So the boy has been developing his potty skills. And that’s a plus. But the downside to this is a new anal fixation. His thoughts seem to constantly gravitate to his butt functionality as evidenced by his word choices. Here is a typical conversation with the boy.
“Hi, boy.”
“Hi, poop poop.”
“Oh, did you make a poop on the potty today?’
“No,”
“No? Oh well, maybe later. What are you doing now?”
“Playing with my poop poop trains.”
“You’re playing with Thomas? Good. You know you can earn your stickers to get a new Thomas when you poop on the potty? Would you like that?”
“Yes!”
“Great! Do you have to poop now?”
“No.”
“Alright. So, what else did you do today?”
“Ate lunch with Mommy poop poop.”
Ignoring the poop poop reference, “What did you have for lunch today?”
“Poop poop chicken and poop poop noodles.”
Unable to ignore the poop poop reference any longer, “Well that sounds good, but let’s not talk about poop unless you have to sit on the potty, OK?”
“OK, poop poop.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“Watching Dora poop poop.”
“On, Dora and Boots and Diego?”
“Diego poop poop.”
“And Swiper the Fox?”
“Swiper, no pooping!”
“Boy, what did Daddy just say about the poop talk? Let’s not talk about it unless you have to sit on the potty, OK?”
“Poop poop.”
“Boy…”
He runs screaming from the room, “Poop poop poop poop poop poop poop poooooooop!”
What then happens is he runs and hides for a while. His eventual return is proclaimed by the unmistakable odor that precedes him, and punctuated by something that looks like a tennis ball in his pants.
“Boy, what’s in your pants.”
“Poop poop”
Well, at least this time he’s using the euphemism in context.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Flash
This needs a bit of a preamble. For those who don’t know, Flash Fiction is very short fiction. The idea is to write a story – a complete story, not an excerpt – with a limited number of words. I am a member of an online writing group, and the group founder hosts a daily flash contest. He provides a prompt, such as a setting or a line, and we all try to write a story based on that prompt. There is a 300 word limit. The first line of the story below was today’s prompt (I added the capitalization). My wife thought it was cute, and suggested I post it here. I wrote it in 15 minutes to get it in by the deadline. You know how it is with the boy whizzing all over the place, and the other 3 yelling “Daddy” every 2.7 seconds, it’s hard to start these projects early.
Enjoy!
Legends
Dark Clouds rolled over the horizon; Lightning flashed and Thunder clapped in the distance.
The gods were drinking again.
Dark Clouds, the god of rain and snow and anything precipitous, thought he could hold his sauce. Being a god of fluids, he always felt he was best at absorbing and then shedding any liquid – and those that made a “lesser god” somewhat unsteady were the ones that Dark Clouds liked best to imbibe. A bit of a show off was Dark Clouds.
Of course, as it is with drunks, their egos are often bigger than their ability to tolerate mind altering substances, and tonight he’d overdone it. His large, billowy, cumulo-form manifestation in this dimension rolled, unsteadily, over the horizon and on into tomorrow.
This display of inebriation, so inappropriate for a god, made the equally stupefied Thunder (god of all things loud) clap and cheer and yes, believe it or not, giggle like a fatuous child watching the circus clowns caper and cavort.
Lightning, who fancied himself the most spectacular of the gods (but was rather more of a spectacle when he was drinking) because of his brilliance – in terms of light waves not brain waves – tended to make the biggest scene. He had thrown on an old trench coat, covering a naked body, and frolicked about exposing himself at intervals. Unfortunately, this type of “flash” was what he had gained more renown for than for the electric streaks of white light.
If you wonder why the Earth has become such a mess, look no further than these three idiots – or so say the old Native American legends.
Enjoy!
Legends
Dark Clouds rolled over the horizon; Lightning flashed and Thunder clapped in the distance.
The gods were drinking again.
Dark Clouds, the god of rain and snow and anything precipitous, thought he could hold his sauce. Being a god of fluids, he always felt he was best at absorbing and then shedding any liquid – and those that made a “lesser god” somewhat unsteady were the ones that Dark Clouds liked best to imbibe. A bit of a show off was Dark Clouds.
Of course, as it is with drunks, their egos are often bigger than their ability to tolerate mind altering substances, and tonight he’d overdone it. His large, billowy, cumulo-form manifestation in this dimension rolled, unsteadily, over the horizon and on into tomorrow.
This display of inebriation, so inappropriate for a god, made the equally stupefied Thunder (god of all things loud) clap and cheer and yes, believe it or not, giggle like a fatuous child watching the circus clowns caper and cavort.
Lightning, who fancied himself the most spectacular of the gods (but was rather more of a spectacle when he was drinking) because of his brilliance – in terms of light waves not brain waves – tended to make the biggest scene. He had thrown on an old trench coat, covering a naked body, and frolicked about exposing himself at intervals. Unfortunately, this type of “flash” was what he had gained more renown for than for the electric streaks of white light.
If you wonder why the Earth has become such a mess, look no further than these three idiots – or so say the old Native American legends.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Thomas the (Toilet) Tank Engine
Let me tell you how Thomas, that “very useful engine,” has helped the boy learn to make his wee-wees in something other than a diaper. What do you mean “other than a diaper”? Don’t you mean on the potty? Oh, yes, on the potty – and on the floor, the wall, his leg, my leg, Mom’s shoulder (don’t ask; I don’t know), his pants, my pants, and, occasionally in the potty. We’ve potty trained 3 girls without much difficulty, but girls, you see, don’t have a spigot. And aiming that thing can be a challenge for the inexperienced.
But to be fair, he went from diapers to “big boy underpants” (they are, of course, Thomas the Tank Engine underpants – after all, he is a “cheeky” little engine) in essentially one day. He won’t wear a diaper anymore, and he sleeps through the night without wetting the bed. All because of that little blue engine.
You see, we made a potty sticker chart, and should the boy complete a row of stickers, he earns a new Thomas the Tank Engine train accessory. We underestimated the joy these little die-cast trains bring. He earned his first train the second day of potty training. He’s gotten four more trains, and some new tracks in the past week. We can’t afford for him to be a big boy. Diapers were cheaper. That kid sits and squeezes at every opportunity. And when he gets a new train, inside the packaging is a fold-out, full-color brochure showing all the trains he doesn’t have – yet. And I swear to you, he studies it. He makes little mental notes about how many pee pees it would take to get the whole set. I’d like to personally thank the toy manufacturer for that little scam.
However, the good news is, I think we have single-handedly brought the Island of Sodor out of a recession. Everyone from Tidmouth Sheds to Farquhar Quarry is rejoicing. Just yesterday there was a message on the answering machine from Sir Topham Hatt - thanking us.
Now, if we could only do something about the poop.
But to be fair, he went from diapers to “big boy underpants” (they are, of course, Thomas the Tank Engine underpants – after all, he is a “cheeky” little engine) in essentially one day. He won’t wear a diaper anymore, and he sleeps through the night without wetting the bed. All because of that little blue engine.
