Today's Moment from Academia

When I started the new job, a memo went around the department asking that everyone limit their color printing. Apparently, color cartridges are hard to get, the department doesn't have a secretary at the moment, and when we run out of color ink, no one knows how to obtain more. Silly me, I hoped that meant black and white printing would be ok. In general, everyone has their own printer (so frequently, two printers of different types per office), and I was given one upon arrival. After printing 4 pages or so, I ran out of toner and found that the printer was of such ancient vintage that cartridges are no longer made for it. None of the supply closets in the division had any spares lurking in dark corners (although it was amusing to see no less than 10 different types of toner cartridge in the division), so I have been printing to the department printer.

Today I walked in to find that a document I printed on Friday was resting next to the printer with a rather vehement note on it:

"To Whom it May Concern: Please don't use the color printer for black and white printing. Use your own office printer."

There was lots of double and triple underlining. I guess that means I shouldn't use the color printer AT ALL.

I was given the lowdown by my boss that the department head is very sensitive about the proper use of the color printer, and has been known to have 20 minute meetings to explain it to people. She suggested I lay low and print somewhere else, so as not to draw attention to myself.

I am coming to understand how academics get involved in incredibly trivial but bitter fights, because I am really tempted to print 1000 pages filled with my repentance, "I will not print black and white documents to the color printer." If I had tenure, I wouldn't bother to resist the temptation, and some crazy story would probably wind up in the newspaper: Faculty Fracas Fomented by Falls.

What am I Feeling?

I need a word for that feeling you get when you've just held a smiling baby, you hand her off to someone else, and yet the part of your body against which she was resting remains warm, then gradually becomes colder than the rest of you. It's not quite horror, because you know whatever it is, she's done it before, and you can take it. Is it hope, because there is the possibility that the sensation is imaginary? Or maybe hope because maybe this time your clothes aren't stained with unfortunate baby byproducts*. Anticipation, because you won't know until you look down (or take a deep breath)?

Somehow, those options seem too positive. What would describe this peculiar feeling?

*Photo of baby byproducts withheld.

Do You Know How Hard It Is To Hate Someone When They Don't Care About You?

This morning I called the gynecologist to make an appointment for an annual checkup. I've been visiting the same multi-doctor practice for 10 years or more, and while the medical care has been mildly satisfactory, the customer service has always been poor. Phone wait times are never less than 5 minutes to make an appointment, appointment delays for non-emergency (but recommended) visits are at least 3 months, invoices dribble in over 12 months, etc. I put up with it because in the normal course of a year, I see them once, and honestly, no one ever raves about their great gynecologist.

I called and listened to the computer tell me about the phone options. Two minutes later, I learned that #1 is for appointments. A clerk asked me to hold, without giving me a chance to refuse. Five minutes later, my call was terminated. I called back, and when a person came on the line to tell me to hold, I said, "No, I don't want to hold. My call was just terminated after a lengthy hold, so I'd like to make my appointment now."

"Sorry, there are 3 people ahead of you, so I'm going to put you on hold." Yes, there are now people ahead of me because your system terminated my call the first time. I waited another while, before a clerk picked up. "Annapolis OB/Gyn, how can I help you? " Well, I punched #1 to make an appointment, so I'd like to make an appointment, hmm-k?

But in reality I said, "Hi, I need to make an appointment for an annual checkup." Gave her my name, birthdate, and location. They have several offices in the region, but other than the one in town, they are at least 25 miles away from me. That's a fair field trip on a work day.

"The next available appointment I can offer you is in January, and the schedule isn't open until next week. You'll have to call back then." No apology, no regret, so little pleasant verbal offering to make this more palatable.

"Wait a minute. I just spent 15 minutes on hold and had to call twice, only to be told that you can't schedule 3 months ahead to match your long wait time for an appointment? This is a very difficult and unpleasant process."

Huff and sigh. "Well, that's just the way it is. The schedule hasn't been opened yet."

"Well, I have a job, and it just doesn't work for me to spend 15 minutes on hold while at work, waiting for a doctor's office to grant me an appointment. Is there anyway to make this easier?"

Meanwhile, she's trying to talk over me while I'm speaking to her. I swear, I wasn't screaming, yelling or otherwise being unreasonable, just asking how they can improve their customer service after giving me a bad time. One sentence, one question, that's all I was trying to get out.

