Sometimes Mr. A and I forget and leave stuff where the ferrets can get to it. Like on the table, the piano, the floor, in the closets, higher than we ever thought something the size of a football could jump, etc.
Today it was his briefcase. Nothing says "I have a serious presentation to make and you should listen to me because I speak with authority" like needing to lint-roll your laptop first.
A.
It's amazing, the things you learn as you go through life.
It turns out that going-away parties are actually a sort of analgesic. You hurt so badly from the hangover the next day that you don't realize how much you're actually going to miss the person/people in whose honor said hangover-inducing party was thrown.
Also: OWWWW.
We got a rather large box the other day full of paper wrapping, which is good. Puck needed a new place to nap.
A.
I'm trying to imagine Riot walking into a bar. He'd most likely scarf peanuts or whatever other human food he could steal until he was stuffed and then find a place to crash:
'Fosters' has found his owner again:
A.
1. Cheetos and chocolate stars are the breakfast of champions.
2. There is no day so bad some shopping can't make it better.
3. There is no day so good some shopping can't make it better.
4. Nag enough, loud enough, and eventually you will get what you want. Beach! Beach! Beach!
5. You're never too old to give kids horsey rides.
6. SIEVE! SIEVE! SIEVE!
7. Sarcasm and mockery are the highest forms of affection. If you're not loved you're not worth teasing.
8. Don't take any crap from anybody just because you're a girl.
9. Do what you love. No matter what that is.
10. Cadbury Eggs are the dinner of champions.
11. When you go on a trip, always bring back treats for everybody.
12. Spend serious money — if you're lucky enough to get some — on books and art and experiences, not clothes and cars and houses.
13. Keep a big jar in the closet and put all your change in it. When the jar is full, it's time to take a vacation.
14. Sometimes the job is more important than anything else, and that's okay.
15. Doing donuts in the snow in a rusted-out Subaru with bald tires and no passenger seats is probably not that bright a move, but it is pretty hilarious.
16. Don't be afraid to go someplace new. You'll figure it out.
17. When the phone rings in the middle of the night, pick it up, no questions asked.
18. When a friend needs a ride at some ungodly hour, go, no questions asked.
19. When a distant cousin you haven't talked to in years and didn't like very much back then needs something, anything, do it, no questions asked.
20. Why? Because you can, that's why.
21. Lounging on the bed on a Sunday afternoon with the window open and a transistor radio as old as you are blaring a baseball game in which the Brewers are only winning because they haven't found a way to lose yet is one of the best ways possible to spend your time on this planet.
I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.
A.
Two-fer:
A.
Do you speak another language besides English? What is it?
(If LOLcat counted I could say yes to this one. I have a tin ear for languages. Mr. A, on the other hand, went to Brazil for like three days and came home speaking Portuguese.)
A.
No, really. Ferret bingo. Apparently this is a thing:
We gotta try this. Maybe as a fundraiser for the ferret shelter.
And here, because you are all insatiable, is a picture of Riot playing with the box my shoes came in. Ferrets: Cheap dates.
A.
I love these care tips. It's like, "interact with your ferret every day." WHOASHIT I HAD NO IDEA. Mine do not give me the option of NOT interacting with them. Right now I'm eating cold chicken for breakfast and they're standing on my feet.
A.
Riot has two speeds: ALL AHEAD FULL MAN THE BARRICADES THROWDOWN BITCHES ...
... and off:
A.
Welcome back to the QTBS, where we, like the Russians, identify talent early...
- The kid in the picture was in a home depot store when the Midget and I were picking up some supplies. His father was chewing tobacco and swallowing the juice while the kid jumped from mower to mower, screaming. When he landed on the orange one, he screamed about how it matched his hair. Dad ignored him while the Mom looked around as if to say, "He's not mine. Please don't let him hit me again." Not to rip on anyone's parenting, but when you're kid's got a mohawk that's Husqvarna orange, maybe it's a sign this kid will need some extra attention.
- Speaking of the Midget, she got sick this week with a slight fever that caused the daycare to send her home. Upon hearing that she was being sent home early, she explained, “No. Daddy comes after I have snack.” They said, no, you need to go home because you’ve got some germies, to which she replied, “NO. I get SNACK before I go HOME.” Translation: “You fuckers aren’t screwing me out of my snack.” Now I no longer need to take a paternity test…
- Speaking of families, this Web site is worth its weight in gold. Enjoy the awkwardness...
