In The Land of Goofball Squirrels

Cool title, yes?

I have no idea what it means, but herewith is my subject du jour: cause and effect. This concept is causing me some head pain. Not because I don't understand it. I understand it all to well. No, the head pain comes from my daughter not quite understanding it.

I know, I know...she's in kindergarten, so some slack shall be cut. Still, there are times when not really connecting the dots makes me want to tear my hair out, or run around in circles. I think this is because I have spent more time in the country of CauseandEffectistan than I have spent out of it. A common side effect of being an "adult", more's the pity.

The anxiety arises because I understand it, and I am accustomed to those around me understanding it. This is a wonderful thing, because it means I do not have to spend any time explaining things. Well, most of the time I don't, can't say it has never happened. Simple things, like a gas flame is hot, ice is slippery and water is wet. I am just not used to having to spell these concepts out.

I was reminded of this principle recently on a foray to a local park. A park that is still mostly under a very thick layer of snow, and was undergoing a rapid melt under the effects of a run of above freezing temperatures. To wit:

"Look, daddy, the snow's melting!"

"Yes, it is, sweet pea."

"Look, daddy, I'm walking in the mud!" That bit was said with great enthusiasm and a grin.

"I see, sweetie. Your boots will get muddy." A minute passes.

"AIIIIEEE! DADDY! THERE'S MUD ON MY BOOOOTS! AIIIEEE!"

Yes, dear. I'll alert the media.

Music To Warm The Heart

Last Friday was the south end of a north bound donkey. It sucked. I hadn't slept well the night before, and traffic was horrendous on the way to work (40 minutes late because of another accident), the workday was bumpy, I was dealing with a leaking roof, dealing with some stressful family news, and I got stuck in traffic AGAIN on the way home from work to pick up my daughter for the weekend.

So, yeah, it was a 5-gallon bucket of homemade suck. Hot, bitter and irritating. 

But...remember I said I was picking up my daughter? Well, I did, after an hours' drive to get there. Being too tired to deal with cooking, we stopped at a local beans-and-cheese-and-rice place (rhymes with "Skiboat-lay") for some, well, beans and cheese and rice. Oh, and chips.

A nice dinner with the Wee Lass definitely smoothed some of the edges off the day, but what really put me in the happy zone occurred on the drive home. I had the radio on, and "Rock The Casbah" by The Clash came on. I was singing (badly) and trying to get her to join in on the chorus. She thought it was funny, but I could tell she wasn't exactly seeing the light about The Only Band That Matters. Not to worry, I'm sure she will come around...

After asking me what a 'casbah' was, she says "Daddy, do you know what song we haven't heard in a while?"

"What's that, sweetie?"

"The wearing purple song."

"Huh?"

"The start wearing purple song. Can we please listen to it?"

My jaw dropped a few inches. My daughter, the light o' my life, apple of my jaundiced eye, just asked to hear "Start Wearing Purple" by Gogol Bordello. I was stunned. And proud! *sniff* My little alt-rocker *sniff*.

How she remembered it I'll never know. I had played it in her presence a grand total of once, in the car, and at the time I was singing loudly (and of course, badly) and was cajoling her to sing the chorus with me. No dice. Not even copping a pirate voice and singing it with a few "arrrrs!" could do it. She just kept saying "Dadd-eee, stop singing!". Good thing I don't have an ego about my singing ability.

I did the only thing I could do: at the next stoplight, I grabbed the iPod and iTrip from my briefcase and queued up "Start Wearing Purple". This time, she started laughing and clapping some in time to the beat. She even joined in on a chorus or two, with me and my faux Eastern European or maybe its a weird pirate voice.

Somehow, driving home with food in the belly, a song in the throat and good company made all of that nonsense from the day just disappear. It was beauty, it was just what I needed. 

In honor of our songfest, I leave you with this live performance. Ladies and gentlemen, put on your best purple finery and sing with us now...

Some People Need Practical Advice

 "Don't get run over by a bus!" 

- George Carlin

My daughter is nothing if not observant. She is very quick to pick up on the wrongs of others (witness the recent "language incident" involving a deity and an exclamation) and she is a keen student of what people and animals can do. She gets a lot of conversational mileage out of commenting on birds flying, squirrels and chipmunks eating nuts, and all sorts of animals running. She will very often mime the actions she has seen or compare herself to whatever furry or feathered beastie happens to be the topic du jour. In turn, I get to hear some unique commentary from the mouth of the princess. To wit, on the way to school earlier this week:

"Those birds are fast, daddy."

"Yes, they are."

"You know who is fast, daddy?"