"If you'll let me speak, ma'am..." "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude, I'm just telling you this process is not reasonable, and asking you how to make it easier."

"Well, you can use Next MD." Long silence, as I wait for her to elaborate.

"What is Next MD?" "It's our email system. If you give me your email address, I'll give you a token you can use to make an appointment."

"Fine, " I say, and after taking the token number, I finish the call. No more than 2 minutes of unpleasant talk to a clerk-bot who couldn't care less the customer was unhappy.

I spent the next minute yelling at the ceiling while the dog watched me from under a table, then took down the phone book and looked under Physicians- Gyn." I called the practice that is in the same building, different floor (Women's Gyn as opposed to the EVIL EMPIRE: Annapolis Gyn. These people aren't great with names around here), and a person answered the phone. It took me a couple seconds to realize she was human and wasn't going to spit a list of choices at me. I asked for an appointment, she gave me one. Then she apologized that since my medical needs aren't immediate, I have to wait 6 weeks for the appointment. "That's ok, I understand how busy things can get. Have a good morning." "You too, see you in December."

Voila. A dollop of sweetness and courtesy goes a long way. So stick it, Annapolis Ob/Gyn. Look up at your stupid ceiling posters and mobiles, fetch one of your supercilious nurses who could never in 10 years be bothered to tell me my blood pressure without being asked, put your feet in your bloody uncomfortable stirrups, and stick it where the overly bright and hot lamp shines. I got a new girlfriend (to probe me slightly painfully with cold tools).

Two Much Fun

At the new job, I'm running a basic beam mechanics test on an interesting material. Although analysis might be challenging, the tests themselves are very simple: apply load, measure deflection. The hard part is that the maximum load for the medium sized beam is 350 lbs, and 1800 lbs for the large beam. The lab is not really set up for this sort of test, so instead of a testing machine, we are using... free weights. That's 1800 lbs of free weights that need to be repetitively lifted, put on the beam, and removed. That's 1800 lbs of free weights that were purchased in increments of 50 and 100 by the previous testers who skedaddled for greener pastures right after the weights arrived. Let me say here that I have the muscle tone of SpongeBob.

So after much kvetching (polite, professional, and couched in the form of questions), I convinced someone to agree with me that a soft 35 yr old with no muscles isn't the best person to sling large weights around. This other professor found the perfect solution: twin weight lifters. No really, identical twins. Yes, I now have 2 21yr old weightlifters helping me with the tests. They wear uniforms and call me ma'am (and are a little short, a requirement for my standards of attractiveness), and it would be a highlight of my life if not for this:

"Doctor of Philosophy? Does that mean you'll be able to read our minds?"

Oh my little lads, you will be as safe with me as with your own grandmother. (Which they would have been anyway we know, but maybe not in my head. Just want to clarify that for the credulous. And the spouse.)

Wisdom, From Me to You

Love is when you learn to firmly tell someone to F-off, while trying not to hurt their feelings.

Because you love them, but you really need them to F-off.

This wisdom courtesy of a small boy who felt the need to cry after a wonderful evening, because dessert was not on the menu.

It's September?

Whoa, where is the time going? Crazy baby rearing, determined money earning, and slapdash housekeeping, that's where.

So here's my current dilemma, and I don't know whether to call it moral, ethical, or a matter of good taste: I live in Annapolis, home of the US Naval Academy. Our little soldier students have to stay fit as part of their educational mission, so they spend a lot of time running around town. The rule is they have to wear shirts on the Yard, but the minute the little jewels leave their campus, off come the shirts. This is traditionally considered a perquisite of residence in this town, and 10 years ago, I was delighted by it.

Now the scenery remains as eye-catching, but:

3. I no longer have reciprocal beauty. Time was I didn't hesitate to take a gander, because I knew the exchange was mutually beneficial. Now I'm thinking Jabba the Hut just had a glandular problem, and was probably quite handsome under his crusty exterior.

2. I'm old enough to be the parent of the youngest ones, with little scandal. Now when I ogle them, they are probably wondering why the matron with two little kids in the backseat is squinting at them.

1. I'm working at the academy. Should I be giving the eye to young people I might encounter in the classroom? Odds are I wouldn't recognize them with their shirts on, but they might know me. "Hi, professor, so nice to finally put a name to the lechy eyeballs."

