (although the one desktop stays wired just in case). My wife and I have cell phones. The girls have walkie talkies with up to a three mile range whenever we go on adventures. In my TV cabinet I sport a reasonable 27" screen, satellite receiver, VCR, DVR, and wireless TV adapter so I can beam whatever is playing at the moment to our personal DVD player in our bedroom whenever Mrs. Woody gets sore and needs to lay down. I don't really need a new stereo because whatever CD I choose to play can be played on any of our computers, the DVR, the personal DVD, and/or the kids' mini-boombox. I have four remotes that are worked in various combinations depending on whether we're watching a DVD, satellite, or making DVDs out of our personal video tapes. The Woodyettes have two remotes. (No, Bob, you're not alone!)
But I despise the phone. I really have no idea why this is, and I'm sure there's counselling available for this problem, but I don't care. My phone is like Charlie Brown's kite, or Calvin's bicycle. It sneers at me every time it rings and knows that the call is for me. The phone is my enemy, and no amount of diplomacy will make me accept it as a functioning part of our family. Which explains why it's taken me nearly three months to call a service to come and make my yard look less like an abandoned homestead in Winslow, Arizona.
We had our taxes filed before the ink was dry on our W-2s this year, and the refunds were not terribly long in coming. Mrs. Woody immediately began a list. (I have mentioned Mrs. Woody's propensity for list-making before. They're worth their weight in gasoline, which is saying something.) The list included all the things we really, really need to do with this tax money this year. Mrs. Woody needed a new laptop to handle all the school stuff she's got planned. We desperately need a new bed because the current one keeps attacking Mrs. Woody. She keeps waking up with fresh injuries and I'm just afraid that one of these days some well-meaning member of the church is going to see one and report me to the Bishop.
We also need our dryer repaired. It went on the fritz about six weeks ago, and I have to keep sneaking over to use the dryers in our club house after dark. This is expensive because it costs $1.00 a load (quarters only!) and about $27.00 in gas to drive the 1/8th of a mile and back. It's also uncomfortable because the ladies who always seem to be using the Excercise Room at about that hour might get the idea that I'm stalking them or something.
And, of course, if we had any money left after all of that, I wanted to hire a gardening service. It's gotten much worse since we returned from vacation. I used our vacation as a mental balm to soothe my conscience. I reasoned that what with being sick on and off all winter long, and with the stresses of preparing to leave on vacation, that my lack of yard work was somehow justifiable. I felt that, if cornered by our community 'coon dogs, I could use those excuses to fend them off until I could gather my courage, dial a few numbers, and invite some quotes on getting our yard cleaned up. So, when we returned from vacation and found that, to my surprise and chagrin, the yard had not simply shrivelled up but had instead multiplied and replenished most of the earth and a few neighboring planets, I knew I had to act.
So, last Saturday I actually picked up a phone and grabbed the latest copy of the Pennysaver. I circled three likely looking numbers and then waited for the phone to dial them. When that didn't work, I actually dialed the numbers myself, and was surprised (not a little!) that I had the fortitude to actually call all three of them. I had to leave messages at every number, but that didn't really matter. I had done it! I had actually used a phone to call someone I've never before met and ask them to stiff me for every penny they can get! I was a hero!
I strode manfully into the living room and collapsed on the couch from the sheer exhaustion of it all. "Well, Honey, I did it." Mrs. Woody gave me that politely puzzled look she gives me whenever I say something for which she has absolutely no frame of reference. Did what, exactly? "I called a few gardeners to come give me a quote." That got the desired response. Her man had actually come through in a clutch situation. It was 4th down and long, and her man had just thrown a Hail Mary pass right into the arms of a waiting receiver in the end zone! And I don't even like sports metaphors!
"That's wonderful, Woody. Now we can get the house cleaned up enough to call the dryer repair guy."
Sure. But maybe tomorrow. Today I'm still exhausted from slaying the dragon.
I believe it happened when the neighbor's cat went missing. Normally this sort of thing does not invoke any real emotional response from me, except for the occasional snort as I attempt to hold back the booming guffaws just begging to come out. "Your cat, you say? Missing? [snort] [choke] [cough] Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that." But when the neighbor points out that, even were the cat alive, it would be impossible to see through the six foot jungle growing in my yard, I tend to pay attention.
The Woodyettes put the final stamp on the deal. They love to follow Daddy outside from time to time. They pretend to be Dora the Explorer carving a path through the trackless wilderness immediately behind our house. They followed me out a couple of days ago and had to send up signal flares so I could find them and guide them back to the house. Fortunately for me, I had been up on a ladder at the time, poking my satellite dishes back into alignment after they got sprinkled on a few days before. Made it easier to spot the flares.
That's when I called the gardener.
