Well, it started slow but really picked up steam this morning about 9am with 30-40 mph winds and blasting snow. It'll take everyone awhile to dig out of this one.
We spent last night at a retirement party for the firm. I was the +1, which allowed me to sneak into the soiree with minimal problem and free valet parking. It was an event that gave insight into the folks that my love works with: each and every one in the small place are a type of Sitcom character. A load of smart and energetic lawyers who care for each other - even in debate - and then go about their business. An enjoyable evening all around.
Now, the club. There is no way in hell I'd ever be at this place without my escort. We're once again talking about a level of clientele that I'll never be on my own. I've never been to a gig where people were walking around offering hor d'oeuvres on trays and filling my drink whenever I choose. I felt like I was living in a Jane Austen novel and was sorely tempted to sit down at the baby grand and knock out some classic 19th century sing-a-longs. I looked all about for Elizabeth Bennet or Mr. Darcy. I must have waved away at least $400 in canapes, crudites, zakuski, amuse-buche, and meze; oh, for the want of a big, reusable bag. I probably would have stood out if I was wrapping each piece in foil and stashing it in my saddlebag.
We've done yeoman's work around the house this weekend. The boys have been hard working in moving everything into one room so that Laurel can move into the other when she arrives on Thursday. All the holiday gear is put away and our new (double) living room is back in order. I'm all about back in order so I'm quite happy. X is sitting over by the fire in in her slippers, allegedly reading some work; I think she's happy.
t
I think I've decided there will be no "best of" lists this year - at least not in a one-t0-ten configuration. I have some recommendations that I'll throw out but it'll merely be here-and-there stuff. I'm thinking about it, stand easy.
Based upon X's report from dropping off the boys on Friday night there's no way I can properly relate the degree of fantasy cooldom on exhibit at the Anime Pavilion. I'm not making that name up. They had a fantastic time playing Magic - the Gathering - with the adults and then returning the next morning for some more dueling. I'd say it's the rough equivalent of me finding an arcade when I was 13; total focus. If you imagine comic book shops, Dungeons and Dragons, and indie record stores, then simply blend that all together, you have a winner.
After dinner last night we exited, stage left, and headed to Woolly Mammoth to see Too Much Light Makes Baby Go Blind - 30 plays in 60 minutes. I'm a huge fan of Woolly as a structure and the company, as a whole. Too Much is actually a visiting show by the Neo-Futurists out of Chicago (much like the soon-to-be returning Second City and their Barack Stars in February) but the theatre is perfect for just about any production that'll I'll glom onto. The Neos are smooth in their ability to complete all thirty self-penned plays in a random order determined only by the audience yelling a number upon hearing the cue - 'curtain'. As they told us before the show began, we'll get some things right away and others we'll laugh about in two years; and it's true - I've mysteriously been able to recreate in my mind nearly all 30 vignettes. It's quality theatre by a group of horribly talented actors.
Most of our snow disappeared over the last few days and that worked out well for woodstacking activities. X ordered a cord of firewood yesterday and it greeted us upon my arrival home from work. The boys and I managed to get about three-quarters the way through the drive-to-porch wood stacking so there’s not much left for today or tomorrow. We only worked for 40 minutes – with varying levels of “this is going to take forever” ringing about The Hilltop – before we headed inside so I could make dinner (salmon steaks, rice, and broccoli with homemade cheese sauce for them). As I was washing my hands I asked H. if he had change for a $20 bill, which he did, and I paid both $10 for the 2/3-hour worth of work. I think the surprise of getting paid – I think of stacking wood as a little more than normal work – seemed to salve their misery of work. Of course, they immediately wanted to know when we might do the rest; work suddenly not seeming so bad. The problem now is that I think they “owe” someone make-up work and I believe I’ve been told that finishing the woodstacking is going to said make up, payment be damned. I’ve been clued in to not tell them they won’t be getting any money until after they finish. I’m not sure I’m overly interested in this soon-to-be endless debate.
Part of the reason money has become an issue for them is they’ve discovered a Friday Night Magic club/tournament in Falls Church which may or may not involved buy-ins or card purchases. Magic – The Gathering (as all true players refer to it) is a fantasy card game that involves something about monsters, fairies, lands, weapons, evolution, booster cards, blah, blah, and blah. I have no idea how it’s played since fantasy isn’t anything that interests me but the boys are literally shaking in anticipation of being a part of it all. I’m sure they’ll have a blast even if the 9:15pm starting time will lead to sleepy Saturday mornings.