Ugh.

This doesn't mean I'm going to stop looking at the running candy. I just wonder how guilty I should feel about it.

Hmm

This is a "What Would You Do?" sort of post. One of my little nuggets came home today claiming that she found a mouse dropping in her sandwich. Whole wheat sliced bread (no seeds), cold-cut ham and american cheese. She brought the sandwich home with one small piece of bread missing from it and no mouse dropping, because she threw that part away. So I retrieved the bag of bread from the refrigerator and pulled all of the slices out onto the cutting board. No droppings or evidence of droppings. Shook the bag out over the sink- crumbs, no droppings. Asked her if she was sure, or if perhaps the ham had some spice or something on it. Nope, had to be a mouse dropping.

Even though she has utter certainty, I don't believe there was a mouse dropping in the sandwich. How could there be just one in the whole bag, and it happened to land on her sandwich slices? This is almost irrelevant though, because I foresee that she will refuse to eat any futher slices of bread from this bag. Do I buy another just for her, or wait until this one is gone, and let her eat crackers or no bread in the meantime? Am I crazy, or is it possible for a very tidy mouse to drop just one pellet on a loaf of bread?

Soylent Green

So many of my stories seem to be really stupid. I don't know how this happens, since I think I'm reasonably intelligent, but I never have stories about spiritual enlightenment, or intellectual epiphanies, it's just daily irritations that don't seem to happen to other people with the same intensity. Maybe the enlightenment is right there, and I'm too busy being outraged to pick it up.

So much for contemplation, here is the tale of my disastrous lunch expedition, which really starts last night. My cousin, who is staying with us for the summer and going to camp, had to be there early this morning for the field trip. 0645 early, which is about 1 hour earlier than I ever manage to roll out of bed. I was whinging about this to the husband who gallantly stepped up and offered to take her to the rendezvous. (Sort of gallant that is. He actually said, "Let's be realistic, I'll just take her." I could have done it, and he robbed me of the chance to prove it.) So I woke up late (ie, the usual time), and was moving slow (about the usual pace) and had no time to make lunch (which is unusual, because I usually take leftovers, but we had none.) At lunch time I set out to forage for food using my best tools, wallet and car, since I wanted an Israeli pita sandwich and was far too lazy to walk all the way across campus and back. Walked all the way to the car only to realize I had forgotten the keys. Since the parking lot is in the opposite direction to the food, I had to walk all the way back toward the office, and just continued on to the engineering deli, which serves food that is as delicious as you might imagine it would be, in a clapped out, old engineering building. The guy in front of me is having some long discussion with the clerk and finally moved on so that I could order the taco salad, which is the only edible salad they sell. Despite the name, there are no tacos involved, just lettuce, salsa and cheese, with chili on top. Turns out the previous guy's problem was that the chili wasn't ready, so I compromised and asked for a side of mystery soup instead. So already in one lunch, I've downgraded twice. Then I signed the credit slip before realizing that I had been overcharged. The kid at the register had charged me an extra $0.70 for a different salad. I pointed this out, and the manager took over. She looked at the receipt, listened to my explanation, and offered me $0.34 refund.

"But the difference between $5.99 and $6.69 is..."

"What, you expected a dollar back? No, it's only a couple cents."

This is where my talent for the ridiculous came in. Instead of giving up and coming back to the grey cube to eat my undelicious salad, I tried to explain that she had calculated the difference between the taxed taco salad and the untaxed cobb salad, and that really, she should just give me my 70cents. At this point, there were 4 people lined up waiting to pay, but the 3 people behind the counter were all consumed with my refund, and refused to use the 2nd register to check anyone else out. While hungry hate rays of death were shooting out of the other customers eyes, and the 3 employees were giving me looks making it clear that they wished they had thought to spit in my food, the manager refunded the incorrect cost of the salad ($7.10 with tax) to my debit card, then charged me the correct price ($6.35 with tax), making me sign two more credit receipts in the process. Then she bid me adieu, still wondering why I made such a big deal over 34 cents. I'm torn between feeling stupid for signing in the first place for the wrong price, wasting time in the second place for the sake of a salad which isn't even going to be that great, or in the third place for not being able to figure out that the refund was supposed to be $0.75.

All in the time it would have taken to just walk out for the pita I really wanted. Ta-da!

