Fall Book Reports

I've developed a taste for regicide of late. It started with Macbeth and then proceeded on to Agamemnon. I guess once you taste royal blood, you can't quit easily...

Macbeth I enjoyed quite a bit. You can't not love the lyrical nature of the text. You kinda get caught up in it. Stacy would often stumble upon me hidden in my room, contending with witches or railing against daggers in my best Oxford accent. Boy, Lady MacPerkins can sure cast a withering "I caught you" glance.

Agamemnon was a more challenging read. It's the story of the Greek king Agamemnon, who returns home from the Trojan war to his wife Clytemnestra, who welcomes him inside and then promptly murders him in his bathtub. Seems she was a little miffed that he scarified her daughter to the gods before going to war, and then returning home with a beautiful slave girl whom Clytemnestra was order to treat civilly. (Ever overreacting, she kills her too.)

I generally read before bed (but never in the bathtub!) and Greek tragedy proves a surprisingly good sedative. I'd rarely get more than a page or two down when I'd find my eyes crossing and would notice that I'd read the same paragraph four times and still had no idea what is was saying. And the death scene in Agamemnon is not terribly satisfying to our Grand Theft Auto generation. It all takes place boringly behind the castle door, with only an "I am struck!" or two yelled from behind the curtain to inspire. Now Duncan's undoing was off-stage in Macbeth as well, but at least you got bloody (and framed) servants and faux-fainting women. Much more to my liking!

Another interesting book I read last month was Dan Ariely's Predictably Irrational. A professor of Behavioral Economics at MIT, Ariely writes about all the irrational things we do, even when we know for a fact that they are irrational and easily avoidable. One particular example he gives examines how getting something for free taints our reason. It involves an experiment he set up where he sold chocolates for ridiculously low prices. He sold Lindt bon-bons (an exquisite Swiss chocolate) for something like 14¢ (I forget exactly), and right next to them he sold plain old Hersey Kisses for a penny each. Passersby were allowed to buy only one chocolate and had to choose between the two. The Lindt is a much better product, and at 14¢ it's a steal; most folks knew they would like the Lindt better and spent the 14¢ and bought the Lindt. Then, he lowered the prices by one penny each; now the Lindt was 13¢ and the Hershey Kiss was free. Since the difference in the price was exactly the same - 13¢, logic would say that the Lindt was still the one to buy - but almost no one did. The vast majority of the people went for the inferior freebie, just because it was free.

Lots of interesting and thought-provoking insights and experiments like that made for an interesting book. At the end of each chapter he tried to summarize his points with how we should take advantage of these idiosyncrasies of our logical reasoning with things we could do to improve our own lives or society as a whole. While interesting, for some reason these applications all seemed to skew to the politically charged or controversial ("Perhaps we should more seriously consider..."), which torqued me a bit, but since they were a paragraph or two out of an otherwise generally neutral chapter, I could live with it.

Turk-ish Delight

Mmmmmmm...

(Not much more need be said.)

Hampered Enthusiasm and Other Stories

Our kids have lately been squirrelling themselves away in tight corners for no apparent reason. We find them in closets, wedged in between the toilet and bathtub, under their beds, etc. Evidently their father's claustrophobia got filtered out somewhere.

Last night I heard what sounded like racoons rustling through a garbage can and upon investigation found two critters of a different sort in our hamper.

Go figure.

L had a "hand" in stuffing the turkey this year. (Get it? "A hand?" Ha ha ha!)

Stacy winced every time L put in another onion quarter or orange chunk inside, imagining the hord of salmonella bacteria lying in wait, ready to leap on to her daughter's arm and devour her there on the spot. L indeed ended up with a red, sore arm afterwards, but it was only because of Stacy's scouring with hot soap and water.

A few days before Thanksgiving we had a much needed storm front come through. It was merely a drizzile, but being denizens of Southern California, our kids treat the first drop of rain the way most yung uns handle the year's first snow dusting. Donned we now our most underutilized waredobe elements and went and stood in the rain, showing our collective general intelligence fails to stand up to common barnyard animals.

When Stacy was in Sweden she got a strange little device used to probe boiled potatoes to test if they are done. This morning while I was fixing breakfast for the kids, L noticed it in the drawer and commented.

