Living the Dino Lif

A damp, gray day and warm for the season to boot.  It put a twist in my drawers and a pall on my demeanor, which spilled into the workday.  Today was a headphones-on-more-than-off kind of day.  The only thing that could have put the cap on it would have been to walk around with a lemon wedge in my mouth.

Her Majesty's evening swim class was cut short because one of the toddlers had a "bathroom incident" in the pool, so everyone had to exit and the pool was shut down for cleaning.  Poop in pool = total buzzkill + hilarity for the Lass.  To her credit, she did acknowledge that it was "gross".

"Soulshine" by Government Mule was playing on the radio when I arrived back at the Casa del Gumbo, and it put me further into the funk than I already was.  Pensive and soul-searching wasn't what I was in the mood to hear.  I was gearing up to write it all out, get the cynical and jaded pollution from my head to clear it.  I was thinking how I fall into that trap too often, seduced by the dark side, and how I was tired of being a grown-up.

Good thing I saw the picture.  Heh.

It has been sitting on my kitchen counter for about a week or so.  Wee Lass drew it for me as a gift, of her own accord.  It is of a happy little dinosaur, cheerily munching on what looks like carrot-shaped tree with a single large leaf at the top.  Overhead, a pale yellow sun shines down as a butterfly the size of a condor flies above the dinosaur.  At the top left hand corner is a title, scrawled in that unmistakable penmanship of one who is just learning to write.  It says "The Dino lif", and Wee Lass assures me that it does mean "The Dino Life", missing 'e' notwithstanding.

It makes me smile.  I forget, even for only a little while, about the crappy day and malaise and the cynical, corrosive air we often breathe as adults.

I sat down on the couch, with a glass of tea, and resolved to more often "live the Dino lif".  And I won't even worry about that missing 'e'.

Monday Sunshine: Haiku

Cold breath, crescent moon

Leaves drifting down, heart slowing,

warm, dreaming of you.

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!

Iridescent Inefficiency

It is around 9:15 in the evening. I am perched on a bar seat, nursing an aching back and neck as I set out to put these thoughts down on electrons. In the quiet of my apartment, the refrigerator hums softly, quiescently freezing the ice cubes and keeping my food supply safe. I am grateful for that refrigerator, it makes many things less difficult and more convenient.

One thing it does not do, is shovel snow. I hold no grudge on that account; the fridge is only fulfilling that which it was made to do. It embodies its "fridge-ness", which is all I can expect or demand from this non-ambulatory artifact of a technologically advanced civilization.

The computer sits on the kitchen counter, another quiet artifact at my beck and call. Well, sort of. I know it is not sentient, even if sometimes it acts as if it is operating under the inscrutable exhortations of its silicon chip soul. I type, the words appear, and things are well enough.

In the second bedroom of my humble apartment, a cherub lies sleeping. The whispers of her angel breathing do not reach my ears, the computer and refrigerator conspire to drown out that lovely, soothing sound. It pleases me to know that the cherub is my daughter, safe and cavorting in the playground of dreams. Earlier today she and I were outside in the snow, with two very different agendas.

Hers: to play and laugh as much as possible, and maybe move some clods of snow from one place to another under the guise of "helping" Daddy.

Mine: to move as much snow as possible as efficiently as possible while trying not to destroy an ailing back and using as little profanity as possible (and out of earshot of the Wee Lass), and maybe have a little fun with a snowball or three.

These agendas, while not mutually exclusive, certainly do not lend themselves to an easy integration. I am concentrating on conservation of effort, maximum dispersal with minimum effort, grim as Death while I bend, hoist and sling the bastard snow. She is running back and forth, alternating between carrying snow (and spilling it right back where I just removed it) proclaiming "I'm a good helper!", and climbing the preposterously high hillocks of snow and ice like a mountain goat. She slides, she dives, she tumbles to land at my feet giggling like a daft elf with rosy cheeks and impossibly blue eyes. Every so often, our arcs of intent intersect  with me flinging a shovel full of white stuff that lands on her head as she is scampering across the pile.

She laughs, that silver bell that makes my heart leap, and I shed my mask of somberness, if only for an instant. I use the opportunity to pause in my Herculean labors, thankful (slightly) that I am shoveling frozen water and not horse manure. Leaning on my shovel, sucking wind and cursing the spirits of the air, the truth of this blossoms inside my skull.