Crime, No Punishment

I found this on fark.com. I like how seriously NJ takes drunk driving- they might be as cavalier as MD, or close to it.

WCBS NEWSRADIO 880 - New Jersey Man Admits 15th Drunk Driving Offense

Posted using ShareThis

Political Infidelity

Or rather, the infidelity of politicians. Listening to parts of the latest apology, issued by Gov. Mark Sanford of SC, I begin to wonder why these things are usually phrased as actions against the wife and family.

“I’ve been unfaithful to my wife. I developed a relationship with what started as a dear, dear friend from Argentina. It began very innocently as I suspect many of these things do, in just a casual e-mail back and forth in advice on one’s life there and advice here. But here recently, over this last year, it developed into something much more than that.

“And as a consequence, I hurt her, I hurt you all, I hurt my wife, I hurt my boys, I hurt friends like (former chief of staff) Tom Davis. I hurt a lot of different folks. And all I can say is that I apologize.”

These are words that keep Sanford in control. He is the one that had the fun of cheating, he is the one who wields hurt, and he is the person directing the agenda. An apology like that is about other people, namely his wife who presumably couldn't hold his interest, his children who weren't precious enough not to hurt, his friends who got to make asses of themselves defending him, and even about the other woman, who clearly seduced him from his family with banal emails about life. I'm waiting for the day that a public apology by a politician is all about the politician. Something like this:

"I broke my word. I violated the vows that I freely took before God and man, and am forsworn. (Can you tell I like historical romances? Esp. those featuring insulted honor and duels at dawn) I failed to resist the temptations that every adult encounters, and held my own desires to be more important than my duty to my family and to my state."

Of course, in Sanford's case, it wasn't his abrogation of his marital ties that brought him to such notice, it was his abandonment of his official duties, without even the courtesy of notifying the Lt. Governor or his own staff that he was going to be away.

Spitzer did something similar a year ago:

In the past few days I have begun to atone for my private failings with my wife, Silda, my children, and my entire family. The remorse I feel will always be with me. Words cannot describe how grateful I am for the love and compassion they have shown me. From those to whom much is given, much is expected. I have been given much: the love of my family, the faith and trust of the people of New York, and the chance to lead this state. I am deeply sorry that I did not live up to what was expected of me. To every New Yorker, and to all those who believed in what I tried to stand for, I sincerely apologize.

Wow, way to apologize, Tex. Again, this strikes me as being about other people, in a sly way. As if he had said, "Look how powerful I am, I managed to hurt and disappoint all these people, just because I could. Don't forget the humiliation I dealt out to my wife: her name is Silda, spelled S-I-L-D-A." As if the infraction was his failure to live up to other people's expectations.

Ensign has apologized for “embarrassing the Senate”. That's his only realy public statement to date, and slightly more to the point than usual. He's still avoiding ownership of his mistakes, but at least he didn't have the audacity to drag his family into the muck. He is also (barely) acknowledging the insult to his office which is a refreshing change. One might have hoped for specifics about his mistake in fraternizing with his employee, breaking his vows, betraying his other employee by alienating the affections of his wife, etc, but maybe he'll get around to it.

I'm not expecting perfection from politicians, just the same standard of behavior to which we all hold ourselves. If you choose to get married, don't cheat on your spouse. If you cheat on your spouse, don't try to justify your faults or gloss over your loss of integrity. If your private behavior has intruded into your public life and impaired your ability to fulfill your official duties so that you need to issue a public apology, then make a real apology, instead of mouthing self-serving pap.

Falling Behind

I haven't published much because I'm on a writing roll with the dissertation. Just passed 200 pages today, so the official count before the introduction and conclusion are included is 202. I'm starting the intro tomorrow, come hell or high water, so maybe next Monday will be 250. In my dreams of course, but that is what I would like to accomplish this week.

This whole process has given me much more respect for people who write books or publish constantly. I used to believe I was smart enough to do anything, but now I know that smarts are only part of it, and I don't have as much of the rest of it as I need to make this process easy. So that stream of money-making romance novels I always thought I would write in my spare time might not be forthcoming. To assuage disappointment, I'll offer a summary of my stillborn novels:

Slightly naive woman with unconventional beauty and high intelligence meets cynical man of wealth and similar intelligence, with mysterious suffering in his past. Woman tells man to suck it up and move on with his life. Man tells woman she is shallow and lacks compassion. 325 pages of gratuitous sex and detailed clothing descriptions later, progeny are engendered, wedding bells ring, and they live happily ever after. Ta Da! Repeat with different hair and skin colors, plus different causes of mysterious suffering.