I've been meaning to do this for quite a while now. I simply have no time or energy to take care of a yard any more. (There are a number of reasons for this, none of which are important to this story.) Suffice it to say that I have not put mower to lawn once so far this year. And it's been a rainy winter/spring. To add to my stress, our community has rather tough standards about appearance and have been known to send me nastygrams in the past whenever I've let the mowing go for more than a month. There was only one thing standing between me and a professional service that would cut everything down and haul it away:
The phone.
Now, you have to understand that I consider myself to be a complete techno-geek. I adore anything and everything electronic. I have three home computers and my laptop from work, all on my wireless network (although the one desktop stays wired just in case). My wife and I have cell phones. The girls have walkie talkies with up to a three mile range whenever we go on adventures. In my TV cabinet I sport a reasonable 27" screen, satellite receiver, VCR, DVR, and wireless TV adapter so I can beam whatever is playing at the moment to our personal DVD player in our bedroom whenever Mrs. Woody gets sore and needs to lay down. I don't really need a new stereo because whatever CD I choose to play can be played on any of our computers, the DVR, the personal DVD, and/or the kids' mini-boombox. I have four remotes that are worked in various combinations depending on whether we're watching a DVD, satellite, or making DVDs out of our personal video tapes. The Woodyettes have two remotes. (No, Bob, you're not alone!)
But I despise the phone. I really have no idea why this is, and I'm sure there's counselling available for this problem, but I don't care. My phone is like Charlie Brown's kite, or Calvin's bicycle. It sneers at me every time it rings and knows that the call is for me. The phone is my enemy, and no amount of diplomacy will make me accept it as a functioning part of our family. Which explains why it's taken me nearly three months to call a service to come and make my yard look less like an abandoned homestead in Winslow, Arizona.
We had our taxes filed before the ink was dry on our W-2s this year, and the refunds were not terribly long in coming. Mrs. Woody immediately began a list. (I have mentioned Mrs. Woody's propensity for list-making before. They're worth their weight in gasoline, which is saying something.) The list included all the things we really, really need to do with this tax money this year. Mrs. Woody needed a new laptop to handle all the school stuff she's got planned. We desperately need a new bed because the current one keeps attacking Mrs. Woody. She keeps waking up with fresh injuries and I'm just afraid that one of these days some well-meaning member of the church is going to see one and report me to the Bishop.
We also need our dryer repaired. It went on the fritz about six weeks ago, and I have to keep sneaking over to use the dryers in our club house after dark. This is expensive because it costs $1.00 a load (quarters only!) and about $27.00 in gas to drive the 1/8th of a mile and back. It's also uncomfortable because the ladies who always seem to be using the Excercise Room at about that hour might get the idea that I'm stalking them or something.
And, of course, if we had any money left after all of that, I wanted to hire a gardening service. It's gotten much worse since we returned from vacation. I used our vacation as a mental balm to soothe my conscience. I reasoned that what with being sick on and off all winter long, and with the stresses of preparing to leave on vacation, that my lack of yard work was somehow justifiable. I felt that, if cornered by our community 'coon dogs, I could use those excuses to fend them off until I could gather my courage, dial a few numbers, and invite some quotes on getting our yard cleaned up. So, when we returned from vacation and found that, to my surprise and chagrin, the yard had not simply shrivelled up but had instead multiplied and replenished most of the earth and a few neighboring planets, I knew I had to act.
So, last Saturday I actually picked up a phone and grabbed the latest copy of the Pennysaver. I circled three likely looking numbers and then waited for the phone to dial them. When that didn't work, I actually dialed the numbers myself, and was surprised (not a little!) that I had the fortitude to actually call all three of them. I had to leave messages at every number, but that didn't really matter. I had done it! I had actually used a phone to call someone I've never before met and ask them to stiff me for every penny they can get! I was a hero!
I strode manfully into the living room and collapsed on the couch from the sheer exhaustion of it all. "Well, Honey, I did it." Mrs. Woody gave me that politely puzzled look she gives me whenever I say something for which she has absolutely no frame of reference. Did what, exactly? "I called a few gardeners to come give me a quote." That got the desired response. Her man had actually come through in a clutch situation. It was 4th down and long, and her man had just thrown a Hail Mary pass right into the arms of a waiting receiver in the end zone! And I don't even like sports metaphors!
"That's wonderful, Woody. Now we can get the house cleaned up enough to call the dryer repair guy."
Sure. But maybe tomorrow. Today I'm still exhausted from slaying the dragon.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
#123 - More Vacation Thoughts
March was a looong month.
March was the run-up to this week's vacation. As every good programmer knows, that means having deadlines on every single project in your goody bag. Plus extra meetings, just to make sure you have no chance of completing any one of those deadlines.
Boss: So, how are things going?
Me: The alligators have made it to nose level.
Boss: Good! Let me know if I can help with anything!
Me: [stunned silence]
Boss: And don't forget, we have that briefing with our Big Boss tomorrow. Let's meet all afternoon to plan our agenda.
Me: [heart attack in progress]
Boss: Can I get you a drink of something?