"That looks like it's for a shot!" she said. "That would be a very owwy shot. I would cry a lot. N and Mommy would cry too, but you wouldn't cry cause you would be brave."

At this point she her expression changed and like a cloud passing over the sun she suddenly became quite serious and almost teary. After a moment or two of considering a shot with the potato probe she turned to me again. "Daddy, you'd protect me." She flung her arms around me and buried her face in my leg. "I love you Daddy!"

Thanksgiving Sunshine

The stormy weather of the last couple of days seemed to have cleared out yesterday (including some of the ill-wind coming from N's direction), so Stacy plunked the turkey in the oven and we fled the compound for a Thanksgiving Morning hike up on Palos Verdes. In terms of distance it wasn't much of a hike, a half mile out and a half mile back if we were lucky; but in terms of exercise it was passable -- there was rarely a moment free from a kid in our arms or on our shoulders.

N does not abide teasing well.

The weather was gorgeous - the rains had finally cleared the air of all the fire soot, but the kids tired quickly. L was aware that Grandma and Poppa were coming over, but she couldn't grasp that it wasn't until mid-afternoon; every five minutes she reminded us that we needed to head back so they weren't waiting on us. And while N was much improved over past days, he was still a little fussy. And nothing brings on the fussiness more than suggesting to him that his is, in fact, being fussy.

But all in all, it was some time out of the house that was happily far more refreshing than can be accounted for in time or exertion.

Thanksgroaning

It's official. N is bidirectional. I went to give him a kiss goodbye this morning on my way out the door and was greeted with the polar opposite of last weekend's festivities. With skills that forewarn of a career as either an expert sharp shooter or operatic virtuoso, he managed to plaster my shirt and pants and leave lots of pleasantries on our newly replaced bedroom carpet. Maybe the beach yesterday wasn't such a great idea.

Stacy dutifully made all the phone calls this morning: Run away! Our house is radioactive, she warned - we would make a Geiger counter sound like a techno-band's percussion section. As of last night our Thanksgiving plans had included hosting 16 - our own family(4), two families from church(6 and 3), Stacy's parents(2), and potentially a friend of Stacy's Dad(1). The roster is now down to our family alone(4), with Stacy's folks asking for hourly status updates before they'll commit to a decision.

(Trust me -- We in no way blame folks for deciding to sit this one out. I assure you we would have done exactly that were the roles reversed! It would be extremely hard to enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner when you're not sure what is and isn't gravy...)

I'm exponentially bummed, as Thanksgiving is my all-time favorite holiday and I was very much looking forward to hanging out with our church friends. But the bright side of all of this is that tomorrow we get about 5 lbs of turkey and 3 lbs of sweet potatoes each!

Seattle Stow-aways

We had a rare treat this week. Brett and Jen, the couple that first introduced Stacy and I, came into town and stayed with us for a couple of days. They live in Olympia, Washington and the last time we got to see them was a year ago when we met in Northern California for Thanksgiving with Jen's family.

Brett and Jen have three beautiful girls who instantly inducted our L into their triumvirate of silliness and made it a quadumvirate, or something like that. N was subjected to every humiliating girl game the older kids could inflict on him; the only trouble was that he seemed neither humiliated nor subjugated, but rather appeared to go along with the dress-ups and doll parties quite willingly.

My work schedule was particularly heinous this week, so I didn't get to spend the time with them that I wanted, but Stacy and Jen and the kids got to hang quite a bit. On Monday Auntie Jen and the girls joined L and N at their Mommy & Me class where they made, no doubt, historically accurate Native American headdresses and other period Thanksgiving paraphernalia, faithful to their ancient predecessors down to the last construction paper feather and headband staple. Just like Pocahontas would have pasted!

The highlight of the visit, however, was yesterday's afternoon at the beach. I post these pictures not only to document the excursion, but also to irritate my good buddy Jeff, because he complains vociferously about miserable Pennsylvania winters, yet can't quite see the value in visiting his friends in warmer climes... (And also because I know if he could, he would make fun of me because my son's favorite color is pink.)

Remedial Gender Studies

Stacy and N stayed home from church today due to N's recent trials and tribulations. I took L by myself. On the ride home we were talking about the Creation story and how God created us "male and female".