You see, we made a potty sticker chart, and should the boy complete a row of stickers, he earns a new Thomas the Tank Engine train accessory. We underestimated the joy these little die-cast trains bring. He earned his first train the second day of potty training. He’s gotten four more trains, and some new tracks in the past week. We can’t afford for him to be a big boy. Diapers were cheaper. That kid sits and squeezes at every opportunity. And when he gets a new train, inside the packaging is a fold-out, full-color brochure showing all the trains he doesn’t have – yet. And I swear to you, he studies it. He makes little mental notes about how many pee pees it would take to get the whole set. I’d like to personally thank the toy manufacturer for that little scam.
However, the good news is, I think we have single-handedly brought the Island of Sodor out of a recession. Everyone from Tidmouth Sheds to Farquhar Quarry is rejoicing. Just yesterday there was a message on the answering machine from Sir Topham Hatt - thanking us.
Now, if we could only do something about the poop.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Machines and Arses
So what makes a man a man? That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? This could open up that proverbial worm-infested can. By the way, why would someone buy, sell, or wish to own a vessel occupied by worms? And how are they canned? Is it like green beans or creamed corn?
But let’s get back to the topic: manliness. Now, I don’t want a deluge of comments from the-gender-of-which-I-am- not-a-member accusing me of sexism, misogyny, or gender-bias, but let’s face it, boys will be boys and girls will be girls. And never the twain shall meet – well, er, occasionally they meet, but that often results in the production of more boys and girls.
So 120 words have passed, and I haven’t said anything. Yet you, dear reader, have been lulled into believing I have. Like with political speeches. Isn’t that something?
Back to the topic, again. I was concerned about the manliness of my son. He is the fourth child, and only boy of the four. He plays with dolls, and he plays house with his bossy older sister. Naturally, I watched – without interference, do not chastise me ladies – with a certain sense of concern. Would he be fey? Would he prefer floral arranging to auto mechanics? It’s the same age-old question asked by all fathers. In fact, my father is still asking that one. I never did get the hang of auto mechanics (or ¾ inch-drive drills, or pipe dope, or torque wrenches, or galvanized rebar sprocket splicers). And yet I turned out almost just fine.
If I may cut to the chase, my boy is all boy. How do I know? There are several key indicators. First, even though we have no guns, per se, in the house – no cap guns, ray guns, squirt guns, or BB guns, not out of any conscious decision not to have guns, the girls just never asked for any – the boy still shoots at things. He will use whatever stick-straight object he can find: a broom handle, tennis racquet, even Thomas the Tank Engine*. He does this all without prompting by anyone. Cross his path, and you die. Manly.
The second key indicator of manliness is machinery. The boy likes trucks, cars, trains, airplanes, or any motorized vehicle. Not only does he like the plastic or die-cast version of said vehicles, he likes the real things. He watches the garbage men with keen interest every Wednesday morning. We hope this is not an indication of his future. No offense to all you Sanitation Engineers who work very hard at a thankless job. In fact, let me thank you now. Thanks.
But the third key indicator may be the most relevant of all in the determination of manliness. Let me explain it with an illustration. Upon driving home from church on Sunday, the older girls were looking out the window at clouds and describing what they looked like. “That one’s a bunny.” “That one is flower.” The youngest girl joined in as well, not to be out done. “That one looks like a Dora the Explorer*.”
The boy, just two and a half and lagging behind in language skills, at least as compared to his precocious and loquacious sisters, would not be left behind in this one. He looked out the window, and in an uncustomarily clear and articulate voice said, “That looks like a butt.” He laughed, made farting noises with his lips, and then laughed some more.
Behind the wheel of our motorized vehicle, the boy’s father breathed a sigh of relief. Yep, he’s a boy, no doubt about it.
*Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer are registered trade marks of big corporations that make way more money than I, and don’t know anything about me or my family or any fart noises emitted therefrom.
But let’s get back to the topic: manliness. Now, I don’t want a deluge of comments from the-gender-of-which-I-am- not-a-member accusing me of sexism, misogyny, or gender-bias, but let’s face it, boys will be boys and girls will be girls. And never the twain shall meet – well, er, occasionally they meet, but that often results in the production of more boys and girls.
So 120 words have passed, and I haven’t said anything. Yet you, dear reader, have been lulled into believing I have. Like with political speeches. Isn’t that something?
Back to the topic, again. I was concerned about the manliness of my son. He is the fourth child, and only boy of the four. He plays with dolls, and he plays house with his bossy older sister. Naturally, I watched – without interference, do not chastise me ladies – with a certain sense of concern. Would he be fey? Would he prefer floral arranging to auto mechanics? It’s the same age-old question asked by all fathers. In fact, my father is still asking that one. I never did get the hang of auto mechanics (or ¾ inch-drive drills, or pipe dope, or torque wrenches, or galvanized rebar sprocket splicers). And yet I turned out almost just fine.
If I may cut to the chase, my boy is all boy. How do I know? There are several key indicators. First, even though we have no guns, per se, in the house – no cap guns, ray guns, squirt guns, or BB guns, not out of any conscious decision not to have guns, the girls just never asked for any – the boy still shoots at things. He will use whatever stick-straight object he can find: a broom handle, tennis racquet, even Thomas the Tank Engine*. He does this all without prompting by anyone. Cross his path, and you die. Manly.
The second key indicator of manliness is machinery. The boy likes trucks, cars, trains, airplanes, or any motorized vehicle. Not only does he like the plastic or die-cast version of said vehicles, he likes the real things. He watches the garbage men with keen interest every Wednesday morning. We hope this is not an indication of his future. No offense to all you Sanitation Engineers who work very hard at a thankless job. In fact, let me thank you now. Thanks.
But the third key indicator may be the most relevant of all in the determination of manliness. Let me explain it with an illustration. Upon driving home from church on Sunday, the older girls were looking out the window at clouds and describing what they looked like. “That one’s a bunny.” “That one is flower.” The youngest girl joined in as well, not to be out done. “That one looks like a Dora the Explorer*.”
The boy, just two and a half and lagging behind in language skills, at least as compared to his precocious and loquacious sisters, would not be left behind in this one. He looked out the window, and in an uncustomarily clear and articulate voice said, “That looks like a butt.” He laughed, made farting noises with his lips, and then laughed some more.
Behind the wheel of our motorized vehicle, the boy’s father breathed a sigh of relief. Yep, he’s a boy, no doubt about it.
*Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer are registered trade marks of big corporations that make way more money than I, and don’t know anything about me or my family or any fart noises emitted therefrom.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Perseverance
Have you been told that persistence pays off? Stick to your guns! Never give up! Never surrender! The following is an example of this stick-to-it-iveness: a lesson for us all. It is a conversation I had with my two year old son, transcribed here for you my friends (to the best of my recollection).
(Camera pans down. A typical kitchen in a typical house comes into view. In the center of the kitchen stands a father holding a lemur-like two year old boy. The boy is wearing jeans and a long-sleeve tee shirt stained with chocolate ice cream. The boy spots a bag of chocolate chips on a high shelf)
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: No. No chips.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: No chips now.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: You can’t have any chips now.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: You just had ice cream.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: Those are Mommy’s chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Daddy said “No.” Now no chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Hey look! It's the Doodlebops!
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: It’s just not a good idea for you to have chips now. So stop asking.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: So you’re saying you want chips?
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: How about Daddy buys you a puppy?
