About six months ago our cleaning lady started bringing an assistant along during her weekly miracle-working visits to our home. I whined pitifully about the assistant shortly after her arrival, but it's been long enough now she deserves a follow-up review.
So, after six months of house-cleaning duty, I can now officially conclude that our new Assistant Cleaning Lady is.... what's the phrase I'm looking for here.... good? no. motivated? no. She....
She was raised by wolves. That's what I mean to say. Our Assistant Cleaning Lady, who is very nice, was raised in a jungle by very nice wolves.
How do I know this? It took a while to figure out, but that conclusion became undeniable. Whenever we can't find something, we eventually realize that Assistant Cleaning Lady has "put it away" somewhere. Then, the only way to find it, is to try and think like a wolf. Where's Daisy's Tamagotchi? Oh, it's hidden under her jewelry pile. Where's my stapler? Buried in the back yard! Why was that baking pan put in the cabinet when it was still sticky? That's how wolves do the dishes!
It's like she came up with her own Dewey Decimal system for home organization, but since she was raised by wolves, it's a really crappy one. So, these days, when we find dirty pots, carefully stewing in their own juices on the stove, Hank and I just look at each other and say, "Wolves."
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
On Sunday, I went to the Exploratorium, which is a great hands-on science museum here in San Francisco. It was there that I typed the least helpful text message in the brief history of SMSing. I had gotten separated from Hank and Daisy, so I whipped out my cell phone and typed this message to Hank: Marco
Recognizing my predicament, Hank promptly and helpfully typed back: Polo
It took me a while to find them.
Recognizing my predicament, Hank promptly and helpfully typed back: Polo
It took me a while to find them.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
I am going to stop talking about the goddamn Nintendo Wii soon. I do sort of have a life away from that box. However, let me just explain to those who are Wii-ignorant why it's more interesting than the typical video game system.
Throughout the ages, 99% of video games have been controlled by one of the following methods
Obviously that's a lot of fun, but not entirely intuitive. Being a successful lobbyist would not necessarily translate into being good at this game.However, this is pretty much how video games have worked since the dawn of man. All that's changed over the years is that the graphics have gotten better. In the 1970s when you played hand-held Mattel football, your player was a rectangular red blip. These days, powerful video graphics chips allow you to actually see the chimp-like smirk on the President's face as he adds signing statements to his biweekly pardons of the Bush Twins (courtesy of two rapid presses of Button A).
Nintendo decided to do something different with the Wii. They reconsidered whether pressing Button A was really the most satisfying way to hit a video tennis ball. Instead, they built a controller that allows you to swing your arms like you're holding a tennis racket to play tennis, or grasp it in your fist and punch to fight in a boxing match. They did this by including tiny spring-based motion sensors (accelerometers) so that the controller can detect when you move it up, down, left, right, rotate it, etc. So, when you play the bowling game, you'll probably be pretty effective if you grab the controller and swing your arm as though you were holding an actual bowling ball. Unsurprisingly, this is markedly more enjoyable than picking up the 7-10 split with a precisely timed presss of well-worn Button A. In a future adventure game, I'm looking forward to lobbying the President by wielding my Wii controller like a machete and joining him on a brush-clearing excursion on the ranch.
After having played with this for a week, I'm left wondering how long it will be before they find new ways to use this technology. For example, a soccer game could be great if they sold a strap that allowed you to affix the controller to your shoe. You'd kick, and the video ball would fly. That's an obvious one. However, with some imagination, they could come out with new controllers that would allow the development of the following fantastic Wii games:
Throughout the ages, 99% of video games have been controlled by one of the following methods
- Pressing buttons
- Turning dials
- Pushing (optimistically named) joysticks
Obviously that's a lot of fun, but not entirely intuitive. Being a successful lobbyist would not necessarily translate into being good at this game.However, this is pretty much how video games have worked since the dawn of man. All that's changed over the years is that the graphics have gotten better. In the 1970s when you played hand-held Mattel football, your player was a rectangular red blip. These days, powerful video graphics chips allow you to actually see the chimp-like smirk on the President's face as he adds signing statements to his biweekly pardons of the Bush Twins (courtesy of two rapid presses of Button A).
Nintendo decided to do something different with the Wii. They reconsidered whether pressing Button A was really the most satisfying way to hit a video tennis ball. Instead, they built a controller that allows you to swing your arms like you're holding a tennis racket to play tennis, or grasp it in your fist and punch to fight in a boxing match. They did this by including tiny spring-based motion sensors (accelerometers) so that the controller can detect when you move it up, down, left, right, rotate it, etc. So, when you play the bowling game, you'll probably be pretty effective if you grab the controller and swing your arm as though you were holding an actual bowling ball. Unsurprisingly, this is markedly more enjoyable than picking up the 7-10 split with a precisely timed presss of well-worn Button A. In a future adventure game, I'm looking forward to lobbying the President by wielding my Wii controller like a machete and joining him on a brush-clearing excursion on the ranch.
After having played with this for a week, I'm left wondering how long it will be before they find new ways to use this technology. For example, a soccer game could be great if they sold a strap that allowed you to affix the controller to your shoe. You'd kick, and the video ball would fly. That's an obvious one. However, with some imagination, they could come out with new controllers that would allow the development of the following fantastic Wii games:
- Wii Eating - This ain't your grandfather's chewing game! Insert your Wii Retainer and advance through increasingly frantic eating levels! Featuring a beef jerky Big Boss battle!
- Wii Taxes - The virtual pen is mighty than the sword! Fill out the virtual forms but DON'T GET AUDITED! Beginners will love navigating through the 1040WiiZee!
- Wii Sleep - How still can you hold your remote? Bonus points accumulate after 8 hours of statue-like excitement!
- Wii Wii - Control your player while he plays Wii games! Meta mania!
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
My sister-in-law left this weekend, and she's now driving back across the country to her home in Vermont. Hank already misses her.
Me? You seen one human, you've seen them all. Two legs, some number of arm pits, blah blah blah. The dog, however, I miss. He was a good boy, a very very good boy. Four legs better.
So, in honor of Zante, I present the follow memories of that fine doggie.
1) The night before my sis-in-law left town, we threw a small party, giving my parents a chance to meet her. I knew that my mother was very afraid of dogs, but I was confident that this would be a positive experience for her. Generally when dogs trot over to my mother, she shrieks, "NO! No doggy! Aaaaah! Doggydoggydoggyleavemealone! No! SIT?"