- I bought a pack of undershirts yesterday that had the selling point of “Now in a RESEALABLE BAG!” How is that a marketing point? Does anyone keep their undershirts in a plastic bag after they open them? Is there a good secondary use for a T-shirt bag? Anyone help me out here?
- Hang on Jimmy… don’t move… This is for science…
- Question: How bad is the recession killing the U.S.? Answer: We’re being shunned by Mexicans…
- Was in a Target store the other day when I noticed the place smelled like smoke. I sniffed a bit and said to the cashier, “Does it smell like smoke to you?” Without missing a beat, the kid said, “Where?” Sigh…
- If you want to watch another bad movie that keeps landing on AMC, catch Death Wish 3. For a less violent reaction to thugs, check out this lady's response...
- And finally, on this day in 1981, Lenny Barker of the Cleveland Indians tossed a perfect game. If you like this concept, you'll love next week's post. I've been working on this for about a month...
Thanks for letting me share your air. Be back next week.
Doc
The box of packing peanuts has moved from being a playground to being a sleeping spot for Puck.
A.
I don’t remember the first thing Mom taught me. Maybe that’s the best thing I can say about her: every moment with her is a constant learning experience in which I am enriched beyond my wildest hopes. This isn’t meant to beatify her (although tolerating me as a child and through my transition to adulthood without killing me is likely to count as her first miracle), but to take a moment out to reflect on all moms and mom-type folk who helped get us where we are today.
My mom was a teacher, both in the professional sense and in the practical sense. She’s still teaching junior high kids about World War II and about the American Revolution and about when to say “who” and when to say “whom.” She’s still teaching me, as every time I have a moment with the Midget and I’m not quite sure how to handle it, I tend to ask the old “Did I ever do…” question. She of course laughs because not only did I probably do it, but because she probably asked her mom how to handle it.
Mom taught me the little things like how to tie my shoes and how to keep my room clean. (She still marvels at the fact that when we once cleaned my room, we threw out six trash bags of stuff and only one toy. Apparently the Midget comes by here squirrel-like tendencies to horde pinecones, rocks and sticks honestly.) She taught me the big things like the nerds of today are the Ferrarri owners of tomorrow and that the bigger kids pick on you because they’re jealous.
She taught me patience and forgiveness through example. I’m sure she wanted to leave me outside to be raised by raccoons after I accidentally dumped India ink on her antique dining room chair. However, she took it in the basement and cleaned it with a toothbrush, letting me know she was displeased but eventually forgiving me.
She taught me age is a state of mind, not a state of being. She would constantly tease me about being an old man with a cranky attitude and conservative notions at the age of 13. She, on the other hand, drove a Corvette, a Firebird and a Cadillac Escalade. She wore wild tights, coached track and drank Cosmos at fun restaurants. She also outworked teachers half her age, something that the older she got, the more she relished. I eventually learned to loosen up to the point where now I’m teasing the farm kids I teach that they’re too old and cranky for their own good at the age of 20.
She taught me that sexism was not a cool personality trait to display. Women are just as good as you are, she said, when I found myself feeling my oats during my pubic transformation to “manhood.” I learned that “woman’s work” is whatever a woman wants it to be and that cleaning and ironing is a chore that anyone can do. To this day, I’m the “laundry bitch” (as the Missus notes) and I iron everything in the house, including our pillowcases.
In our house, Mom did the ironing and I loved being there when she did. We’d sit in the kitchen and talk for hours about life, choices, the news and anything else that popped up. It was during these moments, I learned the most, simply by sharing what I was thinking and hearing what she had to say. I also learned the value of a good Rowenta iron and of using distilled water, to hell with what the directions said.
Each year for Mother’s Day, we’d all get together at a nice restaurant and celebrate our moms. For years, it was Dad’s mom, Mom’s mom, her husband, Mom, Dad and me. The last one that had all of us together was the year I got engaged when my folks took everyone (the mothers and grandmothers from both sides, along with the folks, me and the Missus) out for a meal. Moms connected with moms and stories flowed freely as we talked away the night. It was a great time and full of memories. That year, both Mom’s mom and Dad’s mom died. Shortly after, the Missus lost her grandmother and the in-laws moved away.