Her innocent mind knows nothing of the strictures of adulthood, that quiet desperation that comes from entanglement in responsibility, efficiency and time management. She cares nothing for a disruption in the work schedule. She does not concern herself with the soul-sucking knowledge that lost time must be made up, because contracts and clients don't care that the snow fell and you had to miss work.

I watch her gambol about, and know that I am jealous. Long ago, under the guise of adulthood, I largely gave up on play for the sake of it; I renounced the gift of living in the moment. The knowledge makes me sad, but I am thankful to have been granted a chance to revisit that iridescent inefficiency of youth.

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.

Pooh Sticks For One

I had dinner alone tonight, dear heart, as I do most nights. Alone, if you don’t count waitresses and busboys. I suppose I should count them for company, after all, many are friendly and nice to me, and what more could I ask?

Some asked about you, and I realized I missed you, terribly.

When I arrived home tonight, I wanted to go for a walk. The rains had stopped and the setting sun was nestling greenily amongst the trees lining the stream and path across the way. I knew what I was going to do.

Pooh Sticks, at the bridge, and I could daydream of your laugh…

A stream runs through us...

Except for the traffic noise, it was birdsongs and the murmur of water. I looked about for some sticks, and laughed to remember you scampering down the path, on the bank, looking for twigs and rocks and leaves. Your enthusiasm warms me up.

Cast into the stream, the echoes of “Look, daddy, look!”

I toss the first stick. My heart lands in the water, to recall your laugh.

So quickly, the twigs and leaves fall…

The stream was running a little high tonight, as were my thoughts of you, Wee Lass.

Pooh Stick gets away so quickly…

I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I could see you, hear you, and I felt so alone without you, your laughter and those rose window eyes. I stayed there on the bridge, and began to smile. Like the water flowing beneath my feet, this too shall pass. You and I will play Pooh Sticks, and grin like ‘possums under the canopy of trees.

It is not the same stream twice, but we share the water…

Running for My Life, Occasionally Colliding with a Lamppost

Lately, I have been running full tilt through life, much too fast to really comprehend anything, much less enjoy it. My interactions with the World Beyond My Shoulders have been limited to a quick dip in the daily newsrag whilst noisily gulping down my breakfast, and the little tidbits I manage to sop up from the radio news that I sporadically hear on my daily commute, i.e. between wishing for them to "play music!" and hollering at the idiots, er, fellow drivers surrounding me on the road.

A lot of what I do hear tends to bounce off; to paraphrase from "Raising Arizona" my brain "is a rocky place, in which the ideas could find no purchase". This is because a lot of what I hear is Bad News on a Global Scale, or Mayhem and Murder on a Local Scale. I reckon at least some of that universal white noise does have some relevance to my poor self, but in reality my headbone and my heart are exhausted and full. Too much swirling around me on a personal level to get lost in the details of messes I did not create, and cannot solve.

In the rare moments that I have a convergence of Time and Energy to concern myself with extracranial matters, I sometimes afford myself the luxury of catching up with What I Have Been Missing in the blogosphere. I know I will find something to make me laugh, or make me cry or shore up some sagging spirits. And sometimes, I read something that does all three. I ran into a lamppost, and it made me stop.

Today, the stars and planets aligned. I laughed. I cried. I felt the cloud lift a little.

Go here: 4/18/09. Read it. Beauty, ice cream and a happy ending. It's all good.

Elementary Physics for the Wee Lass

I don’t know where she gets it. Okay, maybe a little because I’m a geek. Still, her recall for such things is astounding.

Wee Lass and I were on our way to day care the other morning, a very cold day in the aftermath of the 8” of snow we had received earlier in the week. The sun was out, very brisk and the breeze was plucking leaves and bending needles. She was watching the trees go by and chattering away about leaves and trees and snow and ice. Then she paused, and said:

“Daddy, what’s that two word?”
“What word?”
“That two word.”
“Two word? Two word for what?”

Wee Lass sighs. In the rearview mirror, I can see her staring at me with the same look one gives harmless but annoying idiots when they obviously have demonstrated their idiocy. She didn’t roll her eyes, but I swear I heard an exasperated sigh.

“You ‘member, the two word. For the water to ice, ice to water.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Daddy! You know, when the ice changes to the water, or the snow to the ice…”

Huh?

“…or the water to mist…”

She chattered on for about another minute until it finally dawned on me. She was trying to remember “phase change”.