She gets mixed results with this approach. And, true to form, she kept her distance from Zante for the first couple hours of the party. HOWEVER, by the end of the evening, before she left, she stopped to pet the dog.
"What a nice doggie," she said.
Good boy!
2) Like most dogs, Zante is a very social animal. Sometimes I'd be the only person in the house, so he'd come into my office for some company. Although I had put out a towel for him to lay on, sometimes he'd squirm his way between my desk and my chair, seeking to find the spot in the room that left the fewest number of molecules between us. Then he'd give my mousing hand a hopeful nuzzle.
What a good boy.
3) Zante was a very obedient dog. Aside from his reluctance to go on walks with me, he was very good at quickly responding to any of the commands that he knew. When there was a treat being offered him, but he had not yet been given the signal to eat it, he'd sit there, vibrating and drooling, waiting for the "ok" sign.
Anyway, one evening when it was time for Daisy to go to bed, I invited Zante into her room to let her say goodnight to him. I patted her bed so that he'd hop up. Daisy's bed is covered with soft blankets, and cushy stuffed animals. Zante immediately found the coziest spot and curled up into a little ball.
"Ok, Zante", I commanded after a minute. "Down."
He gave me a classic "No comprendo, señor" look.
"Down, boy!"
Then he shot me the big brown sad eyes.
It took a fair amount of coaxing to get him to leave what was apparently the nicest spot in the house. We got there eventually.
What a good boy.
Me? You seen one human, you've seen them all. Two legs, some number of arm pits, blah blah blah. The dog, however, I miss. He was a good boy, a very very good boy. Four legs better.
So, in honor of Zante, I present the follow memories of that fine doggie.
1) The night before my sis-in-law left town, we threw a small party, giving my parents a chance to meet her. I knew that my mother was very afraid of dogs, but I was confident that this would be a positive experience for her. Generally when dogs trot over to my mother, she shrieks, "NO! No doggy! Aaaaah! Doggydoggydoggyleavemealone! No! SIT?"
She gets mixed results with this approach. And, true to form, she kept her distance from Zante for the first couple hours of the party. HOWEVER, by the end of the evening, before she left, she stopped to pet the dog.
"What a nice doggie," she said.
Good boy!
2) Like most dogs, Zante is a very social animal. Sometimes I'd be the only person in the house, so he'd come into my office for some company. Although I had put out a towel for him to lay on, sometimes he'd squirm his way between my desk and my chair, seeking to find the spot in the room that left the fewest number of molecules between us. Then he'd give my mousing hand a hopeful nuzzle.
What a good boy.
3) Zante was a very obedient dog. Aside from his reluctance to go on walks with me, he was very good at quickly responding to any of the commands that he knew. When there was a treat being offered him, but he had not yet been given the signal to eat it, he'd sit there, vibrating and drooling, waiting for the "ok" sign.
Anyway, one evening when it was time for Daisy to go to bed, I invited Zante into her room to let her say goodnight to him. I patted her bed so that he'd hop up. Daisy's bed is covered with soft blankets, and cushy stuffed animals. Zante immediately found the coziest spot and curled up into a little ball.
"Ok, Zante", I commanded after a minute. "Down."
He gave me a classic "No comprendo, señor" look.
"Down, boy!"
Then he shot me the big brown sad eyes.
It took a fair amount of coaxing to get him to leave what was apparently the nicest spot in the house. We got there eventually.
What a good boy.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Stephen Colbert does a bit called "Who's Honoring Me Now" where he reflects upon recent accolades and notable mentions. Let's do something similar.
Last week, Nick Douglass of Valleywag fame, wrote a post listing The 12 Funniest People On The Internet. Unsurprisingly, this list does not include me. It does, however, include two of my favorite bloggers (Izzle Pfaff and Defective Yeti) and my man-crush, Ze Frank.
Note that Nick Douglas has read my blog once or twice before. He used to be the main writer for Blogebrity, which chronicled the virtual comings and goings of A, B, and C-list bloggers. Back in 2005, I had participated in a promotional event for the movie Serenity, offering a plug in my blog for a pass to the preview. I was flamed elsewhere in the blogosphere for my actions and Mr. Douglas took note of the blog carnage, stopping by once or twice.
So, since Nick is aware of my blog, and I think he would have included me on his Funniest list had the list been expanded to... say.... The 1,000,012 Funniest People On The Internet. Go me!
So, who is mentioning me this week?
That would have to be the Wikipedia!
As can be seen in my sidebar to the right, I've written a few posts about my sophomore year in college, living in Barrington Hall, a student co-operative at UC Berkeley. Ever since then my blog has been visited by most people who google for Barrington. One of those people was my suitemate, who we'll call Aquarius, whose wild exploits were noted here. She emailed me last year and we've had some lovely and sane discussions.
Aquarius has been active in writing content for the Barrington Hall page in the Wikipedia. Down at the end of the article, several external links are listed, and she added my blog as a link. What's great is that she describes my Barrington posts as a "first-person-account of a 'straight' person who lived at Barrington in the 80s, in five parts"
Wha? Why is the word straight in quotes? I'd guess that she's using the word straight as short-hand for straight-laced. If the word weren't in quotes, She's be saying that I was the least counter-culture guy there, a possible nominee for Least Likely To Jump Off the Roof On Acid. However, those quotation marks indicate that she means the opposite, deftly implying that my straightlaced appearance was deceptive, and that a depraved hippie lurked shallowly beneath my short hair and button-down shirts.
That seems like an unlikely interpretation though. I clearly was one of the cleanest cut guys there, so why the quotation marks? This brings us to the next most likely definition of the word straight -- heterosexual.
So, those damn quotation marks lead me to the inescapable conclusion that Aquarius, and maybe many other Barringtonians, think that I am gay, that I'm *fingers making air-quotation marks* straight. Super. I'll add this to the already immense list of reasons why I think I got laid so infrequently as a college student. As if the nerdy behavior, concave chest, and complete lack of style wasn't enough already.
Anyway, that's it. That's my big new honor. I'm officially documented in Wikipedia as "straight".
It's nice to be honored.
Last week, Nick Douglass of Valleywag fame, wrote a post listing The 12 Funniest People On The Internet. Unsurprisingly, this list does not include me. It does, however, include two of my favorite bloggers (Izzle Pfaff and Defective Yeti) and my man-crush, Ze Frank.
Note that Nick Douglas has read my blog once or twice before. He used to be the main writer for Blogebrity, which chronicled the virtual comings and goings of A, B, and C-list bloggers. Back in 2005, I had participated in a promotional event for the movie Serenity, offering a plug in my blog for a pass to the preview. I was flamed elsewhere in the blogosphere for my actions and Mr. Douglas took note of the blog carnage, stopping by once or twice.