Me: Arsenic. Rocks. Dirty glass.
It got to the point where I spent the entire last week before we boarded the train staying up all hours of the morning to get actual work done, so I could be adequately prepared for all the meetings everyone wanted to have the next day. Consequently, my memory of the train ride from Los Angeles to San Antonio went something like this:
Depart Union Station in Los Angeles.
Close eyes.
Open eyes. "Where are we?" "Palm Springs."
Close eyes.
Open eyes. "Now where are we?" "El Paso."
And so on. I snoozed a lot on this train. Which is good, because, as I mentioned, the Sunset Limited has just about the worst on-time record of any train in Amtrak's fleet. We were told to expect anywhere from 5 to 12 hours' delay getting in to San Antonio. This is because the mainline on which the Sunset runs is owned by the ever-efficient Union Pacific Railroad, which bases its freight schedules on the sun dial which stands in front of Griffith Observatory and only operates on sunny days. I just slept through most of the delays.
We were actually pleasantly surprised to arrive at San Antonio only 90 minutes behind schedule. At one point, somewhere between El Paso and Del Rio we think the train was actually levitating just above the tracks so the engineer could make up the time. And I don't think it had anything to do with magnetics, either. I suspect the rails just got too hot for the train to keep running on them. So the train was doing the same sort of not-really-making-any-contact shuffle that I used to use when running across the hot sand at the beach every summer.
On arriving at the hotel in San Antonio we were greeted by a very friendly security guard (the thought of even needing a security guard in a hotel bothers me somewhat) who couldn't wait to inform us that the entire hotel had been overrun by cheerleaders. All shapes and sizes, and all of them in town for some state-wide cheerleading competition. He then cheerfully informed us that some of them had been reported for practicing in the halls, and that he hadn't apprehended them yet, although he knew who they were. How comforting. Despite the chilling aspect of a hotel full of cheerleaders, we managed to get a pretty decent night's sleep.
We visited the Alamo, of course. One cannot visit San Antonio and NOT visit the Alamo. There's no law against it that I know of, but you would probably feel somehow unpatriotic if you didn't pay your respects there. So we did. And it was well worth the effort to find a decent parking space. The tour of the grounds and the "shrine" are a humbling adventure. The Alamo is one of those pieces of American history with which I have never connected to my satisfaction. It's always been one of those stories that you grow up with, but have a hard time identifying with. No longer. To see the barracks and the main hall where those men defended their young republic is truly awe-inspiring. Texans identify with this event in ways Americans rarely do any more. But I get it now.
And now we're visiting with family in McKinney. It's a beautiful town and the surrounding countryside is expansive. The humidity I could do without. I'm not a big fan of any humidity above single digits. I live in California where any hint of humidity is instantly replaced by smog. That's what's missing here in McKinney; they don't have enough smog. No wonder my lungs are going crazy. Have no idea what to do with all this filthy oxygen.
Anyway, we board the train once again day after tomorrow. Back to civilization and smog and deadlines at work. We'll miss our loved ones here in Texas, but they're really only a few states away. We will see them again, and probably sooner rather than later.
We are motivated, after all.
March was the run-up to this week's vacation. As every good programmer knows, that means having deadlines on every single project in your goody bag. Plus extra meetings, just to make sure you have no chance of completing any one of those deadlines.
Boss: So, how are things going?
Me: The alligators have made it to nose level.
Boss: Good! Let me know if I can help with anything!
Me: [stunned silence]
Boss: And don't forget, we have that briefing with our Big Boss tomorrow. Let's meet all afternoon to plan our agenda.
Me: [heart attack in progress]
Boss: Can I get you a drink of something?
Me: Arsenic. Rocks. Dirty glass.
It got to the point where I spent the entire last week before we boarded the train staying up all hours of the morning to get actual work done, so I could be adequately prepared for all the meetings everyone wanted to have the next day. Consequently, my memory of the train ride from Los Angeles to San Antonio went something like this:
Depart Union Station in Los Angeles.
Close eyes.
Open eyes. "Where are we?" "Palm Springs."
Close eyes.
Open eyes. "Now where are we?" "El Paso."
And so on. I snoozed a lot on this train. Which is good, because, as I mentioned, the Sunset Limited has just about the worst on-time record of any train in Amtrak's fleet. We were told to expect anywhere from 5 to 12 hours' delay getting in to San Antonio. This is because the mainline on which the Sunset runs is owned by the ever-efficient Union Pacific Railroad, which bases its freight schedules on the sun dial which stands in front of Griffith Observatory and only operates on sunny days. I just slept through most of the delays.
We were actually pleasantly surprised to arrive at San Antonio only 90 minutes behind schedule. At one point, somewhere between El Paso and Del Rio we think the train was actually levitating just above the tracks so the engineer could make up the time. And I don't think it had anything to do with magnetics, either. I suspect the rails just got too hot for the train to keep running on them. So the train was doing the same sort of not-really-making-any-contact shuffle that I used to use when running across the hot sand at the beach every summer.