Jay-zus, at a time when I am lucky to remember my own name, or how not to get lost on the way to the liquor store, er, grocery store, my daughter is calling up physics terms! What is even more astounding, I know she heard me say that phrase once when I was trying to explain ice to her. I’m a dork like that, can’t look at ice without thinking of phase changes. And I wasn’t even all that interested in physics in my younger days.

But she heard me say it once. Once. And that was probably about two weeks prior to this day.

“You mean phase change, sweet pea?”
“Yes, Daddy, phr-, phff-…phrase change!” she said with a big smile. Then she proceeded to explain to me all the things that had phase changes, which included the aforementioned ice and water and mist. Then she said:

“…birds hatching and like seeds to flowers…”

“No, dear, seeds to flowers aren’t a…” then I caught myself. Seeds to flowers? While a seed turning into a flower isn’t exactly the strict definition of a phase change (I told you I am a dork), the idea behind it is similar: something undergoes a reorganization of itself and turns into something else. Pretty powerful stuff for such a young person to recognize.

I’ll have to keep an eye on that kid, she could be trouble later…

An Intriguing Series Of Random Encounters

A little ‘amuse cerveau’ on this brisk fall Saturday…

RANDOM ENCOUNTER NUMBER 1:
A few days ago, I was over at Waffles Waffles All Day Long, where the lovely Rebekah had an amusing post about Cowboy Kittens. Funny and perhaps a little disturbing (the subject, not the author. I mean, the author is funny, the subject maybe disturbing. Or something like that. Oh, never mind.) This story came to mind while I was in a local outpost of a major bookstore chain, looking for the elusive ‘Page-A-Day Cat Calendar’. The real McCoy, mind you, that says ‘365 Cats’. No wannabe knockoff gifts for my moms, that’s for sure! While I was looking for it, I came across the ‘Bad Cats’ page-a-day calendar. This is the ‘naughty’ cousin of the one I was looking for, with ‘amusing’ and ‘hilarious’ pictures of ‘bad cats’ in action. It comes complete with silly captions. What really made me laugh was the blurb on the back. I had my camera with me so I snapped a quick picture. If it looks blurry it’s because I was giggling and trying to do it quickly so the store staff would not come after ‘the weirdo taking pictures over in Calendars!’:

Cats on toilets. Who knew this was a money-making opportunity?

RANDOM ENCOUNTER NUMBER 2:
This one was a bit nervous making. This afternoon, I had the unenviable task of travelling to my (former) office to gather my remaining personal effects. I was eager to get there and get it over with as quickly as possible. As a consequence I was not minding my speed on I-95 as closely as prudence would dictate. Near my usual exit, there is another ramp discharging cars from the right onto the highway. This afternoon, traffic there was heavy and a line of slow moving cars all bunched together was merging in front of the car that was in front of me. The car ahead of me was slowing down and trying to get over to the left. Impatient as I was, I did not decelerate as I should have when the car in front finally moved over. The next car up had its blinkers on, travelling really slow. I failed to register JUST HOW SLOW IT WAS GOING, and I nearly jammed my foot through the floor stomping on the brakes. For a heart-stopping second I thought I was going to ram right into the car in front of me. Fortunately, just before our bumpers would have collided, they sped up slightly and I slowed down just enough. I also managed to avoid being clobbered by the car behind me. Sucking in a sharp breath, it was then I noticed the sign in the back window if the car I had nearly rear-ended:

FUNERAL

On my way to clear out my former desk, and I nearly crash headlong into a funeral procession. Karma sure has a sick sense of humor.

RANDOM ENCOUNTER NUMBER 3:
It is my custom on Fridays to take my Wee Lass to a local bagel store, for breakfast before I would drop her off at day care, and I would then head off to work. We followed the routine yesterday, even though the day before had been my last at work due to layoff (see posts of 12/10 and 12/12 for illumination). This bagel store has a storefront that faces the parking lot of the shopping center in which it is located. Along the storefront is a high counter with stools, and this has become Wee Lass’ favorite perch while we eat. (For those of you keeping score, Wee Lass was eating a chocolate chip muffin; I had my twofer of a toasted sesame bagel with hummus/toasted salt bagel with lox spread. Mmmm..). Right out in front on the sidewalk is a wrought iron trash can container. Wee Lass was chewing contentedly on the muffin and staring thoughtfully at the trash can. She suddenly cocked an eyebrow, turned to me and said in a serious voice:

“Daddy, trash cans don’t have feet.”