I always remember that event because it was something helped me see how much our family valued motherhood.
It also helped me remember all the things we’d each learned in life thanks to our moms.
Are you growing anything this season?
A.
Good morning, First Drafters! I had quite a shock last night when I got an e-mail from the remarkable Athenae asking if I would be willing to take on the Tuesday guest post slot. I am, without a doubt, deeply honored to be asked. I'll do my best to live up to the high standards that have been set around here, but Oyster left some big shoes to fill.
So here I am this morning, suddenly transformed from pseudonymous commenter to pseudonymous guest blogger, and, in the immortal words of Bert Lahr, "Shucks, folks, I'm speechless!"
We'll see how long that lasts...
Until I find words, here's a really cool link for those of you as fascinated by the swine flu as I am:
Isn't it nice to actually get useful information from the government?
For whatever reason, the boys have decided to switch places. Puck, as you can see, has bulked up to the size of a small bus.
And Riot, who was once nicknamed Meatwad around these parts, slimmed down so fast we thought something might be wrong, and so resorted to feeding him turkey baby food, which he gobbled with the enthusiasm of the starving, thus proving we were just suckers for falling for his little trick.
OM NOM NOM.
A.
I'm sure I'm breaking the treaty between the Dharma Initiative and the hostiles by posting on a day other than my guest slot. That said, I'll run the risk for this one.
I just spent the majority of the day in a meeting with the one and only, Athenae. It was a seven-hour meeting filled with general curmudgeonly behavior, a dwindling supply of coffee and it was about 70 degrees outside and sunny. That said, it was the best thing that happened to A all day, which tells you the type of horrendously shitty day she was having. So, with that in mind, I extend a hug of love and appreciation for all you do for me and the rest of your "Bleeps" (If twitter people are being called tweeple and "tweeps" for short, I guess we blog peoples are called bleeps. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)
So, here you go. My homage to a lady who doesn't think she's seen anything good today:
Have a better tomorrow. We all love you.
Doc
(This one took a while to write, as it was hard to deal with. Cut me some slack, if you can.)
The phone rang and it was Mom on the other end. She had the tone in her voice usually reserved for funeral calls.
“I have to tell you something…” she began. I tensed.
Several years ago, just before The Missus and I wed, we had four funerals in four months. All but one of them was unexpected. From July through October, we made the trek back home from several states away to plug another beloved relative into the Earth. A grandfather, two grandmothers and an uncle. When the final day ticked off the calendar in the month of November, we gave thanks to God that we managed to get through it without funeral number five.
My mind raced: My uncle, who was suffering from cancer? My cousin, who’s a guard in a fairly bad prison? Dad?
“… Mrs. Lipske is retiring.”
The tension slipped for a brief moment, only to be replaced by sadness. No one in the family had died, but my childhood finally had.
Mrs. Lipske taught kindergarten for 43 years. If there was an anchor for our town’s school district, she was it. Covering both the morning session and afternoon session, she launched of thousands of educational careers. Every 5-year-old who walked into that classroom learned how to value other children, how to share, how to laugh and how to learn thanks to her.
And yet nothing about her approach to education made you feel like a unit on the assembly line. Every kid was special, everyone was a king or queen, literally. When your birthday rolled around, you got to wear a crown and a cape and sit on the throne. If your birthday arrived in a summer month, you got a replacement birthday so you wouldn’t miss your turn. Decades after my May 26 rain check, I still have the beat-up, faded Polaroid of me lounging in that velvet-lined chair.
She helped you understand that other people mattered. When I was mean to a kid who was (unbeknownst to me) slightly mentally retarded for mispronouncing her name, she made me face the boy and tell him I was sorry. It was important, she explained, that we are nice to everyone because we’d like everyone to be nice to us. I still can see that kid’s face, complete with a small bluish birthmark that looked like a dollop of grape jelly.
For Christmas, she bought and hand-painted almost 60 wooden horse ornaments, adding the year and each child’s name. For our parents that year, she had us create our own ornaments by rolling Styrofoam balls in glue and multi-colored sparkles. Both of those still end up in prominent places on Mom and Dad’s tree each year. As year-end gifts, she had us draw pictures of things that made us happy. She had them melded into plastic plates. Had I known that the plate would still be on display at my folks house today, I probably would have drawn a much better tree, made sure the guy’s arms were the same length and colored in both of his shoes. That shoe thing still pisses me off.