On arriving at the hotel in San Antonio we were greeted by a very friendly security guard (the thought of even needing a security guard in a hotel bothers me somewhat) who couldn't wait to inform us that the entire hotel had been overrun by cheerleaders. All shapes and sizes, and all of them in town for some state-wide cheerleading competition. He then cheerfully informed us that some of them had been reported for practicing in the halls, and that he hadn't apprehended them yet, although he knew who they were. How comforting. Despite the chilling aspect of a hotel full of cheerleaders, we managed to get a pretty decent night's sleep.
We visited the Alamo, of course. One cannot visit San Antonio and NOT visit the Alamo. There's no law against it that I know of, but you would probably feel somehow unpatriotic if you didn't pay your respects there. So we did. And it was well worth the effort to find a decent parking space. The tour of the grounds and the "shrine" are a humbling adventure. The Alamo is one of those pieces of American history with which I have never connected to my satisfaction. It's always been one of those stories that you grow up with, but have a hard time identifying with. No longer. To see the barracks and the main hall where those men defended their young republic is truly awe-inspiring. Texans identify with this event in ways Americans rarely do any more. But I get it now.
And now we're visiting with family in McKinney. It's a beautiful town and the surrounding countryside is expansive. The humidity I could do without. I'm not a big fan of any humidity above single digits. I live in California where any hint of humidity is instantly replaced by smog. That's what's missing here in McKinney; they don't have enough smog. No wonder my lungs are going crazy. Have no idea what to do with all this filthy oxygen.
Anyway, we board the train once again day after tomorrow. Back to civilization and smog and deadlines at work. We'll miss our loved ones here in Texas, but they're really only a few states away. We will see them again, and probably sooner rather than later.
We are motivated, after all.
Monday, April 03, 2006
#122 - Training for Vacation
It's finally quiet here. We have had a meeting of the cousins here at Grandma's house, and the energy levels were reminiscent of Manhattan Project forces in the desert. Apparently, when you get boy cousins in the same room with girl cousins, the mix can be explosive. And these cousins aren't even old enough to be of the hormonal variety. They're just ENERGETIC.
The boy cousins have gone home for the evening. It is, after all, a school night, and the boy cousins aren't on a nice, relaxed homeschool schedule. Our Woodyettes are, sorta, but this week it's v-e-r-y r-e-l-a-x-e-d. This is homeschool on quaaludes. Technically speaking, Daddy is on vacation this week. We left last Friday on the Sunset Limited. The Sunset Limited used to run from Orlando, Florida to Los Angeles, California. Thanks to Katrina and about a hundred other natural disasters last year, the Limited now only runs from Los Angeles to New Orleans. We only needed it as far as San Antonio, Texas. Mrs. Woody has tried a few times to get the Woodyettes interested in a little school work, but so far their output has been, well, Limited. I mean, limited. Too many distractions, I'm afraid, to have them get serious about doing even a few pages in their current unit studies so far.
The boy cousins belong to my sister, AnoelleB of BurrHouse. They are three high energy bundles all under the age of seven. Since moving to Texas last year they don't get to play with girl cousins too often. There just aren't any living within hailing distance in any direction, so this is a real treat for the kids. My sister brought them over to Grandma's house today so they could play while she made dinner, including a beautiful Almond Roca birthday cake for Grandma. Happy Birthday, Grandma! Happy twenty-ninth! Again! Grandma and Grandpa Bob were on their way home from a visit to the Pacific Northwest and had no idea of the devastations being perpetrated on their humble abode. They will be picking cake crumbs out of the carpet for a week.
In the meantime, Woody was trying to remember what he was supposed to do on vacations. Relaxing just feels so... so... unnatural anymore. I read a short book, feeling guilty all the while that I wasn't doing dishes or vacuuming a room somewhere. I got over it, however. Besides, the kids were building up to a pitch that nearly required inserting sharp metal objects in my ear canals or risk having my drums burst on their own. They were being awfully cute for the most part, but there was the occasional flare up.
SCENE: The living room of Grandma NanZ. Woody is sitting on the couch, reading. Suddenly, a blood-curdling screech, followed by the sort of wail that requires long, rasping intakes of breath between howls.
Boy Cousin 1: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! [inhale] aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Boy's Mother: Oh, now what?
Boy Cousin 2: Mommy! Joseph fall down! Hurt head!
Boy's Mother: Oookay. What really happened?
Doodle Woodyette: I wasn't there!
She said that because of a similar incident earlier in the day, wherein the smallest boy cousin (he of iron lung) fell off the guest bed. She had been playing a game with him, and figured it was her fault he got hurt. That's probably true, but it's also probably true that he would have gotten hurt some other way whether she helped him or not.
Aaah. Vacation.