I didn’t quite snort tea out of my nose. I had to agree with her. The trash can did not have feet. Statements like that, though, make me wish I could channel her train of thought.

Barf-A-Roni, The San Francisco (Un) Treat

Since I embarked upon this experiment in blogging I have realized that writing a ‘daily column’ is not as easy as it seemed. Topics can be elusive. As an example, tonight I was scrounging around and getting a bit desperate. It is also true that sometimes these things seem to write themselves, and this is one of those times. Tonight’s topic: public vomiting.

Specifically, public vomiting as it relates to Wee Lass, and the embarrassment incurred.

I made up my mind this afternoon that if I managed to clear the backlog on my To Do list at work soon enough, I would leave early and perhaps enjoy a bit of down time before dinner and (wait for it)…grocery shopping! I know what you are saying “Gumbo, dude, reel it in! You’re out of control!” Oh, I will; I am nothing if not a master of discipline. So anyway, things worked out, I crossed the last item off the list, and I swiftly put on my cloak of invisibility. A few spy rolls, a quick sidestep past the front desk and I was in the car and on the highway. Yesss!!! I made it home, kissed the kid and parked my keister on the couch, beer in hand. Tasty Anchor Holiday beer, if you are interested. Highly recommended!

Wee Lass and I took in some SpongeBob and then we trekked over to our favorite neighborhood Italian eatery (Hail, Pazani!) for dinner. The plan was to eat and then forage for victuals. A salad for the Spouse, a prosciutto Panini for me and Wee Lass tucked into her favoritest dish: spaghetti with butter and salt, “Butter noodles” in her lingo. We cut them up, Wee Lass tucks in, happiness ensues, ja? Comrades, the answer to that question is a big, fat NEIN!

Notice I said the plan “was” to go shopping. The intersection of Wee Lass and butter noodles, on this cold and snowy evening, was an unfortunate vector producing highly unpleasant results. My daughter is a connoisseur of butter noodles. She can go on about the right amount of butter (“Lots!”) and the correct sprinkling of salt (“Lots!”) and even the proper length of said noodles. The noodles have to be long enough to be ‘slurpy’. There are two traits, however, that Wee Lass manifests with maddening randomness: an inability to listen to her wise Da and lapses in common sense. Which the Spouse and I never do, so I dunno where the girl gets it!

So it was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wee Lass inhale a wad of spaghetti sized for a truck driver from Naples. Her cheeks bulged like a squirrel. “Don’t take big bites!” I said. Wee Lass looked up at with a blank stare, spaghetti draped on her chin like a moose eating pondweed. She was struggling to chew as she nodded at me. I looked down to get a bite. When I looked up, there she was with another egg size ball of noodles in her mouth. “Hey! Small bites!” She didn’t look back because she was coughing, mouth working like a spasmodic fish. You know what happened next. Wee Lass looked up, eyes widening to saucer-size. Silence. The Spouse kicked into SuperMom-ICU nurse-mode, grabbing my sandwich basket and turning it into an ad hoc emesis basin (barf bucket, in layman’s terms). BARRFFF! Good timing, Mommy! I launched myself out of the booth and hot-footed it over to the napkin holder for emergency spill absorbents. By the time I got back, disaster had struck. The basket was too small, Wee Lass had gone off like a lawn sprinkler, and the spaghetti bowl was the next closest container. Wee Lass was slumped down in the seat looking sad. The Spouse was glaring up at me, hands upright in front of her. Eewww. “This…is…DISGUSTING!” she hissed. No shit. The Spouse and Wee Lass slunk off to the bathroom to clean up, while I played Coast Guard to their Exxon Valdez. Man, those napkins can seem mighty small all off a sudden.

While I am mopping up, furtively glancing about to see if anyone was staring, one of the waitstaff/busboys stops and says “Can I get those for you?” hands reaching out to get the dishes, “Is this….” the smile fading quick as he looks at the wrecked bowl of spaghetti “…done?” I smiled weakly at him. “Uh, yeah, we’re done. She’s not going to finish that.” He picked up the bowl like it was radioactive. “Sorry.” He carefully walked away, barf bowl out in front of him like a grenade about to go off.

Next week, I’m bringing a poncho. And a bigger tip.