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Here.
BOY: Mmmm.
Try that next time you ask for a raise, or want your spouse to get “a little friendly” with you. Report back to me with your results.
(Camera pans down. A typical kitchen in a typical house comes into view. In the center of the kitchen stands a father holding a lemur-like two year old boy. The boy is wearing jeans and a long-sleeve tee shirt stained with chocolate ice cream. The boy spots a bag of chocolate chips on a high shelf)
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: No. No chips.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: No chips now.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: You can’t have any chips now.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: You just had ice cream.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: Those are Mommy’s chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Daddy said “No.” Now no chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Hey look! It's the Doodlebops!
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: It’s just not a good idea for you to have chips now. So stop asking.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: So you’re saying you want chips?
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: How about Daddy buys you a puppy?
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Here.
BOY: Mmmm.
Try that next time you ask for a raise, or want your spouse to get “a little friendly” with you. Report back to me with your results.
Are You Ready?
It’s that time of the year again. No, not tax time. Academy Award time! Who’s ready for some down-to-earth, level-headed discourse on literary relevance? Well then, how about an award show instead?
Now don’t get me wrong, I love movies. I’m a bit of a movie freak, if you must know the truth ( and you must, you must). But I just don’t get this whole award ceremony thing. People get wound up for weeks; it becomes the talk of the water cooler. I remember just a few days ago one of my co-workers asking me who I though would win for best Third World Cinematography in a Foreign or Unknown Country with a Super-8 Camera. I think the answer to that is obvious!
But really this whole Lhasa Apso and pony show boils down to the incestuous relationship Hollywood has with its own kind. That little community, full of self-important windbags who actually believe that making a movie is more important than making, say a computer circuit board or jet engine turbine, are quite out of touch with the real world. In actuality, making a movie is about as important to the functioning of the world as making a nice pickle relish, but less filling.
I haven’t even seen any of the movies nominated for Best Picture – unless Wallace and Grommet: Attack of the Were-Rabbit is nominated. Now there is a picture! Giant rabbits, Rube Goldberg-like machinery, and cheese. It has it all. I nominate it for Best Picture, and Best Supporting Clay Canine.
All I know is that whichever movie wins, it will most likely be the one that has the best-dressed actress in it, and will involve a plot and characters that few relate to and fewer understand. But it will be “an important piece of allegorical, neo-political, pseudo-pretendable” cinema flummery that will change the course of human history – if your history involves sequins or gay cowboys (or preferably both!).
But you know, when Oscar night rolls around, you’ll definitely find me glued to my TV. I’ll be watching My Three Sons re-runs on RTN and enjoying that pickle relish. If the world suddenly becomes a better place because Charlize Theron gets another bald-headed gold man – or an Oscar – give me a call. I might be busy, however, because while Hollywood’s elite is packing up their $10,000 embossed dental floss holders, I’ll be clipping string cheese coupons. I love string cheese.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love movies. I’m a bit of a movie freak, if you must know the truth ( and you must, you must). But I just don’t get this whole award ceremony thing. People get wound up for weeks; it becomes the talk of the water cooler. I remember just a few days ago one of my co-workers asking me who I though would win for best Third World Cinematography in a Foreign or Unknown Country with a Super-8 Camera. I think the answer to that is obvious!
But really this whole Lhasa Apso and pony show boils down to the incestuous relationship Hollywood has with its own kind. That little community, full of self-important windbags who actually believe that making a movie is more important than making, say a computer circuit board or jet engine turbine, are quite out of touch with the real world. In actuality, making a movie is about as important to the functioning of the world as making a nice pickle relish, but less filling.
I haven’t even seen any of the movies nominated for Best Picture – unless Wallace and Grommet: Attack of the Were-Rabbit is nominated. Now there is a picture! Giant rabbits, Rube Goldberg-like machinery, and cheese. It has it all. I nominate it for Best Picture, and Best Supporting Clay Canine.
All I know is that whichever movie wins, it will most likely be the one that has the best-dressed actress in it, and will involve a plot and characters that few relate to and fewer understand. But it will be “an important piece of allegorical, neo-political, pseudo-pretendable” cinema flummery that will change the course of human history – if your history involves sequins or gay cowboys (or preferably both!).
But you know, when Oscar night rolls around, you’ll definitely find me glued to my TV. I’ll be watching My Three Sons re-runs on RTN and enjoying that pickle relish. If the world suddenly becomes a better place because Charlize Theron gets another bald-headed gold man – or an Oscar – give me a call. I might be busy, however, because while Hollywood’s elite is packing up their $10,000 embossed dental floss holders, I’ll be clipping string cheese coupons. I love string cheese.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Resolve
New Year Resolutions: Everybody makes them. Writers write about them. Bloggers blog about them. Pundits pun about them (whatever). So it is only befitting that I too toss in my musings regarding this most holy of affirmations.
My primary, and let’s face it, only, resolution for 2006 should be: Be more diligent in my writing. (Why overload with a list of 10 or 20 when one is hard enough?) This means more writing, more queries, more submissions, and of course, more blog entries (notice how special you all are to me?). So to that end, as of 1/9/06, I have not written anything, not queried anyone, not submitted anything, and have waited until the ninth day of the new year to post my New Year Resolution blog entry. See, it’s all going according to plan!
My friends, why do we make these resolutions? Huh? Whose idea was this? We just came off of the holiday season, fatter, lazier, and more hung over then we were all year. Is this really the right time to make resolutions? Are we really in the right frame of mind for this?
Right now, I just want that big fiery ball of gas (not my boss) to stop stabbing my ocular nerves with those piercing rays everyone always seems so happy to see. I can’t focus. On top of that, my shirt smells like a mixture of cocktail sauce, onion dip, and berrwinerum. And the world wants resolutions?!
Okay world, how about these? I think I can do these:
These, I think, are realistic goals. Why start out a new year with goals that I can’t achieve? This just makes the whole rest of the year so depressing, which causes me, by the end of it, to party too much in an effort to forget a year’s-worth of weak resolve. Which puts me right back where I started – stinky and hung over. You see? It’s a vicious cycle.
I need a self-esteem boost in 2006, not another failure. But of course, I do need to write more, query more, submit more, and blog more, so I guess I better add this to my list.
In the mean time, I need to eat some breakfast. Pass the dip?
My primary, and let’s face it, only, resolution for 2006 should be: Be more diligent in my writing. (Why overload with a list of 10 or 20 when one is hard enough?) This means more writing, more queries, more submissions, and of course, more blog entries (notice how special you all are to me?). So to that end, as of 1/9/06, I have not written anything, not queried anyone, not submitted anything, and have waited until the ninth day of the new year to post my New Year Resolution blog entry. See, it’s all going according to plan!
My friends, why do we make these resolutions? Huh? Whose idea was this? We just came off of the holiday season, fatter, lazier, and more hung over then we were all year. Is this really the right time to make resolutions? Are we really in the right frame of mind for this?
Right now, I just want that big fiery ball of gas (not my boss) to stop stabbing my ocular nerves with those piercing rays everyone always seems so happy to see. I can’t focus. On top of that, my shirt smells like a mixture of cocktail sauce, onion dip, and berrwinerum. And the world wants resolutions?!