So we have another few days in town here before we get to jump back on the Limited and head back for Los Angeles. Grandma and Grandpa will have their home to themselves once again, and their floors will be clean. They will visit my sister and her family frequently, on my sister's turf to minimize stress on the carpeting. But everyone will miss our girls, and we, in turn, will miss everyone here. We frequently use vacations to remember just how precious our families are, and how much we enjoy their company. Of course, each family has its own dynamics, and it's always a relief when we can be on our own, where the rules of engagement are familiar and we can enforce (or relax) them as needed. Then we'll go back to missing our family.
That's when we plan the next vacation.
The boy cousins have gone home for the evening. It is, after all, a school night, and the boy cousins aren't on a nice, relaxed homeschool schedule. Our Woodyettes are, sorta, but this week it's v-e-r-y r-e-l-a-x-e-d. This is homeschool on quaaludes. Technically speaking, Daddy is on vacation this week. We left last Friday on the Sunset Limited. The Sunset Limited used to run from Orlando, Florida to Los Angeles, California. Thanks to Katrina and about a hundred other natural disasters last year, the Limited now only runs from Los Angeles to New Orleans. We only needed it as far as San Antonio, Texas. Mrs. Woody has tried a few times to get the Woodyettes interested in a little school work, but so far their output has been, well, Limited. I mean, limited. Too many distractions, I'm afraid, to have them get serious about doing even a few pages in their current unit studies so far.
The boy cousins belong to my sister, AnoelleB of BurrHouse. They are three high energy bundles all under the age of seven. Since moving to Texas last year they don't get to play with girl cousins too often. There just aren't any living within hailing distance in any direction, so this is a real treat for the kids. My sister brought them over to Grandma's house today so they could play while she made dinner, including a beautiful Almond Roca birthday cake for Grandma. Happy Birthday, Grandma! Happy twenty-ninth! Again! Grandma and Grandpa Bob were on their way home from a visit to the Pacific Northwest and had no idea of the devastations being perpetrated on their humble abode. They will be picking cake crumbs out of the carpet for a week.
In the meantime, Woody was trying to remember what he was supposed to do on vacations. Relaxing just feels so... so... unnatural anymore. I read a short book, feeling guilty all the while that I wasn't doing dishes or vacuuming a room somewhere. I got over it, however. Besides, the kids were building up to a pitch that nearly required inserting sharp metal objects in my ear canals or risk having my drums burst on their own. They were being awfully cute for the most part, but there was the occasional flare up.
SCENE: The living room of Grandma NanZ. Woody is sitting on the couch, reading. Suddenly, a blood-curdling screech, followed by the sort of wail that requires long, rasping intakes of breath between howls.
Boy Cousin 1: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! [inhale] aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Boy's Mother: Oh, now what?
Boy Cousin 2: Mommy! Joseph fall down! Hurt head!
Boy's Mother: Oookay. What really happened?
Doodle Woodyette: I wasn't there!
She said that because of a similar incident earlier in the day, wherein the smallest boy cousin (he of iron lung) fell off the guest bed. She had been playing a game with him, and figured it was her fault he got hurt. That's probably true, but it's also probably true that he would have gotten hurt some other way whether she helped him or not.
Aaah. Vacation.
So we have another few days in town here before we get to jump back on the Limited and head back for Los Angeles. Grandma and Grandpa will have their home to themselves once again, and their floors will be clean. They will visit my sister and her family frequently, on my sister's turf to minimize stress on the carpeting. But everyone will miss our girls, and we, in turn, will miss everyone here. We frequently use vacations to remember just how precious our families are, and how much we enjoy their company. Of course, each family has its own dynamics, and it's always a relief when we can be on our own, where the rules of engagement are familiar and we can enforce (or relax) them as needed. Then we'll go back to missing our family.
That's when we plan the next vacation.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
#121 - Seeing Through Graduated Lenses
Back when I was yet a lad, my mother was informed of her high school's 30th reunion. My memories are fuzzy about whether she actually attended. I want to say she went to one, perhaps her 25th, but Mom would have to verify that for me.
Whether or not she went to an actual reunion, I thought it not at all unreasonable for Mom to be having such a thing as a 30th reunion. After all, I had grown and was out of the house by then. Furthermore, Mom was old enough to be having 30th reunions. It all just sort of fit.
The other day, whilst worrying about losing a lung due to bronchitis, I received a phone call. "This is the Royal High Reunion Committee letting you know that we'll be having our 30th Reunion this summer!" He said this in the tone of voice reserved for the very same telemarketers we have forever banished from our phone. You know... the ones who want to give you a Free Prize! No obligation! All we ask is that you listen to a brief (as measured by a calendar) presentation after which we will HOLD YOU HOSTAGE UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND THE BENEFITS OF TIME-SHARE VACATION CONDOS!
He continued. "We just wanted to make sure that you're the same Woody who used to live in Simi Valley and graduated from Royal in 1976." Hmph. Well, you found me. "Great! Can I update your address so we can send you an invitation?" Oh, why not. Beats having you buy it from a telemarketer.