Marriage, American Style

I'm listening to a very interesting discussion about the marriage and divorce rates in the US. It seems that compared to the rest of the western world, we marry more, divorce more, and generally have more romantic partners moving in and out. In short, we have high turnover compared to others. A child with married parents in the US has a higher chance of seeing his parents break up than a child in Sweden with parents who never marry.

A sociologist has written a book on the subject, "The Marriage Go Round." He's been explaining his theories about why this phenomenon exists, but has been very polite so far. Here's my less polite take on it:

1. We treat marriage as a path to personal happiness (selfish, immature). Thus when either partner stops being happy, they feel that a divorce is appropriate. At the same time that we all say marriage is good for kids, we act like it must be good for us, or it's worthless.

2. We have very confused sexual attitudes (prudish). We tend to feel that sex partners should be married or marriageable. This results in people marrying because they want to have sex, and getting divorced after the infatuation with the partner dies.

3. We have no idea what a marriage is (naive, thoughtless). We are unsurpassed at creating special weddings, but we have little idea of how to forge long term partnerships with sexual relationships that may wax and wane.

4. We marry for legal and financial benefit (mercenaries who can't stick it for the long term). Actually, this isn't so much jerky behavior as it is necessary because of our legal code. There are many benefits that you can only get through marriage and many others that are easier or cheaper if you are married. Turns out that our government is the only western government to specifically encourage marriage. It's not really working that well. We are also the only ones without some sort of universal healthcare, so we get people marrying for the sake of insurance.

Lots of us like to think that we get married because we so moral and religious and whatnot, but it seems our motivations are much less noble than that.

Insular Annapolis

Occasionally since coming to Annapolis, I've run into people who haven't been exposed to much.  That's the only way I can describe it.  Once it was someone who had never heard of hummus and never tasted olive oil or lamb.  I can understand the hummus, even though it is in most normal groceries now, it wasn't commonly available everywhere until recently.  The other two though, they seem so normal to me, such common ingredients that it's hard to imagine never even tasting them in a life of eating.  I've met several people like this, and I've just figured that everyone has different norms, big country, etc.  Especially easy explanation since there are lots of foods my big city friends and relatives think are normal and I won't touch (pickled herring, followed by the even more abominable herring in cream?).  I've also met Annapolitans who have never visited Baltimore or DC.  Major cities less than 30 miles away, with large numbers of cultural attractions, never visited.  OK, I can see it (with some difficulty).  Today however, I met a woman who told me she never knew a car could be rented until she was hired by the car rental company.  This I do not understand.  How do you watch tv or listen to the radio or talk to friends who've gone on vacation or read a magazine and not realize that cars can be rented?  I've been trying to bend my mind around it and I just can't get there.  Can anyone explain this to me?

Inglorious Basterd

Have you seen the trailer for Tarantino's new film?  It has captured my interest for two entirely predictable reasons: Brad Pitt and crazy violence.  I have some small hope of being able to go out and see it in the theaters, since we are gradually starting to go out again.  It was before a screening of Star Trek that I saw the trailer for Inglorious Basterds, and I had to put the movie at the top of my mental must-see list.

We are going out a little now because the baby has settled into a routine and we can put her to bed before a babysitter comes and still catch a movie at a reasonable hour.  Number 1 son of course, has been easy to parent for some time.  He does his homework without too much argument, he can get his own breakfast, he can wash himself... or not.