So, since Nick is aware of my blog, and I think he would have included me on his Funniest list had the list been expanded to... say.... The 1,000,012 Funniest People On The Internet. Go me!
So, who is mentioning me this week?
That would have to be the Wikipedia!
As can be seen in my sidebar to the right, I've written a few posts about my sophomore year in college, living in Barrington Hall, a student co-operative at UC Berkeley. Ever since then my blog has been visited by most people who google for Barrington. One of those people was my suitemate, who we'll call Aquarius, whose wild exploits were noted here. She emailed me last year and we've had some lovely and sane discussions.
Aquarius has been active in writing content for the Barrington Hall page in the Wikipedia. Down at the end of the article, several external links are listed, and she added my blog as a link. What's great is that she describes my Barrington posts as a "first-person-account of a 'straight' person who lived at Barrington in the 80s, in five parts"
Wha? Why is the word straight in quotes? I'd guess that she's using the word straight as short-hand for straight-laced. If the word weren't in quotes, She's be saying that I was the least counter-culture guy there, a possible nominee for Least Likely To Jump Off the Roof On Acid. However, those quotation marks indicate that she means the opposite, deftly implying that my straightlaced appearance was deceptive, and that a depraved hippie lurked shallowly beneath my short hair and button-down shirts.
That seems like an unlikely interpretation though. I clearly was one of the cleanest cut guys there, so why the quotation marks? This brings us to the next most likely definition of the word straight -- heterosexual.
So, those damn quotation marks lead me to the inescapable conclusion that Aquarius, and maybe many other Barringtonians, think that I am gay, that I'm *fingers making air-quotation marks* straight. Super. I'll add this to the already immense list of reasons why I think I got laid so infrequently as a college student. As if the nerdy behavior, concave chest, and complete lack of style wasn't enough already.
Anyway, that's it. That's my big new honor. I'm officially documented in Wikipedia as "straight".
It's nice to be honored.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Me: I'm sore today.
Rhetorical Me: Is it because I did a somewhat hilly 12 mile run on Saturday?
Me: Nah, it's upper-body thing.
Rhetorical Me: Maybe I injured myself while running? Perhaps crashing spectacularly into a tree, or house, or Golden Gate Bridge?
Me: Nope. It's a muscle type of soreness. And it's really just the right arm.
Rhetorical Me: The right arm, eh? Soooo, some sort of furious masturbatory session gone awry?
Me: Nice. That's nice. No, I believe that I am sore today from....
Playing with my Nintendo Wii! And despite it's penis-like name, I WASN'T masturbating with it. Although, I bet they could make a kick-ass masturbatory game with the motion-controlled controller.
The last time I stood in an unmoving line for more than 15 minutes was in 1980 waiting for The Empire Strikes Back to open up. I can't say I'm proud of the nonexistent maturation that has transpired in the last 27 years. To be honest, the main difference between this experience and the one in 1980 is that I have more acne now. That's cool though. You gotta pick at something in line.
I stood in line outside of Best Buy for about an hour, not knowing whether or not I'd even get a Wii. As it turns out, they had 51 available, and I was number 48 in line. While there was a lot of backslapping and asthmatic snorting when the Wii tickets were passed out, I was minorly annoyed to realize that I could have slept another 5 or 10 minutes and snuck in under the wire at number 51 instead of 48. Then, there was another 90 minutes of line-standing that was even more excruciating because the anticipation part was over. It was like being asked to stand in line AFTER seeing The Empire Strikes Back.
Anyway, I can happily report that the Nintendo Wii is plenty of fun. Accessible enough for non-gamers to try, but subtle and intriguing enough for moderate gamers to still find satisfying.
I've heard reports that people feel silly "boxing" or swinging at imaginary balls in their living room, that somehow they feel foolish playing virtual tennis/baseball/etc. That has NOT been my experience. As someone who sucks at baseball, tennis, bowling, etc, I can assure you that the virtual version of these sports is the only version so far that DOESN'T make me feel foolish. I can pretend that I'm coordinated when I swing at an imaginary baseball. That illusion gets shattered pretty quickly when I smack a real bat into my real forehead.
Also, I can work up a decent sweat with the Wii. My puny muscles can attest to this.
Long live the virtualthlete!
Rhetorical Me: Is it because I did a somewhat hilly 12 mile run on Saturday?
Me: Nah, it's upper-body thing.
Rhetorical Me: Maybe I injured myself while running? Perhaps crashing spectacularly into a tree, or house, or Golden Gate Bridge?
Me: Nope. It's a muscle type of soreness. And it's really just the right arm.
Rhetorical Me: The right arm, eh? Soooo, some sort of furious masturbatory session gone awry?
Me: Nice. That's nice. No, I believe that I am sore today from....
Playing with my Nintendo Wii! And despite it's penis-like name, I WASN'T masturbating with it. Although, I bet they could make a kick-ass masturbatory game with the motion-controlled controller.
The last time I stood in an unmoving line for more than 15 minutes was in 1980 waiting for The Empire Strikes Back to open up. I can't say I'm proud of the nonexistent maturation that has transpired in the last 27 years. To be honest, the main difference between this experience and the one in 1980 is that I have more acne now. That's cool though. You gotta pick at something in line.
I stood in line outside of Best Buy for about an hour, not knowing whether or not I'd even get a Wii. As it turns out, they had 51 available, and I was number 48 in line. While there was a lot of backslapping and asthmatic snorting when the Wii tickets were passed out, I was minorly annoyed to realize that I could have slept another 5 or 10 minutes and snuck in under the wire at number 51 instead of 48. Then, there was another 90 minutes of line-standing that was even more excruciating because the anticipation part was over. It was like being asked to stand in line AFTER seeing The Empire Strikes Back.
Anyway, I can happily report that the Nintendo Wii is plenty of fun. Accessible enough for non-gamers to try, but subtle and intriguing enough for moderate gamers to still find satisfying.
I've heard reports that people feel silly "boxing" or swinging at imaginary balls in their living room, that somehow they feel foolish playing virtual tennis/baseball/etc. That has NOT been my experience. As someone who sucks at baseball, tennis, bowling, etc, I can assure you that the virtual version of these sports is the only version so far that DOESN'T make me feel foolish. I can pretend that I'm coordinated when I swing at an imaginary baseball. That illusion gets shattered pretty quickly when I smack a real bat into my real forehead.