So I gave him my address. Today the invitation arrived. It sits, unopened, on my dining room table. I feel safe having it sit on that table right now, because the table has become a black hole. This is because the Woodyettes have piled enough toys and paper-doll materials on top of it to increase its mass to roughly the weight of a small planet, and it now has its own gravity. I feel thus assured that the invitation will either disappear into the void, or, at the very least, be prevented from being opened due to the flap of the envelope weighing now about 900 pounds.
But of course you know what will happen. One day I will innocently pass the table which Mrs. Woody will have cleared off so she can hold school there. The invitation will see me heading for the little Programmer's room where I will be intending to catch up on some crucial study materials. Instead, the invitation will leap into my hands, and I will read it while sitting on my "thinking chair," and suddenly the house will quake at the sound of my desperate wailing, "NOOOOOoooooo!!!"
Because let's face it; the last thing I want to do is find out how all those stoners from my youth have fared in life to this point. This was The Seventies. The Seventies were the devil-spawn children of The Sixties. You were either stoned, gonna be stoned, or getting a buzz from all the stoners sitting next to you in class. This explains disco and platform shoes. The Seventies were bad enough to spawn their own hideous retro TV series. That's how bad it was. So the thought that I might actually come face-to-face with that particular part of my past is, shall we say, somewhat less than palatable.
I spent most of the Eighties recovering from the Seventies. I was both a jerk and a geek in high school. Despite that, I somehow managed to create a reasonably normal life for myself after I graduated. Two years in the Mayan high country had something to do with it. I have no idea how the kids who burned 30% of their brain cells before they graduated would have done that. Lots of beer and Dr. Phil, is my guess.
And there's one more haunting question about this so-called "reunion." When did I ever become old enough to be having a 30th reunion, huh? Tell me, huh? I AM NOT THAT OLD. Not by a long shot. At most, I should be having, oh, a 15th reunion, or even (I'll be generous here) a 20th. But not a 30th.
'Course, I do have 22 years with my company right now, and if you count my starter marriage I would have been married, lessee... it'll have been 22 years this year, not counting my year in de-tox before marrying Mrs. Woody. I also have a son who's nearly 19 now... and a daughter who is, well, older than that...
Hm.
So, okay, I guess 30 is not such a far-fetched number at that. Come to think of it, when Mom's school had its 30th reunion, Mom was still pretty much a spring chicken. Not really all that old. Still had kids at home (this isn't saying much... she had to get re-married and move to Texas last year before she didn't have kids at home), and the first grandchild was still a year away...
Alright. 30th reunions are no big deal. So I'm nearly 48 this year. So what? Lots of people are turning 48 this year. In fact, at this age I command a certain amount of respect in the world. I have experience, doggone it. I've been around, Bucko... I could teach you a thing or two! Yeah! Let's hear it for the Not Quite Senior set! Who cares if I got a 30th reunion invitation? Not me, I'll tell ya that!
'Course, I still won't go. After all, I still have my pride.
Whether or not she went to an actual reunion, I thought it not at all unreasonable for Mom to be having such a thing as a 30th reunion. After all, I had grown and was out of the house by then. Furthermore, Mom was old enough to be having 30th reunions. It all just sort of fit.
The other day, whilst worrying about losing a lung due to bronchitis, I received a phone call. "This is the Royal High Reunion Committee letting you know that we'll be having our 30th Reunion this summer!" He said this in the tone of voice reserved for the very same telemarketers we have forever banished from our phone. You know... the ones who want to give you a Free Prize! No obligation! All we ask is that you listen to a brief (as measured by a calendar) presentation after which we will HOLD YOU HOSTAGE UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND THE BENEFITS OF TIME-SHARE VACATION CONDOS!
He continued. "We just wanted to make sure that you're the same Woody who used to live in Simi Valley and graduated from Royal in 1976." Hmph. Well, you found me. "Great! Can I update your address so we can send you an invitation?" Oh, why not. Beats having you buy it from a telemarketer.
So I gave him my address. Today the invitation arrived. It sits, unopened, on my dining room table. I feel safe having it sit on that table right now, because the table has become a black hole. This is because the Woodyettes have piled enough toys and paper-doll materials on top of it to increase its mass to roughly the weight of a small planet, and it now has its own gravity. I feel thus assured that the invitation will either disappear into the void, or, at the very least, be prevented from being opened due to the flap of the envelope weighing now about 900 pounds.
But of course you know what will happen. One day I will innocently pass the table which Mrs. Woody will have cleared off so she can hold school there. The invitation will see me heading for the little Programmer's room where I will be intending to catch up on some crucial study materials. Instead, the invitation will leap into my hands, and I will read it while sitting on my "thinking chair," and suddenly the house will quake at the sound of my desperate wailing, "NOOOOOoooooo!!!"