I may have mentioned before that my boy is not that interested in being really clean.  He comes by this honestly, in as much as we have never worried too much about keeping him really clean.  When he was an infant, we'd bathe him a couple times a week, but not stress about the daily dunk unless he smelled.  My mother took to calling me and asking if he'd been bathed that day, as she has a fetish about clean children.  Anyhow, seeing puberty on the horizon, we started emphasizing the daily shower as soon as he was old enough to shower by himself.  It's been going pretty well (except for a hiccup here and there) we thought, but two things have occurred that make me realize that shower time might need more parental supervision:

1. He ran out of soap.  For Christmas, I gave him a large bottle of Chocolate Mint shower gel, which he loved.  Apparently, it doesn't last forever, because he told me last week that he has run out of it.  Okay, I'll get him some more, but in the meantime he can use some regular bar soap, like the one that's been in his shower since we had guests during the holidays.  He said he didn't realize he could use that, didn't see it as real soap, blah, blah, whatever, he'll use it.  Just from curiosity, I asked him when he ran out of the special gel, and the answer was:  February.  It's May.  My son, who has not been using the bar of soap in his shower, has not had any shower gel in the bottle for 3 months.  To re-state, and allow you to absorb the full horror, that's 3 months without soap on a dirty, sweaty little boy.  He never smelled that bad or anything, but I did think once or twice that he was a little musky maybe.

2. Having solved the soap problem (which wasn't a supply problem so much as an application error), I was gazing at my boy yesterday with pride and delight.  What great hair!  Such a beautiful eye color!  What finely shaped ears- wait, what's that behind his ear?  Is that a rash?  A scar?  A bruise from some untold story of school bullying?  You probably don't need me to tell you it was none of those things.  Turns out there is a reason mothers are always telling their kids to wash behind their ears.  I have conveyed this information to him before, but not with any special emphasis.  I admit this was a mistake, because it turns out that my kid was harboring ambitions to collect dirt behind his ears.  Not just any old dirt, this stuff did not come off with a wet paper towel.  It didn't come off with serious paper towel scrubbing, or nail scraping, or a judiciously uttered profanity.  I had to break out a sani-wipe with some sort of crazy solvent before this junk finally gave way to serious swiping.

This may all seem like a serious digression, considering I started with Brad Pitt and a war movie.  But it's just that when I get to this movie, I won't just be admiring the scenery, I'll be comparing the relative filth of the soldiers and my child, and hoping that my child is cleaner.

My So-called Life

1. Why don't I post much?

Because I'm trying to finish grad school, and I'm depressed because I've spent so much time in grad school.

2. Why do I write so much trivia about the baby?

Duh.  Because she makes me smile and feel like I'm achieving something.  

This is not to say that raising the boy is not also an achievement, but he is rapidly becoming a self-steering child.  We apply small course corrections, and then stand back and watch him progress.  It is exciting, but except on the rare occasion (bat to the face, garage door debacle) there is not much to write about that is lighthearted and trivial.  

The baby, on the other hand, is the source of all that is light and trivial in my life (except Fug) (and stupid commercials)*.  She is not yet crawling, but she can scoot around while sitting up, and is quite mobile.  Her big interest now is food (surprise!).  We took her out to a coffee shop last week while Hunter was at Sunday School.  See, I could be writing about my rather tortured reasons for having him go to these classes, but since my religious ideas are equally tortured and (I fear) somewhat shallow, I'll spare myself the embarrassment.  So anyways, we're in this shop which sells coffee and books but is somehow not my favorite place to be, and I purchased some quiche to share with Britt.  (Even though Sunday school doesn't start until nearly 11, we usually have not had breakfast by then.  Make of that what you will.)  Apparently the SS Ward was also hungry, so we started giving her bites too.  This turned out to be a mistake, as we all discovered that quiche is her favorite food in the entire world.  All of us as in her parents and the customers of the shop, who all turned to find out why the baby was screaming when the quiche was finished.  Well, that's all fine and good and very cute, except the partypooping pediatrician who insists that young babies shouldn't be eating eggs.  This is something that is in the books too, but I was ignoring it because I think the books are FOS.  There are a couple of things I won't give her, like honey (botulism risk) and coldcuts (disgusting, half-rotten pieces of nitrate cured meat), but generally I feel that the food restrictions for babies are a combination of voodoo and wishful thinking.  Every once in a while there is a new report about food allergies in children, but since every other report contradicts the one that came before, they are not much help.  For whatever reason, the doctor's insistence that I shouldn't give her eggs is sticking with me.

To help this frail resolution to be a conforming, careful mother, I made a quiche Monday night.