Okay world, how about these? I think I can do these:
- I resolve to shower today.
- I resolve to stop drinking beerwinerum (at least in the quantities required by the holidays).
- I resolve to stop eating dip for breakfast.
These, I think, are realistic goals. Why start out a new year with goals that I can’t achieve? This just makes the whole rest of the year so depressing, which causes me, by the end of it, to party too much in an effort to forget a year’s-worth of weak resolve. Which puts me right back where I started – stinky and hung over. You see? It’s a vicious cycle.
I need a self-esteem boost in 2006, not another failure. But of course, I do need to write more, query more, submit more, and blog more, so I guess I better add this to my list.
In the mean time, I need to eat some breakfast. Pass the dip?
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
The Deepening
Okay, everyone; time for a little horn tooting. This isn’t going to be one of my lengthy, pithy, yet oh so droll posts. No, no, no. I must, I’m afraid do a bit of shameless self-promotion. One of my stories was accepted for publication by an online fiction magazine called The Deepening (www.thedeepening.com). The site just recently went live, and is still working on getting all of the first issue authors’ submissions proofed, edited, and displayed, but it’s still a great site. My story is not live yet, but I’m listed under the “Meet the Authors” section, and my bio is posted. Yes! I am somebody! (you were right, Mom) I encourage everyone to take a look, and when my story is actually on the site, read it and tell me how great I am (even if you think it stinks – my ego is ever so bruisable just now). I have a link over there on the right, or you can click here. I thank you, my children thank you, and the guy from Discover card who keeps calling me thanks you.
Friday, December 02, 2005
It’s Hammer Time
Ever had anyone come to your house to “give an estimate” for custom window replacement? Here’s a way to completely waste four or five hours of your life. Since we’ve owned our current house, we’ve probably had three or four different companies give us their pitch. Why? you ask. I don’t really know – I think maybe we’re stupid. But, if you’ve never had a window guy come to your house, allow me to share my pane.
The first thing these window guys do is arrive with this giddy, happy attitude – like selling windows is more fun than watching Paris Hilton fall to her death from a 38 story building – and try to be your pal. They pet the cat, ooh and aah over drawings on the refrigerator, laugh at the pain inflicted by your son and his Bob the Builder tools, take out your garbage, wax the kitchen floor, and clean your sink trap. The plan is to soften you up for the big sales pitch. But not just yet; not just yet!
The next step is to bring a portable window-in-a-suitcase assembly into your house to show you the Argon gas between the panes. Argon gas is invisible to the naked eye, but they have to show it to you, and tell you how it stops over 90% of all the sun’s rays (so your cat doesn’t fade), and helps keeps your home at a constant womb-like temperature of 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit year round. Next, just to show you how strong these Argon gas encasements are, they hit the portable window sample with a hammer. It’s important for a window to be hammer-proof. It really is. Why, I can recall this time my wife and I were practicing our hammer juggling act, with five pound sledges…
But I drift. After that they bring out this big book of infra-red pictures of houses showing heat loss through their windows, complete with testimonials by home owners who, since purchasing these windows, have never had a problem with hammers. These testimonials also attest to the fact that since the home owner had them installed, his heating bills have dropped 134%. The utility company actually sends him money. It's at this point where the window guy asks, “If I could show YOU how you could save 134% on your fuel bills, would you want to know more?” This is a question designed to get you to begin answering “yes,” and to make you feel stupid for not already having these windows.
He will continue to ask you questions designed to elicit “yes” responses, for the next 15 minutes. “If I could show you how to keep more of your paycheck each month, you wouldn’t complain would you?” “If I were going to give you a check for $10,000 dollars, you’d like that, right?” “If I could beat myself to death with this hammer, you’d giggle like a school girl, wouldn’t you?” The point of this exercise is you are so stupid that if you say “yes” enough times in a row, you won’t be able to stop saying yes when the big pitch is thrown. “You’d like to give me a large check for work that won’t be done for at least six months, wouldn’t you?”
Once all the testimonials and yes-response questions are completed, they measure all your windows, so you can – finally – get an estimate. As they measure, they shake their heads solemnly, and make that “tsk” noise so you understand how awful your windows are. And then they cap it by telling you that they are a “non-standard” size. Uh oh. The difference between standard sized and non-standard sized is, well, size. That’s it. Since they are “custom building” your windows anyway, it’s really moot whether or not they are standard sized. But this is how they soften the blow that will hit you square between the eyes when they tell you how much it will cost. I don’t know if you've had an estimate or how much it was when they told you, but they told me $25,000. Yes, a 25 followed by three zero’s. Invisible gas and hammer protection don’t come cheap. Of course my whole house only cost me $17.50. The hammer was more than that.
But here’s the real trouble. When you tell these guys that 25K for windows is not happening - thanks but no thanks. They sit down. They refuse to leave. Because now they have to call Ron back at the home office, and explain that you said no, and look all shocked and sad about it. And then Ron has to speak to you, and ask you if Window Guy told you about the Argon. Yes. Did he tell you about the hammers? Yes. Did he show you the pretty picture book? Yes. OK, well what if we knock 10% off that price? Will you buy then? No. How about we finance it for you? Window Guy has an application you can fill out. No money down. No payment for 12 months. Only 29% interest. NO! Well, OK, let me talk to Window Guy.
When you give the phone back to Window Guy, Ron from the home office tells him he has to sit there until you say yes. And Window Guy will do just that. There is no way to get him out other than buying his windows. Well, there is one other way…
Hey, Window Guy, can I borrow that hammer.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Back Flips
Some of you may be aware that Google (and others) pays to have its ads placed on web pages. That’s why I have those ads up above. And by the way, I have already pulled in almost enough cash to put a down payment on that Snickers bar I’ve had my eye on – the really big Snickers bar, mind you. With that said, let me point out that I did not create this blog to rake in the dough; I do this purely for my own vain pleasure. But, if you do see an ad that interests you, go ahead and click – go ahead, it won’t hurt – but I’m not splitting the 3 cents with you, so don’t even ask.
However, there are professional sites out there in Web World that do use this method as a source of income, and one of the ways that they get visitors to their sites is by creating “back links.” Back links are links to a site from someone else’s site. It’s kind of a ligitimizer (I just made up a new word!) as far as Google is concerned. It says to the little “spiders” and “bots” that “crawl” the web (techies are such geeks) that this site is real and not just slapped up to capitalize on advertising income. So, in that vein, I have added a few more links over there on the right. These link back to sites that are built and run by folks who have Don’s Stamp of Approval. No UL or Good Housekeeping, I admit, yet based on a more scientifically involved process of weighing my likes and dislikes, and including only those people who are nice to me. It’s therefore a much more reliable Stamp.
Go ahead and check them out if you have an interest, and go ahead and don’t if you don’t. (That’s a really pretty sentence.) But if you have a problem with any of them once you get there – keep it to yourself. Or if you must, you can go to my “complaint department” which is located at www.shutthehellupyoucrybaby.org/
Have a nice day!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Eruption
Just a quick post to apprise my loyal readership (both of you - Hi, Mom!) of an update to my links over there on the right side of this page. There is link to a blog entitled Lavacakes. I stumbled across this blog, and found a kindred spirit. If you enjoy this blog, I'm sure you'll enjoy Lavacakes as well. Before you ask, I don't know what a lavacake is, but I'm sure they're very delicious - and probably very hot. Didn't they eat those in Pompeii?