Because let's face it; the last thing I want to do is find out how all those stoners from my youth have fared in life to this point. This was The Seventies. The Seventies were the devil-spawn children of The Sixties. You were either stoned, gonna be stoned, or getting a buzz from all the stoners sitting next to you in class. This explains disco and platform shoes. The Seventies were bad enough to spawn their own hideous retro TV series. That's how bad it was. So the thought that I might actually come face-to-face with that particular part of my past is, shall we say, somewhat less than palatable.
I spent most of the Eighties recovering from the Seventies. I was both a jerk and a geek in high school. Despite that, I somehow managed to create a reasonably normal life for myself after I graduated. Two years in the Mayan high country had something to do with it. I have no idea how the kids who burned 30% of their brain cells before they graduated would have done that. Lots of beer and Dr. Phil, is my guess.
And there's one more haunting question about this so-called "reunion." When did I ever become old enough to be having a 30th reunion, huh? Tell me, huh? I AM NOT THAT OLD. Not by a long shot. At most, I should be having, oh, a 15th reunion, or even (I'll be generous here) a 20th. But not a 30th.
'Course, I do have 22 years with my company right now, and if you count my starter marriage I would have been married, lessee... it'll have been 22 years this year, not counting my year in de-tox before marrying Mrs. Woody. I also have a son who's nearly 19 now... and a daughter who is, well, older than that...
Hm.
So, okay, I guess 30 is not such a far-fetched number at that. Come to think of it, when Mom's school had its 30th reunion, Mom was still pretty much a spring chicken. Not really all that old. Still had kids at home (this isn't saying much... she had to get re-married and move to Texas last year before she didn't have kids at home), and the first grandchild was still a year away...
Alright. 30th reunions are no big deal. So I'm nearly 48 this year. So what? Lots of people are turning 48 this year. In fact, at this age I command a certain amount of respect in the world. I have experience, doggone it. I've been around, Bucko... I could teach you a thing or two! Yeah! Let's hear it for the Not Quite Senior set! Who cares if I got a 30th reunion invitation? Not me, I'll tell ya that!
'Course, I still won't go. After all, I still have my pride.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
#120 - The Mail of the Species
It's a ritual that I have performed nearly every day of my marriage to Mrs. Woody. First, when we lived in a townhouse in Ventura County, and now in our home in Anaheim. Six days out of the week I visit our mailbox and see what the disgruntled postal worker has delivered.
The ritual is now enhanced because our neighborhood has trash cans strategically placed around the mailboxes so that people can preview their mail and deal with it accordingly. Those cans are nearly full just about every time I visit the mailbox.
Tonight I stopped by on my way home from the store. It's Saturday, so of course we're sick. Mrs. Woody started it, and I picked up on it the very next day. Some sort of head cold with all the attendant chest congestion and accompanying fevers. Loads of fun. This time, though, we found ourselves a bit short on medicine, so Iwent to the store [switches to Guy Mode] dragged my coughing, hacking corpse out of bed, fevers raging with every step, [returns to Regular Mode] and picked up a few necessaries. I generally stop by the mail on my way home.
One glance at the Third Class Mail cans told me that the sacrificial lamb for today was Adelphia Cable. Bless their little hearts. They are, of course, the only game in town if you want cable rather than satellite, and ever since the big scandal with their founders they've been trying harder than ever to win back the business. Their pricing structure is now such that, frankly, I'm astonished that they remain in business at all. I suspect that if the FCC and local governments weren't so concerned about the appearance of monopolies (as opposed to the enforced cable servitude that we currently experience), Adelphia would have disappeared long ago. Yet here they are, advertising yet another ludicrous discounted rate in a vain attempt to win business from us.
Judging from the Third Class Mail repositories, they have a loooong battle ahead.
From our perspective, we will join Adelphia just about the time that the Democrats put together a coherent platform. Or the Republicans. Take your pick. For one thing, Adelphia doesn't offer BYU-TV. We must have BYU-TV. Adelphia doesn't carry it, so that's that. Also, I love the convenience of having certain programming go haywire every time it rains, which is what happens with our Dish service. If the clouds are thick enough, we don't watch TV. This is probably a good thing, and encourages the correct behavior. Tonight, for example, I finally realized there is a God when this latest storm interrupted "George of the Jungle 2." The Woodyettes were distraught. I may slip a little extra in my Dish bill this month.
But back to the mailbox. This ritual of pre-recycling our mail is quite the time saver. For example, not one of those little postcard-sized mailers that have missing children on one side and carpet cleaners on the other has ever darkened Hacienda Woody. I take a quick look at the missing kids, realize that I never get out enough to ever see one, and refuse to even glance at the flip side. Carpet cleaning, maid services... whatever. I have never, in my adult life, looked at one of these mailers, slapped my forehead and exclaimed, "My gosh! I need to have my carpet cleaned! Of course!" Have you ever decided to get your carpets cleaned just because you got one of these mailers? Neither have I.