I made it to make breakfast easy this week, because we are tired, and sick of cooking and tired, and bored with the usual breakfast.  It is the best quiche I've made to date, and I've enjoyed every bite.  The boy thought it was delicious, which is really a triumph.  The good ship Schuyler screams every morning while we eat it.  This means every morning starts with a hearty round of laughter as we savor our lovely, creamy, cheesy breakfast and she gums up her Cheerios and spits with fury.  Please don't think less of us because we are willing to taunt a defenseless baby: we have to get our licks in now, before she can talk.

*Is it just me, or is that commercial sort of racist?  That's in addition to its incredible vulgarity.

Cribbed

Our new baby is a little crazy.  By this I mean that she is not at all like her older brother: not very cuddly, not very mellow, and very high energy.  This is not a problem exactly, but it has led us to a weird problem I don't know how to solve.  Every night we put her down in her crib (around 715pm, a complete victory, thanks very much), and she goes to sleep pretty easily.  But... she thrashes around constantly, and wakes herself up a couple times a night by getting her legs caught in the crib slats.  When this happens she shrieks like she's a missionary being prepared for the pot, and we run in to save her from the hungry cannibals.  Sometimes this is not so easy, as little crazy has inherited her parents' thighs, and she wedges these chunky members pretty tightly between the slats.  So what do we do?  We removed the crib bumper when she started to move around, because she once stuck her head between the crib wall and the bumper.  I can't think of what else I can do to protect her legs and feet from the slats without endangering her with something she'll pull off and stick into her mouth.  Do I set up a hammock and ditch the crib?  That sounds like a recipe for disaster when she figures out how to roll out of it.  Do we ditch the crib and put her on the floor?  Buy a dog crate?  

Clearly, I have not one single practical idea.  Do you?

Dwelling

To dwell, or not to dwell, that is the question.  Some advocate not dwelling, on the theory that dwelling doesn't fix anything, and one should just soldier on.  Some can't help but dwell.  And then there is I, who is both a dweller, and amused by how dwell has ceased to have any meaning now that I've repeated it 7 times.  Let's review the list of items that has inspired this less than elevated soliloquy:

1. Child gets hit in face by wooden bat.  Shrieks, tears and dismay ensue.  Septum turns out not to be deviated.

2. Having no money to take a family vacation during kid's spring break, kid stays home with the nanny and baby sister. In boredom, kid plays with lock on garage door, eventually leaving it locked so that catastrophic buckling ensues when Dad attempts to open garage door with auto-opener.  Garage door must be replaced.

3. Luxury yacht market hits the skids, causing much unhilarity.

4. Leave work two hours early to take kid to appointment on Friday.  Amazing awful traffic causes lateness not just for appt, but for school pickup ($20 fee, yowza).  

4b. Driving from doctor's office to cub scout meeting, get hit by random kid driving a suburban.  Small fender bender with no injuries, but sneaking suspicion erupts that my own personal dark cloud is following me around.

5.  Cooking uninspired dinner on Sunday night, rice steamer short circuits and sends out flame.  Lucky me, didn't start rice before leaving house to run errands, so we were home for the incident and could unplug flaming machine.

6.  Lovely son was eager to go to kungfu and show off his new yellow belt, and jumped out of car so he could run into class.  Sadly, he slammed his hand in the car door.  Needless to say, no kungfu class today.

I have two theories and 1 attempt to not dwell:

1. Bad luck is dogging my family, and little stupid things keep happening.

2. Good luck is protecting my family, and incidents that could be terrible pass with minor irritation.

2b. I don't really believe in luck, and all this is coicidence... but I am a little superstitious and don't want to tempt Providence so will let the two theories stand.

I don't know which of these it is.  I also am thinking that the child-related incidents should be separated from the rest.  Bat to the face, smashed fingers, garage door catastrophe- these are all connected to curious little boy exploring the world and being careless with his safety.

But I really think it is item #3 that is fueling the dwelling and brooding on every little thing.  I'm trying to turn my frown upside down, turn that dwell into a swell, but it an exhausting effort.  Blech.