Just a quick post to apprise my loyal readership (both of you - Hi, Mom!) of an update to my links over there on the right side of this page. There is link to a blog entitled Lavacakes. I stumbled across this blog, and found a kindred spirit. If you enjoy this blog, I'm sure you'll enjoy Lavacakes as well. Before you ask, I don't know what a lavacake is, but I'm sure they're very delicious - and probably very hot. Didn't they eat those in Pompeii?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Cross-eyed Mary?
My consolation: At least she didn’t choose the violin.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
So a few days ago my refrigerator stopped working…
Friday, August 26, 2005
Computers Must Die
This is not an epithet. It’s a fact. Just as all living things die, so do some non-living things. I found this out yesterday as the hard drive of my laptop took its last dying gasps and collapsed in a mushy pool of ones and zeros. Now here is the problem: I run two Internet businesses and I am a freelance writer. I need my laptop! But even worse, it expired rather suddenly (as is their wont), and I, yes stupidly, had not backed up my data. Shame on me. The only saving grace in this whole debacle is I have a Guy. Everyone who uses a computer needs to have a Guy. This is the person who can accurately diagnose, and lo!, even repair, these finicky little boxes of silicon and electrons. If you don’t have a Guy, you’ll screw something up, or pay way too much for repairs. It’s very much like having an automobile – you need a Guy for that too, or you end up paying $938 for a new Fetzer valve so that your cylinder manifold can ovulate.
Anyway, my Guy, who is a neighbor, pronounced the drive dead on arrival, and told me I needed a new one. He was somehow able to salvage some of the information stored on it, but not all. I’ve lost some writing, and a bunch of saved emails (invoices and such), but he saved about two-weeks’ worth of keyword research for some websites I’m working on. He is also attempting to retrieve even more data using the obvious technique (I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me) of freezing the hard drive in his kitchen freezer. I’m not lying. That’s what he is doing. He also searched his online supply resources and found a new, warranteed, drive for about half of what either of us expected. It should arrive in a few days, and he said he would help me put the whole mess back together so that it doesn't look like C-3PO on Cloud City. (I'm such a geek) This is good because I would probably have rammed my rom or done something incestuous to my motherboard.
All in all, it could have been worse. I’ll have some work to do to get back to where I was, but, as the governor of California has said, “I’ll be back.”
The moral of the story? 1.) Back up your data, 2.) Get yourself a Guy, or you might end up with a gross of Fetzer valves and no ovulating cylinder manifolds and, 3.) Just in case, always leave some room near the Turkey Pot Pie for your hard drive.
FYI: he found the cheap drive on newegg.com in case anyone is looking for hard drives, motherboards, or Fetzer valves (try swanson.com for the turkey pot pie)
This is not an epithet. It’s a fact. Just as all living things die, so do some non-living things. I found this out yesterday as the hard drive of my laptop took its last dying gasps and collapsed in a mushy pool of ones and zeros. Now here is the problem: I run two Internet businesses and I am a freelance writer. I need my laptop! But even worse, it expired rather suddenly (as is their wont), and I, yes stupidly, had not backed up my data. Shame on me. The only saving grace in this whole debacle is I have a Guy. Everyone who uses a computer needs to have a Guy. This is the person who can accurately diagnose, and lo!, even repair, these finicky little boxes of silicon and electrons. If you don’t have a Guy, you’ll screw something up, or pay way too much for repairs. It’s very much like having an automobile – you need a Guy for that too, or you end up paying $938 for a new Fetzer valve so that your cylinder manifold can ovulate.
Anyway, my Guy, who is a neighbor, pronounced the drive dead on arrival, and told me I needed a new one. He was somehow able to salvage some of the information stored on it, but not all. I’ve lost some writing, and a bunch of saved emails (invoices and such), but he saved about two-weeks’ worth of keyword research for some websites I’m working on. He is also attempting to retrieve even more data using the obvious technique (I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me) of freezing the hard drive in his kitchen freezer. I’m not lying. That’s what he is doing. He also searched his online supply resources and found a new, warranteed, drive for about half of what either of us expected. It should arrive in a few days, and he said he would help me put the whole mess back together so that it doesn't look like C-3PO on Cloud City. (I'm such a geek) This is good because I would probably have rammed my rom or done something incestuous to my motherboard.
All in all, it could have been worse. I’ll have some work to do to get back to where I was, but, as the governor of California has said, “I’ll be back.”
The moral of the story? 1.) Back up your data, 2.) Get yourself a Guy, or you might end up with a gross of Fetzer valves and no ovulating cylinder manifolds and, 3.) Just in case, always leave some room near the Turkey Pot Pie for your hard drive.
FYI: he found the cheap drive on newegg.com in case anyone is looking for hard drives, motherboards, or Fetzer valves (try swanson.com for the turkey pot pie)
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Grin and Bear It
Well, we did it. Despite the horrified looks, and the pleading, Why? Why must we do this thing? from my wife, we went camping. Now to be honest, and to keep those of you who rock climb, spelunk, sleep in the open air of the Smokey Mountains, and subsist on berries and green lake spoo from rolling your eyes, it was not REAL CAMPING. We did not have to shoot or hook our food, nor did we build adobe lean-tos as shelter against the elements. We did not tie our food in a tree to keep raccoons and bears away either. In fact, we encouraged the bears to come around. Why would we do such a thing, you ask?
Because we camped at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park, and recieved visits from Yogi and Boo Boo. In case you are not familiar with this family fun farm, let me elucidate. Jellystone Park is a franchised quasi-camping resort where you can tent, pull in your camper, or, as we did, rent a cabin, in a Yogi Bear-themed park. Our rustic, secluded cabin (15 feet from the neighboring cabins), one of Yogi Bear’s Lakefront Cabins, came equipped with a bunk room with two bunk beds, a loft with a full-sized bed, and couch/futon that was also full-sized. It also had a kitchen/eating area/living area with dishes, utensils, cookware, a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a microwave, a toaster, a coffee maker, and a TV with DVD player. Most importantly to my wife, it had a bathroom and shower. We were roughing it.
I’m not putting any of this down, in fact, just the opposite. Having never camped, this was the perfect introduction. We got to swim in the lake (or the pool), go on a hayride with Boo Boo, play on several playgrounds, and most importantly, avoid the woods. Those who have read my previous blogs know of the inherent danger this trip could have posed to The Boy. Amazingly, he sustained no injuries on this trip. But if he had, there was the “Ranger Station” within a very short walk with medical supplies, ice cream, Pez, Yogi Bear pencils, coffee, Yogi Bear keyrings, Yogi Bear earrings, coffee, Yogi Bear note pads, Yogi Bear snow globes, and coffee.
There were many more family activities and events, too numerous to mention here, but bottom line: We had fun. SAFE fun.
For more info check: http://www.campjellystone.com.