Daddy:	So what is Daddy?
L:	Male!
Daddy:	Right! And what is Mommy?
L:	Female!
Daddy:	Good! And what is your brother N?
L:	E-mail!

That Isn't Butterscotch Pudding!

WARNING:

Post not for the squeamish!

We've never evacuated a Ralphs before.

Stacy and I took the kids shopping this morning in prep for the Thanksgiving onslaught. 2 kids = 2 carts. I took L and Stacy took N and we piled both carts to the hilt. We were just about done and I was following Stacy down an aisle when I began to get a whiff of something that I wouldn't expect to be sold in a supermarket. (In the K-mart garden amendment section perhaps...) After offending Stacy by asking her if she was in any way responsible, we realized that N was engaged in a private labor. Hoping it was a "momentary affliction" we continued our shopping. But the further down the aisle we went, the stronger the aroma cloud enveloping us. It was clear N's accomplishments were of a more permanent nature.

We made it to the check-out line - L and I pulled in in front (to be down wind) and Stacy and N pulled in behind. We very soon began to get looks from fellow customers. And that's when things really got nasty. Stacy, in an attempt to verify the clearly obvious, gave the back of N's diaper a tug and peered inside. There must have been some sort of delicately balanced pressure ratio that Stacy upset at that precise moment, because things started flowing like out of a horror movie.

All over N.
All over Stacy.
All over the cart seat.

We were getting shocked gasps and a couple of choked gaggings from those around us now. I was unpiling my cart as quick as I could, just throwing eggs and fruit etc. on the checkout track to get it unloaded. Meanwhile Stacy is flailing around with an ever-erupting N, scrambling to plug the leaks and shore up the levies. We made eye-contact and gave the head nod and we immediately flung ourselves into our unspoken emergency recovery plan. She hoisted up the oozing child and sprinted down the line of checkout stands and bolted out the door, green cloud trailing noxiously behind. I finished shot-putting my cart's groceries on the track, hauled the other smoldering cart forward and began whipping the load out of that one. Meanwhile the somehow-still-oblivious checkout dude was chatting merrily with L, not quite able to understand that L was going into great detail about N's abdominal activities. As I pulled N's toxic cart through the line and out the other side, I noticed a rather large puddle on the floor that looked disturbingly like chunky butterscotch pudding. Flagging a store worker I waived vaguely toward the crime scene and understated that they "might need a clean-up."

After the humiliation-spawned eternity that passed for the groceries to be tallied and paid for, my brisk hike back to the car found Stacy in the last stages of environmental disaster mitigation. Her eyes were watery from obvious gagging. N sat in his car seat, naked but for a new diaper. I noticed that he was sucking on his fingers, but (for my own nausea's sake) I could not allow myself to think though the implications of that long enough to make him quit.

We quickly boarded the car, which now smelled like a waste treatment plant, and fled the scene. I'm pretty sure around the time we made it to Sepulveda Blvd I saw the Haz-Mat helicopters pass overhead, heading the other way.

We'll be spending the rest of the afternoon boiling all our clothes.

Our Mother the Trucker

While Stacy's minivan was out for bumper repairs, our auto insurance was kind enough to spring for a replacement vehicle. The options, however, were... shall we say, limited.



My, how my pampered Burbank girl has suffered. Not quite the mini-Cooper that Barbie would drive.

I, on the other hand, was stoked. I envisioned Home Depot trips for incredibly large purchases -- not that I actually needed anything, but simply because I had the truck to haul junk with! And then there was off-roading! Camping! Working with my Dad in the woods. (OK, it might be a little unrealistic to drive it to Maine.)

What I really wanted to do was drive down a country dirt road with the kids bumping around in the truckbed. That's was a favorite memory from my childhood. But then again, I grew up in much less of a nanny-state than our present Orwellian locale. While I would love to give my kids the experience, I don't think I'd want to incur the displeasure of the People's Republic of "Kajlifoaniah" (Read it with a strong Schwarzenegger accent!) risking 10 to 20 years in a maximum security facility for child abuse.

Though it is tempting.

Fortunately or unfortunately both my ambitions and temptations were short-lived. The car repairs went ironically quickly and the truck was returned without me having the opportunity to even turn the key. In the end I must content myself with pictures Stacy took of the kids sitting in the back in the smothered security of our driveway.




On second thought...



Ahhhh! Much better!