Good Drinks

When I was pregnant last year, I bored my friends to tears complaining about the lack of mocktails in this town.  I enjoy going out, I don't care for soda that much, the tap water in Annapolis tastes and smells like an armpit that's been sprayed with chlorine and sulfur, and iced tea has caffeine, which I didn't want to drink too much of.  For all of these reasons, I would frequently ask bartenders for non-alcoholic cocktails, with the caveat that neither daiquiris, coladas, nor tomato juice were acceptable.  At least 4 out of 5 times, they would have nothing to offer.  I suspect this is because most bartenders around here are the equivalent of short-order cooks.  They know how to make popular drinks in a semi-competent fashion, and aspire to nothing more.  They do not savor fine rye whiskey, they don't wonder if anything can be done with Frangelico, and they have no clue that the original James Bond martini, the Vesper, had both gin and vodka (and Lillet Blanc.  Lovely, spicy Lillet).  Out of the remaining 20% of bartenders, the ones who might honestly (and pretentiously) call themselves mixologists, probably half were not interested in making something for me.  It's hard to blame them: mixing non-alcoholic drinks is like cooking without meat.  You can do it, but it's hard to do it well off the cuff.  

After this experience, I determined to write a book of nonalchoholic cocktail recipes.  I thought it would have appeal to a wide audience of non-drinkers: pregnant women, sober alcoholics and medicated people.  I'm semi-happy to say that yesterday I found that I have been beaten to the presses, and at least two such books already exist.  Read all about them.  This article in the WaPost considers mocktails as drinks for kids, which I had never thought of.  That in itself is a little strange, because we've had a neigborhood tradition of "special water" for some years.  This started as a special treat for the kids during adult happy hour, and we would get different flavors of seltzer for them.  Since soda is a restricted substance in some of our houses, the kids were deliriously excited about the stuff.  Anyway, Hunter is quite excited by the idea of something new, and we have set Friday as the date for our first making of mocktails.  We're going to try the Dark Invader, and he's going to help "cook."  I'm quite looking forward to it, because I think we've explored every permutation of fruit juice and seltzer, and he was getting a little bored.  This should perk things right up.  Once he goes to bed, I'll work on variations of the theme, either with rum or vodka.  I don't usually drink rum, but pineapple juice almost demands it, don't you think?  The challenge will be getting the husband to try a sip and render judgement.  I married a wild drinker with a sailing problem, but he doesn't really drink anymore.  He's as sober as a responsible father of two with a job and a station wagon.  For example.

House Proofing

The baby's getting older and is almost mobile, so we've started to think of safety-proofing the house again.  We kind of remember what to do: cabinet doors, electrical outlets, etc.  I don't think though, that any person or book told me about the garage door.  Neither did anyone mention that kid-proofing is an ongoing process and should get attention even when a kid is older, like 8.

Just a note to my friends with young children: if you have an automatic garage door opener, please disable the manual lock on the door.  If you do not disable the lock, your child might entertain himself by playing with it, doubtless on one of those days when he's been tossed outside and told not to come back for a while.  Then when you come home and click the doohickey in your car, already anticipating going inside and shedding your crummy work day at the door, you'll have the pleasure of watching the garage door buckle as the opener attempts to lift it against the latch.  Then you'll wonder what the hell happened and if a truck or something might have hit your house to knock the door off track.  Then you'll discover in casual conversation with your kid that he found out the handle on the garage door turns with a great thunking sound.  Finally, you'll discover that the cheapest installation of the cheapest door will cost around $1000.  That might not be fun.  For instance.  Just saying, don't let this outlandish example be you.

As I think of more examples of safety-proofing against the older child, I'll be sure to share them.

NPR and Thesis Writing

For years now, I have started the work day by tuning the radio to NPR.  It is soothing background noise, and serves to remind me that intelligent people are out in the world doing important things, not playing solitaire.  This is sometimes a necessary reminder.

Anyhoo, that's all fine and good, and I usually ignore 95% of the sound, unless something momentous is happening.  Today though, is different.  Aretha Franklin is being interviewed about her Inauguration Day performance, and snippets of the song have been played every hour.  "My Count.......try 'tis of thee..."  Without fail, I stop whatever I'm doing (writing about finite element analysis for helicopter blades, which is even more boring than you might think) and snigger.  Except now, I'm not only sniggering, but I'm ready to stuff a sock down Aretha's throat.  

Truly a banner day.  I might even have to put actual music on, just to escape.*

*Don't suggest I just turn the radio off.  I can't work in the quiet- I have to have some noise.  In the absence of anything else, I start singing or humming, but since I can't sing, I don't know any songs except those I was forced to learn as a kid or picked up from musicals.  Thus my repertoire is limited to : the anthem, Oklahoma, and Do-Re-Mi.  Not soothing.