Well, we did it. Despite the horrified looks, and the pleading, Why? Why must we do this thing? from my wife, we went camping. Now to be honest, and to keep those of you who rock climb, spelunk, sleep in the open air of the Smokey Mountains, and subsist on berries and green lake spoo from rolling your eyes, it was not REAL CAMPING. We did not have to shoot or hook our food, nor did we build adobe lean-tos as shelter against the elements. We did not tie our food in a tree to keep raccoons and bears away either. In fact, we encouraged the bears to come around. Why would we do such a thing, you ask?
Because we camped at Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park, and recieved visits from Yogi and Boo Boo. In case you are not familiar with this family fun farm, let me elucidate. Jellystone Park is a franchised quasi-camping resort where you can tent, pull in your camper, or, as we did, rent a cabin, in a Yogi Bear-themed park. Our rustic, secluded cabin (15 feet from the neighboring cabins), one of Yogi Bear’s Lakefront Cabins, came equipped with a bunk room with two bunk beds, a loft with a full-sized bed, and couch/futon that was also full-sized. It also had a kitchen/eating area/living area with dishes, utensils, cookware, a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a microwave, a toaster, a coffee maker, and a TV with DVD player. Most importantly to my wife, it had a bathroom and shower. We were roughing it.
I’m not putting any of this down, in fact, just the opposite. Having never camped, this was the perfect introduction. We got to swim in the lake (or the pool), go on a hayride with Boo Boo, play on several playgrounds, and most importantly, avoid the woods. Those who have read my previous blogs know of the inherent danger this trip could have posed to The Boy. Amazingly, he sustained no injuries on this trip. But if he had, there was the “Ranger Station” within a very short walk with medical supplies, ice cream, Pez, Yogi Bear pencils, coffee, Yogi Bear keyrings, Yogi Bear earrings, coffee, Yogi Bear note pads, Yogi Bear snow globes, and coffee.
There were many more family activities and events, too numerous to mention here, but bottom line: We had fun. SAFE fun.
For more info check: http://www.campjellystone.com.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
American Express makes me cry
I don’t actually have an American Express card – they asked me to leave home without it – so it’s not the card itself that makes my cry, it’s the commercial. Have you seen the commercial where the dad has to whip out his American Express card to pay for his daughter’s wedding? He watches her walk down the aisle, and dance at the reception, and flashes back to when she was a little girl holding his hand, doing daddy/daughter stuff together. It’s very sappy, and strives not to tug, but yank the heartstrings of those American Express daddies out there.
I have three daughters, which could mean three weddings, and I don’t have a card. I called American Express and explained the situation, but they didn’t really have any sympathy for me. Maybe Master Card should make a commercial about weddings. I have a Master Card. You know, it could go something like:
First daughter’s wedding: $15,000.
Second daughter’s wedding: another friggin’ $15,000.
Third daughter’s wedding (dad topples to the ground, grabbing at his chest): Lifeless.
But I digress. The point I was initially trying to make was that stupid American Express commercial makes me cry. I fall for that sappy stuff. I’m a wuss, a wimp. I tried to tell my wife about the commercial – just tell her, it wasn’t actually on at the time – and I started moistening up again. What is wrong with me? I think I need therapy. Or some man-ing up.
And now, combine this blog entry with the last, and this is turning into Wuss Central.
My next entry will be much more butch. I promise. In the mean time, I’ll just swab up this wet keyboard. Thanks American Express. Bastards.
I don’t actually have an American Express card – they asked me to leave home without it – so it’s not the card itself that makes my cry, it’s the commercial. Have you seen the commercial where the dad has to whip out his American Express card to pay for his daughter’s wedding? He watches her walk down the aisle, and dance at the reception, and flashes back to when she was a little girl holding his hand, doing daddy/daughter stuff together. It’s very sappy, and strives not to tug, but yank the heartstrings of those American Express daddies out there.
I have three daughters, which could mean three weddings, and I don’t have a card. I called American Express and explained the situation, but they didn’t really have any sympathy for me. Maybe Master Card should make a commercial about weddings. I have a Master Card. You know, it could go something like:
First daughter’s wedding: $15,000.
Second daughter’s wedding: another friggin’ $15,000.
Third daughter’s wedding (dad topples to the ground, grabbing at his chest): Lifeless.
But I digress. The point I was initially trying to make was that stupid American Express commercial makes me cry. I fall for that sappy stuff. I’m a wuss, a wimp. I tried to tell my wife about the commercial – just tell her, it wasn’t actually on at the time – and I started moistening up again. What is wrong with me? I think I need therapy. Or some man-ing up.
And now, combine this blog entry with the last, and this is turning into Wuss Central.
My next entry will be much more butch. I promise. In the mean time, I’ll just swab up this wet keyboard. Thanks American Express. Bastards.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Apology.com
Last week I discovered a new use (to me, anyway) for the Internet. You see, as a male member of the species, I have a tendency to do stupid things. Yes ladies, we are aware of our foibles, we just feel more comfortable tucking them safely in the sock drawer next to those “gag” gifts from Spencer Gifts we received from friends back in our early twenties. We forget that they are there until we stumble across them, and then quickly try to hide them away again before the kids see them. Sometimes we’re not quick enough.
In this case, I said some things to my wife that were, what I like to call, just a “bit south of nice.” My wife likes to call it being a jerk. It’s all perspective. I do not plan to air any specific dirty laundry here, so never mind the details of the dispute. Suffice it to say, an apology was owed, and she would accept no verbal act of contrition. In fact, she said something to the effect of, “You’re a writer - write something. I dare you.”
Well the gauntlet was thrown down. I knew I would have to come up with something better than a little note, and I knew that she wasn’t actually expecting me to do it. She was just taking a pot shot at my writing career. So if nothing else, I had the element of surprise.
As I had been doing some web content writing, as well as cutting my teeth on web design, the inspiration struck to create a web page dedicated to her. I used a Geocities personal home page template, and turned it into a commercial touting the great things about my wife, with a Top 20 list and fake “links” to other sites about her. Then I just emailed her the link (no, I will not include it here – it’s private!).
Right about now you men reading this are thinking all kinds of bad thoughts about me, calling me a wimp, and probably making that whip-cracking noise. You’re also thinking, Did it work? On the other hand, the ladies reading this are thinking -- Who am I kidding? I have no idea what the you’re thinking. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe you’re thinking I’m quite a guy, or maybe you’re thinking I’m a flake. Or maybe you’re wondering what your husband has in his sock drawer from Spencer Gifts, and does it inflate or need batteries?
Just so you know, guys, it had the desired effect. She was moved by the gesture as well as the content, and we were able to roll over this most recent bump in the marital road. Sometimes a sincere and properly designed apology can be just the balm to help heal a wound. And best of all, I am now free to screw up again – and we all know I will.
Last week I discovered a new use (to me, anyway) for the Internet. You see, as a male member of the species, I have a tendency to do stupid things. Yes ladies, we are aware of our foibles, we just feel more comfortable tucking them safely in the sock drawer next to those “gag” gifts from Spencer Gifts we received from friends back in our early twenties. We forget that they are there until we stumble across them, and then quickly try to hide them away again before the kids see them. Sometimes we’re not quick enough.