Most unfortunately, third class mailers are getting more clever about getting thrown unceremoniously away. They spend vast amounts of money to mail these things out, and they want a return on their investment. They need to get these things from the mailbox into my home, and the way they do that is to put my name on it. In ancient times, federal law mandated that they use the words "OCCUPANT" or "RESIDENT" to clearly indicate that this was throw-away mail. But now, because of identity theft, the third class world is cottoning on to the idea that if they put my name on it, I will take it into my house. Where we will promptly shred it. But at least it's IN MY HOUSE. It's a partial victory, but a hard-earned one.
By the way, we have one of those cross-cut shredders that turns everything into confetti. I like this shredder.
The ironic part, of course, is that these mailers get my information from those companies who constantly tell me that my privacy is their highest concern. I haven't yet figured out how they square the ethics of this practice, but I'm sure it's in their corporate training program somehow.
So the ritual continues. One day, soon, I'll pass it along to my Woodyettes, who will, in turn, pass it along to their children.
The Great Circle of Mail continues.
The ritual is now enhanced because our neighborhood has trash cans strategically placed around the mailboxes so that people can preview their mail and deal with it accordingly. Those cans are nearly full just about every time I visit the mailbox.
Tonight I stopped by on my way home from the store. It's Saturday, so of course we're sick. Mrs. Woody started it, and I picked up on it the very next day. Some sort of head cold with all the attendant chest congestion and accompanying fevers. Loads of fun. This time, though, we found ourselves a bit short on medicine, so I
One glance at the Third Class Mail cans told me that the sacrificial lamb for today was Adelphia Cable. Bless their little hearts. They are, of course, the only game in town if you want cable rather than satellite, and ever since the big scandal with their founders they've been trying harder than ever to win back the business. Their pricing structure is now such that, frankly, I'm astonished that they remain in business at all. I suspect that if the FCC and local governments weren't so concerned about the appearance of monopolies (as opposed to the enforced cable servitude that we currently experience), Adelphia would have disappeared long ago. Yet here they are, advertising yet another ludicrous discounted rate in a vain attempt to win business from us.
Judging from the Third Class Mail repositories, they have a loooong battle ahead.
From our perspective, we will join Adelphia just about the time that the Democrats put together a coherent platform. Or the Republicans. Take your pick. For one thing, Adelphia doesn't offer BYU-TV. We must have BYU-TV. Adelphia doesn't carry it, so that's that. Also, I love the convenience of having certain programming go haywire every time it rains, which is what happens with our Dish service. If the clouds are thick enough, we don't watch TV. This is probably a good thing, and encourages the correct behavior. Tonight, for example, I finally realized there is a God when this latest storm interrupted "George of the Jungle 2." The Woodyettes were distraught. I may slip a little extra in my Dish bill this month.
But back to the mailbox. This ritual of pre-recycling our mail is quite the time saver. For example, not one of those little postcard-sized mailers that have missing children on one side and carpet cleaners on the other has ever darkened Hacienda Woody. I take a quick look at the missing kids, realize that I never get out enough to ever see one, and refuse to even glance at the flip side. Carpet cleaning, maid services... whatever. I have never, in my adult life, looked at one of these mailers, slapped my forehead and exclaimed, "My gosh! I need to have my carpet cleaned! Of course!" Have you ever decided to get your carpets cleaned just because you got one of these mailers? Neither have I.
Most unfortunately, third class mailers are getting more clever about getting thrown unceremoniously away. They spend vast amounts of money to mail these things out, and they want a return on their investment. They need to get these things from the mailbox into my home, and the way they do that is to put my name on it. In ancient times, federal law mandated that they use the words "OCCUPANT" or "RESIDENT" to clearly indicate that this was throw-away mail. But now, because of identity theft, the third class world is cottoning on to the idea that if they put my name on it, I will take it into my house. Where we will promptly shred it. But at least it's IN MY HOUSE. It's a partial victory, but a hard-earned one.
By the way, we have one of those cross-cut shredders that turns everything into confetti. I like this shredder.
The ironic part, of course, is that these mailers get my information from those companies who constantly tell me that my privacy is their highest concern. I haven't yet figured out how they square the ethics of this practice, but I'm sure it's in their corporate training program somehow.
So the ritual continues. One day, soon, I'll pass it along to my Woodyettes, who will, in turn, pass it along to their children.
The Great Circle of Mail continues.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
#119 - Overheard in La Casa Woody
Doodle Woodyette, after watching "George of the Jungle" thirteen consecutive times:
Funny thing is, she sounds just like that little monkey scaring off the big, ferocious lion in the movie.
Cute.
Aaaaah-AH-ah-AH-aaaaaaaaaaah-AH-ah-AH-aaaaaaah!
Funny thing is, she sounds just like that little monkey scaring off the big, ferocious lion in the movie.
Cute.
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