Thanks to her, I got to be a ringmaster in the kindergarten circus. (Mom still talks about how she had to sew me a vest and how cute I looked in my great-grandfather’s top hat.) Thanks to her, I didn’t know that the “fun classes” I got to take as special extra school time were actually meant to improve my physical abilities, which were far below where they should have been. (I’m still a klutz, but at least I learned how to walk without falling.) Thanks to her, I learned how to be just a little less of a hermit. (Every time she caught me sitting quietly in a corner reading, she asked if I would read to another child or if I’d like to play with a few other kids on the tumbling mats.)
Mom taught in the same school district as Mrs. Lipske and they started about the same time. As they got up in age, they each promised that whoever decided to retire first would call the other so that it didn’t come as a shock when it happened. Mom said Mrs. Lipske left a message on the answering machine and could barely get through the 30 seconds after the beep without breaking down. She explained, as best she could, that she wanted to quit while she was still good at her job and that she didn’t want to shortchange a kid because she was too old to do the job right.
That bothered me quite a bit, because it’s people like Mrs. Lipske who make a difference in life far beyond anything we can assess with a metric or measure on a state test. Of all the teachers I had in 22 years of school, she’s the only one who got an invite to my wedding. She made it, too, despite having six other things going on that day. Something tells me that’s not the only wedding or baptism or funeral she’s been to for a former student and something tells me I’m not the only person who would have been crushed if she hadn’t showed up at the event. She never seemed to be the kind of person who weighed out what something cost her in terms of time, money or effort when it came to the kids from her class. If you needed it, you got it. Period.
We have plenty of lazy, truculent, miserable teachers out there. Mom’s still teaching in that same school district and she’s told me plenty stories of people who play solitaire during their prep time or just read to the kids out of a book instead of trying to help them learn something. They pine for their weekends and took the job because they figured they’d never really have to grow up. Besides, you get your summers off, right? Those people, like so many others like them in so many other walks of life, are the ones who never have a moment of self-awareness that has them wondering if they’re shortchanging someone. They just keep wandering through life with the disaffection of that mouth-breathing twerp who took my order at Burger King the other day and couldn’t make change of a $20 on a $10 order. It’s only the good ones who decide they want to get out before they get told to leave.
I’d like to be happy for her if I weren’t feeling so sad for me and for all the kids before and after me who got lucky enough to spend that formative year under her watchful eye. I think every kid deserves a year with Mrs. Lipske and I wish they all could have had it. I haven’t seen her teaching in years, but if you’ll permit me to borrow a sports cliché, even if she’s playing at 50 percent of what she once was, she’s better than 90 percent of the teachers out there.
Vince Lombardi once noted that it’s hard to be tolerant of a society that has only sympathy for the misfit, the maladjusted, the criminal, the loser. Have sympathy for them, yes, he said. Assist them? Absolutely. But, he argued, I think it’s time we cheered the leader, the doer, the winner.
Well, Mrs. Lipske was all that and a bag of Mr. Chips.
So, thank you, Mrs. Lipske.
I’m just one of many who would never be anywhere without you.
GAH DO NOT WANT WHERE IS SPRING?
A.
As most of you know, we got our present two beasties, as well as the late, much-missed Stripe and Little Joe, from the Greater Chicago Ferret Association's ferret shelter. I volunteer at the shelter myself to get first pick of the cutest new kits to help care for homeless pets and spend some time with small furry happy things. Like these:
The shelter is raising money right now, and I know you get requests for causes every day. Good, worthy causes; there's so much misery in the world and we can't relieve all of it all at once. This is the best part, though: You don't have to give any money. We're participating in a program with Jewel food stores called Shop and Share. If you have a Jewel nearby that you're going to on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday (April 6, 7 and/or 8) just print out the coupon here (Download Gcfa.jewel.pdf), and give it to your cashier. Jewel donates a portion of the proceeds to the GCFA. That's it!
You buy a gallon of milk and some sick ferret gets a bowl of food to help it recover. You buy a loaf of bread and the shelter gets a bag of litter. You buy all the chocolate eggs you've been eyeing and some lucky furby gets a new cage. The ferrets will be warm and fuzzy, and you'll feel warm and fuzzy, and couldn't we all use a little of that right now?
Thanks, guys. The shelter ferrets appreciate it:
And so do I.