I've finally bitten the bullet and started to change banks from USAA, or as I call them, "The Devil", to a local bank. USAA has a bit of a monopoly on military and retired military and they really suck as far a pure banking goes. The insurances and whatnot seem better but who knows; if I die maybe we'll have that answer. I despise them like I despise all huge banks that are making more money on fees and jackassery than actual banking. Fuck 'em all.
Nice ending, eh?
Love
t
While I was letting Pumpkin out the front door about a month ago I heard a scrabble-scrabble sound coming from the porch, the left of the door. (Our front porch is big-ish and runs an L-shape around the front and side of the house.) Pumpkin was doing his usual worrying about crossing the door threshold as I stuck my head out the door and took a look for the squirrel that was no doubt making the noise. Sure enough, he was standing about seven feet from the door and peering back over his shoulder toward the door; he wasn't much concerned with me or the cat. As Pumpkin hopped through the door he headed towards the squirrel who'd slowly started to move across the porch toward the steps. My impression after this encounter was that all the small forest animals of The Hilltop have long been aware of Pumpkin's lack of claws and somewhat slow-motion life; they have few worries. (Not that cats hunt-and-kill squirrels although 'twere it Lemon the Ready coming out the door that squirrel might've died of heart failure.)
Sometime later that week H. told his mother the yard-as-story history of the squirrel family that lives in the trees of our back hill. Apparently, the 'couple' has some kids - I think the number is three - running about and the mother squirrel is something of a battleax - my word added to H.'s description. The father squirrel, as relayed by H., spends as much time as possible at the neighborhood pub, bowling alley, or generally anywhere he doesn't to listen to the kvetching of his lovely squirrel wife. Fortunately, we've got loads of trees and a good perimeter that provides him safe distances from his homestead without forcing him across other squirrel nations' borders.
About a week after the first Pumpkin / door event I was again letting him out in the morning and when I opened the door this time the same squirrel was at the door, as if he'd knocked or hit the doorbell, up on his haunches, and clearly waiting for Pumpkin to come outside. The opening of the door didn't distress him one bit - nor did I - as he was waiting for old Land Squid to come outside. By the time Pumpkin traveled the last five fee to the door the squirrel had moved off a few feet and again hopping very slowly toward the stairs. The cat carefully leapt over the threshold and started to follow the squirrel down the porch. I guess that as my laughter at this strange friendship subsided I remembered how many times I'd seen Pumpkin slink around the slide of the house, down the garden path, 'hunting' whatever it is a cat like him could hunt, I realized that cat and squirrel spend a good part of their days playing some sort of hide-and-seek with each other. They both benefit, with Pumpkin getting a chance to 'catch' something, and squirrel spending his days ignoring his responsibilities and earning a piece of mind.
Even our cats have been turned to strange creatures...
It looks like L. will be moving here in January for her next semester of school, and hopefully, the summer of 2010. We're sorting details, schools, bedrooms, etc. but it's all a very exciting prospect. I'll have more details, as if those are needed, in the near future.
I’ve already hit on the Avett Brothers recently but I realized this morning, while listening to their live performance of Murder in the City from the Newport Jazz Festival, that they’ve created something very close to my perfect song. Not only is it powerful but what they’ve created for me falls into the exact same box that holds another three-minute wonder: the box with Guitar Town by Steve Earle. This little box o’ mine holds these specific examples because both are preciously simple, musically, and lyrically stunning. Both are short with no filler and the songs led me deeper into other offerings by the artist. (It didn’t hear Guitar Town until about 1989 or 1990 while I was in Athens; by then Earle already released Exit 0 and Copperhead Road.) I don’t know that I’d call either song my all-time favorite because I’d have to include Someday, Someway and Wagon Wheel, but both are in the top 10. The difference between Murder / Guitar and Someday / Wagon has more to do with the arc of the careers: both Crenshaw and the Old Crows had just given us their first albums. The true power of both is that they draw you into the story behind those that wrote them. If I haven’t posted Murder in the City before, here it is:
Last night as we were finishing up with The Daily Show, X told me had two questions she needed answered. “All right,” I said, “fire away, I’m ready.” Question number one was: “Should I have bangs or not?”; question number two, “How often do you think about death?” My answers were “no” and “twice a year.” She felt the twice a year was a bit specific; I thought the bangs question was weird because I told her I’d never really seen her with bangs so there’s no reason to think I’d desire change. She told me she’s wore bangs ever since she’s known me. I told her, in my head, that she’s a whack-a-doodle. Bangs? I don’t think so.