Also, I can work up a decent sweat with the Wii. My puny muscles can attest to this.
Long live the virtualthlete!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
I've spent a fair amount of time with my wife's immediate family and I can say with some certainty that they're a varied group. However, if there's one thread that ties them together, one thing that they all love, that would have to be...
Musical freaking theater.
Hank's father was a professional dancer so all three of his daughters grew up singing and dancing their way through community theater productions, school musicals, living room performances, and bathtub ballet. It's in their blood. To this day sometimes Hank will wake up, say, "I have to do this" and pop the soundtrack to Les Miserables into the stereo. Between this and my daughter's incessant watching of High School Musical, I hear more show tunes each week of my current life than I heard in the first 25 years of my existence. With jazz hands.
Last week our neighbor invited us over to his house because he had just bought what is apparently the best piano available for purchase in the United States. You see, he is also a musical theater aficionado. He sat down and played a bunch of songs that were totally unfamiliar to me, but had my wife swaying and crooning away. We'll just add this to the list of ways in which I do not satisfy my wife.
Anyway, so, when my wife's sister arrived last week, it was like the perfect confluence of show tunes had descended from the heavens and fallen into my wife's lap, two, three, four. She had her childhood co-star and a willing accompanist with a world-class piano. Pinch her.
Last nght they went over to the neighbor's house for a show tunes orgy. I stayed home. Happily. It's the key to a good marriage.
Musical freaking theater.
Hank's father was a professional dancer so all three of his daughters grew up singing and dancing their way through community theater productions, school musicals, living room performances, and bathtub ballet. It's in their blood. To this day sometimes Hank will wake up, say, "I have to do this" and pop the soundtrack to Les Miserables into the stereo. Between this and my daughter's incessant watching of High School Musical, I hear more show tunes each week of my current life than I heard in the first 25 years of my existence. With jazz hands.
Last week our neighbor invited us over to his house because he had just bought what is apparently the best piano available for purchase in the United States. You see, he is also a musical theater aficionado. He sat down and played a bunch of songs that were totally unfamiliar to me, but had my wife swaying and crooning away. We'll just add this to the list of ways in which I do not satisfy my wife.
Anyway, so, when my wife's sister arrived last week, it was like the perfect confluence of show tunes had descended from the heavens and fallen into my wife's lap, two, three, four. She had her childhood co-star and a willing accompanist with a world-class piano. Pinch her.
Last nght they went over to the neighbor's house for a show tunes orgy. I stayed home. Happily. It's the key to a good marriage.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Who's a good boy? Who's the verryy werrry bestest boy? Zante is! Yes, you are! Yes, you really weally are!
Have I mentioned that Zante is a good boy? Well, he is. He was gentle with all the toddlers at the party we went to this weekend, and he's almost single-pawdedly responsible for significantly reducing my daughter's fear of dogs. He's a calm, loyal, and loving dog. And that rich chocolate coat combined with his sad expressive eyes don't hurt neither.
Zante is a good boy.
So, naturally, I have to give him lots of scratching and petting. He'll trot over to me and wriggle his way between my legs so that it's easy for me to reach down and scratch his butt. Oh, man, that's a little slice of heaven for Zante. And if I'm sitting somewhere, he'll nudge my hand with his snout, as if to say, "Hey, you with the hands, get to scratching. Idle hands, waste not, want not, or however that expression goes.... Attaboy, Handsy, that's what we're paying you for!"
He's not so good with the idioms.
And the other day when my sister in law was out of the house, Daisy and I successfully took Zante for a walk to the park. We gave him lots of chances to stop and smell the faded odor of other dogs' urine. Ahhhhhh, that's the stuff. When we got to the park, we let him off his leash so that he could greet all the other doggies. If Zante could describe his trip to the park in his own words, I think he'd say this:
A dog! I saw a dog and then I ran over as fast as I could to smell his butt! It was great! And then I saw another dog! So I ran over as fast as I could and smelled his butt! Fantastic! I chased him around real good until I saw a dog whose butt really needed sniffing! Irresistable! Meanwhile Handsy kept throwing my ball and yelling something like "Kvetch!" or "Felch!", but then I saw this dog AND HE HAD A BUTT! Mmmm mmmm mmmm! Then we had to go so I peed on a tree so they wouldn't forget me! Then I crapped near a bush! Awesome!
I should get so excited. About anything!
Have I mentioned that Zante is a good boy? Well, he is. He was gentle with all the toddlers at the party we went to this weekend, and he's almost single-pawdedly responsible for significantly reducing my daughter's fear of dogs. He's a calm, loyal, and loving dog. And that rich chocolate coat combined with his sad expressive eyes don't hurt neither.
Zante is a good boy.
So, naturally, I have to give him lots of scratching and petting. He'll trot over to me and wriggle his way between my legs so that it's easy for me to reach down and scratch his butt. Oh, man, that's a little slice of heaven for Zante. And if I'm sitting somewhere, he'll nudge my hand with his snout, as if to say, "Hey, you with the hands, get to scratching. Idle hands, waste not, want not, or however that expression goes.... Attaboy, Handsy, that's what we're paying you for!"
He's not so good with the idioms.
And the other day when my sister in law was out of the house, Daisy and I successfully took Zante for a walk to the park. We gave him lots of chances to stop and smell the faded odor of other dogs' urine. Ahhhhhh, that's the stuff. When we got to the park, we let him off his leash so that he could greet all the other doggies. If Zante could describe his trip to the park in his own words, I think he'd say this:
A dog! I saw a dog and then I ran over as fast as I could to smell his butt! It was great! And then I saw another dog! So I ran over as fast as I could and smelled his butt! Fantastic! I chased him around real good until I saw a dog whose butt really needed sniffing! Irresistable! Meanwhile Handsy kept throwing my ball and yelling something like "Kvetch!" or "Felch!", but then I saw this dog AND HE HAD A BUTT! Mmmm mmmm mmmm! Then we had to go so I peed on a tree so they wouldn't forget me! Then I crapped near a bush! Awesome!
I should get so excited. About anything!
Monday, January 15, 2007
My sister-in-law from Vermont is visiting us this week. This is an impressive feat because she's never been a big fan of rocketing through the air in a tin box with wings. She became even less of a fan on September 11th, 2001. So, visiting us requires her to get into her 160,000-mile car and drive across the country.
Lots of people have driven across the country though. Maybe that doesn't impress you. How about this? She did it at or below the speed limit the whole way. As it turns out, it takes about 8 days to perform that feat, assuming you stop every two hours to let your dog run around, and that you actually want to sleep at night.