A.
My head feels like mush. I don't know what it was about this week; there was a lot of work but not any major crises; nevertheless I arrived at the weekend just feeling like somebody'd run over my brainmeats with a tractor and then sort of haphazardly shoveled them back inside my skull. Somebody called yesterday and asked "How are you?" and I wasn't trying to be dramatic, the only thing I could come up with was, "I have no idea." I need ... I don't know, a hot bath, a stiff drink, something.
What do you do to recharge the batteries?
A.
Is it no longer a thing that you're supposed to STFU in the library? I'm asking because it's been a while since I did a sustained amount of hanging out in my local temple to the written word, and things seem ... louder there. By a lot. Is this me telling the kids to get off my lawn in which case I'll get over it, or has something really changed in which case I'll just wear some earplugs?
A.
joejoejoe sent this one over earlier this week:
What's on your list of things you're never going to do?
Mine's under the cut:
Continue reading "Weekend Question Thread: The 'Fuck It' List" »
What quality is most important to you in others?
Me? Loyalty.
A.
Hi. Why you blog instead of playing with me?
A.
Sleepy Puck likes to be snuggled and petted and carried around, and because he is spoiled rotten, we oblige.
A.
Riot's favorite place to nap is in my afghan:
Puck's is in the smallest place he can find to curl up, usually the sleeve of something one of us was planning on wearing:
A.
I don't know who put the crack in his cornflakes this morning but Puck got up ready to GO GO GO, wrassle wrassle wrassle, nip nip nip, kiss kiss kiss, all morning long.
A.
Yep. Starting next Monday, I'll be living like Hermes Conrad.
Huzzah!
Sleepytime.
A.
A year? It's been a whole goddamn year already?
Thanks to Athenae and Scout for allowing me to share their space for the last 366 days. You two rock.
One of the funniest things about ferrets is that they're like mad collectors. They take things, weird, random collections of things, and put them in a hidey-hole (or six) and if you move that stash they will panic, scramble all over re-collecting their preciouses and hiding them exactly where they were before.
Puck has an orange ball I don't even dare touch most days because if he's not the one in charge of it he actually chitters at me. Riot has a whole pile of things, including tiny stuffed animals and a newspaper he took a liking to:
Ferrets. Little weirdos.
A.
Have a couch on which they can climb with impunity.
Give them your old sweatshirt when the zipper no longer works so they have a warm place to sleep.
Give them treats and watch as they scamper off to hide the treats in their special little hidey-holes.
Pet. Annoy. Repeat.
A.
Wish me luck, everyone. If it goes well, I'll tell you what it was. If not, look for me on the evening news. I'll be the one with the handcuffs on.
And that is one adorable video, A.
Puck, on the other hand, couldn't get enough:
It went on like that for half an hour, until I finally had to drag him back inside. His nose was bright pink, his feet were covered with ice, his coat was soaking, and he ran around the dining room barking in furry delight while his brother watched, safe inside a fleece blanket.
I know what you're thinking. Just one?
And you're probably right.
However, last night, I had a long, involved dream. It's unusual for me to remember anything about my dreams, but this one stuck.
I dreamed it was election day.
In 2012.
And I was reassuring nervous friends that Obama was going to be just fine, even though I was feeling a little trepidation myself.
So, yeah. My life has become like The West Wing, but without the glory, fame, power, or money.
Happy Inauguration Day, everyone!
Hey baby.
A.
Got any?
Mine are:
1. Stop eating like I'm still in college, because I'm not, and it's not good for me. Or for Riot, who likes to scarf some of whatever I'm chowing on. Have meals, not just random handfuls of crackers grabbed at intervals that change daily. Have (blech) vegetables and fruit.
2. Get over my phobia/dislike/searing hatred of all medical professionals. Doctors and dentists exist for a reason. Just because every one of them I've ever seen has inspired homicidal rage in me does not mean I should wait until I'm in life-threatening pain before I see them. It's childish. I need to stop it.
3. Finally do all the six billion little home improvement projects I've been putting off because the place is starting to fall apart around me and it freaks me out. I can't afford a new bathroom but I can afford to patch the cracks in the plaster and fix the chipping paint in the pantry.
A.
I'm on the road until Saturday night. Puck and Riot are at the pet-sitter's, getting into the eggnog.
A.
to First Draft