There’s been a rash of birthdays over the last week that are being sorted of being addressed over the coming weekend. We’ve invited WonderTwin 2 over for dinner so that’s kind of covered. As for G., well, he had a family-ish party on Tuesday night (I was working the election so I didn’t attend) and a friends-come-over party on Sunday. On Wednesday night, after he finished his dinner of perfectly prepared salmon steak, he stop spinning around mindlessly in the living room, turns to me, and asks, “Todd, did you get me something for my birthday?” Hmm, let’s see if I can parse that innocent little question.
t
The other night, I think it may have been before heading out for Quiz Night, G. began a question thusly, “So. If Laurel moves here in the spring does that mean…”. There was actually a pause at this point and my mind quickly filled in any number of issues that might arise if another child ended up in the house: he’d lose his bedroom, he’d have to play nice with someone other than his brother, maybe he’d have fewer chores to do, his personal space and growth might be stunted; any of a number of childhood issues might bubble to the surface. The finish to his sentence of concern was, “…I won’t get to have orange juice with pulp in it?” Right, that’s exactly what I was thinking. I told him that since Laurel likes no pulp and he likes pulp, I would make the sacrifice and have both types available. In my mind the addendum to my answer was, “if this was the great concern of the day then the day wasn’t too bad.”
X has another four days of work at her current firm in D.C. before moving to what she calls a “boutique” firm on the 16th of the month. She’s decided to move on after just over a year and has been hired by a smaller operation that’ll make her work day much happier. (I didn’t spill the beans a few entries ago; I wanted next of kin notified first.)
An interesting day; I'll go backwards.
We did the Capitals home opener tonight at Verizon (a 6-4 win but really out-of-hand at 6-1 after two periods) and dinner at Rosa Mexicano. Maybe, at some point, X will relay all her "hockey arm candy" experiences - she says I can't, so there you go.
We went to the annual Crafty Bastards art fair in Adams Morgan (D.C.) this morning and her review of it was dead-on: Etsy.com with more people and heat. I'm more willing to dive into art fair crowds than she but it was a bit overbearing at times. We managed a lap through the goods and then headed out. As we exited onto 18th St. NW I noticed a sign on a post, one of those will the pre-cut pull tabs with the address and phone number, for someone selling all their plants due to an impending move West (S.F. as we found out). I hailed my gal - the plant 'thing' - and showed her the sign. It's only a block away and the plants on offer look quite nice so we wander over. You could not have shown me an apartment in the city that more perfectly matches my ideal. It was a narrowish one bedroom, one bath place across two small levels (the bedroom and bath being upstairs). The small back deck was totally set with growing bamboo shielding one side, lovely plants everywhere, and a longish view to the Washington Monument. A dining room table was at one end with the open living room and small kitchen as you moved back toward the door. Hardwood floors, dark colors everywhere...perfect. Of course, you couldn't put more than two in that layout so I began thinking of what to do with the boys. Considering it was in Adams Morgan, and within what I consider easy walking distance to DuPont Circle and various Metro stops, I was ready to move. We didn't end up with any plants but we had a nice conversation with the seller. As we left and walked down the tree-lined street I turned to X and told her that I'd found my place; she replied that it was because, like the current tenants, I have gay tendencies. Fine with me. Nice design, great plants, well-groomed...no issues there. I'm still working a plan to move to the city. Actually, we sort of agreed to move in when the boys move out after high school. I can wait seven years...
After the art fair - and plant mission - I swung by one of the few quality records shops left in the U.S.: Melody Records at DuPont Circle. I have to run in and grab the new Avett Brothers and Brother Ali; I'm not sure you could mix-and-match two more different artists.
She's had her bath, it's late, and I'm on waffle, apple compote, and coffee duty in the AM.
Hey to all.
t
(map print graphic: chris yates)
G. is in the throes of learning the U.S. states in school. I remember writing reports on states when I was in fourth grade at Rockbrook elementary. My teacher, Ms. Reid (who also read us "Where the Red Fern Grows"), had each of us choose two states to research and report. I clearly remember choosing Delaware, our first state, but I’ll be damned if I can remember my second report. This was back in the days when you got some tracing paper, glue, colored pencils, and possibly a typewriter, in order to create the project (I also remember my mother taking mine to her work and spiral-binding it). A few trips to the library, or the encyclopedias if you had them, and you’d eventually have enough data to put together the standard 9- or 10-year-old’s highly plagiarized work. Seriously, who are we kidding? Aside from some pasting and coloring, every kid that age is just copying text verbatim from the source; we live with it because they’re kids and we aren’t looking for free thought or expression.