"Who, sweetpea?"

"Bongo. (Bongo is her cat) He runs really fast!"

"Yep, he's speedy sometimes."

"I am too! I'm fast, but not as fast as Bongo. He's good at running up the stairs, daddy. That's because he has four legs. But I don't run up the stairs."

"No, sweetie, you should be careful going up the stairs."

"Daddy, you should be careful going down the stairs, too. Don't run, so you don't crash your face into the rail."

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, your Wee Lass safety tip of the day. No one wants to crash their face, into rails or anything else!

Fireman, Ring the Belle

Is that toast?

"Daddy..."

Did the heat come on?

"Dad-dee..."

Smells like hot dust or something. Hmm.

"DAD-DEEE!"

"What, sweetie, I'm almost done reading the story."
"Where's my Belle doll?"
"I don't know, what did you do with her?"

(small voice) "I dunno."

"Well, we'll look for her tomorrow. G'night, sweet pea."

(goes to turn out bedside lamp) "AIIIGGGGHHH!"

LIGHT BULB 1, PLASTIC BELLE FIGURINE 0

The black-brown oval in the center? That used to be little rubber feet. Fortunately, the rest scraped off the light bulb pretty easily. No one was injured, no open flames. But, man, it stank.

Smack My Cucumber Bitch Up

As often happens, when I get the idea of something in my head, whether it be a word, an idea, a song, they stay there for days or weeks. Circling around and around until I DO something with them. In this case, I couldn’t take it any longer. The only way to get rid of the ideas was to write about it. So I present to you, for your edification and delight, this following amuse bouche for the mind. Enjoy!

On the road back home, from Virginia to Maryland:
It’s Daddy’s turn to pick the satellite radio station, so we are listening to Lithium XM54, all the greatest of ‘90’s alternative and such. There was a lot of good stuff playing, Wee Lass was quiet, and I was starting to drift off. The volume was up, because Wee Lass frequently asks us to ‘turn a’up louder!’. There had been some U2, some Nirvana. Then a song comes on that I hadn’t heard in a long time. I smiled at the opening chords, couldn’t quite remember the name. I said, sleepily, ‘Haven’t heard this in forever!’

From the back seat: “Daddy, what’s this song?”

I opened my left eye to look at the console. The Spouse was looking at it too. She looked at me, I looked at her. (Dim recollection that Wee Lass is starting to know words) Our hands were a blur trying to reach the channel button. Fortunately, XM Kids is on preset.

“I don’t know, sweet pea. Hey, Imagination Movers!”

Wee Lass smiles, and looks content.

That was close. The song? “Smack My Bitch Up” by Prodigy*:


Lying in bed, at home, a few nights later. In a rare moment of quiet repose, I am reading, really reading a genuine BOOK. This is one of the things that I treasure, I love to read and have ever since I learned how. In recent years, I have developed an obsession with food and cooking. Not just the pretty pictures of things I want other people to make for me, but information and recipes that I want to learn and make for myself. A recent thread I have been following is Chinese cooking. Not American Chinese, but authentic Chinese. The stuff that Chinese people living in China make for themselves. One of the best Western interpreters of the vast array of Chinese food that exists is Fuschia Dunlop, a Londoner who lived in, reported from, and trained in China for many years. She has a number of books published, one a memoir and one called Land of Plenty, which is on Sichuanese cooking. ‘Land of Plenty’ is excellent, I was cooking stuff out of it soon after I finished it. The one I am reading on this particular night is on Hunanese cooking, called The Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook. It is off to a good start, I’m diggin’ it:

Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (politely ignoring me)
Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (sighs) What?
Me: This recipe. It’s for something called ‘Smacked Cucumbers’. That sounds cool!
The Spouse: Smacked cucumbers? Ouch.
Me: Yeah, they call it that because before you marinate the cukes, you ‘smack’ them hard with the side of a cleaver, until they split and get all jagged. That way, they absorb the flavors better before you cook them! Awesome!
The Spouse: I ain’t eating any smacked cucumbers. Weirdo.

A day or so later, I had a really bizarre dream. I was standing in a kitchen, chopping up stuff. There was some music playing, and someone turned it up really loud. Guess what song it was? I looked down to find myself smacking the hell out of a big pile of cucumbers, and shouting “Smack my bitch up!” along with the song. The other people in the kitchen just stared at me.

Happy eating, comrades!

*I linked to the ‘nicer’ video clip for this song, because the ‘banned’ version was just scary. And nasty. I don’t rattle that easy, but still…I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. You may want to compare for the sake of curiosity, but you have been warned. ;)