In this case, I said some things to my wife that were, what I like to call, just a “bit south of nice.” My wife likes to call it being a jerk. It’s all perspective. I do not plan to air any specific dirty laundry here, so never mind the details of the dispute. Suffice it to say, an apology was owed, and she would accept no verbal act of contrition. In fact, she said something to the effect of, “You’re a writer - write something. I dare you.”
Well the gauntlet was thrown down. I knew I would have to come up with something better than a little note, and I knew that she wasn’t actually expecting me to do it. She was just taking a pot shot at my writing career. So if nothing else, I had the element of surprise.
As I had been doing some web content writing, as well as cutting my teeth on web design, the inspiration struck to create a web page dedicated to her. I used a Geocities personal home page template, and turned it into a commercial touting the great things about my wife, with a Top 20 list and fake “links” to other sites about her. Then I just emailed her the link (no, I will not include it here – it’s private!).
Right about now you men reading this are thinking all kinds of bad thoughts about me, calling me a wimp, and probably making that whip-cracking noise. You’re also thinking, Did it work? On the other hand, the ladies reading this are thinking -- Who am I kidding? I have no idea what the you’re thinking. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe you’re thinking I’m quite a guy, or maybe you’re thinking I’m a flake. Or maybe you’re wondering what your husband has in his sock drawer from Spencer Gifts, and does it inflate or need batteries?
Just so you know, guys, it had the desired effect. She was moved by the gesture as well as the content, and we were able to roll over this most recent bump in the marital road. Sometimes a sincere and properly designed apology can be just the balm to help heal a wound. And best of all, I am now free to screw up again – and we all know I will.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
My brain hurts…
Writing is something that I’ve always enjoyed, and something which has never been overly difficult for me. That’s not to say I haven’t struggled to bring a story to a conclusion that made sense, and was also entertaining, or that I haven’t tried to figure out why a character behaved a certain way, but it’s more of an artistic challenge than a painful struggle. It’s kind of an enjoyable pain, like choking down that last chocolate chip cookie even though you’re full, because there is no sense in leaving just one.
But as I embark on a “professional” writing career, I find I have to write things that aren’t compelling in order to get published, get clips, get “out there,” and yes, make a buck. I am working on a series of articles for a web content provider about things to do in my hometown. Interesting? Maybe. Compelling? Definitely not. Couple this with having to write on breaks from my “real” job, or after all the kids have gone to bed, and I’m not at my peak. I tried writing with my three year old daughter on my lap a couple of days ago. Well, I think I can salvage the keyboard once the Coke dries, and I take it apart and clean it…
But I’ve got to work my chops, put in the time, pay my dues. At least I’m not trying to write while working off my passage on a whaling ship. Harpooning animals makes me queasy. And I’m using a computer rather than a manual typewriter in a bumpy railroad boxcar with a scruffy guy named Willy who chews tobacco and drinks wood alcohol.
It could be worse.
So even though my brain hurts, and I’ve Googled myself into a site that showcases local weasel wrestling tournaments, I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m pursuing my dream.
Did they just harpoon that weasel?
Writing is something that I’ve always enjoyed, and something which has never been overly difficult for me. That’s not to say I haven’t struggled to bring a story to a conclusion that made sense, and was also entertaining, or that I haven’t tried to figure out why a character behaved a certain way, but it’s more of an artistic challenge than a painful struggle. It’s kind of an enjoyable pain, like choking down that last chocolate chip cookie even though you’re full, because there is no sense in leaving just one.
But as I embark on a “professional” writing career, I find I have to write things that aren’t compelling in order to get published, get clips, get “out there,” and yes, make a buck. I am working on a series of articles for a web content provider about things to do in my hometown. Interesting? Maybe. Compelling? Definitely not. Couple this with having to write on breaks from my “real” job, or after all the kids have gone to bed, and I’m not at my peak. I tried writing with my three year old daughter on my lap a couple of days ago. Well, I think I can salvage the keyboard once the Coke dries, and I take it apart and clean it…
But I’ve got to work my chops, put in the time, pay my dues. At least I’m not trying to write while working off my passage on a whaling ship. Harpooning animals makes me queasy. And I’m using a computer rather than a manual typewriter in a bumpy railroad boxcar with a scruffy guy named Willy who chews tobacco and drinks wood alcohol.
It could be worse.
So even though my brain hurts, and I’ve Googled myself into a site that showcases local weasel wrestling tournaments, I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m pursuing my dream.
Did they just harpoon that weasel?
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Hey bloggers, writers, and everybody -
I haven't added to this blog in a while, as I have been in research mode. As I've mentioned, I am a writer, and I've recently been investigating freelance writing opportunities.
What I’ve learned about freelance writing…
I could regurgitate what I’ve learned so far here, but I would be doing an injustice to those expert writers, bloggers, web designers, and others in the know from whom I have been garnering information. One of the best places I’ve found for freelance writing newbies is writersrow.com. There’s a link in the sidebar entitled “for writers.” Check it out.
“She’s a wizard, Harry!”
On another note, I can hardly believe what I am reading about J.K. Rowling and her latest Harry Potter book (I think the title is “Harry Potter and the Ha Ha I’m the Richest Woman in England”). There is hope for all writers out there to knock that big one out of the park (or nab the golden snitch if you prefer Quidditch) Keep plugging away! By the way, there was an interesting story on writenews.com’s writers’ blog about the editor who passed on Rowling and her first Harry Potter book. Oops!
On a family note…
We are going to attempt a pseudo-camping experience in August. As you know from a previous post, when my family travels, it’s always an adventure. I’m calling it pseudo-camping because we are renting a cabin that has a refrigerator, stove, microwave, and a bathroom. I could convince my wife of nothing less. She fears – with good cause - that the boy will end up in a river, lake, forest fire, landslide, or belly of a bear. So we’ll take it slow. I’d love to have comments or ideas on places to camp, if anyone would care to leave one.
Keep on writing (or whatever else you do), and stay connected. Blog on...
I haven't added to this blog in a while, as I have been in research mode. As I've mentioned, I am a writer, and I've recently been investigating freelance writing opportunities.
What I’ve learned about freelance writing…
I could regurgitate what I’ve learned so far here, but I would be doing an injustice to those expert writers, bloggers, web designers, and others in the know from whom I have been garnering information. One of the best places I’ve found for freelance writing newbies is writersrow.com. There’s a link in the sidebar entitled “for writers.” Check it out.
“She’s a wizard, Harry!”
On another note, I can hardly believe what I am reading about J.K. Rowling and her latest Harry Potter book (I think the title is “Harry Potter and the Ha Ha I’m the Richest Woman in England”). There is hope for all writers out there to knock that big one out of the park (or nab the golden snitch if you prefer Quidditch) Keep plugging away! By the way, there was an interesting story on writenews.com’s writers’ blog about the editor who passed on Rowling and her first Harry Potter book. Oops!
On a family note…
We are going to attempt a pseudo-camping experience in August. As you know from a previous post, when my family travels, it’s always an adventure. I’m calling it pseudo-camping because we are renting a cabin that has a refrigerator, stove, microwave, and a bathroom. I could convince my wife of nothing less. She fears – with good cause - that the boy will end up in a river, lake, forest fire, landslide, or belly of a bear. So we’ll take it slow. I’d love to have comments or ideas on places to camp, if anyone would care to leave one.