Where I grew up we didn’t hit the big state and state capital quiz/test until eighth grade: Valley View Junior High School and Mr. Roslowksi’s U.S. History class. What he used as learning tools were a screen, an overhead projector, and two light sabers. (Not actual light sabers but toy ones that whistled as you wiped them through the air – this was about a year after Star Wars came out.) Mr. R would simply project a blank map of America with state borders on the screen and have the first two kids head up, one on either side of the screen with light sabers at the ready. He’d call out either a state or a capital and the first knucklehead to point to, or whack at, the correct state would then spell both the state and the capital in order to claim victory. And don’t, for one moment, think you could get away with “l-i-n-c-o-l-n”. It had to be “capital L-i-n-c-o-l-n”; same rule for the states. Trebek had nothing on Mr. R. The winner stayed at the screen while the conquered returned to his or her seat. The next kid in the row then came up prepared for battle. We played this game for about 15 or 20 minutes every day for a few weeks while everyone studied at home and readied for the inevitable 100-question test that arrived two or three weeks into the school year.
I spent every weekend on I-80 between Omaha and Lincoln, from about fifth or sixth grade on, in transit with my dad. He’d come up to Omaha, pick me up on Friday afternoon, and we’d drive the 45-minutes back to Lincoln (repeat backwards on Sundays). I remember the first few miles out of Omaha were often filled with some news from NPR (as if I’d ever listen to that) or KEZO 92.3 back when it was easy listening. After about ten miles I’d no doubt begin to beg him to ask me stuff – trivial stuff – in order to pass the time. It was during these trips that I learned all manner of maths, history, and geography…including all the states and their capitals. (We also played a game where we’d try to guess, as close as possible, what mile marker number would be on the overpasses as we’d approach. I pretty quickly sorted out that there were 25 poles between each mile marker and the last three digits of the overpass would be some number that equated to the number of posts passed and some then some slop added on. If the overpass was between markers 415 and 416 – going eastbound – and we’d passed 13 poles, the overpass would be labeled something like 415053. Going westbound would require counting, multiplying, and then subtracting. Ah, the Eisenhower Interstate System. For those in Vermont, feel free to ignore this mile marker thing since there’s no functioning system up there.) Anyhow, by the time I got to eighth grade the states and capitals were second nature to me. I knew that unless I mucked up my spelling of Phoenix I’d easily get 100% with no studying required, but that wasn’t all there was to the story.
Our class, for some reason, wasn’t seated alphabetically; I think Mr. R just randomly drew names and put two random kids at each two-person desk/table. I ended up at the front-right corner of the class, table one, and so the first day of state / capital battle began with me and the poor kid next to me kicking off what I fondly remember as “Todd kicks everyone’s ass at states and capitals”, or something very close to that. I spent the entire first week at the screen and suspect I might have approached Lou Gehrig-like records; I’m sure the school maintained the stats until the day it closed, and the quarterly newspaper may have touted “Eighth-grader’s Streak Reaches 400”. Every record and every streak eventually ends. We all knew during those halcyon days exactly who would end my reign - we just didn’t know in which inning. Every run through the room meant I had to vanquish AO*. She sat somewhere in the middle of the room and as the warriors fell, one-by-one, the tension would grow as the class saw the looming showdown. Every pass through her got tougher and tougher and I probably won the first six or eight battles before the defeat. When the moment arrived we both knew what we had to do: keep track as best as we could what states and capitals had been called out over the last ten or twelve jousts and then sit on the curveball. In the moments it took for her to get to the screen we both knew what states we were sitting on. Maybe I was thinking Raleigh, Tennessee, and Columbus. Maybe she was on the western side of the map and working Olympia, Idaho, and Santa Fe – the speed at which we lashed out with the sabers meant there was no time for thinking: you had to bet ahead, sit on the pitch, and swing from the heels; hero or zero.