How many of you have spent 8 days driving to visit us? Hmmm? Exactly.
So, shall I dedicate this blog post to her? I shall not! Instead, I shall write about her most excellent dog, Zante.
When I was a kid, I always wanted a pet, preferably a dog. My mother steadfastly refused this request. She had no interest in interacting with animals and definitely no interest in caring for an animal. The only pet I managed to wrangle out of that situation was a goldfish that I longingly named Rover.
Yes, that's right, woe was me.
Rover didn't last long though. Every time I turned on the ceiling light above his bowl, he'd freak out, swimming frantically in loops. I didn't know anyone else with a goldfish that could do tricks, so I happily showed off Rover's "talent" every chance I got. It didn't take very many times until he smashed himself into the decorative rocks in his bowl, ending his brief circus-like life.
Maybe it's good that I didn't have a dog. And, of course my parents got a cat almost immediately after I moved out of the house, but it was a really crappy cat, so I guess it worked out ok.
Anyway, Zante is a great freaking dog! He rarely barks or licks, and he's extremely well behaved and friendly. He's a very handsome "chocolate" labrador retriever. So nice!
Now, I had seen many damn episodes of the Dog Whisperer over Winter Present Tree Day break, so I knew I was a pretty good dog expert. I asked my sister-in-law if I could take Zante out for a walk to the park and since she had just spent 8 days trapped in a car with him, she happily handed over the leash.
Zante and I marched out the door. I held the leash confidently and firmly, letting Zante know that I was the Alpha Dog and he was a member of my pack. Each time he tried to lead me, I stopped the walk to reassert my lead with a light tug. We made it about 100 yards before Zante got tired of my crap. I don't know if he resented the dynamic, or if it suddenly dawned on him that we were getting further and further away from his precious owner, but he refused to budge another inch.
So, we were at an impasse. He wasn't interested in going anywhere except home, and I wasn't interested in losing a battle of wills with a dog. I considered dragging his ass to the park (I do outweigh him by quite a bit), but that seemed counter productive to the goal of getting him some exercise. I gave him the hairy eyeball and the ol' stank eye. No dice. Zante stood firm.
So, I changed the game.
"Zante! Sit!" I commanded.
Zante promptly sat.
"Good boy!" I squealed and I gave him lots of pats and scratches.
Then, pretending that my goal all along was to walk 100 yards and do a "sit", I led Zante back home. It was a win-win. Zante got to go home, and I got to save the teensiest tiniest bit of face for any neighbors that happened to look out their window at exactly the right instant.
I guess, for now, I'll stick with Blog Whispering.
Lots of people have driven across the country though. Maybe that doesn't impress you. How about this? She did it at or below the speed limit the whole way. As it turns out, it takes about 8 days to perform that feat, assuming you stop every two hours to let your dog run around, and that you actually want to sleep at night.
How many of you have spent 8 days driving to visit us? Hmmm? Exactly.
So, shall I dedicate this blog post to her? I shall not! Instead, I shall write about her most excellent dog, Zante.
When I was a kid, I always wanted a pet, preferably a dog. My mother steadfastly refused this request. She had no interest in interacting with animals and definitely no interest in caring for an animal. The only pet I managed to wrangle out of that situation was a goldfish that I longingly named Rover.
Yes, that's right, woe was me.
Rover didn't last long though. Every time I turned on the ceiling light above his bowl, he'd freak out, swimming frantically in loops. I didn't know anyone else with a goldfish that could do tricks, so I happily showed off Rover's "talent" every chance I got. It didn't take very many times until he smashed himself into the decorative rocks in his bowl, ending his brief circus-like life.
Maybe it's good that I didn't have a dog. And, of course my parents got a cat almost immediately after I moved out of the house, but it was a really crappy cat, so I guess it worked out ok.
Anyway, Zante is a great freaking dog! He rarely barks or licks, and he's extremely well behaved and friendly. He's a very handsome "chocolate" labrador retriever. So nice!
Now, I had seen many damn episodes of the Dog Whisperer over Winter Present Tree Day break, so I knew I was a pretty good dog expert. I asked my sister-in-law if I could take Zante out for a walk to the park and since she had just spent 8 days trapped in a car with him, she happily handed over the leash.
Zante and I marched out the door. I held the leash confidently and firmly, letting Zante know that I was the Alpha Dog and he was a member of my pack. Each time he tried to lead me, I stopped the walk to reassert my lead with a light tug. We made it about 100 yards before Zante got tired of my crap. I don't know if he resented the dynamic, or if it suddenly dawned on him that we were getting further and further away from his precious owner, but he refused to budge another inch.
So, we were at an impasse. He wasn't interested in going anywhere except home, and I wasn't interested in losing a battle of wills with a dog. I considered dragging his ass to the park (I do outweigh him by quite a bit), but that seemed counter productive to the goal of getting him some exercise. I gave him the hairy eyeball and the ol' stank eye. No dice. Zante stood firm.
So, I changed the game.
"Zante! Sit!" I commanded.
Zante promptly sat.
"Good boy!" I squealed and I gave him lots of pats and scratches.
Then, pretending that my goal all along was to walk 100 yards and do a "sit", I led Zante back home. It was a win-win. Zante got to go home, and I got to save the teensiest tiniest bit of face for any neighbors that happened to look out their window at exactly the right instant.
I guess, for now, I'll stick with Blog Whispering.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Brrrrrr! Stupid broken furnace.
It was 50-something degrees in my office this morning, which is well below my comfort level, so I bought some more wood and performed some technical ministrations to be able to work from the living room, where the cozy wozy wood-burning stove resides. However, getting warmth from fire hasn't been as easy as you'd think given all the equipment at my disposal, which now includes:
Meanwhile, I'm drinking more coffee than ever (warm liquid in my mouth!), and I'm having soup for lunch (warm liquid in my mouth!) and I'm seriously considering a trip to a gay bathhouse for obvious reasons.
The furnace is supposed to get fixed tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me.
It was 50-something degrees in my office this morning, which is well below my comfort level, so I bought some more wood and performed some technical ministrations to be able to work from the living room, where the cozy wozy wood-burning stove resides. However, getting warmth from fire hasn't been as easy as you'd think given all the equipment at my disposal, which now includes:
- A wood-burning stove
- Wood
- Super flammable fire-starting logs
- 100s of matches
Meanwhile, I'm drinking more coffee than ever (warm liquid in my mouth!), and I'm having soup for lunch (warm liquid in my mouth!) and I'm seriously considering a trip to a gay bathhouse for obvious reasons.