Keep on writing (or whatever else you do), and stay connected. Blog on...
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Well, with summer now one day old, the thoughts of many parents turn to ideas for family travel.
Vacationing with your children can be a very rewarding experience for both parents and children. Much can be learned and shared, and great bonds can be forged. I vividly recall childhood trips with my parents and brothers, and with the tempering of time, the memories are fond. I’m sure that on a journey from New York to Oregon in a station wagon loaded with three boys and two adults there may have been a few skirmishes and lost tempers. I bet that even the Pioneers, trekking across America in search of land and opportunity, had one sibling in the back of the old Conestoga chiding another with I’m not touching ye. But it has been said that tragedy plus time equals comedy. And I add: comedy plus time equals pleasant reminiscences.
In honor of all those who would embark on such expeditions this summer, I wish you well, and give you this excerpt from an article I wrote about a trip my family took last April. May your travels be safe, fun and above all, memorable.
“Let’s drive down to visit my dad for Easter,” was my wife’s idea. Sounds good – in theory. The trip to visit my wife’s father is a 900-mile drive from Buffalo, NY to Charleston, SC with four children nine years old and under. Of course, I agreed. Nine years of unrelenting parenting have worn down that part of the brain that contains the “Are you nuts!” programs.
So we loaded the canvas, non-water proof van-top carrier with all of the necessaries: clothing for a week of warmer weather, special blankets and quilts that we can’t sleep without, umbrella stroller and a healthy supply of diapers. There is a mathematical proof that shows Diapers Needed as a multiple of Distance Traveled– i.e., the farther you go, the more often the baby goes. We also loaded the interior of the van with the important family travel items: Barbie and Bratz dolls and accessories, coloring books and crayons, stuffed animals, mini Magna-Doodles, blankies and binkies, story books, Disney travel songs CD, notepads and pencils, laptop (with DVD drive) and a box of DVD’s, including Dora the Explorer and Blues Clues. With the entertainment taken care of (for at least 35 minutes), we added essential nutritional items: a cooler packed with juice boxes, water and energy drinks (for the driver), sandwich fixings, Goldfish crackers, Teddy Grahams, Gogurt, apples, grapes and trail mix.
With the van loaded with 21st century hardtack and fatback, everyone was strapped into their appropriate child safety harnesses. Each child has a designated seat, which is the one and only specific area of the van in which he or she does not want to sit. After some discussion and juxtaposing, everyone settled and we were ready for the first leg of the journey, which meant everyone had to unbuckle and go to the bathroom.
Our first unplanned extended stop occurred about four hours into the trip, in the shadow of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, OH. This is where, at a travel plaza for a potty stop and leg stretch, my son of 20 months – let’s call him Taz – decided to test the tensile strength of asphalt with his forehead. I picked him up, and carried him back to the van, trying hold the wound without benefit of a compress. I signaled to my wife to grab something to stave off the blood flow. She put a tissue on his head, and took him from me so that I could go into the travel plaza and try to obtain some type of bandage. When I returned with a box of Band-Aids and the suggestion we stick one on his head and hit the road, the look on her face cautioned me to come up with another option. She then indicated that I was an idiot as she showed me how, at the right angle, we could actually glimpse my son’s skull bone through the hole in his forehead. Back on the highway, with my wife holding the boy still in the back seat, we followed the blue “H” signs and the almost, but not quite entirely, useless directions from the cashier at the travel plaza to Aultman Hospital’s emergency room. If you have to have stitches in Canton, OH, I recommend Aultman Hospital. They have a nice waiting area for kids, with books and the Cartoon Network and a candy machine, in case you need to practice pronouncing “no.” Two hours and 14 stitches later, we were back on the road.
Vacationing with your children can be a very rewarding experience for both parents and children. Much can be learned and shared, and great bonds can be forged. I vividly recall childhood trips with my parents and brothers, and with the tempering of time, the memories are fond. I’m sure that on a journey from New York to Oregon in a station wagon loaded with three boys and two adults there may have been a few skirmishes and lost tempers. I bet that even the Pioneers, trekking across America in search of land and opportunity, had one sibling in the back of the old Conestoga chiding another with I’m not touching ye. But it has been said that tragedy plus time equals comedy. And I add: comedy plus time equals pleasant reminiscences.
In honor of all those who would embark on such expeditions this summer, I wish you well, and give you this excerpt from an article I wrote about a trip my family took last April. May your travels be safe, fun and above all, memorable.
“Let’s drive down to visit my dad for Easter,” was my wife’s idea. Sounds good – in theory. The trip to visit my wife’s father is a 900-mile drive from Buffalo, NY to Charleston, SC with four children nine years old and under. Of course, I agreed. Nine years of unrelenting parenting have worn down that part of the brain that contains the “Are you nuts!” programs.
So we loaded the canvas, non-water proof van-top carrier with all of the necessaries: clothing for a week of warmer weather, special blankets and quilts that we can’t sleep without, umbrella stroller and a healthy supply of diapers. There is a mathematical proof that shows Diapers Needed as a multiple of Distance Traveled– i.e., the farther you go, the more often the baby goes. We also loaded the interior of the van with the important family travel items: Barbie and Bratz dolls and accessories, coloring books and crayons, stuffed animals, mini Magna-Doodles, blankies and binkies, story books, Disney travel songs CD, notepads and pencils, laptop (with DVD drive) and a box of DVD’s, including Dora the Explorer and Blues Clues. With the entertainment taken care of (for at least 35 minutes), we added essential nutritional items: a cooler packed with juice boxes, water and energy drinks (for the driver), sandwich fixings, Goldfish crackers, Teddy Grahams, Gogurt, apples, grapes and trail mix.
With the van loaded with 21st century hardtack and fatback, everyone was strapped into their appropriate child safety harnesses. Each child has a designated seat, which is the one and only specific area of the van in which he or she does not want to sit. After some discussion and juxtaposing, everyone settled and we were ready for the first leg of the journey, which meant everyone had to unbuckle and go to the bathroom.
Our first unplanned extended stop occurred about four hours into the trip, in the shadow of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, OH. This is where, at a travel plaza for a potty stop and leg stretch, my son of 20 months – let’s call him Taz – decided to test the tensile strength of asphalt with his forehead. I picked him up, and carried him back to the van, trying hold the wound without benefit of a compress. I signaled to my wife to grab something to stave off the blood flow. She put a tissue on his head, and took him from me so that I could go into the travel plaza and try to obtain some type of bandage. When I returned with a box of Band-Aids and the suggestion we stick one on his head and hit the road, the look on her face cautioned me to come up with another option. She then indicated that I was an idiot as she showed me how, at the right angle, we could actually glimpse my son’s skull bone through the hole in his forehead. Back on the highway, with my wife holding the boy still in the back seat, we followed the blue “H” signs and the almost, but not quite entirely, useless directions from the cashier at the travel plaza to Aultman Hospital’s emergency room. If you have to have stitches in Canton, OH, I recommend Aultman Hospital. They have a nice waiting area for kids, with books and the Cartoon Network and a candy machine, in case you need to practice pronouncing “no.” Two hours and 14 stitches later, we were back on the road.
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