I don’t remember what state she beat me on that day. It was no doubt an honest go on both our parts, but she was the better person that day. There was no luck involved, I had no injuries, I was focused – simply beaten. We had a few more days of the game after that classic set-to but the mystery was over and the king was dead. The other kids were all getting quicker and the distance between haves and have-nots closed rapidly. As we moved further into autumn the game became more pure review than a game – AO and I probably split our final 6 or 8 contests with little fanfare. The final test came and went and if I remember correctly everyone scored at least 95% and we moved on to other historical topics. Those days only slowly faded away.
I was telling G. about learning the states and capitals this morning while he was studying the first 25 and eating his breakfast. (Not the whole story, just about learning them in the car.) He said something along the lines that knowing the states and capitals when you didn’t have to know them seemed like some sort of craziness to him. He couldn’t understand why I’d memorized them. I told him it was similar to he and his brother memorizing every Pokemon or Magic card – a hobby…something you enjoy. And, no doubt, some bonding with my father. I think he thought that was an okay explanation in the end: He didn’t even know the part about my standing on the summit for those grand weeks back in 1978. I told him that if he misspelled Nebraska on his test he’d be grounded.
One other tip that I’d like to pass along to any eighth graders who are reading: Lusitania. You may not know it now but it’ll come up.
Love to all
t
*I’m using initials because it was funny, and strange, to have someone find their name in the blog whilst searching the Internet a few years ago. We ended up having a pretty funny conversation about it via e-mail but I’ve decided to limit names – protecting the innocent and all that jazz. Truth be told, I sort of had a crush on AO..
It's a wrap.
I'll admit that I wasn't sure I'd make it through the final quarter of the tomatoes; but then they looked so lonely and hopeful. Fine. We ended up with 20 qts. of crushed tomatoes to get us through the long, hard, mid-Atlantic winter. We are getting ready to order firewood and run a rope from the house to town just in case there's a big blizzard. I started at about 10:30am and the last half-dozen came out of the processing at about 5:30pm. There's some dead time in there - three rounds of processing at about 50 minutes each - so it's not work the entire time. In fact, I got all my laundry done, washed some bedding, and cleaned a good portion of the house while things were doing their things; I'd estimate about 5 hours of good, solid, settler work. There are some photos of the finished product included below (and a few of the steps along the way) - feel free to stop over in January if you need a base for a grand sauce or want a bite to eat.
The boys are back home (from Omaha) for a few days before heading to western Mass on Tuesday for their (sort of) final week of summer vacation. They'll be back and we'll all head to Ohio for the Labor Day weekend before they both start back in school; I estimate that's the last break for me until Thanksgiving.
I have theatre and rock n' roll over the next few weeks and the Eleven has our first opera of the season in mid-September.
I'm off to relex.
love to all,
T
After the Eleven got home last evening – she’d been at work and I’d been at the USO – we were lying on the couch, possibly taking a nap, and I said to her, “You smell a bit different today. Are you wearing something new?” Her first response was a no but after a minute or so she did say, “Well, I am wearing some carrot-patchouli oil on my arms and feet.” As if wearing carrot-patchouli oil was normal. I never cease to be amazed. This morning there another new scent wafting through the door and she told me it was merely a Tahitian monoi spray. Ah, monoi.
A bit more on the summer’s trip. On our drive back from Quebec we (the Eleven and three children) stopped in at the Montshire Museum of Science for a few hours. This was L.’s and my second visit – probably a half-dozen visits or more for the others – and it couldn’t have been planned better, being a summer Friday afternoon and all.
Our first visit was a few summers back when L. was staying with us as we lazed our summer days away (or, a week in my case) on the East Dummerston hilltop in Vermont. X suggested we head up to the museum being that it was, under her declaration, the best science museum ever. “Well, well, little lady,” I told her, “I’ve been to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, the Science Museum of Minnesota, and the Museum of Science and Technology in Barcelona. I know from science museums.” I’m not sure just how she expected some mini-museum in Vermont to compete with the grand exhibits of the World; I decided, and assuredly relayed to her, that she was nuts. Her calm response, something akin to a wink-and-a-nod, made me nervous. Could she know something I don’t know? Do they have a nuclear fission apparatus that they’ll let me play with? Nevermind, I thought, she just doesn’t know how experienced I am at the sciencer museums. Does she know that I’m a member of the SMM? Does she know that in Barcelona they don’t even give you experiment instruction in English yet it’s still fantastic? Probably not. What a dear, dear girl. We drove up one afternoon and ended spending two or three hours at the Montshire; that was longer than the ten minutes I needed to decide it was the best science museum, ever. After I was done knocking smaller kids out of my way, watching cutter ants, memorizing bees, playing with the fog machine and myriad other stuff any kid would love, I cornered her and declared the Montshire as “Todd’s Best Science Musuem”. If I remember correctly I think she rolled her eyes and let me continue to trumpet my very own genius.