The furnace is supposed to get fixed tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
I usually keep Daisy company as she gets ready for bed. Last Thursday I was out being Lord Secretary of The PTA, so Hank stood in for me.
That evening Daisy was taking her allergy pill while roaming around my home office and she accidentally walked into my desk, spilling the contents of the pill bottle into the dusty corners of the room. When it comes to colliding with inanimate objects, Daisy takes after her old man.
Anyway, Daisy burst into tears and had the following conversation with Hank:
Daisy: Waaaaaaaaaaah! I spilled my medicine!
Hank: It's ok.
Daisy: No! It's not!
Hank: Sure it is. We'll get more.
Daisy: But it'll cost money! And it's my waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah fault!
Hank: Well, accidents happen.
Daisy: You should waaaaaaaaaah punish me!
Hank: No, it was just an accident. You didn't do it on purpose, did you?
Daisy: No, but I should have known that Daddy's desk was there. I should KNOW how big Daddy's desk is. Pun-waaaaaaaah-ish me!
Hank: Uh.... ok. Your punishment is to measure Daddy's desk. Go get the tape measure.
Daisy: Argh! Why can't I get normal punishments like normal kids?!
So, she measured my desk, and cried all the way through. And then she cried for another 20 or 30 minutes.
I think she has some bizarre punishment fetish. I hope we're not enabling it.
Kids are weird.
That evening Daisy was taking her allergy pill while roaming around my home office and she accidentally walked into my desk, spilling the contents of the pill bottle into the dusty corners of the room. When it comes to colliding with inanimate objects, Daisy takes after her old man.
Anyway, Daisy burst into tears and had the following conversation with Hank:
Daisy: Waaaaaaaaaaah! I spilled my medicine!
Hank: It's ok.
Daisy: No! It's not!
Hank: Sure it is. We'll get more.
Daisy: But it'll cost money! And it's my waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah fault!
Hank: Well, accidents happen.
Daisy: You should waaaaaaaaaah punish me!
Hank: No, it was just an accident. You didn't do it on purpose, did you?
Daisy: No, but I should have known that Daddy's desk was there. I should KNOW how big Daddy's desk is. Pun-waaaaaaaah-ish me!
Hank: Uh.... ok. Your punishment is to measure Daddy's desk. Go get the tape measure.
Daisy: Argh! Why can't I get normal punishments like normal kids?!
So, she measured my desk, and cried all the way through. And then she cried for another 20 or 30 minutes.
I think she has some bizarre punishment fetish. I hope we're not enabling it.
Kids are weird.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Every once in a while during the last couple months, our furnace would decide that it didn't want to turn off.
After a session of toasty-warm air blowing, the thermostat would dutifully inform the furnace that our house had reached the desired temperature, and then the furnace would partially comply with the unwritten agreement by blowing cold air through the vents instead of warm air. Furnacey would continue to do this until it had chilled the house to the point where the dull-normal thermostat would waken from its slumber and demand warm air again. Then, the blowing of warm air would resume, completing the grand circle of energy wasting.
These games of Thermodynamics Catch would continue, back and forth, until I intervened by flipping the circuit breaker. Then Furnacey would lay low for a couple weeks, watching my guard visibly drop, until it was time to play again.
Last Friday, Furnacey became insatiable, playing this game almost every time he was asked to heat the house. On Saturday he finally rebelled against my killjoyish circuit-breaker flipping and completely refused to heat the house. "No heat for you!" he cried imaginarily.
So, I called some heating repair services and it looks like maybe I can get this baby fixed by Wednesday. That means that tomorrow will be Day 4 of The Great Heat Improvisation Experiment.
Phase One of the experiment was a no-brainer. For years the energy conservanistas have been telling us to turn off lights when we don't need them. Ostensibly this is because they waste energy through heat. So, using the finest reverse engineering algorithms known to man, I determined that I should turn on all the lights in the house. Freakin' brilliant. I cursed the stupid compact fluorescent in my office, but I basked in the glow of the mini halogens in our hallway.
Net effect? Pretty negligible except near the ceiling of the hallway.
Phase Two consisted of remembering that we have a wood burning stove sitting in our living room. We hardly ever use the thing, but now kind of seemed like the time. I purchased a few Duraflame logs and fired that baby up. It made the downstairs pretty roasty toasty, so it seemed like we had a temporary solution. That was the case until I actually read the directions on the Duraflame packing informing me that these logs were NOT for usage in a wood burning stove. Apparently they burn too hot, and they cause chimney fires, and blah blah blah. Super.
Phase Three began today when I had this Instant Messenger conversation with my boss:
Me: Brrrrr!
Boss: Your heater still broken?
Me: Yeah, and I found out that I can't use Duraflames in our wood burning stove.
Boss: Why don't you use regular wood?
Me: Nah, there's no metal grate to prop up the wood, and the stove is pretty small. There's no way to build a fire in it.
Boss: You'd be amazed. They're designed to burn wood. It's a WOOD BURNING stove.
Me: Hmmmm
Boss: They have controls that make it burn like crazy, or a catalytic type fire that provides lots of heat.
Me: Controls? Dude, it's just a metal box. Are you thinking of our oven?
Boss: No! Jesus! Your wood burning stove has controls, trust me.
Me: Is there a control to make fire?
Boss: Yes, that's called a match. I'm really good at fire.
Me: You should go on Survivor! Oh, that reminds me. Dude, you should TOTALLY go on Survivor! I've been meaning to tell you that for weeks!
The conversation deteriorated from there, but as it turns out, he was right. There are controls on my wood burning stove to modulate the air flow. Flux capacitors and deflector arrays and whatnot.
So, we bought a box of wood, and some starter log thingees, and now it's burning the crap out of some dead oak trees. The downstairs is warm like a sauna and the whole house smells like a campfire.
It's a very strange way to live in the middle of a city in 2007.
After a session of toasty-warm air blowing, the thermostat would dutifully inform the furnace that our house had reached the desired temperature, and then the furnace would partially comply with the unwritten agreement by blowing cold air through the vents instead of warm air. Furnacey would continue to do this until it had chilled the house to the point where the dull-normal thermostat would waken from its slumber and demand warm air again. Then, the blowing of warm air would resume, completing the grand circle of energy wasting.
These games of Thermodynamics Catch would continue, back and forth, until I intervened by flipping the circuit breaker. Then Furnacey would lay low for a couple weeks, watching my guard visibly drop, until it was time to play again.