Our visit this summer was probably even better. The kids spent a few hours inside while we walked the beautiful outdoor nature trail before all ended up out in the water-dam-ball-sprinkler contraption yard. The museum had very few people visiting on that Friday afternoon and it was perfect for viewing and playing with all the experiments. At some point X disappeared and I ended up finding her asleep under a tree on the grassy knoll of the water damming area. In my surprise I immediately joined her, followed by Laurel, and we three then spent nearly an hour watching beautiful clouds roll by, pointing skyward, and calling out things like: lobster, crab, monkey, alligator on a jetski, crab, lobster, dragon, rat, dog, crab, lobster. (You’d be surprised just how many clouds look like shellfish or crustaceans.) That hour was the most peaceful and perfect time.
When we finished we were all ready for lunch (having gotten directions to three or four sandwich shops from the New England Sandwich King) and headed just across the Connecticut River to Hanover, New Hampshire. Hanover is home to Dartmouth College and even though I’m not going to prattle on too much I will say this: Dartmouth and Hanover are what people have in mind when they think of college and a small town. It’s a beautiful place and if it weren’t so perfect I’d think it a cartoon.
I’ll add some cloud pictures when I get home.
In my Omaha youth I had an elementary gym teacher, Mr. Halperin, who might be considered by many as an early Chris Berman. He was making up nicknames for kids during sport endeavors long before Berman unveiled his ESPN mug (and he ended up marrying the hot fourth-grade teacher!). I was a pretty good elementary school athlete: all-arounder, good basketball player, pretty adaptable even it was the days that I still threw my tennis racquets. I'm sure many kids looked up to the gym teacher when they were young and Haleprin was no different for me. For some reason he once dubbed me "Taco Todd" - even if that doesn't sound as entendre-ish as ESPN, it was pretty big for an elementary kid. I think I even drew it in those cool 3-D letters that every kid learns on the front of my faux-denim three-ring binder. At some point, maybe in fifth grade or so, he'd let everyone take half-court shots in the gym/cafeteria after school. Anyone who made one would get a gratis chocolate shake at Goodrich, across the overpass. Good times. That's my backstory.
The boys had a couple of friends over today since they are leaving tomorrow for a month. Tonight's plan for their dinner was tacos and I was suddenly hit by the fact that I'd need more tacos than required for two boys. I somehow managed to turn the fixings into 16 tacos to feed four hungry mouths; no mean feat. As they were laid out, half with sour cream, half without, they were set upon by locust. Loads of oohing-and-aahing at my simple taco feed on The Hilltop. It got to a point that kids were selling tacos to each other for hard, cold cash. I'm not sure if I felt used or flattered. That's about life, ain't it?
Taco Todd, indeed.
One more thing - this Michael Jackson thing is comical. I loved a decade of his music and he was a grand entertainer but really, all this? There's a picture of his brothers sitting in the front row at the sports event / memorial each wearing a single, sequined glove. Honestly, at the risk of offending those that have passed on, it was horrid. That's all I have to say about that...
love to all
t
I've been meaning to bring this up for quite a spell: wishbones. One of the meals that sate the horde of boys during the week is a whole chicken, handmade mashed potatoes, peas, and homemade gravy. What I will confess to is buying an already roasted chicken; who's kidding whom? I could buy a whole chicken for nine dollars, take it home, roast it for 75-90 minutes, and feed it to the small people or I could buy one already cooked for the same price. It doesn't take me 90 minutes to do the potatoes, rice them, mash them, nor butter and milk them. Since both boys only want a pile of potatoes covered in peas, a huge chunk of breast, and gravy all over, it's the simplest route. If I bought a chicken then I'll only end up ruining it for them by taking care to add lovely herbs, seasonings, and a bit of this and that. Not worth our trouble. That's my backstory.
You get a perfect shot of an exceptional save from yesterday's Caps win over Pittsburgh. The Caps goalie is 21-year-old Semyon Varlamov* of Russia (playing his 13th NHL game) and he came back across the crease to stick block what appeared to be an open-net goal by Pittsburgh's Sidney Crosby. At the time, the game was tied 2-2. Some have called it luck, some have called it skill. Either way, you make both, don't you?