Last Friday, Furnacey became insatiable, playing this game almost every time he was asked to heat the house. On Saturday he finally rebelled against my killjoyish circuit-breaker flipping and completely refused to heat the house. "No heat for you!" he cried imaginarily.
So, I called some heating repair services and it looks like maybe I can get this baby fixed by Wednesday. That means that tomorrow will be Day 4 of The Great Heat Improvisation Experiment.
Phase One of the experiment was a no-brainer. For years the energy conservanistas have been telling us to turn off lights when we don't need them. Ostensibly this is because they waste energy through heat. So, using the finest reverse engineering algorithms known to man, I determined that I should turn on all the lights in the house. Freakin' brilliant. I cursed the stupid compact fluorescent in my office, but I basked in the glow of the mini halogens in our hallway.
Net effect? Pretty negligible except near the ceiling of the hallway.
Phase Two consisted of remembering that we have a wood burning stove sitting in our living room. We hardly ever use the thing, but now kind of seemed like the time. I purchased a few Duraflame logs and fired that baby up. It made the downstairs pretty roasty toasty, so it seemed like we had a temporary solution. That was the case until I actually read the directions on the Duraflame packing informing me that these logs were NOT for usage in a wood burning stove. Apparently they burn too hot, and they cause chimney fires, and blah blah blah. Super.
Phase Three began today when I had this Instant Messenger conversation with my boss:
Me: Brrrrr!
Boss: Your heater still broken?
Me: Yeah, and I found out that I can't use Duraflames in our wood burning stove.
Boss: Why don't you use regular wood?
Me: Nah, there's no metal grate to prop up the wood, and the stove is pretty small. There's no way to build a fire in it.
Boss: You'd be amazed. They're designed to burn wood. It's a WOOD BURNING stove.
Me: Hmmmm
Boss: They have controls that make it burn like crazy, or a catalytic type fire that provides lots of heat.
Me: Controls? Dude, it's just a metal box. Are you thinking of our oven?
Boss: No! Jesus! Your wood burning stove has controls, trust me.
Me: Is there a control to make fire?
Boss: Yes, that's called a match. I'm really good at fire.
Me: You should go on Survivor! Oh, that reminds me. Dude, you should TOTALLY go on Survivor! I've been meaning to tell you that for weeks!
The conversation deteriorated from there, but as it turns out, he was right. There are controls on my wood burning stove to modulate the air flow. Flux capacitors and deflector arrays and whatnot.
So, we bought a box of wood, and some starter log thingees, and now it's burning the crap out of some dead oak trees. The downstairs is warm like a sauna and the whole house smells like a campfire.
It's a very strange way to live in the middle of a city in 2007.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Hank and I didn't have a New Year's Eve plan, nor did we have a babysitter for Daisy, so we figured it would be a pretty mellow evening at home. I wasn't even committed to staying up until midnight, which is a little unusual for me, given that I'm so anal about time and I usually get such a kick out of numbers rounding up into bigger numbers.
Just as I had resigned myself to an epically boring New Year's Eve, we got a call from a parent of one of Daisy's friends. They wanted to know if Daisy could come over to their house for a sleepover that evening.
A sleepover. On New Year's Eve.
Hoo hoo! It wasn't going to be ME having an epically boring New Year's Eve, it was going to be Daisy's friend's parents! Our house would be seven-year-old-free! I won!
It was time to host a party. We'd find out exactly how many of our close friends were also too lame to have made compelling New Year's Eve plans.
Hank and I sprang into action. I scoured the Internet for information on how to make champagne in your bathtub. Meanwhile, Hank examined the state of our kitchen. She looked at the empty dishwasher and the shiny sink and the cabinets full of clean dishes. She got that faraway dreamy look in her eye that I hate so much.
"We're going to have a dinner party," Hank stated.
"What will we serve?" I asked cautiously.
"I don't know yet, but I think I can dirty every dish we own."
So, I cleaned up the house and removed the seven year-old while Hank shopped and cooked. We also called around and were astonished to find our favorite friends were so lame that they didn't have anything better to do than come to our house for a hastily organized New Year's Eve party (okok, Jay and his wife DID have better things to do, but they still stopped by for a while).
By 8:00pm the dinner guests had arrived and the appetizers had emerged from the oven. There were cute little toasts with sundried tomatoes, and baked salmon on some crazy grain mix, and a salad overflowing with gourmet oddities that have no business being in a salad. It was all very tasty. For dessert Hank had whipped up some brownies in a raspberry sauce, accompanied by ice cream. Mmmmm. Hank insisted that it was made even tastier by the fact that it was served on dishes too delicate to be washed in the dishwasher.
Afterwards we played some poker, watched enough seconds of Dick Clark to be depressed and horrified, and generally reveled in good company.
It was one of my better New Year's Eves. Thank you, Hank and good/lame friends.
Just as I had resigned myself to an epically boring New Year's Eve, we got a call from a parent of one of Daisy's friends. They wanted to know if Daisy could come over to their house for a sleepover that evening.
A sleepover. On New Year's Eve.
Hoo hoo! It wasn't going to be ME having an epically boring New Year's Eve, it was going to be Daisy's friend's parents! Our house would be seven-year-old-free! I won!
It was time to host a party. We'd find out exactly how many of our close friends were also too lame to have made compelling New Year's Eve plans.
Hank and I sprang into action. I scoured the Internet for information on how to make champagne in your bathtub. Meanwhile, Hank examined the state of our kitchen. She looked at the empty dishwasher and the shiny sink and the cabinets full of clean dishes. She got that faraway dreamy look in her eye that I hate so much.
"We're going to have a dinner party," Hank stated.
"What will we serve?" I asked cautiously.
"I don't know yet, but I think I can dirty every dish we own."
So, I cleaned up the house and removed the seven year-old while Hank shopped and cooked. We also called around and were astonished to find our favorite friends were so lame that they didn't have anything better to do than come to our house for a hastily organized New Year's Eve party (okok, Jay and his wife DID have better things to do, but they still stopped by for a while).
By 8:00pm the dinner guests had arrived and the appetizers had emerged from the oven. There were cute little toasts with sundried tomatoes, and baked salmon on some crazy grain mix, and a salad overflowing with gourmet oddities that have no business being in a salad. It was all very tasty. For dessert Hank had whipped up some brownies in a raspberry sauce, accompanied by ice cream. Mmmmm. Hank insisted that it was made even tastier by the fact that it was served on dishes too delicate to be washed in the dishwasher.