There's nothing but rain and cool weather here on a Sunday morning.
We all headed to church this afternoon - don't get carried away - for the boy's spring Suzuki piano recital. The kids ranged in age from five to maybe thirteen and everyone played (and some sang) quite well. Certainly better than I did in my recital days. Unfortunately, I now have Go Tell Aunt Rhody, Twinkle Twinkle, Row Your Boat, and the French Children's Song rattling around in my head.
I've been reading the book Outliers which simply confirmed the stuff that bangs around when you hear stories about "people lifting themselves up by their bootstraps". Does it happen? Sort of. Is it all as it appears in the soft music and soft lit 'behind the scenes' stories? Nope. One of the most interesting pieces of the book concerns Jewish immigrants and Jewish-founded law firms in Manhattan. It's strange to see - and think - that the end result of some sorts of discrimination end in success. It's hard to explain and my very limited storytelling doesn't convey the facts. If you have time and enjoy a good read, give it a whirl. How's that for a recommendation? Priceless, no doubt.
*If you want an enlightening piece on the pronunciation of names for the Caps' herd of Russian-borne players, here you go.
A quick update. The Caps won their first round series in seven games and there’s much happiness about the Metro area mixed with the knowledge that the Penguins are up next. I’m newer to D.C. but Washington and Pittsburgh sports fans (particularly hockey fans) despised each other. This is real border war stuff. The biggest stars in the NHL will be clashing over the next week to ten days; I think I’m ready.
There is a herd of transport involving G this evening. He’s due at the public library at about 5:30pm to put his Bionicle collection – actually, his own Bionicle creations built from the six million parts he owns – prominently on display in a fancy display case.* After that exhibit I’m running him to drama lessons (just he and fifteen cackling girls in the club) and finally to Gungfo lessons to finish the day. I don’t know how I got roped into being the suburban “soccer mom” dragging kids all over town in the Mercedes wagon. It’s really quite embarrassing. Sure, I offered to do it while X meets up with folks for Happy Hour after work but that doesn’t mean I can’t complain loudly.
The boys have been hired to walk and play with the dog of the former occupant of our house; he’s only moved down the street. I think he’s giving them $10 a day for the five days they’ll be working and all I can see in their eyes are spinning slot machine wheels and thoughts of new video games. I suppose I was like that when I took over some paper route that my brother had taken as a substitute and then passed on to me. Back then, I think I might have gotten $10 for an entire week – certainly enough to buy a whole box of football cards down at the Rexall.
We got a blast from a furnace front earlier this week and the weather was way too hot – just a warning about summer, I guess. It’s been rain and low 70s for the last few days so I’m much happier.
Nothing else on the horizon right now; at least not anything I can remember.
*Last minute development: Apparently the library has double-booked the display case and some five-year-old punk is already there with his “cars”. I told X to let them know that all they needed to do was walk over and tell the kid to pick up his stuff and head right on home. Easy enough, right? X said that what they really asked her was if, being the older and more mature entrant, G wouldn’t mind waiting until a later time for his shot at glory. Well, I don’t know…what does a five-year-old care. Fine.
We don't need to talk about the two opening playoff games the Caps lost at home this week.
Lemon went missing sometime on Friday and hadn't been seen or heard from until this morning. Needless to say, Pumpkin has been very distressed and on constant watch for the return of his best friend. We finally sent the boys out this morning on a reconnaissance mission - via bicycles - in order to eliminate a cat v. car incident. They weren't gone for more then ten minutes before H. sent word, via G. and his bike, that Lemon has been found - unharmed - not a block from home. There are some other folks who keep cat food outside and we think they probably she can't follow through on the wooing. X told me a few yarns about how their childhood mother cat would wander off for days in the springtime only to return knocked up and back to normal, so to speak. I went down and had a little talk with Lemon and she's seems pretty well crazed about such stuff but wasn't coming home with me. She'll no doubt work her way back home over the next few days and then I have a little talk with tramp cat. Unfortunately, we have no way of explaining to the distressed Pumpkin that she's fine and will eventually return to him and the huge couch.
I'm hoping tomorrow it's Friday because I'm ready for the weekend.
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One (many) of the great memories of my youth in Omaha was going to see the Harlem Globetrotters just about every February at the Civic Audit...