Afterwards we played some poker, watched enough seconds of Dick Clark to be depressed and horrified, and generally reveled in good company.
It was one of my better New Year's Eves. Thank you, Hank and good/lame friends.
Monday, January 01, 2007
I'll get to an official review of 2006 soon enough, but let me do a quick recap of my holiday season. Mostly it was filled with the following:
1) Dog whispering. My mother-in-law is a fan of the show The Dog Whisperer, so we told Tivo to record a few. Since last week was apparently Dog Whisperer Week, Tivo toiled all week long recording umpteen episodes of the show. We watched many of them.
The show ain't bad. The host, Cesar Milan, has an undeniably impressive ability to get dogs to behave. Basically he convinces them that he's the alpha dog and they're part of his pack, thus they must submit to his benevolent will. This is a neat and entirely intuitive technique, but you kind of get the idea after half a dozen episodes. Disappointingly, he never whispers to them.
2) Explaining Tivo to old people. The average age of our visiting in-laws was about 75. They're savvy folk, but trying to undo decades of traditional TV watching was fairly unfruitful. Each time one of them attempted to operate the Tivo remote, I made sure to sit on my hands so that I didn't accidentally rip it out of their grasp in frustration. I'll never be the Geriatric Whisperer.
3) The Beatles 'Love' Album. Like many defunct and partially dead groups, the Beatles have released a new album. This one, mostly created by Beatles producer George Martin, has taken tracks and sound snippets from over 100 Beatles recordings and remixed them into 26 new, yet recognizable, songs. Some tracks are only freshened up a bit from the original, whereas others are a real mash-up, weaving elements from two songs into one. The production is fairly reverential and has a light enough touch to still let Beatles fans enjoy the essence of these classic songs, but the new mixing also gives the listener a chance to be pleasantly surprised by their well-worn favorites for the first time in a long time.
Often after we finished listening to this album, we'd start it all over again.
4) Apples to Apples. One of our Winter Present Tree Day gifts was a game called 'Apples to Apples'. Each player in this game gets a set of 7 cards with proper nouns on them like "The Midwest" or "The JFK Assassination" or "The Internet". Then each player has to pick one of these 7 cards that best matches some adjective like "funny" or "irritating". Sometimes you don't really have a good match, so you're left trying to convince the Judge player that "The Gulf War" really is "delicious". When the judge selects your proper noun card as the best match for the adjective, you win a point.
We played this game several times. My favorite moment came when Hank, in a moment of competive clarity, realized that the game was entirely subjective and her accumulation of points was dependent upon other people agreeing with her noun-adjective matching. She mulled this over while examining her anemic set of points and then blurted out, "You're all idiots! When I play Monopoly with idiots I get to win, but in this game I'm going to lose!"
I love her.
5) High School Musical
Oh, man.
I wish I could have hired a better blogger to sit through the umpteen viewings of this movie that I saw the last week so that they could write the perfectly snarky blog post for me. I can't do this justice. Just know that High School Musical is a sugary-sweet Disney made-for-TV musical that has become must-see viewing for an entire generation of people younger than you.
I've seen the movie. I've seen the sing-a-long version of the movie. I've watched my daughter do High School Musical karaoke. Every moment of the last week that my daughter was allowed to watch TV, that's what she wanted. I think even my eyes and ears have cavities now.
6) Wii hunting. I've made two more early-morning trips to Target. I'm still Wii-less. Waaah!
Winter Present Tree Day has something for everyone, but no Wiis for mees.
1) Dog whispering. My mother-in-law is a fan of the show The Dog Whisperer, so we told Tivo to record a few. Since last week was apparently Dog Whisperer Week, Tivo toiled all week long recording umpteen episodes of the show. We watched many of them.
The show ain't bad. The host, Cesar Milan, has an undeniably impressive ability to get dogs to behave. Basically he convinces them that he's the alpha dog and they're part of his pack, thus they must submit to his benevolent will. This is a neat and entirely intuitive technique, but you kind of get the idea after half a dozen episodes. Disappointingly, he never whispers to them.
2) Explaining Tivo to old people. The average age of our visiting in-laws was about 75. They're savvy folk, but trying to undo decades of traditional TV watching was fairly unfruitful. Each time one of them attempted to operate the Tivo remote, I made sure to sit on my hands so that I didn't accidentally rip it out of their grasp in frustration. I'll never be the Geriatric Whisperer.
3) The Beatles 'Love' Album. Like many defunct and partially dead groups, the Beatles have released a new album. This one, mostly created by Beatles producer George Martin, has taken tracks and sound snippets from over 100 Beatles recordings and remixed them into 26 new, yet recognizable, songs. Some tracks are only freshened up a bit from the original, whereas others are a real mash-up, weaving elements from two songs into one. The production is fairly reverential and has a light enough touch to still let Beatles fans enjoy the essence of these classic songs, but the new mixing also gives the listener a chance to be pleasantly surprised by their well-worn favorites for the first time in a long time.
Often after we finished listening to this album, we'd start it all over again.
4) Apples to Apples. One of our Winter Present Tree Day gifts was a game called 'Apples to Apples'. Each player in this game gets a set of 7 cards with proper nouns on them like "The Midwest" or "The JFK Assassination" or "The Internet". Then each player has to pick one of these 7 cards that best matches some adjective like "funny" or "irritating". Sometimes you don't really have a good match, so you're left trying to convince the Judge player that "The Gulf War" really is "delicious". When the judge selects your proper noun card as the best match for the adjective, you win a point.
We played this game several times. My favorite moment came when Hank, in a moment of competive clarity, realized that the game was entirely subjective and her accumulation of points was dependent upon other people agreeing with her noun-adjective matching. She mulled this over while examining her anemic set of points and then blurted out, "You're all idiots! When I play Monopoly with idiots I get to win, but in this game I'm going to lose!"
I love her.
5) High School Musical
Oh, man.
I wish I could have hired a better blogger to sit through the umpteen viewings of this movie that I saw the last week so that they could write the perfectly snarky blog post for me. I can't do this justice. Just know that High School Musical is a sugary-sweet Disney made-for-TV musical that has become must-see viewing for an entire generation of people younger than you.
I've seen the movie. I've seen the sing-a-long version of the movie. I've watched my daughter do High School Musical karaoke. Every moment of the last week that my daughter was allowed to watch TV, that's what she wanted. I think even my eyes and ears have cavities now.
6) Wii hunting. I've made two more early-morning trips to Target. I'm still Wii-less. Waaah!
Winter Present Tree Day has something for everyone, but no Wiis for mees.
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